Author: anitastephen2015

Every now and then, I find myself locked in battle with God. It’s usually over men. It’s not very complicated. But then, I’m not very  complicated, I don’t think. I meet a guy, I like a guy, I say “God please let this be”, He says “no”. The battle goes on. I think of the Greek myths I read as a child – the clashes between the mortals and the immortals or demi-gods. Sometimes this is how I picture my arguments with God. I’d say something out of line and He’d send Poseidon to drown me or send some kind of thunder-bolt to fry me. I know it’s not that way but I usually associate events in my life with comic drawings in my head. That is how my mind works.

I met the man from the sky slightly over a year ago. We were at a party and he walked right over to me, oozing with confidence and said ‘beautiful smile’. I think I may have told him that it was my t-Rex grin – that’s what I call a comic drawing moment. The connection was immediate. We talked for hours. However, I soon remembered that that was all it could be – a long chat. Whether anyone else agrees or disagrees with me on this, I’m convinced of the Biblical truth that a marriage has to be between two believers. Even if you reject it for being a Biblical truth, there is still logic to it. I can’t imagine trying to process a problem with a partner if we both had a different core. I’d say I needed to pray about something and he would find it ridiculous at some level. Similarly, I’d sneer at the idea that ‘coincidence’ had a part to play or anything else that doesn’t attribute credit or glory to God. We’d have a completely different footing and the difference would warrant more problems than I care to imagine. Still, here was this physically attractive man – who was a pilot for a major airline, supremely confident in his looks and abilities and who was terrifyingly sexy as a result of this confidence. He spoke well and he had great opinions on lots of things. He was clever and funny at the same time – a combination that does draw my interest. Even more so, he was incredibly interested in me. He made it very clear in his messages. ‘Chocolate girl’ he would call me or some other caramel related name, which won’t be repeated here. He spoke like a poet and his words came pouring down on me like gentle waves in the middle of the sparkly ocean.

This was the man I had to resist. Resist I did. Yet, I was unhappy. I hadn’t gone looking for this ‘trouble’. I had been content to remain in my little corner of the world doing my own thing. I hadn’t asked for such romantic overtures that would send electric shock waves through a concert hall. I hadn’t asked to be with anyone at all. So I was most annoyed with God for allowing this to happen. It meant a lot of sleepless nights, reasoning with my jet lagged pilot over Skype from whichever destination he was at. It meant reading messages that made romantic classics seem like old newspapers. It was a badgering I did not want to take. Yet, I hung on to my boundary – with what I am sure, was a lot of help from the Holy Spirit, I said ‘no’ to the man from the sky and carried on with my little plot of life.

I was exhausted. I’d been upset with God. This entire thing was just uncalled for. It was hard to talk about even with Christian friends. Some made jokes about it – which broke my heart. Were they not hearing me? I was angry with God. He was breaking my heart. He had sent someone into my path who was just completely inappropriate for me. I’m not talking to them about it anymore now. I’m done with it.

The battle waged. I said very brief and cold prayers. I’ve been saying those for a while. I’m upset with God. On some days, I’m a little more upset than on others. It doesn’t help that the Christian men I meet, even if they are lovely, are just simply uninterested. It doesn’t help that even if there is chemistry, they simply don’t act on it. I’m furious with God for the stark contrast of possibilities that lie before me. Sometimes I wonder when I’m just not good enough for a Christian man.

I’m fed up of saying defeatist prayers. “Your Will be done” is what Jesus thought us to say in Gethsemane. He knew full well about the horror that was about to face him on the cross as well as the glory that lay before Him. My argument is that maybe it was a little easier for Him to say “Your Will be done”. I’m perhaps a little more biased towards my all-time favourite, King David’s prayer in Psalm 86: “Hear my prayer oh LORD, listen to my cry for mercy. When I am in distress I call to you, because you answer me.” I don’t think it is blind faith. David knew of God’s goodness. He had experienced it. I can tick those boxes too. David knew of God’s holiness and judgment. He had experienced it. Another tick for me. Yet David called out – in full confidence. Jesus’ purpose in Gethsemane was no doubt different. I am so grateful He said “Your Will be done” and that He didn’t get out of dying on that cross. If He had, I know I stand doomed. So – I am going to be eternally grateful for this. It is because of this, that I know God is good. He is good. I can say that over and over again. He is good. I’d like him to maybe just once, respond to me according to what I want.

At the moment, when my head is buzzing with fury towards God at having to give up the gorgeous man from the sky, I am praying for victory in comic-drawing style. I am reminding God that Jacob wrestled Him and won. I don’t plan on a wrestling match but I’d like to win an argument. I’d like to win. I want another man from the sky who is a believer. I don’t want some quiet, polite admiration or interest. Thanks, but I can do without.  I think I’m done with defeatist prayers. Yet, through this all, because I know He is good, I still want to say “Your Will be done”. The battle wages on…

I think most of us have at some point come to the understanding that we all make mistakes. At the back of our minds this truth exists. It seems however that in the work setting, we often forget this simple truth.

Whether the forgetfulness stems from stress or desire to be seen as flawless, I cannot say. So our reactions are somewhat along the lines of “this is not the standard I expect from my people” or “I expect my people to be more professional” or many other things along these lines. Sometimes they are couched in harsher language. Sometimes there are just fits of rage, which help no one. I find these staggering! Maybe now that I’m so much older and have seen a lot more, that I have a name for such responses to mistakes we make in the workplace. Responses like these are plain and simply: “bad behaviour.” That’s really what it is: bad behaviour. Where do we get off reacting in a way that implies we never make mistakes? We create an impossible situation. We give others stress through our lack of understanding and we also set up impossible expectations for ourselves. This is ironic because we’re all susceptible to mistakes.

The thing is, I’m not advocating the lack of a response to mistakes. Mistakes whether in our professional or social life are how we learn and improve ourselves. They serve as the impetus for growth if handled well. How then should we respond?

My mind often drifts back to when I was a young, budding lawyer. I had the opportunity to do a trial all on my own and I was delighted at finally being given the chance to form strategy and plot the defence (as we were acting for defendants in a civil matter). It was glorious indeed cross-examining the Plaintiff’s witnesses and hammering my points across. I had been nervous but held my ground and I was totally in the zone. I was enjoying the zone! When I got back to the office, I made haste to tell my boss all about my triumph. Finally, I had a “war story” to tell. My boss listened and applauded and proceeded to ask a very simple, natural question. “Anita, where’s the list of marked exhibits?” All of a sudden, my moment in the limelight came to a screeching halt. I’d completely forgotten to mark the exhibits, let alone make up a list. Confessing my mistake to my boss was difficult – and I imagined the scolding or insults that would follow. I imagined how furious he would get when I spoke up. I confessed with a heavy heart. There was a moment’s pause – and my amazing ex-boss acknowledged the mistake. Then he said “chart this to experience. Let’s look at how we can rectify this.”

My ex-boss certainly knew the grievousness of my error but he also knew that dwelling on it was not sufficient. In fact, had our energies been focused on my error, he wouldn’t have been able to guide me to the perfect solution, which he did. Fact of the matter is, I went on to win that trial. The mistake I made, I have never forgotten for one reason: it made me learn how to troubleshoot and come up with a workable solution.

My ex-boss’ response to my mistake was one of grace. Grace helped me learn from the episode. Grace sharpened my experience. Grace helped me love my work even more. Grace gave me a new regard for my leader. I was in awe of him – and I’m willing to bet that no hissy fit or unkind words would’ve enabled me to feel this awe for him.

I hope too that I am able to respond this way whenever others or I make mistakes. I believe that we would lessen our stressful atmospheres by learning to accept the simple truth that we will make mistakes- and that mistakes can and will always happen. Let us not stress over that. We know this truth. Instead, let us respond well. How we respond is where the focus should be.

I don’t really know what the pain is all about just yet. I’m in the process of finding out – and how I dislike the investigation process! I’m stressed by visits to doctors and this is the one thing I’m sure I’ll have to do for awhile. Yuck!

All I can say right now is that the pain in my joints is significant. For some reason, I’m also somewhat fatigued. I find it difficult to do things. Today was one such day. I was unable to go to church or join friends for lunch as much as I wanted to! The extent of the pain surprises me. I usually have a high tolerance for pain. So the fact that this time I feel a little floored is quite unsettling.

Because my mum had such severe rheumatoid arthritis, the natural prognosis is that this is what I now have. The blood tests haven’t helped just yet and so the question mark still stands. The X-rays apparently haven’t helped my cause either. Mention the suspicion to anyone who asks, and I suddenly get volleys of advice of what I should start or stop doing. Whilst I appreciate the sentiment, it is impossible for me to follow every single lead right now. I don’t mean that as a slight to anyone. Yet- I am pragmatic. All I want is the diagnosis.

This period of limbo has had its effects. I’ve had to pull out of a cooking competition that I very happily told a friend I would partner her in. She’s been amazing and has shown great understanding. It truly is much appreciated. I’ve had to cancel some dinner invites and I did try to reschedule one within weeks of the initial cancellation as I was pretty sure at the time that I would be up to the task. It was a sinking feeling when the realisation started to dawn that I would need to order the food. I was still pretty optimistic that I’d be able to manage dessert. That foolishness soon perished on the morning of my do. I ended up buying dessert too. My friends who came by that night were just beyond beautiful. They appreciated and reassured and I was humbled by and grateful for them.

This waiting period has also made me acutely aware of how I come across right now. I usually stand right throughout workshops or other training sessions. Much to my shame, I’ve had to sit quite a bit for most of the sessions since. Over and above this, my movements are less than graceful now. I mean – I was never very graceful to begin with. But now … well, it’s a whole new level. It’s also not very attractive having to wear a knee guard or plaster over or under stockings when I’m wearing a knee length dress or skirt. I’ve not bought into the fashion.

The limits are also making themselves clear. I find that I can’t always do what I want – whether I’m on a break or whether it’s part of my everyday life. I’m suddenly slower. A lot slower than I care to be or than I can even imagine. There are days when even taking my darling Patches out for a walk is a challenge.

There is a very strong emotion that I’m feeling now – as I remember my mum at this time. What I’m going through now is no where close to what she endured. I’m crying for her – for all the pain she suffered. I’m amazed by her – at how she suffered, and I’m ridiculously proud of her. I’m also so thankful to God for her. I’m thankful to Him for how He carried her and for the mental strength He gave her. I’m thankful to Him for the example He gave me in her. My mind is such a buzz with these feelings.

My mind is buzzing with a little bit of worry of what this actually is and with stress of having to go and see another rheumatologist. I’m a little anxious as my appointment date draws near. One thing is clear though. I know that God never tests us beyond our capabilities. If this is a short term condition, I seek grace to be thankful for it. If it isn’t short term but is instead something long term, I need grace too. Admittedly this would never have been a test or circumstance I picked for myself, but I have complete faith in His victory for me won on that cross. The promise of no more pain or tears when His Kingdom comes again and the regeneration of not just our souls but our physical bodies feels even more dear to me now. How amazing the victory and the promise feel to me right now. If what I have is something is long term, at least I know that I can lay to rest what needs to be laid to rest, regardless of my wishes, without feeling as if I have lost out.

I don’t profess to be able to hold on so well at every single moment. So I am writing this as a reminder to myself – to keep drawing on God’s grace. I write this as a request to my family in Christ that they will keep supporting me in prayer where this journey is concerned especially during the times when my weakness hides the victory or the promise that Jesus made me.

For a rather substantial part of my life, I have been fascinated with the story of The Ugly Duckling. How I identified with that ugly duckling! How I longed for the same release – a transformation into something so beautiful, it was quite unimaginable.

It was easy to understand why I loved the story of The Ugly Duckling. From quite a young age, I have been susceptible to unwarranted comments about how I look. These comments came from people close to me. In fact, I remember people asking my mum what she fed me to make me so large. I remember painful comments made to me directly from the age of 5 or 6 on how I looked. They not only shocked me, they took root within the impressionable me. Unfortunately, the negative feelings these comments caused were later reinforced by bullying from a particular lad from church who was rather vicious and who went about unchecked. There was bullying from him and loads of unkind comments by some others. Neither this bully nor some of the people from early on are in my life now. However, I must acknowledge that some of these comments go on to today. I’m afraid I have some rather toxic relationships where people I consider friends often make comments that are hurtful.

Some friends with whom I’ve shared some of the instances have hailed my patience in dealing with these toxins. I’m quite sure this has nothing to do with patience. Why, most times, as in the past, I find myself in a bit of shock that the comments were even made. Then I start to justify the comments and find a way to excuse the person who made them. I’m in such a rush to gloss over the reality of what is said that I’ve buried so much hurt within me. This isn’t a good step by any means as I’ve found it hard to acknowledge the hurt and the anger that has arisen as a result of these comments. I confess that there’s been a lot of anger. In fact, a lot of supressed anger has surfaced at points much to the shock of those around me. I am angry and sad that I sometimes still allow people to say hurtful things to me on the score of how I look.

The comments have been quite harsh. For instance, the tormenting bully I mentioned used to very loudly whisper to others about how ugly I was – that’d be the mantra during the ride to Sunday school. It’s amazing how a short journey can feel like eternity. Once when I was wearing a Michael Jackson t-shirt, he said to me that I should never wear anything with Michael Jackson on it because MJ was slim and I was fat. I have paraphrased this in kinder terms for inclusion in here. Part of me is still too embarrassed to repeat what he really said. Those were just a couple of many instances from him. Then there were the others. In my teens to my early twenties, I often had “concerned” individuals pull me aside and ask me to do something about my looks. They usually held my hands and spoke with such earnestness. “Do you never want guys to like you?” they would ask. Quite honestly, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been asked that. Somehow just like those hits we so often hear about, the comments never stopped coming, not even when I started work as a lawyer. A lawyer who once gave me a ride back to the office after court said this as I got out of the car: “I didn’t know how a fat, female Indian lawyer was going to make it, but you have got brains.” I detest him to this day and yet I’ve never told anyone who he is. I could give more examples, I guess. However, even as I write this, I feel sick.

These comments have hurt. They have hurt a lot.

The scars I’ve borne from these comments are more deeply rooted than what I could ever have imagined. Now that I’m older, I often look back and reflect on things. I can see how blind I was to the attentions paid to me – especially by the opposite sex. It’s like my radar is permanently broken. I don’t see how I can be attractive to anyone. As such, there have been instances when I’ve hurt men who were interested in me simply because I didn’t expect any interest from anyone. Some of them have had very candid chats with me years later, much to my surprise. They’ve told me how “brutal” it was for them when they were trying to express their feelings for me. Most of them had no clue that I couldn’t see figure out their interest. They expressed quite a bit of shock about this.

Until this day, I will never admit my feelings for someone unless I get a very clear indication from him that he likes me back. I’m almost panicked if they find out my feelings – because I imagine the horror they would feel knowing that I liked them. Apart from that, chances are when I’m asked if I like someone, there will be a denial or some sort of long winded explanation that makes it impossible to pinpoint an answer. I am terrified of the horror I may inflict on a guy if he ever found out that I like him. This is something I’m quite adept at dealing with – I never reveal.

It is also upsetting to me that I let girlfriends talk to me unkindly. I think it’s not okay for them to reinforce any negativity or make prickly comments about me. It’s not okay for them to laud themselves over me. I’m not in competition here. There are always going to be things they do better than me – and this may be even in terms of how they look. Yet there are always going to be things that I do better. Somehow, I need to recognise this.

There was progress when I went to university. Abroad, no one seemed to pick on how I looked! In fact, there were compliments – something I was quite unused to. I’m very relaxed with most foreign men as a result – and this was interpreted unkindly as me only liking foreigners. I used that impression as a defence. It helped if I was out of reach. This line of defence is still pretty effective, I think and I have unashamedly used it.

When I first came home on holiday from university, I confessed to my mum and dad so many of the things that had been said to me. They were appalled. My mum didn’t sit still. She’d always wondered why I rejected nice clothes and insisted on boy haircuts, hated photos and now her questions were answered. She got my dad to take her to a fabric shop. She had very severe rheumatoid arthritis – and the exercise was quite a heavy one for both her and dad. He’d to drive her very close to the shop, pull over by the side, help her out, get her to safety and then, park and do the whole thing all over again when she was done. But she bought me some material and they went to a tailor and made me some really nice clothes to wear. It made me cry. And even now – when I think about the both of them doing what they did, it brings tears to my eyes.  Until then, I could remember almost all of the really harsh comments. That exercise helped me lay to rest some of what was said. Mum also never stopped reminding me of who I am in Christ and about how I should be dealing with these comments. There was a lot of progress as a result of that and I went on to have boyfriends even. As such, I am grateful to God for showing me aspects of myself in the various relationships I’ve had that I never thought existed. It’s different when you are with friends and family – and when you’re dealing with a partner. I’m not saying one type of relationship is higher than the other but I’m saying that there are different aspects of you which are brought out in each case.

At the suggestion of a Christian sister, who is a counsellor, I started on a biblical based search for freedom from the shackles of the past that seem to hold me back in the sphere of relationships. As a result of this, I recognise a few things: I need to build healthier relationships and seek to serve God as much as I can through these by displaying His love and generosity of spirit to every individual I seek – whether or not they are a part of the body of Christ. Yet to do this well, I need to feel free to move forward from the pain I’ve borne for a long, long time. My tendency is to flit and float about where friends and family are concerned, without ever committing too much to anyone in particular. Yet somehow in strange contrast, I’ve let the people who hurt me spend time with me – almost as a sort of a pretence to say the comments were never real. This is my defence against hurt. It is not godly. It is not biblical. I’m asking God for the courage to reach out to more people and to let them into my life at a deeper level and at the same time, I’m asking Him for the strength to maintain healthy boundaries and keep those who are toxic at bay.

In addition, what is finally happening is, I’m finally acknowledging the hurt. There are many consequences that have stemmed as a result of what I went through. Male interest in me still shocks me. I mostly disbelieve it. I’m quick to reject compliments, though am trying very hard to stop doing this and to start saying “thank you”. I’m not very comfortable looking into a mirror – even when I’m alone! That’s probably why I’ve never learnt how to do very much with my hair. It’s easy to rattle me – talk about looks, ask me to pose for a photograph, start going on about diets, etc. I panic inside. I’m pretty good at hiding it. I’ve had a lot of practice. It’s just that it’s getting more tiring these days and I don’t want to deal with it anymore. Even meeting with girlfriends is sometimes stressful when there is so much focus on externals. There are always so many comments about how we look. It’s almost embarrassing to have to go through the ritual. Why do we get so much credit for how we look? I’m not saying we that we shouldn’t give each other compliments. By all means, do that! All I’m saying is it shouldn’t become our major focus.

I’m thoroughly ashamed at most of my own reactions over all these years as they’ve not been too godly and I’ve failed to display Jesus’ grace at these times. As a result of not dealing with my tormentors themselves, I took my anger out on many other people. An example of this is how I’ve treated men in general. I’ve made it impossible really to be with anyone. If anybody’s paid attention to my checklist, you’d notice the impossibility there is in every element being found in one man. In a seminar in church recently, I was reminded that God has only one criterion in your choice of a marriage partner: whoever you choose just needs to be a believer. The reminder of that brought a ton of bricks upon my head. I felt an instant guilt – a conviction that I’ve been so wrong in how I’ve behaved. I thought of the criteria that I’ve put in place and how I’ve made it impossible for anyone really to be good enough. I’ve cut guys down out of sheer defensiveness. I’m not saying that I would definitely be married if I had been godlier in my actions. That is not the point I’m pushing here. I’m only saying that I would’ve been a better vessel through which Jesus’ glory could’ve been displayed. For failing here, I am thoroughly ashamed.

I’m also rather ashamed that I bought into the lie of The Ugly Duckling, forgetting completely that because of Jesus’ death and resurrection, I am covered by His beauty, which is pleasing to God. There is much to look forward to where the regenerative work of the Spirit is concerned and this is truly where my hope and desire should be. I have prayed somewhat wrongly all this years for a better face and body. Part of me wants to bury the memory of these unpleasant things even further within and never look at them again. Yet part of me wants to share this with those of you who either went through the same or who are going through such things to know that there is reconciliation with yourself – as you’re probably now your own worst enemy. There is also reconciliation with God – as He never really abandoned you and He has guaranteed you full forgiveness and regeneration of your spirit through the gracious work of His. We may not all have people coming to our aid when we face this sort of harshness. Yet, remember that we’ve been accepted by Him – and are fully loved. The value of that love needs to sink in. So I shall say it again: in Jesus, we are fully accepted by God.  My sin doesn’t always allow me to be content with the acceptance I have in Christ. For this, I continue to seek His grace.

There is the need to acknowledge the hurt too. It is not okay that people have behaved this way. Their behaviour was just out of line. They need to be called out on it but most of the time, we coil back in shame. This needs to be done graciously – which isn’t the easiest thing to do when you’re hurting. My sin doesn’t always allow me to respond correctly. I either lose more confidence in my looks – there are many new depths of lowness that I never thought I’d discover! Alternatively I’m very angry with the person who said these things to me and I want to tear them to pieces verbally. Then there are the times when I don’t know how to maintain a healthy boundary. This results in me continuing to hang out with these commentators instead of drawing the line and refusing to join them.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever reach the stage where I’ll fully ever be comfortable with my own looks. I’m not sure if I’ll ever reach the stage where I stop making it impossible for me to have good, healthy relationships. But of one thing, I’m very sure of – this isn’t going to last for eternity. There will come a day when all my tears are wiped away and when in the presence of God, all this will vanish. The seminar I went for reminded me how short a time we have here on earth in the face of eternity. It is hard to imagine it – it is somewhat difficult to look for it. For now – in this short time I have here, I will strive to thank Jesus and to praise Him knowing that I am “fearfully and wonderfully made”. I definitely think that this is something worth striving for.

I met Gary and Diane Bookhammer in church when they came to live here in Kuala Lumpur. They are such an unassuming couple and both display such mild, gentle  yet ever so welcoming manners that it was difficult not to be taken in. They have delicious senses of humour, that differ slightly from one another’s and there’s a warmth in their tones when discussing matters that are of importance. It was easy to like them! Both have lovely voices – and were part of our music team in church. Practices with them were great because they were ever so encouraging and enthusiastic. It was difficult not to be touched by their gentle energy.

I cannot remember how or when, but we started spending a lot more time together out of church. I blame this gap in my memory on the million and one things that seemed to be going on in my life at that point. I was trying to pick up the pieces from losing my mum, breaking up with a long term boyfriend, coping with a career change as well as with changes to myself as a result of juggling all these things that were going on. Each of these events had certain consequences in my life that were not necessarily easy to bear. Most times, I felt a certain amount of tension within myself because I needed to put forward a front and not cause alarm among family and friends over these events that had happened in my life, all of which I’d viewed as loss and failure. I wasn’t coping well with these changes and I was finding it more and more difficult to talk about them because I was getting less and less able to identify them as the root causes of the ever ready tears that seemed to be only a blink away. I felt things spiraling out of control and I felt like I was about to lose my grip completely. I found it almost impossible to speak about the clouds of sadness that I seemed enveloped in and that I felt were now dictating the terms on which I lived my life.

It was in the middle of this hurricane that I met the calm of the Bookhammers – a pure Godsend. Little did I know it but I was finding it ever so easy to spend time in their presence. They said nothing that was judgmental and were ever ready listeners – even when I didn’t know what it is I had to say. There were times when Diane would put on the coffee and both she and Gary would chat to me about some event or other in their lives, which would help me open up on some of the turmoil that was going on inside. I remember the first time when I properly confided in them about the things that were dragging me down. They’d seen through the “brave front” that I’d been putting up and they’d worried about me, prayed for me and practically helped me to identify and express my feelings. I’m not very good at identifying and expressing feelings that bring me down. My mind doesn’t seem to want to recognise that such feelings could be a  part of me. So – the ability of the Bookhammers  to extract my troubles helped me to slowly realise how highly strung and wound up I’d become and just how much stress I was under.

There was never any kind of judgment. Only sound advice, solidarity and love. It was almost tangible. I always felt embraced in love. If ever there was an example of love within the family of Christ, this was it!

We spent almost every weekend together – swimming, talking over lunches or dinners, planning Christmas dos and birthday treats. They introduced me to Thanksgiving  traditions and celebrations. There was much to give thanks to our good Lord for. They shared Independence Day celebrations with me – which included watching 1776 on the signing of the Declaration of Independence and having a BBQ indoors! Our plans included cookie parties and expeditions to restaurants that were usually interesting. These may seem pretty normal as far as life goes, but there was something that God did for me through the Bookhammers. He gave me friends who helped me process rather fractured pieces of my life that I was unable to. They had the perfect temperament, a great grasp of theology and so much love and care that helped kiss this broken soul in a way that was much needed. So I do thank God for the Bookhammers. During my weekends with them – and every bit of time that I got to spend with them, the balm of healing was poured into my wounds.

Diane and Gary – I’ve often felt the pangs of missing you since you went back to the States about a year ago. Every day, I thank God for you because while I was in a valley, He gave me you. I love you both ever so much.

I’m not in love with him anymore. I’m speaking of my ex-boyfriend that is. I don’t know how much more plainly I can say this. It’s a little worrying that even some of my closest friends don’t believe me when I say it. It’s apparently because I speak about him a lot and that must mean that on some level, I’m still in love with him. What a load of gobbledygook!

I’m not in love with him. Not the way I loved him in the past when we were still together. He and I started as friends. I met him just after mum had passed away. He knew that I was struggling with grief. He was the friend I needed and he gave me the support and the space I needed. We got on infamously and I don’t think that until very recently (but will save that for another possible post), I ever felt that comfortable with a man! He was easy to talk to and he cooked up feasts – apparently food works for winning over women too! The thing I found most attractive about him was his confidence. He was far more confident than me – which is saying something! He was secure in himself and I could be me and didn’t have to rein in my ideas or any part of my personality. That led to the other attraction – the conversations. Man! Those conversations never ceased! I remember 14 hour conversations on why I even believe Jesus is God, politics, business practices, etc. There were frivolous and yet lengthy discussions too – the identity of the Stig in Top Gear, why all my favourite actors were not as good looking as I thought they were, etc. I got him and he got me. He didn’t have bouts of moodiness and neither did I and we could relate on that score. There were moments when we could just sit in blissful silence, each engrossed in their own activity but in full company. There are so many more instances of time spent in such agreeable fashion.

The bottom line is, we were compatible – very much so. And we enjoyed the differences between us as well as cherished the similarities. We were friends. We were close.

The break happened because of one difference that I wasn’t able to reconcile. It was the difference in our faiths. He almost accepted Jesus but that didn’t happen. It brought an end to the romance because there was no way forward. There are so many people who will disagree with me on this and will have much to say about it. Yet this is my faith – and it is how I will live: the Lord Jesus above all else. Saying that Christianity is an organised religion, or is out of step with reality or the changing world order simply reveals a lack of tolerance that I confess, I’m fast getting used to. Saying that Christianity allows for two people of different faiths to marry would mean being unfaithful to God’s Word. To me, God’s Word wins hands down. I battled God’s Word – using very flawed understanding of Biblical text. I went to battle alright. I think my pastor who raised the issue with me can vouch for the battle I did. But – thankfully, God was merciful and His Word prevailed over my will. I’m fully aware that His Wisdom and Goodness are infinitely greater than any other wisdom or goodness I may receive. I guess also that really, in the end, no one else needs to understand this break….no one but me and perhaps my brothers and sisters in Christ who I hope will always keep me accountable. Oddly enough, my ex boyfriend has told me a few times that he knew he’d always be number 2 to Jesus in my life. Even THAT, he understood.

So why do I talk about him still? The thing is, he and I had a good life together. We shared a business, friends and a huge love for life. We met with a few car accidents, road trips, made jokes – some of which still crack me up, cooked a lot and had some other adventures which I don’t intend to document. The crux is, we shared a life.

We’re still friends. This wasn’t always the case. The break up was nasty and there were moments when we said things that didn’t do either of us any credit. And yet – at the base of it, the friendship surprisingly remained and could be called upon at moments when we needed to. Even in the midst of some heated argument or ugly blow up, there was an understanding. We could ask for help or seek counsel and these were given freely by both sides – without any ill will against the other.

I think we’ve both come to understand that we’re going to be friends for a very long time.

So when I talk about him and tell you stuff he and I did, it isn’t because I’m living in the past or because I’m hanging on to a pipe dream. Not in the least. I talk about him because he’s altered me in a way that I hadn’t counted on. He’s made me better in some ways, he’s given me support and confidence when I needed it. He’s brought out the daring in me in ways that I would never have imagined – we ran a business! That’s a side of me that I never knew existed! He’s helped me weep and equally has made me weep! He’s angered me in ways that are simply inexplicable. Boy, he’s made me angry. He’s made me laugh till my jaw and sides hurt and he’s made me cry hot tears of sadness and tears of joy. He’s made see what kind of a woman I am in a relationship – not quite the tough talker that I sometimes try to make myself out to be. The other thing is – I have changed him too. And just like me, he’s the better for it and it makes me feel good knowing that.

I still love him – but I love him as a friend. And that’s all there is. He’s not a part of my romantic dreams for the future – neither am I a part of his. But we can talk about our hopes for the future as friends often do. When he does well in business – and he often does, my heart bursts with pride for him. When he was almost killed recently, my heart broke. When he’s unwell, I’m concerned. When he calls to share news, I’m excited. It’s not easy loving him this way because there are moments when I remember the hurts. However, I’m convinced that the Bible depicts love as an action – not a feeling. Makes good sense because if we’re brutally honest, more often than not, we find ourselves feeling loving and unloving towards a person depending on the circumstances of the day. That kind of volatility is not love. We’re called to love in the same way we’ve been loved. And this is how I can now love him – at least…try to. It’s not a romantic love. It’s just the love that I feel for a friend. Hopefully he will see and feel the love of Christ through my inadequate and imperfect love for him.

It bothers me that people sometimes say I’m closing the door to future men because I still talk about him. I don’t exactly start telling my dates about my ex boyfriend! Please! I’m not rude that way. It bothers me when my friends knowingly quip in and say that I’ve never got over him. You’d get over anyone if you’ve had some of those arguments we’ve had. Still I know how I was loved and how I loved. I know how I was befriended and the friend I have been. I enjoyed every minute of it! I certainly don’t have to prove the point by wielding the next man in my life! I’m just not taken by some of the men I am meeting. I don’t have time for the crude, slimy git who thinks his “smooth” talk will get him places. Neither do I have time for the guy who hides behind the curtain of shyness and expects me to lead. So many men just aren’t my cup of tea – which isn’t wrong. I’m not interested. Some are – but then there is the issue of faith again. And I don’t want to go through this whole episode again. So I don’t encourage it. I’m making decisions for me. I’ve been somewhere and it was magical. I’m pragmatic and don’t believe that the only one chance has sailed past. Yet – I’m not living in the land of “make do”. I can’t just make do. It’s not part of my make up.

I speak of my ex because he reminds me of the changes made to me and of a time I loved. I speak about him because we are friends still at some level. I’m not in love with a dream or the past. I speak about him because he was a huge, meaningful part of my life and remains a part of my life. If anyone insists that all this means I’m still in love with him, then by all means go on living in the past if you will. Hope I meet you in the present some time. Let me know when you get here.

The Turkey Thief came into my life in January 2010. It was a rather unexpected meeting, I must say. I wasn’t the one to find him. The ex-boyfriend did and it all took place in Malacca. The Turkey Thief was rescued and was soon on his way to meet me. It was love at first sight for me and I think for him too. He was tiny – no bigger than the palm of my hand and he had such expressive eyes that gazed right into the ebbs of my soul. He followed me all around all the time – probably because I was the one with the ever ready cuddles and belly rubs. Most certainly it was also because I was the one who had taken over the job of feeding him. The Turkey Thief was a magical creature. Whatever food you set before him disappeared almost instantly! And how he grew. He had the silliest face ever and was keen to please and secure his place in our home.

He wormed his way from the outside of our house to the inside, almost instantly. The next step was to sit at the bottom of the stairs and stare in despair when I walked upstairs to bed. I caved and he made it to the door of my bedroom. I tried to leave him just outside my bedroom door  but you could see his little shadow moving about seeking a way in. The action was frantic. Again, I caved. I let him in and gave him a bed on a recliner at the end of my bed. He’d curl into a ball, content, and go to sleep. And there he remained until there was a devastating incident in my life. The Turkey Thief took his final step then and got on to my bed and ensured he was right there to comfort me with his warm, furry presence in the midst of my heartbreak. The Turkey Thief has since then made my bed his and over the last few years, there have been many tussles for the pillow, the sheets and space. The Turkey Thief is an occupying force. Once he gets some space, he never gives it back. “Take what you can, give nothing back!” I swear he agrees with Jack Sparrow on this! That’s what he has done with my heart.

Before he became the Turkey Thief, he was also the cake thief. Yes…one day he ate enough chocolate cake for 30 people. How he managed to open that kitchen door remains a mystery to me. The Turkey Thief has serious skills! I was in a panic knowing chocolate could harm him. He slept in bliss, smacking his lips the entire night through, where he was obviously dreaming of and relishing his life of crime. For the Turkey Thief, crime paid well!

The Turkey Thief was also a bird catcher. A slight confusion over his function, I suppose. Thankfully he was made to release his captives – his mouth did not make too convincing a hiding place especially when the birds’ feathers stuck out from it. The Turkey Thief watched in dismay every time the birds were set free. He would have his revenge with them by stealing an entire Christmas turkey in the end. He waited most patiently to exact his revenge. I said it before and will say it again: for the Turkey Thief, crime paid well!

The Turkey Thief was and still is an expert at stealing socks. He has no need for them at all. All he does is toss them and sometimes he hides them. He’s quite an expert at hiding them! Some have never turned up again – lost in the abyss that the Turkey Thief undoubtedly tossed them into. Some of them have turned up eventually. He was less careful with those ones. One more thing that the Turkey Thief does quite convincingly is demand attention. He tries to nudge my phone out of my hands when he feels it’s depriving him of his share of attention. Try working on my laptop and he somehow finds a way to sit on it so that I look at him instead of the screen. He positions himself in a way that tells you where he wants to be rubbed or how he wants to be cuddled. The Turkey Thief has his own mind.

When caught in the act of mischief making or when he is discovered to have been the source of mischief, the Turkey Thief adopts excellent strategies. The first strategy is to make a play for sympathy. This is done by walking in slow motion with his tail between his legs and his eyes looking ever so forlorn. The entirety of his actions cry “Forgive me! I’m so sorry!” It makes you feel as if you’re the heartless villain for finding fault with him. In the background, you can almost hear stringed instruments playing. The Turkey Thief is at his best when employing this strategy. Sometimes, the Turkey Thief deploys a different strategy, known as the “Pretend” ploy. What happens in this instance is the Turkey Thief acts as if nothing has happened, even when confronted with damning proof of his naughtiness. He prances around, licks your fingers and wags his tail so very playfully. He never admits that there’s a problem and he never understands what the whole trouble is. The Turkey Thief is good. The other strategy is called “Sleep”. Here the Turkey Thief sleeps through the reading of the riot act. The look of sheer bliss spread across his face is priceless. The Turkey Thief can sleep through anything he wants to.

However, the Turkey Thief isn’t always in need of being told off. He is mostly well-behaved and more often than not is absolutely charming! He can be superb company. The Turkey Thief knows how to be gentle when I’m sporting an injury. At those times, he knows how not to tug at or bounce off me. He’s so perfectly behaved then, he’s almost a different creature. Whenever I have a bad cough or am wheezing, the Turkey Thief tries to stop my coughing by pushing up against my back. He doesn’t stop trying to help that way. He’s tireless then. Another endearing thing about the Turkey Thief are his demonstrations of joy and happiness. There are times he prances and times he frolics. He darts about, runs around in mad circles or goes wild with joy. He jumps, skips and runs – in turns. He wags a tail that never seems to lack for energy. He gives me his full attention and his eyes are full of expressions that melt my heart. His lower lip quivers and he’s licks galore. He comes to me for hugs, puts his head on my lap or snuggles up to me rather lovingly. The Turkey Thief also enjoys smelling flowers – it’s a sign that all is well in the world, as it usually happens when we go on walks.

So many observations about my Turkey Thief. But the most startling one for me is this: the Turkey Thief relies on me completely, trusts fully in my timing and is content with my presence even if it’s a bad weathered day and we’re stuck indoors or if he’s not getting loads of treats or surprises. He’s just content with my presence. When I leave to go to work or for a social engagement, his sadness is apparent. He hates me leaving him. There is much sadness in his eyes. He sighs as I get ready to leave. Dad says he longs for my return and waits for me most faithfully. He’s waiting to receive me. He’s overjoyed when my outings include him and he tries really hard to please me in his own little way. He greets me with sheer joy – there’s no mistake in that.He waits for me to feed him – no matter what time I get home. He waits. And when I arrive – he’s thrilled. The demonstration of contentment doesn’t escape me.

My darling Turkey Thief is showing me a wonderful lesson here. He shows me the exact posture I should adopt with Jesus, my Lord and Saviour. In fact, I who have been blessed with the ability to express myself in far more superior fashion compared to my beloved Turkey Thief should show Jesus far more joy and contentment as His presence graces my life. I’m far too often governed by circumstances and forget the magnificent splendor of His being and the ultimate blessing granted. I’m often lacking contentment in the face of His gift of salvation. When I’m asking for something, I’m not always content to wait for Jesus’ timing. How unlike the Turkey Thief’s exemplary patience. I’m ashamed of this – when I compare myself to the Turkey Thief. I need to learn to wait for and rely on Jesus as my Turkey Thief waits for and relies on me. There’s much joy to be derived from the kind of contentment the Turkey Thief displays. As I realize this, I recognize that the Turkey Thief has been to be a pretty good teacher. The Turkey Thief has skills.

Patches darling, you are my one and only Turkey Thief and I do thank God for you. Here’s to more exploits from you!

I remember the 7th of January 2006, the day my mum passed away, as the day I broke. Her passing brought me to my knees and quite frankly, it has left me there. I remember the senior nurse telling me that mum had 6 hours left to live and I certainly remember the urgent prayers in my heart, pleading with God to spare her. I remember the final words I whispered in her ear. I told her I loved her and that I wished I could go on looking after her but that I feared it was time for Jesus to look after her. I remember her gripping my hand so very tightly, as if acknowledging this farewell. I remember how she was then gone.

I find it difficult to speak about mum. Perhaps this is indicative of a wound that still needs to heal. People who knew mum well, would know of the crippling arthritis that dogged her for most of her life. Bedridden at 28, she then found respite through traditional medicine. She was told she would never have children. She had me. She always reminded me that I was her blessing from Jesus. Perhaps this was why she loved me so well.

The arthritis came back with a vengeance. She knew very little reprieve from constant, excruciating pain. Yet, those who knew her would only be too quick to acknowledge how she never complained. Rather, she smiled and was cheerful. She gave great counsel to those who sought it, chatted and laughed with family and friends, sketched, painted and wrote, planned surprises, taught (she worked till retirement age), studied the Bible with a group of ladies every week and in general, went about living life as best she could, despite her limitations. A good friend of hers recently sent me a message in which she said that my mum crippled the arthritis with her dignity. Imagine my pride reading such a message!

Mum and I always talked. We had no secrets. Sometimes, it baffles me to know why we had so much to say to each other. We’d talk from the moment I came downstairs and went into her room and before I drove off to work. We’d talk once I got to the office and intermittently throughout the workday. We spoke in between engagements that I had to keep and the chatter never stopped even after I got home! Sometimes we’d be in tears. Lots of times, we’d be in fits of laughter. The conversation was magic. My world seems very silent now in comparison. The last time mum was able to speak was on the 5th of January 2015. It felt like there was a slumber party in her hospital room – we didn’t know how serious her condition was at that point. Maybe she sensed it.. I don’t know. She started to spell things out to me – all that she loved about me, all that she was proud about, all that she feared and hoped for me, all that she prayed for when she prayed for me. She certainly left me in no doubt of her regard. For that moment we shared, I’m grateful to our God.

When mum passed away, I think a lot of me shut itself down. Overnight, I lost memory. I can’t remember singers, songs, movies, actors, story plots and even people I’ve met, incidents that happened in the past in my time as a student or lawyer or during my travels. I never thought that the day would come when I wouldn’t know the words to a Michael Jackson song! I’ve lost interest in so many things: I’ve zero interest in football. I am the girl who sat up to the wee hours of the morning watching football matches or who arranged her social schedule around such matches. Now I’d be lucky if I could name a player or two. I’ve become a bit less sociable. Perhaps it’s not obvious to those who’ve met me after mum passed, but I think there’s a clear difference if you compare my social patterns now with the past. I find it hard to be with a lot of people these days. Family gatherings remind me that my mother’s not with us. My heart breaks every time we get together. Visiting close family friends is sometimes so painful – another reminder that she’s gone. Sometimes when I speak to people, I feel like they can see the gaping hole in my soul. It makes me want to shrink back. I feel very distant from what’s going on – almost like I’m in a parallel existence, where the real me is still slumped over that hospital bed sobbing and the centurion me is out protecting the real me from being discovered and has managed to chisel out some sort of existence that fools everyone else. But centurion me can’t fool the real me. I feel the same way about work. I’ve had to quit the law completely. I left the law. I’ve wanted to be a lawyer since I was 6 years old! I loved going to court. I had an excellent boss, worked on good cases – I was living out my dream. But centurion me recognizes that real me can’t cope with stress these days. Real me can’t cope with the demands of the legal practice. Not anymore. Centurion me brought forward my retirement plan of teaching English. It’s not as demanding as being a lawyer. I can cope with this. Centurion me is great in class! Real me never has to make an appearance. Teaching and training meet real me’s needs.

I remember a conversation mum and I had once when she was preparing for a Bible study on the book of Romans. I think that book changed a lot of things for her. Even how she prayed about her illness was different after that. Anyway- as she was prepping one of these studies on Romans, she started talking to me about how there was nothing that mattered outside Christ. In my mid-twenties, the idealistic Anita very heartily agreed with her. I wasn’t thinking then of how my mum who was in so much pain all the time and who had so many of her hopes and dreams dashed as a result of that wretched illness, could say that none of that mattered apart from Jesus. When I lost mum, I lost a chunk of me. True – I don’t have physical limitations, but some of the emotional limitations have been massive and have certainly cost me more than I expected. For awhile there, panic set in. The memory loss, the “collapse” of me as it were, all felt a little impossible to deal with. Sometimes it still feels a little overwhelming.

Now that I’ve had time to reflect on mum’s life, her words about there being nothing apart from Christ makes more sense. Mum’s life was certainly not free from disappointment. Life is full of them. They seem to be one of the few reliable things we have in life! And my amazing mum, certainly had more than her fair share of them. Yet, she was cheerful, bubbly, had a beaming smile and had gracious, encouraging words for everyone. She was a great friend and was able to be a strong shoulder of support to many of her friends, an emotional crutch as it were to those who were close. She bore no resentment, though honestly acknowledging her disappointments in not being able to simple things – like meet up with me over lunch in the middle of the day or go shopping and to the movies with me. She was able to sympathize with people who complained of pains in a single joint, whilst every single joint of hers called out for relieve. She didn’t complain or make life for all of us living closest to her miserable. We never felt it. And now that I’ve had 10 years to reflect on this, I know why. Mum experienced God-given grace.

As a result of this grace, mum was able to see that her glory…her ultimate victory or success in life, came from Jesus’ victory on that cruel cross. Jesus’ death and resurrection guarantee us an eternity in His presence where He will wipe away every tear from the eyes of His people and when death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore (Revelation 21: 4).

Had I only witnessed mum’s life, I may not have totally understood the magnitude of Jesus’ grace. Having lost what I have lost in terms of who I am, I’ve had to come to terms with how I’m sometimes perceived by those who know me. I may come across as a bit of a loser – the girl who wasn’t strong enough to deal with her mum’s passing and who has let life pass her by. Heaven knows, the real Anita is the real Anita’s biggest critic and centurion Anita can’t protect the real Anita from herself this way. The real Anita knows how much her personality has truly altered, how little things that mattered in the past matter now. There was so much confusion about who I am …what I should be like. For ages, I panicked over this. After all, mum always said she loved my personality. There has been intense moments of conflict when it came to who I was where my career was concerned. I kept telling myself I am a lawyer. I even tried to make a return to the legal profession in 2012 but I saw the difference in myself – it didn’t impress me. It doesn’t mean that I didn’t enjoy the year back in the practice. I did. And I have to say that I was a part of a very interesting case – one that I am proud to have been a part of. But there was a difference in me…in how I embraced life back as a lawyer. The difference was as a result of this wound in soul. The entire experience felt surreal and I recognize that my personality has so much altered that I’m a far better teacher/trainer these days. I often get “told off” for steering so far away from my area of study. “What a waste of an education!” or… “you’re a great lawyer! Don’t waste your talent!”… I feel a keen sense of shame when I hear these words. They pain me to an extent that I cannot explain.

There is a need to acknowledge the many losses that were brought about as a result of mum’s passing. Friends I used to hang out with on a fairly regular basis aren’t there anymore. They couldn’t handle me being sad. Life moved on for most of those around me – and I think it would be fair to say that I couldn’t necessarily talk to them about how I was still hurting inside. It simply isn’t appropriate. There was a lot of suppression – completely unhealthy. Mum’s passing brought on chronic asthma, acid reflux and my blood count has since her passing, had the tendency to drop. People find it hard to speak about death and the sadness that lingers on after a loved one is gone. You often find yourself alone in that rut…feeling a little out of touch with the rest of the world. It’s almost like you’re dancing to a completely different beat – out of step with everyone else. It’s like you’re mucking up.

The panic that I mentioned – thinking I was disappointing mum has been massive. There were many internal struggles and tussles about how I should restore myself to who I was. I was confused about my identity. There were moments I thought I was losing my sanity. During my time in the practice, I consistently took personality tests – partly because I was interested in how I matched up to my career and partly because it was fun. How could it not be fun? I had some pretty glowing results. In the past – before mum’s passing I consistently had a showing of 98-99% on the extroversion factor alone. That’s pretty staggering and in Winnie the Pooh land, I would’ve been akin to Tigger. When mum passed, I took the test and my extroversion factor was 2%. In Winnie the Pooh land, we are talking Eeyore! My test results are different now… 10 years later, my extroversion factor is at about 37%. Not as low as when mum passed and yet – nowhere close to where it used to be. Hence the confusion about who I was. I remember bits of the “old” Anita and they are in total conflict with the new Anita. In the midst of my dilemma, my amazing pastor friend sent me a poem by Dietrich Bonhoeffer entitled Who Am I? It ends like this: “Who am I? Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!” This poem has helped bring me some measure of peace. I am in Christ. May my identity be in Him – and that will, I know, never be shaken. It helped me make sense of my mum’s understanding of Christ.

10 years down the line, mum’s understanding now makes more sense. Her ultimate victory is my ultimate victory too. In fact, I’m thrilled that I’ve been able to further hammer this home with a lesson from my beloved King David (who was ruddy, handsome and had beautiful eyes – 1 Samuel 16: 12) who wrote Psalm 3, where he said: ‘But you, O LORD, are a shield about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head.’ (Psalm 3: 3). Mum had taught me that whatever my disappointments – failed ambition, loss of social status or society, loss of personality, etc. – they wouldn’t matter if I learnt that Jesus is the true lifter of my head. He is the root of my glory. When I think on this, I’m relieved that I don’t have to “make it” in the way that I’m expected to. This grief is now a part of who I am. I cannot move on unless and until the memory of my mum becomes meaningless. So…thanks to Jesus, I can cry for how long I need to and not a single tear of mine is too long or out of place for Jesus.He can handle it. He can handle the fact that I’m not necessarily thrilled with mum not being here.

And through all this, He shows me grace. The emergence of my family in Christ has been a phenomenal eye-opener. They share their burdens with me and make me see how it is okay to be people of faith and yet have tears and sorrows in the face of an inexplicable joy that we share, knowing that our tears will come to an end when our Lord returns. They show me the reality of working our faith out in the gospel and how that includes coping with our disappointments and regrets. There is yet more grace! He shows me that I have had some pretty amazing friends who have been there for me despite our different world views and who’ve been simply magnificent. He shows me that there are times when I can make a difference to the lives of the people I’ve met – whether by my struggles or silly banter or whatever aspects of flawed me that He uses to show love, concern, support and friendship to another person, there is a dimension to me which never would have existed had not I gone through this loss. My significant alteration as a result of my loss has only enhanced my ability to sympathize and empathize. Sheer grace for I am by nature impatient and have in general not been very understanding towards what I always perceived as weakness. My humbling has taught me how wrong I was in that regard. He’s shown me contentment in my new but less flash career. There is joy when I get to help make a difference in someone’s life. He’s shown me grace when He reminds me of relationships that have come about as a result of this different path that I’ve been set on – how blessed I am to know some of the people who have come into my life since I lost mum.

Probably, most significantly to me, He shows me that because of Him, mum was who she was to me. She was the rather amazing person I’ve been describing (probably without doing enough justice!). He has shown me how blessed I was to have a mum who despite both our flaws and disappointments in life, loved me so very magnificently and tenderly. She was an amazing mother, friend, confidant… not someone I’ll ever replace or be able to get over ever. Her life has been a mammoth example to me. I will never forget the words she said to me that night as she worked on that Bible study, when she said: “Anita…there is nothing without the Christ…” I’m ever so thankful to The Lord Jesus for letting this amazing lesson have come through the life and death of my mum for it has further compounded the blessing she has been to me. I’ve lost mum – temporarily. We’ll meet again, soon and that is much to look forward to. I’ve lost mum… temporarily. I’ve encountered grace…permanent grace. I’ve much to be thankful for.