Bell ~ Let's Talk

Today, Wednesday, January 28th, is Bell Let's Talk Day, an initiative from Bell Canada that focuses on raising awareness about mental health issues.  The premise is simple and one that is close to my heart, that if people will tell their stories and listen to the stories of others, much of the stigma and shame associated with mental illness will be replaced by understanding, compassion and empathy.

My sister, Dana, started the story telling this morning by sharing her struggle with depression. The truth is that my family is and has been full of brave, intelligent, capable, resilient people who have walked their life paths hand in hand with the darkness of mental illness, including the black dog of depression, and in my life, anxiety.

I can't remember ever not being anxious.  From infancy and probably even earlier, for various reasons, my body and brain, my personality and intellect developed while awash in a potent cocktail of stress hormones, specifically cortisol.  From a very young age, I learned to deal with overwhelming stress by "disappearing."  I froze, withdrew, and was compliantly, passively and quietly non-existent.

Anxiety controlled my life.  "Disappearing" could, at least in some respects, protect me from the outward stressors, but I could never get away from the inner turmoil.  As an introvert, when faced with a fight or flight trigger (which, due to the chronic anxiety, happened often), I withdrew.  Shut down. Shut up. My mind, though, was rarely quiet.  I was, and am an introvert, but I am also passionate, thoughtful, strong minded and full of questions.  I struggled with the silence. I was bright and opinionated, but repeatedly had to choose safety over freedom.

Because I had never been free from anxiety, I thought everyone felt this way.  As an adult, I became a Christian and began to grow in faith. I heard over and over, "Fear not."  It had the authority of a command, but there was always a whisper of hope attached to it.  Fear not. Was that even possible? The God I knew, the One who had rescued me from a life of darkness, who loved me in ways that I was only beginning to understand, would not ask something of me that wasn't possible, that He couldn't or wouldn't help me acheive.  As I walked with Jesus, through Bible study and with the help of faithful and honest counsellors and friends, I began to gain control of my thought life. The Scriptures and God's intimate counsel led me through a path of cognitive training that set me free from negative thoughts that kept me trapped in fear.

One of the aspects of mental illness that is often overlooked involves physical symptoms. A lifetime of chronic anxiety had conditioned and fitted my body to react in extreme ways to situations and circumstances that my mind, emotions and stress hormones were slapping danger signs on.  Retraining my mind, and even my emotions set me free to some extent, but I soon realized that my body had a mind of its own in these matters.  I was diagnosed with a chronic bladder disease called interstitial cystitis (IC) or painful bladder syndrome (PBS) when I was in my early 30s.  One of the most consistent and frequent triggers was stress.  A few years after the IC diagnosis, I suffered a heart attack. I had no markers for heart disease, other than the fact that I was overweight.  My blood pressure and cholesterol were low to normal, I had no family history of heart disease, I didn't smoke or do drugs, and I was young. The diagnosis was coronary artery spasms, a condition that was very susceptible to stress. 

It felt like my body was saying, that's enough! I had to face the possibility that cognitive training and the peace that I felt in God was not going to stop my body from reacting to the stress of life.  I prayed for healing, and I knew that it was possible.  I had experienced healing in my mind and heart.  As I continued to struggle with the physical effects of stress, I began to think about asking for help from my doctor. As in meds. I hated the very thought of it. Nerve pills. Oh, pshaw.

I saw it as an easy fix, a sign of my weakness.  I never questioned the strength of my faith. God and I had been though that when I first got IC. I knew that He could heal me. There was no question in my mind. I struggled with Him, when He didn't heal me, and we worked it out.  Somehow, though, I had gotten to the point where I believed that I had to tough it out to be strong, that being brave always meant pushing through the fear, pushing, pushing, pushing until I wasn't afraid anymore.  Unfortunately, my body wasn't getting the message, and the pushing through was killing me. It was one thing when the stress only meant searing pain in my abdomen, but when it also meant my coronary arteries spazzing closed, choking off the blood supply to my heart, I needed to pay attention.

So I went on meds.  The first time I took a anti anxiety medication, I was at home. The phone rang, and as I answered it, I was acutely aware of an odd sensation. Or, more accurately, an odd lack of a sensation. Fear.  Every single time I heard a phone ring, a swoosh of adrenaline would go through my body, burning through my stomach and bladder, trembling my hands, muddling my thoughts. Except this time.  This time my stomach stayed calm. My hands didn't shake.  I was amazed.  Is this what normal feels like?

Adding anti anxiety medication to the cocktail of daily meds that I take for the IC and heart problem was the right choice for me.  I still struggle with anxiety, and I have moments when my body spirals out of control and all I can do is hang on and wait it out.  I have discovered that sorrow feels very much like fear to my body. Sometimes I choose to deal with triggering events and the resulting flash of anxiety and pain through yoga, meditation, deep breaths, laughter and reaching out to loved ones. The amount of medication that I take daily works for the stress of daily life. Sometimes I take less. Sometimes more. I pay close attention to my body, and try to take care of myself. I am learning to nurture my body in the same way that my heart calls me to nurture and care for those around me.

Chronic anxiety is still a part of my life, but it doesn't own me.  I am grateful for the availability of medications that can help, for the grace and understanding of my family, and for the opportunity to tell my story, and to listen to the stories of others.  Yes, there are dark voices from the past, taunting, mocking, complaining voices that grew angry at me when I could not be what they demanded me to be, but the loving voices are stronger, bolder and most importantly, truer. 

I pray that as we walk this path together, we will be encouraged and emboldened to turn to the voices that are saying to us, "Tell me your story. It's okay, I'm listening."

Tell me your story.  It's okay, I'm listening.

Derek - Kindness is magic (repost)

This a repost from September 23rd, 2013.  I watched the last episode of the first series again this morning, and was reminded of the strength of kindness, especially when it is sacrificial.  Dear Lord God, if I am to err, let it be on the side of kindness. Amen. 

 

 

Grace and I have a new favorite television show. It's a British production called Derek, written, directed by and starring Ricky Gervais.  I'm not usually a fan of Gervais', I find his humor a little harsh.  This show, on the other hand, is brilliant. The entire first series is on Netflix, and I watched all 7 episodes in one week-end. The last episode left me in tears.  Not just a little weepy, either. I'm talking big, gulping, falling over onto the sofa hugging a cat sobbing. Brilliant.

Ricky Gervais stars as Derek Noakes, a care worker in a small senior's home.  The show features a cast of  "quirky characters", working and struggling together to take care of the residents of the home, as well as each other.  The underlying theme is this, that "kindness is magic". And it's presented in a powerful way. Filmed in a mockumentary style, the characters interact with the camera and each other in ways that run the gamut from downright disturbing to heart-breakingly real and crazily hilarious. Sometimes, the most "real" moments are the most disturbing, and the heart of the show is this - through the life and words and actions of Derek, kindness is shown as something that costs something, that can leave scars on the heart of the giver and that shines most brightly when it is least deserved.  

Derek is the kind of show that everyone should see.  After finishing the first episode, I wanted to recommend it to everyone I know. Unfortunately, there is a problem. There is quite a bit of swearing, as well as offensive jokes about body functions and parts, etc. That's not the big problem, though. The power of Derek's message is that he loves everyone. Everyone. And that includes people like Kev.  Kev is a homeless, jobless man who hangs around the home, sleeps on the floor of Derek and Dougie's flat, is the third member of what Derek affectionately calls his gang, and just generally behaves in disturbing, disgusting ways.  There are lots and lots of really gross sex jokes. Lots of references to his lack of hygiene, and just general over-all ickiness.  Kev is a very difficult character to tolerate, let alone like.  The thing is, Derek loves him. Derek's kindness towards Kev is not blind. For the most part, he sees and hears and smells what everyone else does in Kev.  Still, Derek loves him.

That is one of the reasons that I love this show. In the beginning, scenes that had Kev in them literally made me shrink a little back into the sofa. Gervais has done a great job of writing a character that is truly unlikable.  There is nothing of television's classic lovable jerk in Kev. He is not lovable in any way.  Other characters, like Dougie (played by "An Idiot Abroad's" Karl Pinkington), can be a bit caustic but they always have inevitable moments of redemption and latent strength of character. Not Kev. Still as difficult as Kev is to accept, he is real. And being real means that there are moments of vulnerability hidden in the bravado and posturing.  Kev's disgusting behaviour is rooted in weakness and fear, and this becomes obvious as the show progresses. 

The thing is, to fully appreciate the power of Derek's willingness to treat everyone kindly, one has to stick with the show. Keep watching.  At first, I thought, we have to be able to look past Kev's character in order to enjoy the show. But now, I don't think looking "past" Kev is such a great idea.  I think we need to look at Kev, to get to know him even as we get to know the other characters.  Hannah, the manager of the home, has a heart of gold. Dougie, while a serious pessimist with a tendency to grumble incessantly, is fiercely protective of his friends and the residents and stands up for them in the face of manipulation and greed.  Derek is...well, Derek.  And Kev is Kev.

There is a scene in the last episode of the first series, where in true mockumentary fashion and in light of the death of one of the residents, the characters are being asked some fairly deep questions.  Kev's answer to the question of whether or not he has any regrets about his life made me weep. I want to cry now, just thinking about it.  

Derek is just a television show. Kev is a fictional character. He doesn't need us to pay attention to him, to really see him, to accept that he is what he is and to care for him unconditionally. He's not real. I think, though, that we need to do these things.  Gervais has created a show that challenges us to move past our own comfort levels and stay invested in the story, in the characters, even when doing so makes us squirm in our seats.  Not for their sakes, but for ours.  Everyone likes to think of themselves as kind people.  Yet we walk past characters like Kev on a regular basis, and we reason that there are some people who are just too far gone to even care if we are kind to them. Derek doesn't think so. Derek doesn't think about it at all.  Derek is kind because that's who he is. And if we stick with him on the journey, if we give this show and this character a chance, we just may find ourselves, after 7 episodes, listening and really hearing the heart of someone who, it turns out, isn't too far gone at all.  

Keep the tissues handy. Just in case.

Joy, in the company of pain

It has been a few weeks since the dreaded/much anticipated November 25th, when Grace flew off into the wild blue yonder and came back down to earth in England.  We all survived.  There were tears, and lots of hugging.  Excitement. Joy. Gratitude. Laughter.

And yes, mourning.

I wonder how much of our daily difficulties and dysfunctions are rooted in a failure to actively mourn our losses, especially when they occur in bittersweet, emotionally complex and contrasting circumstances. 

Life is so full of loss.  It is easy to get confused when our losses are mingled with blessings, gifts, relief. 

Grief is difficult to deal with when circumstances are clearly sorrowful and grief is expected.  Add a bit of ambiguity, a measure of cheer in the midst of the pain, and it is too easy to minimize, or ignore the pain. Out come two little words that have failed to comfort people the world over.

At least.

At least she is happy, at least she loves Jesus, at least she is with people who love her, at least she is following her dreams, at least, at least, at least!

All of this is true.  Something else is also true, though.  I am her mother. I am an influence in her life, and that influence is not diminished by distance. Grace is in England.  England!   With a young man that she loves, with lots of opportunities and challenges, in a beautiful home, at the seaside.  And she's in mourning too.  She misses her dad and I, her home, her friends and family.  Her kitties and her stuff.  I need to make sure that she knows that it is okay to feel the way she feels, when she feels it and how often she feels it.  I need to be an example of authenticity, of the freedom in truth. 

With all my momma heart, I want her to know that even as her arms are over full with the blessings of her life, it is okay to feel sad about the good things that she had to let go of in order to receive the new good things.  Gratitude mingles with longing.  Joy keeps company with pain.

I don't want her to feel guilty for leaving.  We have spent hours talking about this, and our frequent Skype chats always include reports of how we are doing with the separation. 

How we find ourselves staring into space, with heavy hearts, safe in the love that God has surrounded us with.

How skipping into the crashing sea with new red wellies, or curling up in bed with a softly purring cat gives comfort in our deepest places.

How our hunnies are masterfully and diligently offering comfort at every opportunity, bless their loving hearts.

How small things go a long way in making us feel at home, because it's the small things that we miss the most.

Even as we wish a Merry Christmas to others, we understand that "merry" might be shooting a bit too high.  Or maybe too low.  Maybe letting go of "merry", in all it's sweetness, is necessary in order to embrace the strength and power of joy.

Maybe joy, in the company of pain, is the fruit of love.

There's no place like home

A few nights ago, I was lying on my back on my bed, watching Grace search the room for her "sparkly" shoes.  Grace and I were in Massachusetts with Brian and the family, and were sleeping in Brian's room, on the huge California king sized bed that will one day belong to Brian and I.

While Grace searched, I jokingly asked her, if she found them, would she put them on and tap her heels together?

"There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home."

Grace smiled sadly, "Aw, mom..."

"The thing is," I pondered, "where would we end up if we did have ruby slippers that would take us home?"

She answered me, muffled, from under the bed, "I know, eh? "

She stood up, shoes in hand.

"People say, 'Home is where your people are,' but seriously, what does that even mean?" Grace rolled her eyes as she slipped her shoes on and grabbed her purse.

What does that even mean?

When your people are spread across the country, across the continent, across the sea?  When you have "people" that you love with all your heart and haven't even met yet? 

In a very real way, I can understand how the presence of people make a place feel like home.  I feel a deepening attachment to Darren, to his parents, to his places.  The beach Grace will jog on, the bus she'll take into Great Yarmouth, the place Darren worked at, the people she loves there. This past week the museum that Darren worked at, Yesterday's World, shut down. I felt oddly sad.  Of course, I had hoped to visit it when I went to visit Grace and Darren, but it's more than that. Darren's pictures of empty shelves and hollow rooms leave me feeling forlorn. 

There are so many people, though. So many places. So many homes.  I feel more and more at home here in Baldwinville, in the house, with this family.  On Sunday, I sat with Grace in church and pointed out people that I knew, names and everything. There are more every week.  I am even learning which kids belong to which parents.  It's a start.

The fact remains that, should Grace and I find a pair of magical ruby slippers that could take us home at a few heel clicks, we're not sure where we'd end up.

It's an odd feeling. 

The interesting thing, though, is that as we become more and more aware of our tremendous blessings, and draw closer and closer to the God of our sorrows AND our joys, home is becoming less about place, and less about people. I think the destination of our ultimate journey is to understand and embrace the fact that home is where our Lord is, our Love, our Jesus, our God.  And we fully believe that the Spirit of our Lord God makes His home within us.  And so, home is wherever we are.

Home is where there is comfort, familiarity, rest. Home is where being authentically ourselves is safe, normal, welcomed. Home is where, in the warmth of love, there is freedom to see ourselves as we are, to ponder and pray and confess and to be transformed into our whole selves, in the image of the One whose love makes home real.

There is a beautiful peace that comes from the awareness that home is within me, where Jesus is. Scripture calls it the peace that surpasses human understanding. 

It is an even lovelier joy to be able to lead my daughter into this awareness, to send her into the wide world knowing that her base camp, her stronghold, her home fires burn within her, in the Person of Jesus. 

Our earthly homes may be a bit of a fluid concept right now, but our true home is as solid and as real and as ours as the God who is decorating it with His love and beauty. 

There is, truly, no place like home.

Denial. Not just a river in Egypt...

It's Saturday.  Grace is leaving on Tuesday.  I wish I could say that I have been busy preparing her favorite foods, spending evenings going through old pictures with her and weeping into her baby blankets as I pack them away, along with all the sweet memories, to bring them to Massachusetts with me.

Yeah. No.

Don't get me wrong. We've spent every moment possible together, which thankfully has been a lot of moments.  But I have been tired, and cranky. My bladder is constantly stabbing me with a hot poker. My eyes hurt. It took me two days to recover from a beginners yoga practice that my body is used to.  We've eaten hamburger/tomato macaroni two days in a row (tonight will be three).  I've been napping, and I haven't had to nap in a long time.

In short, I am in denial.  Denial. Not just a river in Egypt!

Har har.

To be fair, I don't choose denial. Denial chooses me.  My brain sees something too big to handle and says, "Nope. Not doin' it."  My body, expecting the worst, protests, "But, but..."

I just go along for the ride.

I do have peace, though. That means everything to me. I have learned over the years not to try to control my body/mind/heart's reaction to difficult things.  I instead choose the way I behave in times like this, the words I say, the thoughts I think.

I am happy, and sad. I am excited, and fearful of the pain of letting go.  I feel stronger than ever, and pathetically weak.  I feel whole, and yet broken.  I am going through something that millions of parents have gone through before me, and I am on a uniquely personal path.  My body hurts, my heart aches, my eyes sting, and yet yesterday when we bought a lovely green coat for Grace to wear in England, I wanted to squeal with glee.  It's gorgeous. She's gorgeous. It's all gorgeous.

One day at a time.

On booked flights and a new kind of grief

On Saturday, Grace booked her airline ticket to Norwich, England.  She is leaving on November 25th.  Landing in Amsterdam, catching a connecting flight to Norwich and arriving early on the 26th.  She is going home, her new home, in Scratby, Great Yarmouth.  In England.

Egad.

While Brian helped her book the flight, I sat at the kitchen table with them, absently leafing through a catalogue, listening, praying for things to go smoothly, and hurting.  When it was all done, we smiled at each other, relieved.  I smiled too, genuinely. And hurt.

Grace, Ashleigh and Amanda had plans to go to a roller rink/games place, and Brian was taking me out to supper so I headed upstairs to get ready.  I was changing my shirt when it happened.  I broke.  It felt like I crumpled inside. I buried my face in the shirt that I was holding, and cried.  I cried into my black jacket too.  And into a pillow. And a towel, as I washed and dried my puffy face. Then I cried when I saw how puffy and red my face was.  Stupid face.

The feeling that was washing over me, in waves, was familiar. It was grief. It was the same pain that I felt when my mother died.  C. S. Lewis opens his book, A Grief Observed, with this quote - "No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness..." I thought of this quote as I realized that the pain that I felt was grief, the sorrow of losing a precious aspect of my relationship with my daughter, a loss that no amount of blessing can counter, a loss that is real and deep and profound, and wildly painful.  This is what it felt like.

I'm not sure what happened then, my memory is a bit fuzzy.  I remember Brian coming in and hugging me for a long time.  I remember Grace coming in, too. She wrapped her arms around me and we just stood in a quiet embrace.  I resisted the urge to pat her back and comfort her, to reassure her that I was fine, that it was nothing.  I wanted to honor her strength and faith, to trust it.

I told her, "I can't wait for Heaven, when happy things are just happy, with no sadness attached." 
She laughed. We have talked about this before.  The pain of wonderfulness.  The sorrow of the blessings. The meaning of bittersweet.

Grace and I have spent hours talking about this.  I haven't written much about it because this is her journey, and it hasn't been an easy one.  She and her love, Darren, have worked hard for this. They have prayed and persevered.  We have been blessed and aided by friends and family, and I have had the joy of watching both Grace and Darren grown and mature and overcome together.

I need to make something clear here. Aside from Darren and Grace, no one has wanted this for Grace more than I have.  I have been her cheerleader.  From the time that she decided that she wanted to do this, the mother song that I have sung over her life has been one of encouragement and determination.  When words of doubt and discouragement came at her from others, I sang louder and stronger.  When she doubted herself, I sang until she remembered her song again.  When obstacles loomed large, I sang so much, she overcame them just to shut me up! 

My point is, aside from Grace and Darren, no one wants to see Grace living in England more than I do. 

And no one understands the tremendous blessing that God has poured out onto my life like I do, in the form of my sweet Brian and three incredible stepchildren, not to mention a whole other family to love and be loved by.  I grasp the immensity of this adventure that I am on, and I treasure it. It will keep me busy and fill my life with love. 

And still, grief remains. That is as it should be. 

I joke with the kids, that I am going to be at home helping Grace get ready to go, we'll send her off on the 25th, and I'll come back to Massachusetts the next day to spend Thanksgiving here...a broken woman. Maybe you had to be there. It's funny, because it's true. 

I am learning not to fear grief.  Grace told me recently that she had realized that the sadness was scary for her.  I understand that. 

Do you realize that with something like this, if Grace and I thought everything was going to be wonderful and she'd leave and I'd head to Massachusetts and life would be one long precession of rainbows, English teas and puppies, we'd receive no shortage of warnings about how rough it would actually be.

And if we enter into this with eyes wide open, fully aware that in the midst of the adventures, we'd miss each other like crazy and mourn the loss of what was even though what is becoming is amazing, comfort comes in the form of almost complete denial.  After all, is it really likely that we'll actually be so busy in our new lives that we won't miss each other? 

Don't get me wrong. I am grateful for Skype.  With the internet, we will be able to be in contact daily if we want to.  There will be visits, and how brilliant is it, that I will be able to visit England!  I love Darren with all my momma heart, and I am so grateful for his parents, especially his beautiful mum who loves my daughter with all her momma heart, as well. Grace's faith in the Lord has blossomed in the past year, and I have thrilled at being able to watch her and Darren spur each other on to faith and good deeds, deepening their relationships with God as well as with each other.  This thing has wonderful written all over it!

My grief at Grace's moving away takes nothing away from the wonderful.  And the wonderful takes nothing away from the grief.  It all just is. 

It all just is. 

I'm okay now, though. Grace and I are here in Massachusetts, and I am treasuring every moment. Living moment by moment, day by day.

And the 25th?   It can take care of itself until I get there.









 

Just a thought ~ on turning 48 and moving away.

So my birthday was last week.  I turned 48.  The day before, I went into the pharmacy to pick up a few things.  At the beauty counter where I went to pay for my purchases, the saleswoman offered to give me some free samples, and started rifling through a stack of little sealed packets of facial creams and cleansers.  As she flipped through them, I heard her say softly to herself, "Not this one, you're not old enough for this one, no, not this one either..."

I have a confession to make.  Without a blessed ounce of humility, I leaned forward and said, "It's okay, I'm going to be 48."  I'd like to think that what I really meant was, "Honey, I am plenty old enough for that age defying, wrinkle plumping, skin smoothing, surgical-results-without-the-scalpel magic beauty cream! Pass it on over!"

What I really meant? Oh dear. Okay, here goes. What I really meant was, "Oh yes ma'am, I know very well that I don't look my age and I have it on great authority that the little frowny lines between my eyes are adorable so I'm keeping them.  But still, pass the magic cream samples because, you know, I'll tuck them away for when I am old. Someday. Some far, far day, far, far away."

The saleswoman oohed and awwed about my lack of facial wrinkleage.  I took a shot at humility and told her that I had had oily skin all of my life, and so that was probably why I am wrinkle-deficient.  She nodded knowingly.  

"Ah yes," she smiled at me. "With dry skin, the face wrinkles. With oily skin, it sags."

And there we were, right back at Humblesville.  

Home sweet home.

The next day, on my birthday, I went to Ottawa with my dear friend Sandy and my daughter, Grace.  Grace had an appointment to apply for a two year work visa to the UK.  For months she has been working on pulling together what she needed to be able to apply for this visa.  She knows the UK immigration website better that it's creator probably does.  She planned and organized and worked and sweated, and yes, there was also a fair share of weeping and wailing, as is wont in any bureaucratic endeavor. Still, with her own dedication and persistence and with lots of help from friends and family, she got everything she needed.

Once she applied for it, the visa could feasibly be granting within two weeks. She will be free to head to England any time after that.  My head says that this is a good thing. She has dreamed of this for many years.  She is in a loving relationship with a wonderful young man, Darren, and will be staying with him and his family.  I am so proud of her, of them both, and I am beyond thrilled that they are going to be able to go on this incredible adventure together.  

My heart is conflicted.  I am filled with love for Grace and Darren, with gratitude for his family and their love and care for my daughter, with excitement at this new stage of life that Grace is entering.  

At the same time, England is crazy far away!  Like, way far.  Across the sea, far.

My baby girl is moving so far away, and this is not going to be easy.

Such is the conflicting insanity that is parental love, that I would find myself in the washroom at the immigration place in Ottawa, praying that Grace's application would be accepted, discreetly reminding God that it was my birthday and that this would be a lovely birthday present.

"Dear God, remember how it's my birthday today? I was wondering, could you please arrange for my child's visa application to the UK to be accepted without incident so that she can move way too far away while I crawl into a weeping heap and wail in the searing pain of separating from her?  Please?  Thanks. Amen.'

The insanity part comes into play in that I sincerely mean it all.  I am so happy for her! This might just kill me! Yaaaaay!  Ahhhhh!

I am comforted by the fact that I am going on an adventure of my own. I am moving to Massachusetts, just as soon as the U.S government gives me permission to marry my sweet hunny.  I am going to become part of a new family, with kids and parents and stepsisters and brothers, and another niece and nephew.  

God has prepared me for such a time as this.  This beautiful child was given to us and my heart is filled with gratitude. Her name is a constant reminder that her presence in my life has been a result of God's grace, and not of my deserving.  We are both entering a new season of our lives, with new joys and new challenges.  We are not walking anywhere that God has not already been, and I know that Grace is trusting Him with her life, as am I.  I have watched both Grace and Darren grow in faith and trust through this process of preparing to be together.  The loveliest thing is that when one of them falters, the other steps up and brings God's faithfulness and love to the table, encouraging and lifting up the other.  They do this all the time, and I am blessed to be able to witness them as they build each other up in Christ.  

 I'm 48 now. There are many changes happening.  Both Grace and I are moving in different directions physically, and yet we are and will always remain united in faith and love and in our precious mother/daughterness.  

And apparently, someday, my oily skin face is going to sag. 

There really is never a dull moment, is there?