The three-year-old soon became restless. He got noisy enough that his mommy decided he needed to leave the premises, at least for a while. The priest was giving his homily and the young mother did her best to hustle the child out the door as quickly and quietly as possible. But her plans were thwarted when the little boy bellowed, “I wanna see Jesus!”

Mommy stopped in her tracks when Father Pat interrupted himself to call out the child’s name. “Rocker?” (No, I am not making this up. His name is Rocker.) “Do you want to see Jesus? It’s all right; you can come up here and see Jesus. I’ll just keep talking, OK?” And as Father preached on, Rocker and his mother approached the crèche. She knelt down next to him and he studied the tableau for a long time. At last, satisfied for the moment, he returned to his seat.

The Mass continued and I heard these words in the Preface: “…For on the feast of this awe-filled mystery, though invisible in his own divine nature, he has appeared visibly in ours…” He has appeared. The invisible has become visible. For the first time, we can see him.

I wish I could tell you Rocker was a cheerful cherub through the rest of the service, but it was past his bedtime. He finally had a toddler meltdown and was whisked away — this time all the way away. I wish I could tell you that when we see Jesus it so changes our lives that we always obey him gladly. But we, too, have our meltdowns. We disappoint Jesus, others and ourselves. Yet we return to the manger because His love draws us, and because we are filled with wonder. The invisible made visible. May we always say with Rocker, “I want to see Jesus.”

I loved you with my dreams, my youthful hope,
my joys, my fears, my sorrows, but now those
days are gone, and here I kneel.

I cannot touch you now, or feel your breath
or speak to you, embrace, or smile, and yet
through my prayers I love you still.

It was good to see you and your family Sunday. I’m so glad you could all come for Silas’ baptism. It was a wonderful, joyous day. And yet the tears that sprang to my eyes when the water was being poured over Silas’ small head were tears of sorrow. We stood there — you, Rose, me, all the rest. But where was Michael?

Michael would have so loved to have been there. He would have talked about it, written about it, recorded a podcast about it. He would have been beaming. He’d have sung the hymns especially loudly, his eyes turned upward as they did when he sang. We would have been proud of Silas together.

Michael’s missing out on a lot of things lately, isn’t he? The evening Silas was born tears stung my eyes then, too, as Ryan carried our brand, new grandson into the hospital nursery. It was such a moment of joy mingled with pain. When Noel told her dad she was pregnant the first time, he was days away from death. I ached as I watched him clap his hands for the grandchild he knew he would never see. “I wish you could be here,” I said. He answered with confidence, “Oh, I’ll be right there.” I suppose I had hoped that when Silas was born I might feel Michael’s presence in some way, if just for a fleeting moment. But I was only aware of his glaring absence as you and Rose put your arms around each other at the nursery window.

Now Silas’ crooked grins, gentle cooing and sweet snuggles are a part of my world that Michael will never know. Soon Silas will be walking and talking, a bundle of energy and life — and I will hold him up to see Grandpa Michael, a silent face behind a piece of glass on the wall. So many times I’ve wanted to say, “Charlie, it’s all up to you now. You have to be an especially good grandpa, because you’re the only grandpa Silas will have.”

So if you’re going to take Michael’s place in this grandparenting thing, what sorts of things would he be doing now? I’ve been looking through photo albums, remembering the things Michael did with Noel and Clay when they were small. He adopted the silly songs I invented for every occasion. He alone could soothe colicky Noel by getting her to sleep on his tummy. When she was older he’d set her in the middle of our bed and gently push on her chest until she tipped over, squealing with laughter.

Michael loved for us to travel as a family, whether it was a week-long vacation or a simple day trip. He planned fishing expeditions, outings to movies and baseball games, trips to museums and zoos, even Disney World. He would have loved to take Silas places, too. But now those dreams are in the misty realm of memories never made.

Does that give you some ideas of how to fill in the gap left by Michael’s death? Good. Now, forget everything I just told you, because you have to do it your way. Michael’s not here, but you are. And although Silas has the best daddy in the world, a boy can’t have too many positive male role models in his life.

The night Silas was born the nurse brought him to visit in Noel’s room for the first time. You, Rose and I sat in the side part of the room, remember? I gazed around. Mommy, Daddy, Grandma, Grandpa and Grandmere. “We are Silas’ family,” I thought. “This is what he’s got, and it will just have to do.” And somehow, in that moment, it was OK.

Michael has joined that cloud of witnesses who cheer Silas on from a distance. But you, Rose and I, we’re right here. We’ll hold Silas’ hand in the zoo, buy him an ice cream cone and wash the sticky off his little face. May he cherish us all three, but may you be especially loved. And may Michael smile as Silas runs to you, arms outstretched, crying, “Grandpa!”

Dark Side

I hold your shirt to my face and breathe in your scent.
Where was it that you went
that day?
You forgot to pack before you went away.

I take your books from off the shelf, the pages worn.
You loved the words, the lore
of each.
But now your story takes you beyond my reach.

I gaze at the nearest foothills, past muddy fields.
A search beyond would yield
nothing.
‘Tis not in woods or earth your spirit takes wing.

I wonder at the brightness of the burning sun.
If I could to it run
or fly,
not in its heat would you see His majesty.

Where are you? Is it as they say, or do shadows
fall around you high, low,
black hues
stilling your voice and now keeping Him from view?

I stand with face upturned, survey the midnight stars.
The answer comes with tears,
and soon.
I am the one on the dark side of the moon.

I’ve been reading books on grief over the past year and I thought it might be helpful to post some reviews. My plan is to write these in the order in which I read the books. First up is Elisabeth Elliot’s A Path Through Suffering — Discovering the Relationship Between God’s Mercy and Our Pain, Servant Publications, Ann Arbor, MI 1990.

The backdrop to this book is John 12:24 — “A grain of wheat remains a solitary grain unless it falls to the ground and dies; but if it dies, it bears a rich harvest.” Elliot says, “There is a necessary link between suffering and glory.”

Each chapter of this book begins with an excerpt from Lilias Trotter’s Parables of the Cross and Parables of the Christ-Life. Throughout A Path Through Suffering are black and white reproductions of Trotter’s watercolors of desert plant life. The plant imagery works well as Elliot speaks of suffering as a form of spiritual pruning, new life being birthed from the death of the old and springtime always coming no matter how severe the winter.

Elliot’s underlying assumption for her book is detailed in the first chapter when she tells of her two-year-old daughter, Valerie, learning to sing “Jesus Loves Me” and asking if Jesus had loved her daddy. When Elliot answered “yes,” the inevitable question followed. Then why did God let the Auca Indians kill him? “I did not know all God’s reasons…” Elliot confessed. “But that He had reasons, I was sure. That they were loving reasons I was also sure. The assurance that it was not for nothing comforted me and I gave peace to my child.”

She draws on stories from the lives of many Christians who have endured suffering for the glory of God, including Joan Andrews, Amy Carmichael, Walter Ciszek and others from Elliot’s personal life. A Path Through Suffering is firmly grounded in Biblical principles, with liberal references to scriptural heroes of the faith as well.

I found this to be a good book on suffering in general, and it was definitely helpful to me in my grief. Elliot encouraged me to hang onto the belief that God had a purpose for events I could never possibly understand. She reminded me that our God is One who can and does bring life out of death — something I desperately needed to hear as I began, ever so slowly, facing life without my Michael.

A friend sits down to eat supper with her husband. I overhear her telling him all about her doctor’s appointment that day. I realize that now if I have health problems or concerns, there’s no one who will care quite like a spouse cares.

I learn that a friend has lost his mother. My very first thought is, “I’ve got to tell Michael right away. He’ll want to know about this.” He’s been gone nine and a half months and a part of me is still in denial.

I’m talking with a student. She asks, “When you were my age, did you ever wonder sometimes if you’d ever get married?” I began to make some reference to before I began dating Mr. Spencer and it suddenly hits me: “Mr. Spencer” is just a name to her. She’s never known him. All around me this school year are students who’ve never known him. The kids loved him so; how can they not know him now?

I see a younger couple quarreling. I want to grab them by the shoulders and yell, “Every minute of your marriage is precious! Don’t waste even one!”

A Facebook friend posts a photo of himself with his wife. Middle age is being kind to them; they make a handsome couple. I can’t resist. I comment, “Enjoy these years.”

Another Facebook friend enters a thread in which folks are wishing her husband well on his birthday. She adds a mere four words that capture her heart: “Happy birthday, my love.” I wonder if they will have a special dinner at home that evening or if they will go out. What flavor cake did she bake for him? Will her card be funny or romantic? When the dishes are cleared away will they make love?

Such are the moments that make up my life.

Maybe I’ve always been inexplicably drawn to the number 53. As a child, I was always making cards for people. Actually, I still do that. Anyway, it started in childhood. For some reason I still remember the card I made for my grandmother on her 53rd birthday. I put “53! 53! 53!” all over the front of the card. Inside I printed an original poem that began, “Bet you’ve always wanted to be the just-right age of 53!” It never dawned on me that a grownup might not be as excited as I was about growing older — and may not appreciate having her new age plastered all across the card. I didn’t truly believe 53 was a just-right age; it was her age and that’s what made it great to me. (I confess I was not so enamored with 53 when that was my birthday last year.)

This past year 53 has come to be a special age for me once more, because Michael was 53 when he died. Now to me he will be forever 53. And today I turned 54.

Michael was four months older than me. Each year we’d celebrate his birthday and I could tease him about being my elder until I caught up with him in January. But this time I passed him by. There’s something quite sobering about that. Something quite sad. We used to watch the “Highlander” TV series, the one starring Adrian Paul. There would sometimes be the emotional trauma of an immortal falling in love with a mortal, the mortal one knowing she would continue aging while her lover did not. Though Michael isn’t here to walk side-by-side with me, immortal to mortal, it makes me pause all the same. My memories of him will stop at age 53. But I may go on to 55…60…70…80 or beyond. If Michael were to come back for a visit 20 years from now, chances are he wouldn’t even recognize me. My aging is yet another fact that makes me feel farther and farther away from him as time marches on.

In spite of my sadness (and my resultant little breakdown last night), this has been a good birthday for me. Really good. I suspect the people in my life tried extra hard this year, and it did not go unnoticed. Church friends began by telling me “Happy birthday!” yesterday. Tons of Facebook friends have sent me “Happy birthday!” posts. Many co-workers have shared birthday greetings with me all day. Clay sent me a crazy e-card and the sweetest little note. Noel is cooking a special dinner for me tonight — and had to bake me a second birthday cake because the dog ate the first one! I got a visual birthday cake + a very nice message from Internet Monk, followed by comments from readers. I received a whopping surprise — an absolutely beautiful flower arrangement from dear friends. And the day’s not over yet!

In a strange way I’m glad — for Michael’s sake, not mine — that he’s 53 and holding. He will never know the health problems that can accompany old age. He will never be stricken with Alzheimers or dementia. The kids will never have to admit him to a nursing home. He exited the stage early, and as gracefully as he was able. I can find a sort of peace in knowing that.

And me? I don’t know how many years lie ahead, or what shape I’ll be in when it’s my time to go. For now I’m oh, so grateful for family and friends who love me so much that they can make a sad birthday one of my most special ever. You have turned my mourning into dancing, at least for today.

Christmas is such a time for memories, and 31 years of marriage left me with memories galore. Like our very first Christmas, when we bought a real tree and Michael had to trim off the lowest twigs to make it fit in the stand and he chopped his thumb to the bone with the carving knife. We never forgot my taking him to the ER for those seasonal stitches. And like that same year when Michael wanted to do stockings but he bought everything except the stocking so he crammed the stuff into a brown paper bag he labeled “Christmas Bag” with a ballpoint pen. I saved that precious little bag for years, and would give anything to have it now.

Michael was the one who made Christmas what it was in our home. He loved the holiday, and his love dictated all sorts of Spencer family holiday season rules. Thou shalt not play Christmas music before Thanksgiving. After Thanksgiving thou shalt play all the Christmas music thou wishes. The Advent wreath must be set up and ready to go with new candles by the first Sunday in Advent. The candles are lit as part of a family worship time at Sunday dinner each of the four Advent weeks. There must always be plenty of eggnog in the refrigerator, and it is to be consumed full-strength — not cut with milk by the faint of heart. No gifts are to be opened before Christmas morning. Then it’s gifts first, stockings last. Oh, and until his mother came to live with us, Christmas morning began with Michael calling his parents to say, “Christmas gift!” (That tradition never had much of an explanation; it was simply fun, I guess.)

I expected the first Christmas of my widowhood to be difficult and it was, though it certainly could have been worse. Throughout the whole season my grief was more raw than it otherwise had been of late, my emotions less predictable. I didn’t feel much like decorating. I wanted to delay putting up the Christmas things anyway so I could focus more than usual on Advent, but I knew that decision was partly an excuse. My heart just wasn’t in it. I set out my four-foot Chrismon tree and my little fiberoptic evergreen and could have called it finished. But bless Noel’s heart. She said, “Mom. I can’t stand the thought of you sitting there in that house without a Christmas tree. I’m going to help you.” So together we assembled branches B through K, strung the lights and hung the homespun ornaments. We agreed that Dad would have wanted more lights, but we thought we had plenty. (We remembered him exclaiming, “Lights! Is that all we’ve got? We need more lights! I’m just going to have to drive to town right now to get more lights!”)

I did feel better once the tree was up. Michael would have wanted me to have the tree, that’s for sure. I dutifully wrapped gifts and listened to Christmas music. I planned the menu for our Christmas family dinner and bought the groceries. I even did some baking, which further boosted my holiday mood. And yet I both dreaded and looked forward to Christmas Eve.

I don’t know how Christmas took on such importance in Michael’s life, but he never lost its sense of magic or his own sense of wonder. Even after our children had long stopped waiting for Santa, he still loved to use NORAD to track the jolly old elf through the sky. When the kids were small he made sure they not only left cookies and milk for St. Nick, but also an apple for Rudolph. Sure enough, the next morning they would find the apple core lying in the front yard right where Rudolph had spit it out. (Clay still remembers standing on the porch gazing at that apple core, utterly amazed.) Michael’s love for the holiday wasn’t just the secular side, however. His deepest awe was reserved not for flying reindeer, but for the very Son of God tucked gently into a feeding trough by a carpenter’s rough hands.

Between Santa and the Savior, Christmas Eve with Michael was a very special time, indeed. After an early dinner of turkey and all the trimmings we would go to church, then come home and light every candle in the living room. With all the lights off except the candles and the tree, he and I would sit on the couch, listen to glorious music and sip eggnog before filling the stockings and retiring to bed.

Just the thought of Christmas 2010 seemed very bleak. How could it even be Christmas without my Michael? At least I had plenty to do on Christmas Eve. Clay and Taylor would be driving in from Lexington that night, and I wanted to do some advance cooking for the next day’s dinner. I did my best to keep the music going, even as I remembered that keeping the music going was always Michael’s job. Instead of cooking us a special Christmas Eve breakfast served on Mom Dorothy’s antique white dishes I ate…Hmmm. I don’t recall what I ate. Lunch was me standing at the kitchen sink munching cheese and crackers. Instead of turkey and dressing for dinner, I almost forgot to eat at all. At last I sat down at the table with a little bowl of clam chowder. Noel and Ryan had gone to their church over an hour away. Clay and Taylor had not yet arrived. The music had stopped playing. I was alone for the first time ever on Christmas Eve, and I cried into my clams.

But before too long Taylor and Clay arrived with luggage and gifts and hugs and kisses and all was right with the world, except…they were tired and went on to bed, so I drove to Midnight Mass by myself. I returned to a quiet house. Nobody tracking Santa. No shimmering candlelight or background music. No snuggling on the couch with glasses of chilled nog. Just the quiet I’m becoming accustomed to, but a sad silence all the same.

The next day Noel and Ryan came over mid-morning and spent the whole day and evening with us. We played Christmas music all day. We opened gifts that morning. Yes, presents first, stockings last. Then the young folks played games while I cooked a fine turkey dinner. We shared a few remembrances of Dad during the meal, then carried on with laughter and lively conversation. The eggnog flowed freely. Michael would have been pleased.

Yet no one placed a call that morning to exclaim, “Christmas gift!” And the worst thing of all? We forgot to light the Advent candles. We didn’t read from the beloved Book of Family Worship. I didn’t even have the Advent wreath on the table, for crying out loud. What was I thinking? That’s it; I wasn’t thinking. Michael would have been very, very disappointed.

So I get mixed reviews for my first Christmas on my own. I did some things right; I did some things wrong. OK, bad wrong. I survived, though, and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?

The worst thing about the first Christmas without Michael is the simple fact that it won’t be the last. There will be next Christmas without him, and the next, and the next, and– I feel as if I’m suffocating when I think of the future. Oh, I’ll keep surviving. Hopefully I’ll get even better at this. But I will always, always miss the magic.

His name was “Mistoffelees.” Not “Mephistopheles,” as some misunderstood the name to be. He was named after the “Mr. Mistoffelees” in T. S. Eliot ‘s poetry book, Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. Even more specifically, he was named after the “Magical Mr. Mistoffelees” of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical, Cats. Just in case you don’t know, Webber’s Cats is based on the felines in Eliot’s book of poems.

When Clay was in the fourth grade we made a family trip to Memphis to see Cats on stage. Magical Mr. Mistoffelees is described as “quiet and small; he is black from the ears to the tip of his tail…” He is called “the original conjuring cat” because in addition to being able to do card tricks and make things disappear, “His voice has been heard on the roof when he was curled up by the fire, and he’s sometimes been heard by the fire when he was about on the roof.”

Just a week or so after we saw Cats (which Clay dearly loved) I stepped out the front door to walk our dog early one morning and discovered a wee black kitten in our front yard. The little tyke couldn’t have been more than six weeks old — maybe just five — and it ran up to me mewing as if we were old friends. Since Clay was always difficult to wake up for school, I knew this would do just the trick. I suppose deep down I also knew I was, at that moment, choosing to adopt a kitten, because there would be no doubt about Clay’s reaction. I scooped Kitty, Jr. up and took it to Clay’s room, plopping it on his chest. He awoke with a start, and in a matter of moments I was hearing (you know what comes next) “Oh, Mom, can we keep it?” “OK,” I agreed, “but it needs to be an outside cat.” Ha. Famous last words.

Clay promptly decided that Kitty, Jr. was a she and dubbed his new pet “Misty” after Magical Mr. Mistoffelees. Misty didn’t have to get much older until we could tell that she was a he. So “Mistoffelees” he became.

Mistoffelees — or “Mistof” for short — was an affectionate little soul from day one. He much preferred being indoors to staying outside, especially in cold weather. My outside-cat-only mandate soon fell by the wayside. Mistoffelees’ favorite place was on Clay’s bed, where he tried to suck the blanket as he purred merrily. Odd, but cute as a furry little button. He knew he was Clay’s cat from the start.

He also seemed to know the talents of Webber’s Magical Mr. Mistoffelees, and was determined to live up to the name. I was always determined to keep him outside as much as possible, at least in nice weather. I would put him out and moments later, it seemed, Mistof would somehow be back inside again. My “Who let him in?” query would be answered by a trio of “Not me” responses. At other times I would have sworn he was indoors and I’d hear him mewing on the front porch to be let in. “What the heck? How did he — ” I finally stopped even asking the question. Mistoffelees was one talented cat and that’s all there was to it.

He was smart, too. He always knew when I was stalking him to toss him out, and he knew just where to hide. My favorite Mistoffelees story goes back to when Clay had bunk beds. His stuffed animals were stashed on the floor under the top bunk. One day I was trying to find Mistof to put him out. I knew he was in the house somewhere … wasn’t he? Do you remember the darling scene from ET where he’s hiding in Elliot’s closet among the stuffed animals and the mom looks right at him but doesn’t see him? I peered under Clay’s bed. Let’s see…stuffed dog…stuffed rabbit…stuffed horse…cat…teddy bear…Wait a minute! It was just like the movie scene; Mistoffelees sat motionless, barely breathing as he hoped I’d pass him by. And I almost did.

Being sneaky didn’t always serve him well, though. Mistoffelees was forever getting locked in rooms. He’d be hiding in Clay’s room and I would close the door in the morning to keep the dog from eating the action figures. That evening upon our return home I would hear Clay’s voice coming from down the hall: “Hey! Who locked Mistof in my room all day?” Several times my feline friend found himself locked in our shed. Once he probably would have died in there of dehydration if I’d not just happened to walk by and hear him mewing.

Mistoffelees’ worst habit and most likely his ultimate downfall was his penchant for fighting. Oh, yes, he’d been neutered. But for some reason he never lost that tomcat spirit. There always seemed to be another male cat in the neighborhood, either domestic or feral, and it was often difficult to tell who started the brawl. The fur flew — literally. The back porch would be full of little tufts of black fur plus the color of the day, depending on who Mistof’s opponent had been.

We always had Mistoffelees immunized, but that still didn’t keep him from sustaining injuries from his wrestling matches. I lost count of the number of times he developed abcesses. On several occasions I took him to the vet to have an abcess lanced and drained. No matter how uncomfortable it must have been, Mistof was always good about letting me doctor his wounds — a task I became rather expert at doing. In fact, I became rather expert at several veterinary maneuvers. At least twice I could tell an abcess had formed and I thought, “You know what? I could take care of this myself!” So in the style of Theodoric of York, Medieval Barber, I cooed, “Now hold still, Sweetie” — and then I stabbed him in the face with my pocketknife. (Warning: Don’t try this at home.) But hey; it worked for me!

My other favorite Mistoffelees story was related to a different face wound. He’d been bitten by a particularly nasty stray tomcat who routinely terrorized him. It abcessed. It drained. Little by little, new skin began to grow over the wound and Mistof looked better every day. Early one morning before I went to work, he jumped into my lap. Something about his face caught my eye and I looked more closely. I was surprised to see there was really no fur growing from the new skin, and the new skin looked…old. Weird. Dry and leathery. Curious, I reached out to touch the skin. It moved under my finger, revealing a bloody mess of tissue underneath. I was horrified to see that most of the skin on the right side of my cat’s face was barely attached. I drove to the print shop and dashed in just long enough to cry out to my shocked co-workers, “My cat’s face is falling off!” before rushing Mistoffelees to the vet.

A few months ago Mistoffelees went missing. It wasn’t uncommon for him to disappear for a couple of days. (I always figured he was locked in someone else’s shed.) But over a week went by with no sign of him. I learned that something had been killing cats in the neighborhood. A dog? Fox? Raccoon? Then I learned that one of our maintenance men had found the carcass of a black cat a week or so before, apparently done in by the same varmint. The body had been disposed of long before I heard the tale, but it had to be him. My little warrior had finally met his match.

When I told Clay about it, we were both sad. I said I hated to think of Mistof dying that way; he deserved better.

A couple of weeks ago I was in the bedroom with Maisie when I heard the soft thud of a cat jumping from the couch to the floor. Then I remembered I didn’t have a cat. I could chalk it up to my overactive imagination, but Maisie clearly heard it, too. For several minutes she lay on the bed, ears up, staring intently into the hall as if waiting for her kitty friend to appear. Now I don’t believe in ghosts. But nobody ever claimed Mistoffelees was a ghost. He was simply “the original conjuring cat.”

His voice has been heard on the roof

when he was curled up by the fire,

and he’s sometimes been heard by the fire

when he was about on the roof.

A toast to you, Magical Mr. Mistoffelees, wherever you are.

Not all of the changes were good. Some were neutral, while others, truth be told, were probably not so great. One member has noticed a lot more gray hair since she buried her husband. Several of us said we’re not at home as much as we used to be. Are we keeping productively busy? Yes. Avoiding the loneliness of the empty house? Probably that, too.

The good stuff, though, it was pretty darn good. I shared how I recently made a five-hour trek to my hometown all by myself, and did several things on my mini-vacation that I simply wouldn’t have done if Michael had been with me. Not that I couldn’t have; I just wouldn’t have. And everyone smiled as I told of going with Noel to the doctor just the day before and hearing my grandchild’s heartbeat for the very first time. Meanwhile, Dave has started on a home improvement project. He’s slowly moving from room to room, painting and laying new carpet. This is the first time he’s shown a real interest in anything since his wife died a year ago. Susan surprised us all by saying that she’d been on a road trip since our last meeting. Though she admitted she couldn’t wait to get back home, this was still a big step for her. The biggest news, however, came from Dorothy. She was positively glowing as she told us that she’s getting ready to go on a mission trip in the near future. And she’s already planning to enjoy it so much that she’ll want to go again.

Barb was absolutely elated. “When I was here last month,” she recalled, “you were the most depressed bunch of people I’d seen in a long time. I went to work the next day and said, ‘Hey, gals. We’ve got to pray for my support group!’” And they did. Barb went on to caution us that at the next meeting, “You may all be depressed again. It comes and it goes.” Yes, if we’ve learned anything so far, we’ve learned that. But for one lovely evening we shared more collective healing and joy than we had ever before known as a group.

And so we trudge on with our tiny steps. Sometimes it seems like three backward for every one in the right direction. Tonight I’m smiling, but a week ago I was sobbing over the six-month anniversary of Michael’s passing. Tomorrow I may be a basket case. But right now I’m glad to have a social worker who cares and prays. I’m thankful for God’s moment-by-moment grace. And I’m grateful for last evening’s ninety minutes of happiness and hope.