The air felt cold and heavy as I trudged through the snow in the memorial park where my husband’s ashes lay. It was January 10, 1997, two and a half years since his death, and I was coming not so much to talk to him, but to God. I...
“I’m not angry, I’m just hurt.” I don’t know if you’ve ever felt this way, but for a great part of my life this could have been my theme song. Growing up in a southern culture, it was deemed “unlady like” to angry in almost any situation. When I...
“God surely you can’t expect me to forgive the murderer of my son,” I cried out in the stillness of the night. Caught in the darkness of grief following the murder of our eldest son, Tim, in September 1992, I couldn’t conceive of ever forgiving the man who had...
The family reunion was petering out, aunts and uncles and cousins drifting away. A sister-in-law I hadn’t seen since we left for the field four years earlier paused on her way out the door to ask me brightly, “So, how was Bolivia?” I hesitated. How did I convey it...
