Gwendolyn Carol Sainsbury

Gwendolyn Carol Pugh Sainsbury, age 85, died on January 10, 2026, in Greenville, New Hampshire.

Born in Pensacola, Florida, Gwen spent her life marked by a quiet attentiveness to the world around her. She received her degrees from Bob Jones University and Pensacola Christian College. She taught piano and kindergarten, where she was known for her love of music and God’s creation. She loved nature and noticed what others often passed by. Those who knew her will remember her content spirit and her deep longing for Christ’s return.

Gwen was preceded in death by her parents, Wilbur and Ruth Pugh, and her brother, Donald Pugh. She is survived by her sisters Gloria Gravette and Patsy Owens, her brother Ronald Pugh, children Jonathan Sainsbury, Janet Finnamore, and Joel Sainsbury and her grandchildren, Jamison Finnamore, Jasmine Finnamore and Logan Sainsbury and Joel’s children.

A Tribute to Her Life will be held on January 17, 2026, at 2:00 PM, at New Covenant Bible Church, 5 Putnam Hill Road, Lyndeborough, NH 03082.

Life Tribute by Jan Finnamore

When I was on the phone with the officer who called to inform us of her passing, he said something curious. He told me her apartment was “very strange.”

I asked him what he meant.

He replied, “You’ll see when you get here.”

I wasn’t sure what I would find. But when I opened the door to her apartment, this is the scene that greeted me:

A table covered in shells. Not helter-skelter or heaped in a pile, but carefully laid out—each one positioned to show off its design, as though it had been admired individually, loved, and thoughtfully placed to display its beauty.

At first glance, someone might see clutter.

But that’s not what I saw.

What I saw was a woman who paid attention.

Shell by shell. Shape by shape. She had gathered evidence that the world is lavishly made. These weren’t practical objects. They were witnesses.

Each one said, “Someone designed this.” “Beauty is worth stopping for.”

This wasn’t the first apartment I had cleaned out for her. A few years ago, when she moved north from South Carolina, her place there was filled with pinecones and seeds.

So whatever felt strange to the officer felt completely familiar to me.

This was my mom.

She had eyes to see. She noticed what others passed by. She loved the small, the quiet, the intricate.

As a young child, I remember being on walks with her where she would sing, “Oh who can make a flower? I’m sure I can’t—can you? Oh who can make a flower? No one but God, ’tis true.” And she would stop to marvel at a roadside flower, the striping of a rock, or the veining and color of a leaf. Nothing was common to her. Even the delicate design of an acorn cap was a marvel.

As a kindergarten teacher, she trained children to do the same—to slow down, to look closely, to see the wonder all around them. Her classroom tables were filled with small treasures from the natural world.

This love for creation was deeply connected to her love for the Creator of all this beauty, and grounded in a deep knowing that though we live in a world now marked by sorrow, sickness, and pain, it was not always this way. God originally made our world very good. And His redemptive plan was not to discard the world or abandon His creation, but to redeem it.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved.”

Just as He sent His Son to redeem us—to forgive our sins, renew our hearts, and give us new life—His fuller redemptive plan is to restore the world itself. Creation renewed. Eden again—but better than brand new.

And so, for those of you who knew her well, you know that nearly every conversation with my mom turned, in some way, toward the same thing.

She was waiting for the Lord’s appearing. She longed for it. She lived with her eyes lifted toward that blessed hope of Christ’s return.

When I spoke with my Aunt Gloria, whose tribute you just heard read, she mentioned that Gwen loved the Lord with all her heart and always had an open Bible on the table.

But when I walked into her apartment, there wasn’t one open Bible.

There were three—one in every room.

Each one open to a passage she had been pondering. These were not staged. Not decorative. But open. Read. Returned to.

An open Bible is a posture. It says, “I’m listening.” “I’m looking.” “I’m longing.”

And as I stood in her apartment, surrounded by shells and pinecones and open Bibles, I realized how deeply that hope had shaped her life.

And then there was the piano. Not one keyboard, but two. And two dulcimers. A small xylophone. A set of brightly colored children’s handbells.

Music was one of the ways my mom prayed. One of her keyboards was draped with a prayer shawl.

Music is theology that bypasses defenses. It carries longing. It reaches for something just beyond words. Scripture tells us that creation sings, that heaven resounds, that the future world will be filled with sound and praise.

If you’ve ever listened to someone play who truly loves music, you know they’re not just pressing keys. They’re reaching for something—expressing joy, longing, hope, and sometimes grief.

A pianist lives in that space—between what is and what is coming.

—-

But this wasn’t all that I saw in her apartment.

In contrast to the beauty and wonder, I encountered another reality—the signs, and even the smell, of death.

And I was immediately reminded of what Paul writes in 2 Corinthians: “To some we are the smell of death leading to death, but to others the fragrance of life leading to life” (2 Corinthians 2:16). It is an uncomfortable image—but an honest one.

Because humanity turned away from God, death entered the human story, and our bodies now grow frail and decay. We return to the dust from which we were made. And for those who look at death without hope, it feels final. It speaks of endings, loss, and silence.

But death is not my mother’s final story.

Scripture tells us that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. Right now, Gwen is alive in heaven—awake, aware, and in God’s presence.

She is in a temporary heavenly body, a real and recognizable form, awaiting the resurrection that is still to come.

Heaven is not a place of naps and inactivity. It is the very Command Center of the Universe—God’s throne room, where he rules, the place where God’s purposes are being carried out. And Jesus is there, seated at the Father’s right hand, interceding for us. The Holy Spirit is here on the earth, working through God’s people, drawing hearts to Christ. And the saints in heaven are not disengaged or unaware—they are praying, praising, and witnessing the unfolding work of redemption. It is all hands on deck, everyone on the edge of their seats as the battle for the hearts of mankind unfolds.

Scripture describes the saints in heaven as a great cloud of witnesses—like runners who have already finished the race, now filling the stands, cheering us on as we run ours, sometimes shouting “you’re going the wrong way!” groaning when we wander and stumble, yet always urging us toward the finish line until we join them.

And more than that—she sees now how the dots all connect. The purposes of God. The full arc of the story. The meaning behind what once felt mysterious or unresolved. Her faith has become sight.

And Mom—I can’t wait to talk with you. To hear about your first days in heaven. To hear what you are seeing, learning, and experiencing now.

But even as she is learning so much she once wondered about, the great hope of her life remains unchanged.

She is still waiting for the return of Christ.

Only now, instead of going up to meet Him in the air as she once longed to do, she will be coming back with Him—part of His great victory procession. When Christ returns, her body will be raised from this urn and transformed in the twinkling of an eye into a glorified body—never again subject to sickness, weakness, or death.

A body like Christ’s resurrected body. A body like humanity was always meant to have.

As the Easter hymn says, “Made like Him, like Him we rise.”

And so, she is still longing for His return along with all of Heaven—but now with fuller knowledge and a clearer view.

And we are waiting too.

Waiting for the day when death is finally defeated, and our world is renewed.

But we are not the only ones waiting.

The creation she loved so deeply is waiting too. Romans tells us that all creation is groaning, longing to be set free from decay. The shells, the pinecones, the flowers, the acorns—all of it waits for restoration.

And God will not disappoint.

He is not going to discard the world He called very good. He is not going to abandon His creation. At His return, he will refine it, renew it, and restore it—removing all that is broken, corrupted, and evil, and preserving all that is good.

The final chapters of the Bible give us a picture of a restored world—heaven coming down, God making His home with humanity, His presence filling the earth with glory.

And those who trust in Christ will live fully in that renewed world—real bodies, real life, everlasting life. A world with beauty again. With music. With laughter. With shells and flowers and pinecones once more. God’s good creation redeemed.

This is why Jesus spoke of abundant life. This is why He taught us to pray for God’s kingdom to come and God’s will to be done on earth as it is in heaven.

So as I stand here today—with her seashells still present, beside her urn that we will plant in the ground this spring—it will be sown in weakness, but one day will be split open as she is raised in power—I proclaim this:

Death is not the final chapter. And going to heaven when we die is not the end of the story either.

Because resurrection is coming. And the promise is life–abundant life.

This promise of eternal life is not only for my mother. It is for all who place their confidence in Christ.

He is the One who forgives, who restores, who raises the dead, and who is making all things new.

And His invitation is open to all.