This story and image come from my Oma’s memorial service. It’s a moment that blends faith, family, and photography — a reminder that sometimes the most powerful pictures are the ones taken through tears.
Opa and Aunt Pat sitting in the pews of St. Peter’s Anglican Church in Fort Worth, where Oma poured so much of her faith and love.
On Monday, October 6, 2025, we celebrated the life of my Oma, Sandra Kruse. She was a phenomenal daughter, sister, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. Her faith ran deep, and her passion for service, travel, and learning shone through everything she did.
The service was a beautiful, traditional Anglican memorial. Growing up in that world, there was a quiet comfort in the familiarity of it all—especially since it was held at the church I attended for most of my life in Fort Worth, the same church that helped raise my mother and shaped the faith of my Oma.
I was given the honor of reading a passage she had chosen from Revelation 21. You know the one—where God promises a new heaven and new earth, where there will be no more death, mourning, crying, or pain. It’s one of my favorite passages in all of Scripture, which says a lot for someone who often thinks Revelation has done more damage than good throughout Christian history.
My mom once described this passage as “crawling into the arms of God and just being held there.” There really is no better image. I can barely make it through that passage on a normal day—so reading it at my Oma’s memorial? I didn’t stand a chance.
My dad said I started reading it as a pastor and ended as a grandchild. He was right. I held it together as long as I could, but when I reached the promise of the new world, I broke. And though it was embarrassing at first, I know that it’s okay. We’re allowed to cry. As the priest said in his sermon, when we feel the deepest pits of grief, we are feeling as Jesus did.
I have so many memories with her—walking through the creek bed behind her house and hunting for fossils, visiting the Fort Worth Zoo or the Science and History Museum, and my very first cruise thanks to her and Opa’s anniversary. I’ll never forget late-night calzones by the pool or the time she found me fast asleep under some random staircase.
But my favorite memory? One simple afternoon at Sonic. I was about seven or eight, and I ordered a Wacky Pack chicken strip meal. Oma ordered a banana split. Jealous, I blurted out, “I want ice cream!” Without missing a beat, she said, “When you retire, then you can have a banana split for lunch. But for now, you get a Wacky Pack.”
That moment stuck with me. I’ve decided that when I step down from the pulpit for the last time—when I retire from ministry—I’m going to Sonic. I’ll order my grandkids Wacky Packs, and I’ll order myself a banana split. And when they complain about not getting ice cream, I’ll tell them, “When you retire, you can eat ice cream for lunch. But for now, you get a Wacky Pack.”
So why is this story part of Through the Lens instead of Confessions of a Doubting Pastor? Because there’s no doubt here. I know where my Oma is, and I know where God is in all of this.
The photo that inspired this post is of my Opa and my Aunt Pat (Oma’s sister), sitting in a pew in the church my Oma poured so much of herself into. You can almost feel the breath they release—a sigh of relief that her suffering is over, and a sigh of hope for the day when we’ll all join her in that embrace where there is no more pain, no more mourning, and where God, Oma, and all who have gone before will wipe the very last tear from our eyes.
