{"id":16880,"date":"2026-03-10T13:30:24","date_gmt":"2026-03-10T13:30:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/gpbookstore.org\/articles\/uncategorized\/how-memories-become-our-ties-to-heaven-on-earth\/"},"modified":"2026-04-10T06:02:33","modified_gmt":"2026-04-10T06:02:33","slug":"how-memories-become-our-ties-to-heaven-on-earth","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/gpbookstore.org\/articles\/inspiring-stories\/how-memories-become-our-ties-to-heaven-on-earth\/","title":{"rendered":"How Memories Become Our Ties to Heaven on Earth"},"content":{"rendered":"

Tennessee was the only home I\u2019d ever known. I never imagined leaving. But my wife and I were planning a move<\/a> to Michigan to be closer to our grandchildren, and I was packing up my vendor stall at my very last Tennessee craft show. I was sure I could sell my carvings elsewhere, and nothing was more important to me than my family<\/a>. But it will be hard to leave home,<\/em> I thought, and called to mind the little wooden cabin in the Smoky Mountains where I grew up. I closed my eyes and could see the front porch and the henhouse, the red spruces and bluebells growing on the riverbanks.<\/p>\n

A voice interrupted my daydream<\/a>. \u201cYoung man, could you tell me where you got these beautiful paintings?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThese aren\u2019t paintings, ma\u2019am,\u201d I explained to the elderly woman in a wheelchair. \u201cThey\u2019re carvings that are tinted on natural, white marble. That\u2019s why the colors are so vibrant.\u201d<\/p>\n

My answer seemed to please her. \u201cMy name is Katherine Ashworth,\u201d she said. \u201cMay I hold one if I promise<\/a> not to break it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe only way you will break this is with a hammer, Mrs. Ashworth,\u201d I said, handing her a bird carving.<\/p>\n

She traced the outlines of the picture with her finger. \u201cDo you think you could carve an English cottage?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m positive I could,\u201d I said. \u201cDo you have a photograph<\/a> I can work from?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI only have my memories,\u201d she said. \u201cBut perhaps together we could come up with a sketch?\u201d I\u2019d never worked from just a memory. Not even from one of my own. I wasn\u2019t sure I could do it.<\/p>\n

A young man came over and leaned down to speak to her. \u201cReady to leave?\u201d he said. \u201cWe must be home by six.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mrs. Ashworth smiled. \u201cThey call the place where I live a home,\u201d she said. \u201cWe residents call it assisted living<\/a>. The house I\u2019d like you to draw is the cottage in England where I grew up. If you decide to help, here is my address. There\u2019s no need to call first. I\u2019m always there.\u201d<\/p>\n

I was worried. \u201cThat cottage was her home,\u201d I said to my wife, Arbutis, that night. \u201cI\u2019m sure she can describe every detail. I just don\u2019t want to disappoint her<\/a>.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDoug, if it\u2019s at all possible, you should carve her that cottage.\u201d<\/p>\n

The very next afternoon I drove to the assisted living center with a sketch pad and pencils. I signed in as a visitor of Katherine Ashworth. The woman at the front desk was surprised. Apparently, Mrs. Ashworth didn\u2019t get many visitors.<\/p>\n

Her room was beautiful, full of paintings and photographs of pastoral scenes, flower gardens and animals. \u201cThey remind me of my childhood. Many of the flowers grew<\/a> around the cottage I want you to carve.\u201d<\/p>\n

I took out my sketch pad. Mrs. Ashworth closed her eyes. \u201cIt had a thatched roof,\u201d she began, \u201cwith a fieldstone chimney\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

I started sketching. \u201cWhat brought you to the United States?\u201d I couldn\u2019t help asking.<\/p>\n

\u201cI married an American soldier during World War II<\/a>,\u201d she said. \u201cWilliam and I met just before the invasion of Normandy.\u201d Her voice sounded younger as the memories rose in her mind. \u201cMany American soldiers were billeted in the homes of English farmers like my father. William came to stay with us on the first of May, 1944. I was 20 years old. He was so handsome in his uniform, and I fell in love almost immediately<\/a>!\u201d<\/p>\n

Mrs. Ashworth told me about the day William left to return to his unit after they\u2019d spent only the month of May together. \u201cHe was wounded storming Omaha Beach that June. Grievously so. I went to visit him in the hospital and prayed every day he would get better<\/a>.\u201d<\/p>\n

Our conversation turned back to the thatched cottage. She described the different wildflowers that surrounded it, the wooden fence beside it, the wooden doors and red brick.<\/p>\n

She might as well be describing heaven<\/a>,<\/em> I thought, listening intently to her words.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m so sorry,\u201d Mrs. Ashworth said. \u201cI do chatter on sometimes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot at all,\u201d I said. \u201cThere\u2019s such life in your stories.\u201d<\/a> I showed her what I\u2019d come up with on my pad. \u201cDoes this sketch resemble your cottage?\u201d<\/p>\n

She examined my work, took my pencil and adjusted the position of the chimney. \u201cThere,\u201d she said. \u201cIt\u2019s perfect.\u201d I couldn\u2019t wait to get to work.<\/p>\n

When the carving was completed, I brought it to her in her room, along with a small standing frame. I found her sitting by the window wrapped in a blanket and handed her the carving. \u201cThis is so much more than I hoped for,\u201d she said, tracing the outlines on the marble. \u201cYou have a God-given talent.<\/a> What do I owe you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing at all, ma\u2019am,\u201d I said. \u201cYour stories were more than payment enough.\u201d<\/a><\/p>\n

We found the perfect spot to display her carving, right next to her bed where she could see it before she closed her eyes at night. I spent the rest of the afternoon with my new friend<\/a>. When I signed out at the front desk, the receptionist thanked me for my visit. \u201cIt means a lot to her, I\u2019m sure,\u201d she said. \u201cMrs. Ashworth stays to herself most of the time<\/a>.\u201d<\/p>\n

I decided that was going to change. Although I would soon be leaving Tennessee, I could enjoy Mrs. Ashworth\u2019s company until then. I returned to the assisted living center the following week to see her.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Mr. Clark,\u201d said the lady at the desk. \u201cMrs. Ashworth passed away in her sleep just two days ago.\u201d She pulled something out of a drawer. \u201cWe thought you might like to keep this.\u201d<\/p>\n

I returned to my car with the carving and sat for a long time, tracing the lines of the thatched roof, the stone chimney and the wildflowers. Memories were our ties to heaven on earth<\/a>, ties that were as strong and unbreakable as the marble in my hands. I had no doubt that when Mrs. Ashworth entered the pearly gates, this cottage was waiting for her, its wildflowers all in bloom<\/a>. Just as my own Smoky Mountain cabin would be waiting for me in my one true home.<\/p>\n

For more angelic stories, subscribe to <\/em>Angels on Earth<\/strong><\/a> magazine.<\/em><\/p>\n

READ MORE BY DOUGLAS SCOTT CLARK:<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n