Photo Op at the Cemetery

On Saturday, Carl, our pup Bella, and I went to Daniel's Place. I thought it would be a good time for a photo op with my new memoir, Life at Daniel's Place. There's a large box tucked inside my bedroom closet, and from it, I pulled out a few of Daniel's things---a stuffed dog he received as a gift during one of his many hospital visits, a beach sandal, and a plastic fish from a game he played. While those items had never been to the cemetery, the Thomas The Tank Engine beach towel has shared many visits to the grave with me. Spread out, it serves as a soft area to sit.

I got thinking about what going to the grave does for us. What do the living gain from being surrounded by gravestones and memories? Over the years, I have found the time there to hold many emotions. But recently, my hours spent under the oak by Daniel's tiny marker, are serene, calming, and refreshing. Bella runs the grassy hills and gets her exercise. Carl makes sure she doesn't knock over any flowers.

Inspiration is another word that comes to mind. There's always a breeze by the oak, even on hot days. As the leaves rustle, words form, and when I look over the vast sea of graves, I'm reminded life is short. My priorities align at the cemetery. My vision is focused. Do what you are called to do. Now.

So what's my memoir about? Read on, and when you are finished, I hope you'll want a copy of Life at Daniel's Place.

Are you grieving a loss? Do you feel no one understands your broken heart? How should a mother of faith deal with tragedy?

When 36-year-old Alice lost her son Daniel, she doubted a graveyard could ever offer tranquility. At first, she wanted to run from the cemetery because it symbolized that Daniel, her four-year-old son, was gone. Being at the grave filled her with shame, guilt, and doubt. Gradually, thanks to geese, picnics, helium balloons, and epitaphs, the cemetery, named Daniel’s Place by Alice’s family, became a haven of discovery and beauty. Life at Daniel’s Place is the story of a mother’s heart transformed from fear to certainty and confidence. Alice’s reflections remind us that a renewed faith in God is possible and welcomed, even amid trauma. While grief lasts a lifetime, God's love and presence is always constant.

ORDER Life at Daniel's Place at Amazon or, if you live in the USA, send a check to me for $20 for your own signed copy. The yellow fish is not included. :-)

Send to: Alice Wisler

201 Monticello Avenue

Durham, NC 27707

Giveaway! Comment after reading to get a free e-book, Life at Daniel's Place

Hey, readers, please read this article I wrote and comment below. Everyone who comments will get a free e-book. The e-book is my most recent release, Life at Daniel's Place: How The Cemetery Became a Sanctuary of Discovery ahd Gratitude. In order to get an e-book, you need to leave a comment, plus your email (where I can send your free e-book). Or send me a message at awisler3@gmail.com with your email address. No email, no e-book. This "deal" ends August 31st, so read and leave a message now. You can comment on what I wrote, what you agree with, disagree with, etc.

~*~*~*~*~*

Why Do We Cliché Grief?

Have you heard me shout at the TV lately? I have been known to do this.

It's those journalists and actors that cause me to shout whenever they use this line: Sorry for your loss. You might think I'm just being ornery, but I have my reasons. I'm certain the remoteness of that phrase begs for alternative words—words that are enveloped in thoughtful compassion.

Twenty-six years ago when my four-year-old son Daniel died, empathizers aimed to console me. Sentiments included: “I’m so sorry to hear this,” and “How sad,” and “I can’t imagine.” I don’t recall the cliché sorry for your loss being popular back then. But I do remember how I felt after a salesman stood at my front door and remarked with a sense of joviality, “You son is having that big party in the sky!” Shocked and numb, I wondered how in the world he felt it was okay to laugh at a mother over the loss of her child.

Years later, when I wasn’t as fragile and had adjusted to bereaved life and the odd things people say, a co-worker grieved the death of her mother. She told me that this phrase, Sorry for your loss, made her angry. “Why should someone tell me he’s sorry? It’s not his fault my mother died. There’s nothing for him to apologize for.”

So what are we supposed to say? When introduced to someone for the first time, protocol has us tell the new person, “Nice to meet you.” It’s harmless to quip these words. Society expects them even if we don’t feel them.

Yet when it comes to bereavement, we are operating from a different and distinct set of emotions. The person before us has lost a loved one to death. There is sadness, even perhaps regret and remorse. Learning that someone has lost a beloved should require a heartfelt sentiment.

“Sorry for your loss” is used because society has said it’s a safe thing to say. Sometimes when people say "I’m sorry" I wonder if what they really mean is sorry that I asked about your child or spouse or mom. Sorry that you have made me uncomfortable as I am brought face to face with my own mortality.

We are afraid of death. The fear of death sits at the top of most people’s lists. We want to push aside the reality that death happens, ignoring funeral homes and cemeteries when we drive by. We also fail to understand just what loss is. When a woman’s husband dies, it’s not that she lost him like she lost a set of keys or an address. A relationship on earth is over. A spouse goes from being a living daily companion to a collection of memories. Love doesn’t stop once a loved one dies. Love continues and the partner who is still alive has to adjust and adapt to the rest of her life without him.

Mental Health Professional Jamie Cannon, writes: “Instead of expecting grief to disappear, expect yourself to learn how to live around it, through it, and despite it.” If we accepted that grief does not come and go, but stays with us, perhaps we could learn how to dig deeper into our emotions and offer words of empathy that are not said as though we’re reading off a cue card. Can we allow ourselves to think what if it were my mom, my friend, or my child who just died? What would I want said to me?

Months after my heart had been ripped apart from the loss of my son, I drove my six year-old daughter and a new friend to an amusement park. I wanted Rachel to know that sharing about her brother’s death was acceptable. So as I drove, I told Caitlyn that Rachel had lost her brother from cancer treatments. After I finished, in a voice full of compassion, this nine-year-old said, “That is so sad. You will always have a hole in your heart.”

I wanted to stop the car, jump out, climb into the back seat and give Caitlyn a hug. I wanted to call this child's mother and tell her what a terrific daughter she had. But I didn’t want to embarrass my daughter so I kept driving. That hole in my heart had been acknowledged; I felt comforted and cared for. I was even able to smile.

Perhaps what our society lacks is the ability to get close enough to empathy. Instead of working so hard to protect ourselves from fear we need to just jump in and offer a hug, a listening ear, even a few words to admit, “I don’t know what to say, but I am here.” There might be moments that are awkward. But a caring heart shines through. A rote line does nothing.

I know that not everyone has the thoughtfulness and compassion of a nine-year-old. But I wish they did take the time to learn.

Leave a comment below to get a free e-book, Life at Daniel's Place. Want a paperback? Hop over here.

Prologue: Life at Daniel's Place

Weeks after the governor shut down North Carolina due to the coronavirus pandemic, I put on a pair of tennis shoes. It was a Sunday in April, yet my church held no services. Since I couldn't go there to worship, I drove across town to Markham Memorial Gardens. People feared the virus, but fear was nowhere on the rolling lawn dotted with grave markers and tall Carolina pines. The dead can't get Covid. And I can't get the illness from them. As I drove, I smiled at my dark humor.

But my humor evaporated once I faced the white wooden fence at the entrance. My eyes blurred with tears. The tears, which I'm a fanatic about labeling, were not tears of sorrow, hurt, or pain. They were those special tears cried when we know someone has cared for, looked after, and loved us, even when we didn't realize what was happening. My spirit had come to this place for safety, but not from Covid or our country's looming troubles. Long before news of the virus and the shutdown, this corner of the world had become my secure haven and respite.

As I walked the circular driveway, passing the familiar gravestones and landmarks, flashbacks played through my mind. Here, I had once wanted to die, before my healing had begun.

Four years into my grief, I was invited to facilitate a writing workshop. Sascha, a poet and bereaved mother who had lost both her children— the youngest to drowning and the oldest to suicide—asked me to fill in for her at a conference in Denver, Colorado. She was ill and needed a substitute. I was instructed to share how beneficial writing from heartache is. As I stood at the podium before forty bereaved parents, I knew writing helped me. But did others find it therapeutic? I introduced some writing prompts and was pleased when parents stood to read their poetry in memory of their son or daughter.

After I made it through the workshop—where I hoped no one had noticed my insecurity from being a novice—one of the event volunteers approached me. I thought she was trying to make me feel good when she said, "Alice, there was a lot of healing going on in that room." I had no idea what a room of healing looked like.

Decades later, I know. I know how a grassy landscape of remorse becomes a sanctuary of discovery and gratitude. I know how God takes our most profound agony and replaces it with his joy. I know how pouring pain onto paper transforms pent- up anguish into hope. I have experienced how a mother lacking confidence dared to seek fulfillment. This did not happen over weeks; it took years.

The cemetery welcomed me that Sunday in April. True, the dead were still silent; they could no longer share their opinion, ponder, or rush to be anywhere. For them, what was done was done; it was over. As for me, I still had a course to run— peace to absorb, ideas to wrestle with, lessons to invite, and healing to embrace. Gratitude for the quiet landscape rich with my history filled me; I started to sing. I belted out one of my favorite hymns, repeating the first verse six times because that was the only verse I knew from heart. “Our God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come, our shelter from the stormy blast, and our eternal home.”

And that is another pleasure of being at the cemetery: the dead don’t complain.

Read it all! Get the memoir here!

A Little Book that Took a Long While

It's here, it's here, it's here!

My memoir, Life at Daniel's Place, is now in both paperback and e-book! If you've been following my blog posts and newsletters, you will understand the enormity of what has finally transpired. My memoir has had so many starts, stops, epiphanies, and overhauls. Whew!

Can a graveyard ever offer tranquility after turmoil? At first, Alice wants to run from the cemetery because it symbolizes that Daniel, her four-year-old son, is gone. Being at the grave fills her with shame, guilt, and doubt. Gradually, thanks to geese, picnics, helium balloons, and epitaphs, the cemetery, named Daniel’s Place by Alice’s family, becomes a haven of discovery and beauty. Life at Daniel’s Place is the story of a mother’s heart transformed from fear to certainty and confidence. Alice’s reflections remind us that even in trauma, a renewed faith in God is possible and welcomed.

I am so glad that my memoir is now in print and ready for you to read!

I hope you'll get your copy of Life at Daniel's Place: How the cemetery became a sanctuary of discovery and gratitude. You can order from Amazon now.

The Cover is Here!

There's nothing like a new book cover!

Here's the sneak peak of the cover for my memoir, Life at Daniel's Place. The graphic designer worked with what I provided for the front of my cover using the pinwheel photo I took one day at the cemetery. I needed the spine and back copy to be created and he came up with what you see above.

Once my editor is finished with her work, I'll revisit my memoir and make the necessary corrections. Soon after that, Life at Daniel's Place will be ready to preorder!

So what is this memoir about? Here's the back blurb:

At first, Alice wants to run from the cemetery because it symbolizes that Daniel, her four-year-old son, is gone. Being at the grave fills her with shame, guilt, and doubt. Gradually, thanks to geese, picnics, helium balloons, and epitaphs, the cemetery, named Daniel’s Place by Alice’s family, becomes a haven of discovery and beauty. Life at Daniel’s Place is the story of a mother’s heart transformed from fear to certainty and confidence. Alice’s reflections remind us that even in trauma, a renewed faith in God is possible and welcomed.

And of course, this story gets its inspiration from this guy, my son, Daniel.

Life at Daniel's Place --- The first part of the journey to getting a book out there

The road to publication is a long one. If you have a literary agent that lands your manuscript with a publisher, most likely you have waited a number of months for this deal to transpire. By the time your book is available for sale, you’ve experienced the process of deep editing, cover design, and marketing.

My first novel, Rain Song, was accepted by a publisher (Bethany House) two months after my literary agent sent my manuscript to them. Oh, happy day, when I got the phone call! I was going to finally, finally, have a book published! Then I had to wait 20 months (that’s not a typo) before my debut novel was published. The waiting was long. During that wait-time, I started this blog.

This time, with my memoir, Life at Daniel's Place, I decided to pass the whole agent/publisher process and publish on my own. Here’s where I have to be honest, this manuscript of mine has never been sent to an agent or a publisher. I have, after much prayer and thought, decided to independently get my book out to the masses. In the past, I’ve published three memorial cookbooks on my own, so I know a little about the work involved. For the stuff I don’t know as much about as I need to, I turn to the Internet and the gurus who can help.

I hired an editor. I think every good book needs an editor . . . or two. A book is only as good as its editor, someone to get the commas in the right place and check for inconsistencies. Publishing houses either have their own in-house editors or hire freelancers. There are masses of developmental, copy, and line editors out there, as well as proofreaders, ready to be hired. And that's a good thing because they are needed. It’s hard to catch every mistake when it’s your own work. Another pair of eyes does wonders.

I sort of worked backwards with this book. But I have often not followed the "rules". I created the title, then the cover on Canva, and then wrote the back cover blurb. I set a date for publication, hoping that would motivate me to write the content. Actually, I have so many files pertaining to a story about my son Daniel and our family, that it was really a matter of selecting which scenes to include. The dream for this memoir has been brewing for years.

So, this is my quick update about my newest book to arrive this summer. I plan to write more about this journey as time goes on. Thanks for reading!

You Have the Words: Who Do You Seek When You Need Reassurance?

Then Jesus said, “This is why I told you that no one can come to Me unless the Father has granted it to him.” From that time on many of His disciples turned back and no longer walked with Him. So Jesus asked the Twelve, “Do you want to leave too?” Simon Peter replied, “Lord, to whom would we go? You have the words of eternal life. We believe and know that You are the Holy One of God.” (John 6:65–68, NIV)

Bad days, we all have them. Those mornings when we wake to face one dilemma after another, and then things continue to go wrong until we feel we just can’t go on. When I have those kinds of days, I turn to friends for comfort. I seek out friends who will offer words of encouragement and assurance that I will feel better.

In chapter six of the book of John, Jesus had fed the 5,000, walked on water, talked about being the bread of life, and garnered a large following. But then he talked about some things that bothered many. He said God is the one who gives the gift of submissive faith. His words were focused on the spiritual, not just the physical.

He said, “The words that I speak to you are spirit, and they are life.” (John 6: 63, NIV)

That’s when a number of his followers had had enough of Jesus. They walked away. Perhaps they realized he wasn’t going to overthrow the government or make them rich. We don’t know all of the reasons why they or why anyone chooses to step away from Jesus. The

words to eternal life When my son died, my season of deep sorrow caused me to wonder if following Jesus was too difficult. I had been a believer for decades, but losing a child knocked me down. I felt abandoned by Jesus. I wanted to leave my faith. Yet, where else was there to go? Peter’s response to Jesus’ question played inside my heart.

To whom would we go? You have the words of eternal life. Life — both now and for eternity. That’s what Jesus promised us. He is the Messiah. He is the son of the living God. He is one worthy of our praise. Th

rough his life, death, and resurrection, he became the logic of our universe. With the help of loving friends who listened to me in my anguish, I was able to grow in my faith. As my commitment to Jesus deepened, I knew that when we draw near to Jesus he draws near to us, providing, caring, loving, and never leaving. Hope in a chaotic world

Jesus calls us his friends and his disciples. He reassures us that he is the Holy One of God. As we take his words and write them on our hearts and minds, we learn to abide in him, looking to him for our daily needs. We discover that he’s trustworthy even in our darkest seasons. His words are the hope and reassurance we need in a chaotic world. Let’s pray

Holy One of God, please help us want to spend time in Your Word so that we can build our faith as we embrace all that you have for us, including eternal life. Amen.

First published on Medium.com.

Healing Ink: Writing Into Your Grief

When written words help us understand who we have become in our tragedy

A weeping willow tree, one flowery journal, two pens (in case one ran out of ink), and a box of Puffs tissues. Those objects stayed close beside me. In my early confusion over the loss of my son, these items never ignored my grief or told me to “get over it.”

When it grew too dark to see underneath the stringy weeping willow, I carried my pen and journal inside a house that seemed too empty, and wrote some more. At night, I woke to grapple with turmoil, with the noises in my head, the flashbacks of the cancer ward, the cries of my son. I wrote the ugly words “why?” and “how come?” before I could sleep again.

I scribbled through myths and cliches. I unleashed resentment and longing. I addressed prayers to God.

And, surprisingly, I discovered. Some of the confusion slid away, some of the guilt abandoned me. There was nothing I could have done to save my four-year-old’s life. Even my love had not been strong enough to destroy that infection that flared inside his tiny body. I was human and really not as in control as I wanted to believe. I would have to live with that.

I began to understand the new me. She was a tower of strength and compassion; she was tender and vulnerable, realistic, with just the right touch of cynicism. She needed protection from too many plastic smiles; she could not go long without a hug or sharing a story about a blue-eyed boy with an infectious laugh.

My written words healed me. And I jumped at the opportunity to tell others. I’d found comfort and clarity. I smiled at my husband and three young children, and at last, I didn’t want to run my van over the cliff; I wanted to smell the peonies and taste the salt from the ocean on my skin.

The beauty about grief-writing is that no one has to read it. You don’t have to worry about a teacher correcting your spelling or grammar. There’s no grade, no pass or fail. No one cares if your letters are sloppy. It’s written by you and for you. And, yes, it works.

Find a secluded place to write where you can think clearly without distraction.

Write, at first, for your eyes only. It doesn’t have to be shared with anyone.
Write to chart progress for you to read years down the road.

Write with the feeling, “I will survive this.”

Write to identify your emotions and feelings.

Write to help solve some of the new situations you must now face.

Think of your journal as a friend who never judges and who can never hurt you.

Write your spiritual struggles.

Write to rebuild your self-esteem and your self-confidence.

(From Down the Cereal Aisle: a basket of recipes and remembrances by Alice J. Wisler, Daniel’s House Publications, 2001) First published at https://www.opentohope.com.

The Simple Quiet

After he had dismissed them, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray. Later that night, he was there alone . . . (Matthew 14:23, NIV)

When lockdowns happened with the Covid Pandemic, I went to the cemetery. There I walked the asphalt around the grounds, mothered my son's tiny grave, and prayed. I had sins to confess, and doubts to sort through.

Being without sin, Jesus had no need to ask for pardon, but he did know that he needed time with his father in Heaven. So he went away from the crowds, the loud noises, even the Temple. He went to the mountain to get away from the distractions so that he could focus solely on his time alone with God.

I call my time away at the cemetery, the simple quiet. During the Pandemic it was great to have a place that was meaningful to me where I could go. I never had to wear a mask. I never had to worry about getting the virus or giving it to anyone. The dead, are after all, protected from these things. As breezes blew over treetops and birds sang, I sat on a towel by my son's grave and enjoyed the calm solitude.

Find a place to pray away from distractions. Go to that spot where you can freely talk to God.



First published on Medium.com

Being Prepared and Unprepared

The invitation to be a guest on a podcast arrived in my inbox. I accepted. I was sent the time and date for the taping as well as a list of questions regarding the death of a child, writing, and grief. All topics I was familiar with---like breathing.

But when Claudia, the Being Well Informed podcast hostess, emailed me moments before the show was to start, she told me this was a webcam interview. No over the phone stuff. Her segments were both on YouTube and on her podcast streaming service. I gulped. I was not prepared to be presentable for her audience. When my devotional came out, my publisher was big on setting me up with various radio stations for over-the-air interviews. I could be dressed in anything, have my hair in five different directions and still be able to talk over the phone. After Claudia told me that my interview was going to be showing my face, I asked her to give me a couple minutes. That was after I thought maybe we should just cancel the whole thing. I went upstairs to comb my hair, add some lipstick, and jewelry. A woman needs her earrings!

The next decision was what I was going to have as my background. Back in the days when we had Zoom Sunday School classes I sat at the pub table in our kitchen with the lime-green pantry door behind me. But Carl was in the kitchen frying kielbalsa for Jambalaya and that sausage does not have a quiet sizzle. I was not familiar with the video recording service that the hostess told me she was going to use but I knew I needed my laptop and an uncluttered background. I flew into my daughter's mauve and pink bedroom (what used to be her bedroom; she moved out years ago) and worked on the logistics. I placed the computer on top of a tall stack of cardboard packing boxes. The bedroom has become a storage area where packing supplies for Carl and my online business are kept. I shut the door while our dog, Bella, breathed on the other side. I hoped she wouldn't bark. The minutes ticked away as I checked the lighting, turned on a lamp, and the ceiling fan. I made sure the walls were free of cobwebs. I found a chair and sat. When I logged into the video service, I was greeted by the awaiting hostess, and the interview began. I was late; but I made it.

What a treat it was to be asked questions about grief and the benefits of journaling for dealing with the loss of a child. What an honor to be on Claudia's show! And isn't this just like so much of life---we think we're all set and ready, when really we aren't. Much of life is scrambling around. Adapt and adjust----I've been doing it for 25 years since Daniel's death.

There are two ways to listen to the interview---with a video or without. Of course, I hope you will listen via the podcast link, but if you want to see me seated in front of a mauve door and pink wall, watch. :-) Here's the video - A Parent's Survival Tools When Losing A Child.

Here's the podcast of the same segment.

The Writing the Heartache Podcast has made her debut!

Do you remember when I did Blogtalk radio segments? No? That's okay; it was a while ago. I had about 12 episodes where I spoke on grief and the bereavement journey.

Now, after much trepidation, I have joined the podcast world. Writing the Heartache is the theme and has been my push/shove/advice since Daniel died when I realized the wonderful and inexpensive therapy that comes from writing after loss.

My first podcast (Anchor.FM) is short; it will take just over 5 minutes of your day. The topic is: No Grammar or Spelling Worries; Just Get it Out There. I share a few benefits of writing from grief.

You can listen by going to the Anchor.FM page. If you don't have a Spotify account (I don't), you can listen by scrolling down the page and pressing the arrow. Go here.

Good Lists Versus Bad Lists--Steering Toward Peace

I have a penchant for making lists, particularly the to-do and grocery kind. Both help me organize what needs to be done and the grocery one gets me in and out of the store with items I need that without a piece of paper to guide me could easily make me forgetful. Lately I found out that I keep another kind of list, one I have, unfortunately, used many times before. It's one that I store in my mind, one that is a tally of what I’ve done wrong or messed up doing. This type of list leads to regret, remorse, and for an unhappy Saturday (or any day of the week).

Sure, we all have times we make mistakes. Usually we make amends, deal with the consequences, forgive if we need to, and move on. The damage is when we aren’t able to follow these steps and instead of moving on, we take the list in our head---a mental list---with us. The mental list can be degrading and when gone over too many times can cause us to miss out on living life to the fullest. The mental list of negatives is a violent thunderstorm happening in our heads.

Recently I had a mental list going. It started with one disappointment, and another, then it grew larger when I added mistakes I'd made that week, all along telling myself I should have known better. This mental list didn’t grow on its own, I fed and watered it. It became worrisome and caused anxiety. Of course I prayed, asking God to help me. I knew the verses in the book of Philippians that tells us not to be anxious, but nothing seemed to help. I was in a funky state of mind.

After a day of self-induced angst, my eldest daughter Rachel invited me to the beach. She knew nothing of my bad list because I'd shared it with no one. She wanted to spend a day with me and texted that she'd drive. A day at the beach! My heart did a little happy dance. A day at one of my favorite places would be therapeutic. Rachel and I planned, and four days later, we were at Carolina Beach enjoying the sun, the ocean view, salad lunches, seagulls who ventured close, laughter, and being together away from our other lives. We splashed some in the waves, but the wind and current were fierce, so we mostly stuck to the safety of the shore.

When I got home, sunburned and sandy, I was able to think more clearly about mental lists of agony humans bring on themselves. I think we carry these types of lists too long because we don't trust that God does care for us as he tells us that he does in scripture. Instead of carrying petitions before God and allowing ourselves to continue on, trusting him enough to know that he does care deeply for us, we let the mental thunderstorms continue. The beach day was an unexpected blessing from God, a God who saw my needs and mental health when I was at a low point. A God who cared for me and will always care for me.

Sometimes taking a piece of paper and writing my struggles on it and then crumpling it and tossing it into the garbage bin works to show that I will not carry negativity around with me. If only I can remind myself each time I'm tempted to recall those items on the piece of paper I've thrown out that I need to refrain. I have given my problems over to God. No backsies.

I want to free my mind from worry and know that I cannot do it on my own. I will still keep lists to help organize my life, but the lists of tallying up my wrongs are not welcomed. Instead a list of gratitude will be just the thing to steer my mind toward a positive and peaceful direction. I'll end this with one of my all-time favorite scripture verses about God's care and our need to invite the peace he gives--and only he can give--into our minds.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you. ~ Philippians 4:6-9, NIV