My husband Gene and I were on a missions trip to Poland when our cell phone rang at 6 a.m. one morning. The caller was our 26-year-old son. His voice choked as he broke sad news from home: a massive stroke had claimed Gene's father three hours prior.

The news wrenched my heart, but it wasn't my father-in-law's death that caused my pain. At 90 years of age, he could hardly wait to move to heaven. Rather, my pain came from knowing that our young adult children were now grieving the loss of a third grandparent within two years. The last death - my father's - had also occurred when I was in Eastern Europe. At least Gene had been home then and able to extend comfort, but this time we were both overseas.