Guest Post!

My favorite recent photo of her

My dear friends, I hope you enjoy this guest post! My sweet little cousin (and first godchild!) wrote this piece. She has always had a passion for writing, but never seemed to 'get' the fact that she is truly gifted at it. I'm so impressed with her tenacity and courage in applying to Grad School for writing -- a long, complicated and difficult process. She was asked to submit a 2-3 page personal narrative as part of her writing portfolio. She graciously consented to my sharing it with you here. I'm delighted to also share that she was accepted into the program this past week.

I'm not sure if she wants me sharing her name, so for now I'll just give her initials. HR is is 29 years old, lives in London, and is a tremendously soulful and adventurous human being. I hope you'll take a moment to comment on her writing. She'd love to hear what you think!

Mary Poppins, Baggage Fees and a Funeral

The day I left the States to move to London, my mother handed me a hundred dollar bill and a card. Inside she wrote, 'I wonder how it came to this. Did I let you watch Mary Poppins too often as a child?' She had managed to find a way to blame my beloved screen nanny for her only child leaving home. Truth be told, I was already nearing thirty and recently married to a wonderful British man; no magic was needed to draw me across the pond.

Upon my arrival at Boston’s Logan airport, I quickly realized how in handy Miss Poppins’ famously fathomless carpetbag would have come. My idea of what was necessary for an overseas move did not square well with the airline concierge. I’ve never been a light packer. I pleaded with her to assent to my tattered and seam-bursting luggage without charging me the extra fees. I was a New England girl heading back to Old England, and I couldn’t possibly be expected to start a new life sans three suitcases of essentials.

Somehow all three of my embarrassingly oversized bags -- the kind that seemed to scream ‘American coming thru--make way!’ -- made it to the land of tea and biscuits free of charge. Good thing, too, as all I had to my name was that hundred dollar bill and a Bank of America checking account in the red. My poor heart had already been over theweight limit for years. If only those airline representatives knew the baggage I was really carrying.

For half my life I had been living under the haze of medication. Twelve years of anti-depressants,sedatives and other meds-du-jour prescribed by a parade of therapists. Still I found myself depressed, or half asleep? I couldn’t tell. None of this seemed remarkable to me pre-England. I am American after all. I hail from a country of over-medicated, super-anesthetized masses. Pharmaceutically speaking, we take our constitutional right of the pursuit of happiness very seriously.

It wasn’t until I sat down with a British psychologist that I realized I’d been fooled. I saw it, the look on her face, when she asked me about the thirteen different psychotropic medications I had been prescribed over the last decade. [Insert enchanting British accent here] ‘According to this list of medications you have had nearly five different psychiatric diagnoses over the course of your life.’ All these years, all these meds, all these diagnoses and I had gotten nowhere. Half a lifetime of being legally ‘high’ had taken its toll. And, as we know, ‘extra baggage’ fees don’t come cheap.

The week after I met with the psychologist, I began weaning myself off anti-depressants. I felt like a derailed junkie. I cut the pill from thirds to halves to quarters. I noted side effects. I chronicled my experience like I would a science experiment. I soon found it was not unlike coming off an illegal drug. I felt dizzy, nauseous, achy and sleepless. I experienced crying spells, temper tantrums and night sweats. After a month, the withdrawal symptoms started to ebb. I felt miserable, but somehow hopeful. I was determined to continue on the rocky road. I was buoyant with expectation. Then my father called.

'Your grandmother died. You need to come home.'

I dragged the baggage out of the closet and spread them open on the floor of my London flat. I then began to pack for a place I’d never been before, my grandmother’s funeral. I hunted my drawers for fresh duct tape to hold these bags together for another trip, but there was none. Later, I reached for my bottle of pills to hold me together, but it was empty. I had to do this one on my own, without the convenience of duct tape or Xanax to cover unraveling seams.

When I reached Boston, time seemed to stop. Literally. Every clock in my vicinity showed incorrect time. The kitchen clock said it was five minutes to ten. The antique mahogany tableclock told eleven minutes before twelve. It was twelve thirty. I took my timeless self for one last visit to my grandmother’s house where her things stood untouched.

It was as if she hadn’t really died at all, but simply passed effortlessly into another room. All these rooms, permanently fixed in my imagination like etched glass. And here I was within them again, like a ghost, moving from room to room. There was my customary corner of her aging couch and, nearby, the obtrusive ipad she had been learning to navigate. Since my move to this other part of the world, my grandmother had embraced email, much to everyone’s surprise. She was going to keep this tethered line to her granddaughter taut, even if it meant pushing herself into foreign waters.

Opening my inbox in London to find a message from my nonagenarian grandmother never ceased to make me smile. Here, in her livingroom, I leaned over and pressed the ipad’s button. The loading symbol appeared on the screen, and round and round it went until, finally, it went dark. The battery was dead. I looked up towards her clock, the antique brass one that held court on her mantle, the one I always found too emphatic as a child. It hadn’t struck a sound this entire time. It read twenty past eight. It was now two thirty. It had died, too.

I left, retiring to my great uncle’s condo where I was staying while I was in town. Restless, I poked around and discovered his old typewriter in the closet. In an unconscious lust for inspiration, I decided to see if it worked. I imagined all the great books he had written on this very machine. They would trigger something in me, and I’d finally find that voice that was hiding inside me. I fed the plain, virginal paper into the machine and began to type. The words seemed light, lifeless; each letter a tiny, obscure impression, no more.

It was out of ink.

I pushed the key more insistently, trying to at least write my name. I watched the long arm of the type hammer swing up to the paper with its expectant letter ‘H’. It stuck. Immovable. Oh, the irony! I was stuck, too. I stood, unyielding, like this letter ‘H’. I was caught, frozen in time, between two places. Where do I go? How do I get there? I’m the middleman, trying to broker a deal between my past and my future. And both sides drive a hard bargain.

Later that night I foundan old ‘to do’ list in my uncle’s bedside drawer, written on a dusty index card. The list was lengthy, and partially crossed off. I couldn’t help but wonder if any soul ever completes their life’s ‘to do’ list. My uncle, halfway through his list at death, my grandmother, closing in on a century when she died, but still not finished with life. How do we keep moving? How do we keep the type hammers from sticking or clocks from breaking or souls we love from dying? I look down at my uncle’s unfinished list. At the bottom is a task not yet crossed off, and yet underlined as if accomplishing of it is of tantamount importance.

‘Buy new typewriter ribbon.’

Ah, yes, the ink. I find my coat, grab an umbrella and, list in hand, head out into the world. The paper, the well-worn machine, the questions – they will be there when I get back.

HR on her home turf in London:)

As The Dust Settles

credit: Vladamir Konavalov

We want our lives to be blue-sky beautiful. We expect them to be predictable like that, at least in mundane ways. We wake up each day with the expectation that we can rely on a few certainties - the sun will rise, the dishes will need cleaning, the dog, his walk.

And yet, this is all a ruse. There are no certainties. It's just that some, through luck or good fortune, experience a life relatively free of major tempests and upheaval. Oh, they have their moments of dis-ease and disquiet, their days of loss and times, too, of cloudy grief, but it all seems to follow a gentle timetable, an understanding between them and their creator.

But some of us are dealt a very different itinerary. It feels aberrant, or at least uncomfortable. It doesn't look like everyone else's and everyone senses the deviation, but no one talks of it. Well, they talk of it only when it can be couched in humorous maxims or catch-phrases. 'Wouldn't want to have her life.' or 'What a soap opera!' I know it's human nature to cover over what's uncomfortable with humor. But can we be honest for a moment?

We do not choose our storylines, friends.

Let me repeat that:

We do not choose our storylines.

When I set out find my daughter's sister, at her request, I did not do so to invoke a hellstorm in my life. I took that step out of Love. I started than journey for no other reason but that my dear, precious hurting new little girl longed for her sister. What was a mother to do BUT say yes?

And when every door slammed shut in my attempt to adopt her sister, was I supposed to take that as a sign? Give up? Move on? That is what many people told me to do. Love told me otherwise.

And when she, my daughter's beautiful sister, was aged out of the orphanage and living on the streets and needed more financial help than I could give, was it then I was supposed to stop? Give up? move on? That is what many people told me to do. Love told me otherwise.

And after years of letter writing, campaigning and outright begging the authorities to allow Anya to finally come home to us, and we were told by the embassy at the last minute 'It will never happen.' Was it then I should have stopped? Given up? Moved on? That is what dozens told me, wrote me, urged me. Yes, dozens. Love told me otherwise.

And when the loneliness and poverty got too much for Anya and she decided it was better to take her own life, and she called me weeping and begging me 'Come help me, Mama.' Was it then I should have stopped? Given up? Moved on? That is what even some people closest to me told me to do. 'You can't go over there.' and 'you need to think of yourself.' were their excuses. Love told me otherwise. and I went.

We do not choose our storyline. We do, however, have the power to choose how to respond to it, and I'll be damned if I'll choose fear over Love.

I won't. I haven't, and I never will.

Choosing Love makes the storyline more scary, less predictable, and far more complicated than it otherwise could be. Choosing Love sometimes puts us in the direct path of emotional tornadoes and spiritual tsunamis. But it is what we are called to do. We are called to choose love, but too many miss the point. They mistakenly think their choices are to keep their storyline in place.

They don't want to rock the boat, cause themselves or others discomfort, upend the status quo. They don't want the hurricane. They want life to make sense -- money in the bank, roof over their head, ducks in a row. The problem is these seemingly innocuous choices towards ease and safety have grave repercussions for the world. Like the pebble in the pond -- there are infinite circles of effect that move out, to infinity, from every single decision we make. Every single one. And to what end do we try to stay on the safe side anyway? So we can arrive, safely and in one piece, to our own inevitable death?

I have been sad lately. Yes, very sad, and overwhelmed. But that doesn't mean I am incapable of what God set before me. That does not mean I chose wrong. There is no need to abandon Anya, forsake Daniel, or turn my back on the children of orphanage. The problem lies in my penchant for trying to weather the storm alone. I don't do it intentionally, but it does seem to be a habit throughout my life to try to carry the burden by myself. And sometimes it takes my back breaking from the weight of what I'm carrying for me to stop and see clearly what I've been doing wrong. Sometimes it takes a category 5 hurricane. This was one of those times.

My storyline is God's business. He, not I, has chosen to fill my life with a great many chances to help others and, in turn, to suffer the burden of seeing how deep and wide and oh-so-impossibly-unmeetable is the need. He doesn't force me to answer the call, I make that choice myself, and I do it out of Love.

My problem is not that God dumped too much on my plate. My problem is that I lose perspective.

I forget that not only does He love me, but He has my back. I don't have to carry the burden of these sorrows all by myself -- He is there to carry it for me. I just have to learn to let go. Let go, let go, let go. I need to stop trying so hard to do it on my own, and just allow the grace He offers in every moment. I forget that.

Over and over and over again I forget that.

I am so grateful to the dozens of you who chose to write and offer words of Love and Support yesterday. Your words, and the Love your words carried to me, were a wonderous blessing. God's hands and feet. God comforting me through you and your willingness to reach out to a soul in pain. It is great to know souls of such kindness and generosity of heart.

And to the one person (Miss anonymous commenter from Henryetta Oklahoma) who chose to incite fear instead of offering love, I say: take a step back and see what unspoken hurt in your own life caused you to respond in judgement, instead of Love, to my sharing. I didn't deserve to receive a comment that was so unhelpful. (And to be honest, it was very cowardly of you to say such things and not include your name.) I'm choosing to believe you are simply so ignorant of true grief that you were incapable of writing anything else. I hope that is the case.

So, the dust is settling after the storm. And, as with any storm of merit, the air is clearer and so much debris is washed away. To walk through a storm like that and talk about it is a very brave thing. I don't think this, I know this. But how else to help the next person who finds herself caught in an equally terrifying storm? They have a right to know how others have weathered it! They have a right to know where to seek shelter.

And so, to gently remind those who may be heading into a storm, I find my shelter here:

'But now, this is what the Lord says, He who created you, O Jacob, He who formed you, O Israel: 'Fear not, for I have redeemed you. I have summoned you by name. You are mine. When you pass through the storm, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.' ~Isaiah 43:1-2

and

'The Lord is good, a shelter in times of trouble.' ~ Nahum 1:7

And to Anonymous from Henryetta, OK: You can stop obsessively checking my blog and my comment thread every few hours. I will not be posting your comment. I will never post anonymous comments that are not kind, supportive, or helpful...unless it can be a teachable moment. Please find another blogger to 'rescue.' I do not appreciate your judgemental attitude. And your obsessive visits, google searches on my past posts, and checking in here all day long do not speak well of your stability.

When Sorrows Come..

'When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

but in battalions.' ~William Shakespeare

And He said to them, 'My soul is sad, even unto death.'

I don't think I can pretend anymore that I am well. I really have tried to fake it these last few days, but I am so not well. I've hit the bottom of rock bottom and, as Sylvia Plath says 'I simply cannot see where there is to get to...'

I cannot sink any deeper, I cannot fall any farther. I have prayed ten thousand prayers or more. I have hoped, and held on to the tiniest slivers of hope. I've not given up when others far more brave than I have said they would quit. But I just can't seem to catch a break. My heart is shattered.

I just can't seem to turn off my heart, and my heart hurts. It hurts for so many things...

It feels a terrible grief for the years and years of Anya waiting. My sweet, loving, big-hearted girl still sitting there and hoping for a day I now am convinced will never come.

My heart feels the darkest, hollowest loneliness for the children at orphanage #5. I have had to stop thinking of them, calling them, because I can't handle the pain and tears. Do you know what it's like to know girls who are now prisoners in the world of prostitution? Girls I gave gifts to and hugged and expressed care for? Do you know what it's like to hear of boys who hanged themselves ? Boys who once traipsed around the village with me all those years ago? I cant bear the thought of them anymore. I just cant hold those images in my head or heart for one minute more. It will kill me.

And my heart shatters when I think of Daniel. Daniel who expected to be home by now. Daniel who could be here now, if it weren't for my horrible luck. Let's not mince words -- I am a walking testament to BAD LUCK. No one even gets how sick and distraught I feel every single day he is there and not here. No one even asks.

And, if those were not enough, my heart is crushed into dust by the sickening suspicions of my brothers...brothers I thought were my family and loved me. Brothers who took the time to imagine the worst of their sister, though they never seemed to have the time to reach out to her. I don't know how I'll ever heal from their deceit and backstabbing. Their words won't leave my head...I'm 'an embarrassment', a 'hypocrite', I'm a 'psychologically manipulative princess' ...should I go on?

Imagine hearing these words from people you thought loved you. Imagine taking the risk of sharing your honest and uncensored pain, your struggles with God, your worries about your daughter, your fears and longings here on this blog, hoping to help others, hoping to make a difference in the world...only to hear that someone else, someone you trusted, sees your words as 'drivel' and a 'tired old narrative" and "BS"?

Sometimes I don't want to be here anymore. I'm sorry to share that, but I promised I'd always be brutally honest here, and that's about all I have left these days -- my courage to speak my own truth.

Here's my truth: I'm in terrible, horrible, unspeakable pain that I cannot possibly relay to you in words. I feel bereft, abandoned, unloved and so, so grief-stricken.

But thankfully, here's an even bigger truth: I know, somehow, inside and far beyond this pain that my God loves me. And me? I love God with as much of my heart, soul, mind and strength as I can muster. I dare say I love my daughter even more (just being honest.) I love a great many people in this world and have tried to stand by them and I have been a shoulder to cry on for far too many to count. I pray, I give, I love...and yet I stand here, on this day, as sad and grief-stricken as I have ever experienced in my 46 years of life.

Please don't tell me I just need to pray harder, or try this thing or that, and all this darkness will go away -- my jobs will return, my body will heal, Anya will be on my doorstep, Daniel in my arms, all the children I care about will be miraculously loved and adopted, my brothers will repent the things they have said and done, the bills will unpile, the hurt will unravel, the pain will lift up ,up and away, and all will be well in my world. It won't. It's here, it's all here. And it's here until God wills it away.

Today I sat in my car and cried so hard and so long that I suddenly couldn't breathe. My throat snapped shut. (It does that sometimes. Doctor calls it laryngospasm) This experienced used to terrify me, but this time, strangely, I felt peace. I think I felt like if it was my time, I was ready. Part of me just felt it was better to 'not be' anymore. Even Christ felt that level of sadness, in the Garden of Gethsemane. It's some comfort to know our God knows this pain intimately.

I'm sure there are plenty of you reading this that have felt this level of despair. We just don't talk about it. No one does, but we should. Millions of people live in this level of despair every day of their lives. Do you see in the news what horror goes on in the world? The poverty, the wars, the brutality even against defenseless children? The indifference? The lack of love so glaringly obvious everywhere? No wonder. No wonder a million people take their own lives each year. A Million. And, honestly, if I didn't have my faith, I'd be part of that statistic by now. Sorry to destroy anyone's image of me, but I'd rather speak the truth than hide behind even a half-truth when the world is as heartbroken and in need of truth as it is.

And, by the way, this does not make me an 'unbeliever', as one self-righteous person called me once when I tried to share my deep grief. How dare they? Because I'm brave enough to share my pain, I'm suddenly unworthy of my faith? How naive of them. How backwards. How unholy. I learned long ago that life is not mine to take. But until you have been in this darkest of places, you cannot possibly judge my experience. I would not wish this darknness on anyone. Be glad, be grateful if you do not understand what I am talking about. You are truly infinitely blessed in your not knowing.

So the next obvious question is: What am I holding onto? How am I choosing life when life feels this bad? How do I make that choice, every day, to be present in this amount of pain and not die or go insane?

I humbly, and with a child's trust, hold onto this...

Job said, 'Though he slay me, yet will I hope in Him.'

Psalm 40 says: 'I WAITED patiently and expectantly for the Lord; and He inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock.'


In Isaiah 41, it says 'So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.'

And 1 Peter 5:7 says 'Give all your sorrows to God, because He cares for you.'

And Ephesians 2:14, simply says 'For He is our Peace.'

I believe these words. I BELIEVE them. Though I struggle to understand why I am in so much pain - mentally, emotionally and physically -- I do not struggle to believe those words. I know they are true. And so, I wait. I wait on Him.

I sob, I wail, I self-loathe, I cry out...

and I wait.

Much Ado About Something

This is the scene on my couch every other weekend. Giddy young actors sitting in the round, discussing our play. It's the first time I'm not directing in a long while. I'm producing this one, and I'm very much enjoying the new perspective. I do lots of the logistical stuff, and I'm not the 'last word' like I usually am. A very nice change, I have to say. The director and composer drive up from NYC every other weekend, and we run intense rehearsals for about 7 hours a day, Saturday and Sunday. Then everyone returns to their regular lives, until another 14 days have passed. It's a very strange, drawn out rehearsal schedule, I must admit, but it's working for us. It's the only way this particular Director -- whom we love -- could be a part of it. Where there's a 'Will', there's a way. (Pun intended.) The play is Much Ado About Nothing, which is honestly not one of my favorites, but it's growing on me. It doesn't hurt that the cast is stellar and a joy to be with. The play doesn't go up until the very end of May.

So the Director and I have committed to doing this as a fundraiser for Anya. She's going to need either a decent wheelchair or some kind of prosthetic soon enough. It's still unclear if her foot is salvageable. I get the feeling that the surgeon was on the fence himself about it. I am no doctor, but I have seen the golfball-sized hole where her ankle used to be. If she hasn't walked by now, my guess is a prosthetic is going to be her best answer long term. Anyway, I really have no idea since I'm not there, its all conjecture. but I do know she doesn't have the funds for anything coming her way, and that's where this play comes in. I'm hopeful we'll be able to raise at least $1500 in ticket sales. That will go a long way towards helping her -- foot or no foot.

The actors are a mix of young and older (the youngest being 12 and the oldest being about 32.) We have rehearsed in my home until recently to save on rental costs. We've recently moved into a theatre space that a local church is renting us at what we can afford...nearly nada. I'll try to take photos during next weekend's rehearsal so you can get a better idea of what's going on.

I have to say that this particular project is helping to keep me sane during this awful period of unemployment. It's the closest thing to doing my actual job. No monetary pay, but the 'job satisfaction' rating is through the roof. I'm scraping by right now, anyway, with some childcare and editing jobs. I've also managed to set aside a whole room full of things to either sell on ebay or at a giant yardsale, once the weather gets better. And I remain hopeful that my business will see a turnaround. Twenty-two years of praise for our school programs is certainly worth something. I just need to sit tight and wait for this storm to pass.

As Shakespeare says,

'How poor are they that have not patience!

What wound did ever heal but by degrees?'

Anya Says...

Anya and her friend Dasha, March 2011.

Thank you!

I just received a brief email from Anya asking me to pass on thanks to everyone who donated to help her last week. She says her leg is starting to get better...but she didn't mention if she's out of the hospital yet --(Ugh!) As she doesn't have easy access to the internet anymore, I guess I have to take whatever  sporadic communications I can get!

Anyway, thanks everyone. I could tell by her generous use of exclamation points and sideways hearts (<3) in the email, that she is indeed feeling MUCH better!

Mabel's Story

She'd be 111 years old today; Mabel Ellis Cahill, my grandmother. She was the type of women you'd expect to live that long. But she didn't. She died a few weeks following my twentieth birthday - this woman I so admired.

Nana, as we called her, was a complicated soul. She wasn't everyone's cup of tea, but the two of us forged a close bond from my earliest recollections. In fact, one of my earliest memories is from about the age of two, rocking in her arms, on her cottage porch, while she sang Always, the Irving Berlin song she so loved. It must've been during the fall, because I remember the rough feel of her sweater, and the wind coming through a screen window with chilling force, and the lonely sound of the waves crashing on the rocks below.

My grandmother did not have an easy life. I have the remnants of her childhood diary to prove it. A bitter alcoholic father and a sickly, cancer-ridden mother, who died just after Mabel's tenth birthday. What were those days of mourning like? Who looked after her and consoled her? A new mother was soon in the picture and, thankfully, a wonderful woman. But my grandmother had already built up a wall. I'm not sure they ever got close. But a few years later baby Virginia was born, and my grandmother loved her fiercely. Ever other page of her diary is laced with mentionings of this beloved baby sister.

As I grew, our relationship blossomed from one of childhood admiration to a true friendship. I was at her house nearly every day - she only lived a stone's throw away once I reached age 12. I would sit and listen to stories of her childhood - like the time she cut her doll in half when her father insisted she share it with her sister. Nana, of course, kept the upper half.

She told me about sneaking out to meet my grandfather against her own father's wishes. 'More for spite than anything else --' she told me. In an alcoholic rage, her father cut short her waist length auburn hair to keep her from seeing him. But it only drove her further to disobey him. She told me of knock-down drag-out fights with her father over college. She wanted to go so badly, but he refused, saying it wasn't for women to be so educated. Her brothers went instead.

She also told me sad stories that never had an ending, like the one about the lodger that lived in their basement when she was growing up and how he 'fancied her' and how much it scared her. He was large and imposing, and always found a way to be around her. One day as a teen, she was left to watch the home alone, and he was there, and something terrible happened.

She would never define the terrible, only launch into a warning about men, all men. It was only later after she died that I learned from my aunt that she had been raped by this man. At 16 years of age, the same age it happened to me.

'Be careful -- you can't trust them, not one of them.' She would tell me.

Her experiences with men had never been good. She never got over those early experiences. No therapy to talk of in those days; you just soldiered on.

Mabel did her best to appear tough and strong on the outside, but she let me see her vulnerability when we were alone, or when it was just me and my cousin C. She would spend endless hours explaining to the two of us exactly how we should live our lives and avoid her pitfalls. Sometimes she'd cry.

Before she died, she gave me a notebook of poems she had written. No one had ever seen them. They were hauntingly beautiful and betrayed her very sensitive heart. My own father, her son, was shocked when I shared them with him after her death. He hadn't known. It was bittersweet for him to hear these words written by a woman who was so closed off emotionally in his childhood. A tiny glimpse into his mother's true nature, and it made him sad.

Every February 15th, I take a walk over to my Nana's grave. It's not even a block from my house. I talk to her, bring her some flowers or sometimes a poem I've written for her. I stay as long as the cold allows, and I kneel to say a few Hail Marys. It was her favorite prayer. The day she died I went with her in the ambulance. She held a small crucifix necklace in her hand, and a 'Hail Mary' prayer card in her bag. She closed her eyes tight for the ride to the hospital, but I watched her lips move the whole way there.

Nana, if you're hearing these words somehow this day, I want you to know how grateful I am to have known you. You made me feel loved and wanted every day I was with you. You let me in, and I know from reading your words how hard it was for you to open your heart to others. Thank you for the grace of knowing you. I await the day when I can once again sit on a porch with you and rock away our worries with a song. Happy Birthday.

(I wrote more about her here if you're interested.)

Wish Me Luck!

I'm heading out shortly to give a talk on the orphanage for a women's group about 15 miles away. It was very serendipitous how they found me.  A woman who was sending a Christmas box to the orphanage was stuck in a long line at the post office in December . A women behind her was curious about the big box headed to Russia and they struck up a conversation. This woman was given my contact info and she asked if I'd be willing to be the speaker at their monthly women's group.


So, off I go with all kinds of printed material, a photo slide-show, and a heartfelt speech. Can't think of a better way to spend Valentine's Day, especially after this week.