"Remember Me" now published under our Humilis Hastings imprint

We've now published Remember Me on Amazon — that's Book 6 of Series 1 of The Hawk and the Dove stories.

It's here on Amazon UK and here on American Amazon; and it'll be on whatever branch of Amazon is regional for where you live.

Writing this today, the paperback is out. It'll also be out on Kindle in the next day or two, so keep looking if that's what you're hoping for. 

The proceeds of all my books published under the Humilis Hastings imprint are shared 50/50 with the community of Carthusian monks at Horsham in West Sussex (here), before tax and before expenses are paid. I am so grateful to them for holding this troubled world in prayer, faithfully and daily, in these turbulent times.

My thanks to Tony Collins for editing, Hebe and Alice Wilcock for cover art, and Jonathan Roberts for cover design and formatting.

What Emma wanted to ask some of the brothers.

 Here's what Emma said.

I have another question for the brothers, which I've had for a while, I just didn't want to post it too soon after the first one. I wasn't sure if I should ask it on the original post or just any post, so . . . here it is, and you can do with this comment as you want.

My question to ask them is about being myself without shame/hiding/tension/performance; not being insanely tense and on-guard about everything but being able to live freely and trust freely without filtering everything through "what is this person going to think of me if I do/say/be like this" and thus keeping myself in iron self-control about everything at all times.

I feel like I'd want to ask Father Francis this, because he seems to have had direct experience with it—performance, hiding, shame. I know he's already been asked a question about shame and healing, but if this is a different enough angle, maybe he would have thoughts on it too? Also, I wondered if you could catch Father Peregrine in the earlier days and get his thoughts as well, unless that's not possible. He always had valuable things to say to the brothers, no matter their struggle.

I guess it would be, in a nutshell: how do I be my own person? What does it look like to be true to myself (in Christ), instead of wrapping myself in so many layers of self-control, and being so good at mirroring others, that I don't even know how to relax and just BE, without fear or shame about how others could perceive me? (Or fear that "just me" is not enough, without endless effort and catering to others to avoid causing them any inconvenience or unpleasantness.)

The thing is, I WANT to be seen and known. But my default is still to hide from it, and it's so easy to do. All those layers of composure and self-control keep me at arms' length quite well with hardly any effort at all. I can and do sometimes speak vulnerably with others, on my own initiative; and I love when I get to have a conversation like that with someone trustworthy. But I'm realizing that that, too, is still something in my control: I'm vulnerable when I invite the vulnerability, when I choose to be, at certain times and in certain ways. Being uncensored in regular life just on a daily basis is an entirely different matter.

So . . . anyway. I'm not sure if I formed any good direct questions out of that. But if Francis, and Peregrine if it's possible, or anyone else you think might be good to ask, have thoughts on any of that, I would love to hear them.

I’m grateful that Emma left it to me to choose which of the brothers would answer her question — apart from Francis and Peregrine — because Father Felix, Father William and Abbot John also had something to say here. 

Going back in time is not the tricky thing about talking with Father Peregrine — but I can’t talk with him and the others together at St Alcuins, because time has moved on there. But they can meet up in the 'now' moment in my room. And although my room is small, space is not an issue because this is non-corporeal.

There was a time, late one night, and I will maybe tell you about it one day, when the abbot and the infirmary brothers (Michael, William, and Christopher) were together in my room in a ministry of prayer. Unexpectedly, Father Peregrine came to join them, which is how I discovered that was possible. When he came in, Father William said quietly, “Excuse me”, and he moved from where he was to where Father Peregrine stood. There he said what he had wanted and waited to say for so very long — which was (multiple times!) “I am so sorry. I’m so very very sorry.” And Father Peregrine said nothing, but he hugged him close, and it was all right after that. But back to what we are talking about — they can meet up provided it’s at my place not theirs. If it’s at their place they are bound by that timeline and some of them can’t therefore be present.

So (apologies for that detour) we sit in my room. I’m not even sure how that works because, as I said, the room is small. But it does. The room expands, somehow. 

There are no preambles, because it's not easy for the 14th century soul to hold presence in the 21st century, but I glance round to check that they are ready — and in so doing catch the moment of unspoken humour and affirmation in Father Peregrine's eyes as they meet Father William's. Then I read out to them what Emma has asked, and they pass round the piece of paper I printed it on.

Abbot John wants to say something, but he looks at Father Peregrine, in deference and for permission, and Father Peregrine nods and indicates that Abbot John should speak. 

Father John says this. “There are some matters here that I recognise as an infirmarian, and some that I recognise as an abbot. If Emma came to me in the infirmary, I would want to look at her diet. Tension, anxiety, and inner restlessness can almost always be calmed by addressing the way we eat. To know more about that, I think your friend Emma could write to you, Little Ghost, because in the timeline where you live I believe there are different parameters that might nullify the advice I would give from ours. I’ll leave that with you, but I think good work could be done there.

“Then — and I speak now both as an abbot and as an infirmarian, there is something about boundaries. To set in place relationships and attitudes characterised by both compassion and respect, it is essential we set boundaries. Each soul has a calling, a work of God to be done, entrusted to us by Jesus. It is important to guard against craving the good opinion of others. Sometimes they will blame us, sometimes praise us, like a wind gusting around us. Our work in this world is to hold steady the light that has been given to us, each one unique. The boundaries we set are like the lantern we fashion to hold and protect the light, so that the weather of praise and blame cannot blow it out.

“And then, I want to add something about being patient with yourself. See it, if you will, as though you had inside your inner imaginative world an older brother and a younger brother. The older brother is there for caution, encouragement, and reassurance. The younger brother is there for trying things out, for offering himself, for learning how to do things and for joining in. Let the older brother within you counsel and support the younger brother within, who will often be bruised and abashed and embarrassed, because it’s hard to get things right. There is more I could say, but let that be enough. Let the others speak.”

He bows his head, and everyone else then looks to Father Peregrine, who sits listening thoughtfully. You know, he still has his twisted hands and damaged leg, still walks with a crutch. I think in the world of light maybe he is free of all that; but here, much like Jesus, the familiar scars are the badge of beloved identity — beloved by us, I mean, not by him. They are our way in to who he is. So anyway, he speaks next.

“My greetings to Emma,” he says. “Yes, I know her. Shame and helplessness belong to being reduced, being of no account, being at the behest of others. They occur where we value and esteem someone else’s judgement over our own, where we are waiting for permission and instruction to allow us to be anything. Self-importance is never a lovely characteristic, but self-esteem is. What I want to say to Emma is — dearest, straighten your crown. Know who you are, daughter of Eve and redeemed of Christ, servant of the most high God and ambassador of the Gospel in a fallen world. You are holy. You are called, you are worthy. Every stumble is a sign that you are walking in the Way. Every mistake is a sign that you are a disciple of the Saviour of the world. When you get up in the morning, make your bed, wash your face — and claim your heritage. ‘The body of Christ: I am’. Walk through this world as a queen, as a light, as a shepherd, as someone of inestimable worth. “It is no longer I that liveth, but Christ who liveth in me.” For so it is. ‘You are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, belonging to God.’ 

“Take your place, dearest; straighten your crown. You have nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of, and you are loved beyond measure. Your sins are forgiven. You are a new creation.”

He stops speaking then, and there is a little silence; but I don’t let it extend too long, because I think it is a strain for them to maintain presence in my timeline. Sometimes one of them just fades out. They get tired.

So I say, “How about you Father Francis? Emma wanted to know what you thought.”

He smiles at me, and nods. “Yes, of course,” he said. "Thank you." He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and the others just wait peacefully until he is ready to speak. “I have found,” he says, “that expectation can be a force of tyranny. There is a state of mind where you feel you can never be good enough. It fastens around a person like an iron frame. It interferes with freedom and joy and confidence. Living up to expectations . . . ah, Jesu . . . it’s exhausting. I’m not sure, because I’m not entirely familiar with her circumstances, but it sounds to me as if Emma needs her proper community of grace — her tribe, as it were. She needs the affirmation and building up of those who regard her with unconditional love, who accept her just as she is. True belonging. I acknowledge this is not easy to find in this world. Perhaps the best I can say is that we are here for her, if she looks for us. A community of true belonging is a bulwark against the eroding force of expectation.”

He looks at me, and nods; that was what he wanted to say. 

So now I ask: “Father William?”

“Well,” says William, “yes. I certainly know about shame. I’m not over-bothered about what other people think of me, primarily because I got used to that being fairly awful.

“Can I take up this matter of boundaries, that Father John raised? I think this is key. The tension your friend mentions, the hiding of self, the performance so as to please and the terror of displeasing. This sounds to me — and God knows, I can be wrong, so perhaps I am — but it sounds to me like the difference between a servant and a master. The master commands and the servant obeys. The servant does everything at the master’s behest. The servant’s life and wellbeing depend on pleasing the master. This gets almighty wearisome in short order, if you have the misfortune to be the one born into servitude.

“In human society, it is usually the men who command and the women who obey. Money commands and poverty obeys. Aristocracy commands and peasants do as they’re told.

In Christ, so the apostle says, there is neither Jew nor Greek, neither, male nor female, neither slave nor free — there is no servant class and no inferior status. This being the case, whoever is in Christ has the right to set boundaries, to determine the agenda, to speak their mind and be who they are.

Maybe I should add a caution here — it is damnably easy to make enemies. Most people have strong opinions about all kinds of things; they all disagree vehemently and of course they are all, always, right. Arguing is generally unprofitable. It only adds to the cacophony. It pays to walk quietly through the world, to want little, and to trust your own judgement. Let them all go their own way, let them all do exactly as they please. You do what is right for you. Hold fast to it, Refuse to budge. Say to the mountain — but softly and politely — ‘No. You move.’

His eyes meet mine. That man is such a dear friend. “All right?” he says. “If it sounds like garbage, it probably is.”

So now the attention of all of us is on Father Felix, who at the present time appears to be quite calm and well, and not in the grip of the mental turmoil that so often afflicts him.

Father Francis has passed him the piece of paper. Felix looks down at it, and he says: “This. This is what speaks to me. I know it so well.  What does it look like to be true to myself (in Christ), instead of wrapping myself in so many layers of self-control, and being so good at mirroring others, that I don't even know how to relax and just BE, without fear or shame about how others could perceive me? (Or fear that "just me" is not enough, without endless effort and catering to others to avoid causing them any inconvenience or unpleasantness.)

“Absolutely. My heart goes out to her. I’ve been listening carefully to what the others have to say, and with such a sense of privilege and gratitude to be here. I esteem them so highly. I have very little to add. Only this: sometimes this is just part of who you are — the anxiety, the sensitivity, the love of precision which is — hopefully — also a love of truth. This will always be beautiful, the desire for truth, the love of the pure note. I have heard Brother Cassian say, at a music practice, ‘That was good, brothers, but you started a whole semi-tone high, which made it hard to reach the notes.’ There is in some people an acute sensitivity to when something is off, and when it is right on the note — when it is pure, when it is true. I can only recommend a slight shift of focus, trying to get it right still, yes, aiming for purity of mind and spirit, but letting that be determined by one’s own conscience, by the witness within, by the still, small voice of the Spirit that arises in one’s own soul. Nobody else’s opinion. No second-hand truth.”

“To get to that,” adds Father Francis, “there has to be a certain inner spaciousness. Being in, but not of the world, maybe. This is why living in simplicity is key. You cannot hone your practise, or quieten your mind to hear the inner voice, without simplicity. It’s just the same as clearing a cluttered house, but on the inside.”

Father Felix, who gets tired at the best of times because he finds life such a struggle, is already beginning to fade. He is almost see-through. This was how I know the rest of them will also be getting tired. It’s just that they are practised at maintaining presence, at standing firm. But obviously you don’t want to wear out your friends. So I thank them and I say goodbye; and I must have been right, because suddenly I am all on my own in my room, just like normal.

My friend wanted to ask Brother Thomas something

 A friend wrote to me to ask about Brother Tom, thinking back to the time Father Peregrine was ill, and how Tom felt about visiting him.

My friend wondered, particularly, how this might have affected Tom’s feelings and thoughts about his own process of ageing. She said, I wonder if now that he must be quite a bit older, any of the difficult thoughts and feelings from watching Father Peregrine struggle are affecting him now in relation to his own present and future . . . I wonder if he found a way to be sure of God's love again, after witnessing Father Peregrine's repeated decline and possibly realising he might have to go through something like that himself.

And she mentioned that she feels Scared of how, when changes happen in our physical brains, it affects who we are as people and how we can relate to those around us. Scared of physical dependence and of not being able to move … Scared about how unreal prayer can feel if we are not able to stay being who we are…  

My friend has been involved in caring for someone who has dementia and heart problems, and this has brought these health challenges up close and personal. She wondered what Tom might think about all of this now.

So I went to find him. I tried Abbot John’s atelier, and sure enough Brother Tom was there, on this day of cold wind blowing persistent sleet off the moor. He was occupying himself waxing and polishing the abbot’s boots, primarily because that’s something you can do sitting by the fire on a distinctly dark and gloomy day. 

Abbot John was there too, writing letters. I told them about my friend’s thoughts, and asked the abbot if it would be all right for me to talk with Brother Tom.

“For sure,” said Abbot John. “Shall I go away and leave you in peace to talk by the fire?”

To which Brother Tom immediately responded, “No, thanks, Father! For goodness sake, stay! You know far more about this kind of thing than I do.”

“I think,” said the abbot, “our Little Ghost’s friend wasn’t really looking for advice from a physician, so much as what it all did to you — that time with Peregrine — and how it left you, in your heart, in your soul.”

“Even so,” said Brother Tom. “Just don’t go.”

So Abbot John stayed, listening quietly to what Tom had to say. And I sat on the stones of the hearth which were nice and warm, and not too ashy because Tom had swept them before he got started on the boots.

“Well then,” said Tom, “please will you tell your friend it scares me too. Some of what I saw — the helplessness — I realised that . . . well . . . there’s nothing you can do to lift it away, to ease it. It’s hard to live through, and it’s lonely. Yes. That’s just how it is. It made me do a lot of soul-searching at the time. 

“But then, in fairly short order after all of that, Father William showed up on our doorstep, and that turned me inside out, as I think you know. There was life and death and pain and facing stuff I didn’t want to think about there, as well.

“And those two things kind of melded together. I mean, watching Peregrine suffer so much, and finding the courage to stay with him through it — but then also accepting I was just going to have to live with William and learning to love him. Which I did. 

“There was a turning point, of sorts, the day William tried to kill himself. Brother Stephen ran for Father John, and that left me sitting holding William in my arms to make sure he didn’t choke because he was throwing up. And there was . . . about all that . . . something immediate and something eternal . . . where I realised that all you can ever do is just be there. It’s . . . well . . . you can’t predict what will happen, and life takes you by surprise. You think you know what’s going on and what opinion you hold about it — and then right in front of you it suddenly transforms into something completely unexpected.

“I’ve thought about it all quite a lot, one way and another. I’ve come to see that life is only found in days, in ordinary things, in small encounters. And you know — the best thing I ever did for either of those men was just hug them, hold them. They had enough thoughts of their own and some to spare, they didn’t need mine. I mean, I didn’t need words; only to be there.

“What all that did is bring my focus nearer. Because the only thing we ever have is today. If we don’t live in the here and now, we miss life altogether. The beauty of life is this firelight, the smell of the wood smoke, the feel of soft ash under my hand on the uneven surface of the hearthstone, a mug of ale, some bread fresh made and plenty of butter. That’s . . . that is the love of God to me, and the flame of life. 

“I don’t know what tomorrow will be like. Oh God, yes, I hope I will never be blind or incontinent or mad. I hope I die quietly in my sleep one night, and I don’t mind when. 

“But . . . look . . . life is so sweet, so precious, such a gift. It was William brought that home to me. Holding on to him after we cut him down from the rope. Hugging him after he got in such a mess with our money and he was so full of shame and everything. Doing what we could after Madeleine died. It made me see — grab every moment and love it for what it is. Don’t waste any of it. If this is a day when you can still walk, still hear, still eat; if there’s anything to laugh about, if there’s a robin singing or a blackbird, if there’s the smell of new-mown hay . . . and most of all, if there’s anyone who loves you, if you have a friend  . . . well . . . don’t trade any of that for fear of tomorrow. Don’t let a future that hasn’t even happened rob you of it. Just refuse. 

“Start close — don’t look too far along the path. If your hands are folded in your lap, then feel your hands, skin on skin, and know that is the blessing of being alive. If there’s a breeze blowing, enjoy the feel of it. If there’s a candle burning, watch the flame . . . and know this is a kind of miracle, God’s good gift that he hoped you would enjoy. I . . . am I talking too much, Father? Am I making sense?”

Abbot John smiled. “Yes, I think so,” he said. “Maybe tell your friend, Little Ghost, to be gentle with herself. Every creature, even a mouse, even a butterfly, is held in the hands of God as if that were his only concern. And so is she. The apostle said God’s grace is made known in human weakness. Whatever happens, he will never let her go. Never.”

A hare's breath — a winter's evening conversation in the warming room

 “I nearly had you there,” says Brother Thaddeus. “Nearly. I did.”

Father William doesn’t reply. There isn’t really anything to say in response to an observation that runs so starkly counter to any kind of accuracy. He allows something that approximates to a smile to gleam in his eyes, register in his features, hoping he at least looks friendly. He looks into the fire, takes a sip of small beer from his mug. 

Thaddeus broods, frowning at the gently burning logs, the settling ash that veils the crimson glow. “So often,” he says, “so often, there is no more than a hare’s breath between success and victory.”

“What?” Father William glances at him. “Aren’t they the same thing?”

Thaddeus nods sagely at this. “In the grand scheme of things, of course we could say they were. What does it matter if we win or lose? Surely the crucial thing, for a man of God, is how we play the game. Even then, I think most practical men would say success and victory are opposite — oh. I see what you mean. I meant to say success and failure. Or losing and winning. Or victory and defeat. Or triumph and downfall. Or —”

“Yes, Thaddeus. Yes, I get it.” William stifles a sigh, worried he sounded too testy. “Sometimes words get muddled up, don’t they,” he adds, trying to infuse his words with appropriate gentleness. 

This torture happens every week, playing chess with Brother Thaddeus. It never improves, resisting William’s best efforts to explain the moves and communicate the central concepts of strategy and anticipation. Yet despite Thaddeus’s comprehensive inability to conquer even the rudiments of the game, William has to admire his eagerness, his optimism, his willingness to try again. And after his inevitable defeat, there is always this time of puzzled reflection, trying to discern through the mists of obscurity what it could be that went wrong.

“Well, anyway, as I said,” Thaddeus now reiterates, “there is but a hare’s breath between being bested and worsted.”

Oh God. William closes his eyes. He can’t be bothered.

“Why do we call it a hare’s breath?” Thaddeus is in philosophical mode now. “It’s such an odd expression. I suppose a hare is only a little animal. Bigger than a rabbit, of course, but even so. There’s something fey and moonlit about a hare. I suppose its breath must be the most insubstantial thing, just a tiny vanishing cloud on the frosty air. Just a hare’s breath. Almost nothing. It’s a lovely expression, really — don’t you think?”

William slowly lifts his gaze from the fire to contemplate his brother in Christ, wondering if it’s more unkind to make him feel stupid by telling him, or leave him to roam the world unenlightened, free to make a fool of himself with somebody else.

He hesitates: then, “Thaddeus,” he says, trying to sound neutral, conversational, not dismissive or superior, “it’s not . . . well . . . the expression is a hair’s breadth. Hair like a hair that grows on your head — or for that matter, out of your nose or in your eyebrows. And it’s breadth — as in width — not breath.”

“What?” says Thaddeus. “Are you serious? Well I’m jiggered! Are you sure that’s right?” He thinks for a minute. “I suppose that explains it. There isn’t much breadth to a hair, is there? When you think about it.”

William has no idea what expression his face is supposed to be wearing. Never was a man so glad to hear the bell ring for Compline.

The Hour Before Dawn — our Humilis Hastings edition of this is now published

 If you would like to buy one of my books, please choose a title published under the imprint Humilis Hastings. 

This is our own imprint, and the proceeds from Humilis Hastings books are split 50/50 with the Carthusian monks in West Sussex (we are in East Sussex). The Carthusian Rule was established in the 11th century, and has remained unchanged since that time. They are not allowed to be a charity because their work is prayer, which the Charities Commission does not regard as useful; so they need all the help they can get!

I have the rights back for all my work, and we are gradually republishing under our Humilis Hastings imprint. Our latest title published is the fifth volume of the first Hawk & Dove series — The Hour Before Dawn.

You can buy it here on Amazon UK and here on US Amazon.

Brothers of St Alcuins getting bewildered about nativity sets

 I met Maria here on Kindred of the Quiet Way. I find it so interesting to watch the delicate (but strong) mycelium of interaction that has grown across the spaces that divide us — the connective gift of the world wide web.

Maria lives in Russia and I live in England, but unexpectedly here she was in my life. And now we are friends. It's the same as me and the community at St Alcuins: I just materialised in their life, and they in mine.

And today Maria sent her greetings to me and to all of us here, for the Christmas season. She said: I would like to wish the brothers of the monastery and everyone here a Merry Christmas. I hope they are celebrating it cheerfully and that they have a creche. That they have learnt and sung many Christmas hymns I do not doubt at all. And that Conradus has made them lots of goodies too. 

So rejoice, and I'll remember reading the first chapter standing at a bus stop in the morning exactly one year ago. It was snowing and it was uncomfortable to read, but little things like that don't stop me :)

So I am passing that on to you, but of course I also took it to show Abbot John in the abbey of St Alcuins. He was in his atelier when I showed up, sitting talking with Father William. Brother Thomas was sweeping the room; it gets more dusty at this time of year, because ash drifts from the hearth. 

I thought I might be interrupting, but all three of them seemed pleased to see me. I took Maria’s message, and Abbot John read it out. When he’d finished reading it to us, he paused. He read it through just silently to himself again. He looked puzzled. 

The others wait for the abbot to speak, you know, in such circumstances. They were watching him, Brother Thomas standing leaning on the broom, and Father William kind of draped in the chair, in that kind of informal and graceful way that belongs to him. After a moment Abbot John looks at me.

“Please do thank her,” he says. “We certainly have sung a lot this last month. It’s been beautiful of course but somewhat . . . well . . . to say relentless might be ungracious. Let’s just stick with beautiful. And yes, Conradus has elevated our kitchens into a blur of activity, generating gingerbread and mulled ale and roast birds and I don’t know what else. We have not been hungry. 

“The feast of the Incarnation is special to us. It’s a hearth of hope where we gather and renew our vision and our sense of purpose. Yes, she’s absolutely right; it’s cheerful, and we feel that. It draws us together. But what . . . little Ghost, do you know why . . . can you illuminate . . . I mean . . . look — here — she says she hopes we have a crèche. Er . . . for . . . ? I mean, she knows this is a monastery, right?”

Now, Father William doesn’t often laugh outright, but he did then. “Oh, God, John,” he says then. “She’s not hoping we have a nursery set up for our numerous offspring — she means a manger — a crib for the bambino, the Christ child. Is that right, little Ghost? Is that what they have in your time, in how the world is for you? That thing Francis had here in our stable, a depiction of the coming of Jesus — like that, yes? Or a depiction of the nativity maybe — the holy family — carved figures like they have in Italy?”

Brother Thomas resumes his sweeping, mainly to disguise to some extent that he also finds this funny but he’s seen that his abbot now feels embarrassed. And Father John says, “Oh. Oh, I see. A crèche — yes of course. No, we don’t. Is that what you have, little Ghost?”

I tell them that I don’t personally have one, because I try not to own too many things — where would I keep them? My room is small. But I do have a figurine of Mother Mary holding the baby Jesus, and in our family room we have an icon of the Nativity that our Hebe made. 

And yes, in our church there is a crèche — a set of nativity figures in a stable. More than one, in fact.

Father William is oddly skilled at helping his abbot restore a sense of dignity on those occasions when his superior thinks he’s been unwontedly stupid. I enjoy watching William redirect the conversation, asking me if we have had snow yet (no, we haven’t), and if we have a special Christmas meal in our household. I explain that no we don’t — we used to, but none of us likes making big feasts and there’s not a lot of storage space, so we just keep things simple and normal, and make it special by spending time together, and going to church.

And today, I tell them, we have swapped out our icon of King Edward the Confessor  that our Alice made, for the one (also made by Alice) of St Thomas Becket, because it is his feast today — December 29th. I promise I will try to bring it to show them. 

“Thank you,” says Abbot John. “Look — little Ghost — please just tell your friend Maria that although we don’t have a  . . . er . . . a crèche . . . here . . . I think it is a lovely idea, and maybe we will one day.”

“My lord abbot,” says Father William: “may I add . . .?”

“Yes, of course,” says John: “whatever you like.”

“Well, will you tell Maria,” says William, “that she is in my prayers. I think she does not always find life easy. Just say . . . I have prayed for her.”