Chocolate Sandwich Cookie Recipe

Ingredients

6 Tbsp butter, softened

2/3 cup granulated sugar

1/3 cup cocoa powder (I use Hershey's)

1/4 tsp baking powder

1/8 tsp salt

1 egg

2/3 cup all-purpose flour

1 recipe for filling (below)

1. In a bowl, with a mixer, beat the butter on medium for 1 minute. Add the sugar, cocoa, salt, and baking powder. Beat until combined, scraping bowl as needed. Beat in egg. Beat in flour until dough comes together.

2. Spoon dough onto a large piece of plastic and wrap into an 8-inch line. Wrap the long sides of the plastic tightly over the dough. Roll dough gently over the countertop while twisting the ends until it is a smooth, uniform log approximately 1 3/4 inches in diameter. Freeze for 1 1/2 hours until it is firm enough to slice. (Or chill for 4 to 6 hours.)

3. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. Line 2 cookie sheets with parchment paper. If necessary, reshape log to make it evenly round. Using a sharp knife, cut log crosswise into 1/8-inch-thick slices. Place slices 1 inch apart on prepared cookie sheets.

4. Bake until edges are firm, 12 minutes. Cool on cookie sheet 2 minutes, then remove and transfer cookies to wire rack. When completely cool, fill with filing of your choice.

I used a butter-powdered-sugar-vanilla and vanilla cookie wafer and crushed almonds filling. I didn't have any freeze-dried raspberries on hand. But the original recipe has a raspberry filling. I think as long as you use butter and powdered sugar, you could add whatever you'd like.

Raspberry Cream Filling Recipe:

In a medium bowl beat 1/2 cup softened butter with a mixer on medium until creamy, 1 minute. Beat in 1 cup powdered sugar and 1/2 tsp. vanilla. Add 2 to 4 Tbsp. very finely crushed freeze-dried raspberries. Add more powdered sugar to form the consistency you like. Pipe or spread the mixture evenly onto the bottoms of half the cookies, 2 tsp. each, and then top each bottom with a cookie, bottom side down onto the filling. Gently press together. Makes 18 sandwich cookies.

When Love and Laughter Play the Tune

It's those tapes that want to ruin our lives.

When we've lost a loved one, the tapes of the last moments play in our heads like a broken record that never stops its scratchy noise. The music is the worst we've heard---loud and grating. There is no off-button. The noise is made up of our thoughts that cause us to contemplate the last words spoken by ourselves and by our loved one. We think of how it could have gone differently and how if it had, our loved one would still be alive. Over and over we ask, why did it have to end this way? If only . . . . If only I had taken him to the hospital earlier. If only I had watched him more closely. If only I had known more about the disease or his friends or the event where he was in danger. We scream into the night. We think the constant-playing tapes will kill us. Exhausted, we want to shut off our minds.

As we go over in detail the last moments with our loved one, we want to believe the moments could have been orchestrated differently.

Control is the loud tune that plays in rhythm with If Only. The two work together. We have been led to believe that we have control. We think it is ours. We wore our seat belts and ate our vegetables, were kind to our neighbors (even the nosy ones) and bought toys for our children. We shouldn't have to be going through this confusion, this ache, this despair. Our loved one should still be here with us. Instead, we are now living a life without him or her and wondering how to face each day. For whatever reason, we have bought into the myth of power, control, thinking we could play God in our lives. We ignore the soft voice that asks, "Did you get to choose your place of birth, or height, or color of your eyes?"

To try to make sense of our confusion and illusions, we journal. Page after page, we fill them with questions like: How long does this pain last? When will I get back to the old me? For help, we read the lives of others who have been on the bereavement journey. We marvel at their survival and at the same time wonder how they have done it. Can we do it? Can we journey year after year without our child, our spouse, our parent, our friend?

We put the journals and books aside, and go back to the If Only and Control. Over and over the frantic tunes play as we continue to live the last days. While the re-living the last days seems detrimental, the truth is, it is necessary. It's called process. Our brains need to process what has happened to us in our loss. Eventually----and I don't know how long eventually is---the tapes wear thin. We forgive ourselves, we realize control is a myth, we realize it is not up to us to have control over when someone takes his last breath. We acknowledge we are not God. We may never understand why our loved one died when she did or the way she did. We may never get the answers we want on this earth. But one thing we know, until our last breath, we are going to have to figure out how to make this bereavement journey work.

On a day where the sun pushes past the clouds, we hear the laughter of our loved one. As we drive to work, we recall a road trip with our significant other. In the parking lot, we remember a joke our son told. The laughter feels strange to our ears. A smile expresses the memories we carry in our hearts. The next day we may be back to listening to the If Only tapes, but once again, on another day, a fond memory slips through. She did like to bake oatmeal cookies, he did give the best hugs. And we trod on the journey, clouds and sunlight, dreariness with glimpses of hope. And we are progressing. Day after day, we embark on the rocky path, finding our footing, discovering what we need, learning and growing.

And one morning, we find ourselves thinking: Maybe I will survive. Maybe, perhaps, I might even thrive again. And in the meanwhile, we savor the laughter and the love. They are what fit inside our hearts; their tunes are worth carrying and playing over and over again.

What We Never Lose

I always think, "the wound won't be as painful this year," and I am always reminded that love never dies and missing my son is part of who I am.

Weep Boldly; Write Bravely --- A Writing Workshop Just For You --- Watch the Video

Want to know more? View this post that has sign-up details by clicking here.

Cooking with Author Marilyn Nutter

Today we welcome author Marilyn Nutter who has a new book out that offers hope for widows. She also has a recipe for us to bake. So let's get rolling.

I'm glad to have you here, Marilyn. Thank you for joining us at the blog today.

What were the circumstances that led you to write Hope for Widows: Reflections on Mourning, Living, and Change?

I was encouraged by a fellow writer to write articles and a book to help widows--sharing my thoughts, responses to grief, and how to help someone navigate this journey. Some of my book comes from my journal entries. Other parts are experiences with friends and family that once I was encouraged to write a book to help widows, I began to record and apply to grief, mourning, and life changes. And some are responses to scriptures in my devotional reading or Bible studies.

How long did it take you to complete your book?

That’s an answer with many layers. The book evolved over several years. As I said, I was encouraged at a writers’ conference to write a book to help widows walk on their path. I attended conferences and a writers’ group for critiques, so the work went through much editing and changes. I took out a section from each vignette that I might use now for another book. It was declined by several editors because I didn’t have a large platform and some even thought there isn’t a market for widows’ books. That was disappointing. Each day 1,000 women are widowed and the average age of a widow is 59. Finally, once represented by an agent who believed in the message (she has a widowed relative and saw the relevance) she shopped the manuscript. That was about nine years since I began writing, then rewriting. It was a good example of Isaiah 60:22 “When the time is right, I, the Lord will make it happen.”

What was the most difficult part of writing your book?

Probably reliving the night my husband died and the days and months that followed. I could visualize all that I wrote about-even the details. In grief or trauma, when we do that-tell and retell our story- we are in that experience again. We have to re-ground and look at our surroundings to go back into the present.

What do you hope readers will gain/learn from reading it?

I wrote the book for widows- to support and encourage them that they are not alone. The book is interactive and following each vignette, I offer two opportunities: Treasured Reflections where they can respond to their application of the story, such as- did they have a similar experience and what were their thoughts. The other is Treasured Thoughts – asking them to journal how they want to respond and move forward. So the book isn’t just my story but guiding widows to write theirs. The book is not just about the reality of grief but also change, living, and purpose.

I also wrote the book as a widow’s advocate. Everyone, even those with the loss of the same person, grieves in different ways. But aside from the grief of losing the person physically and relationally, there are other losses. We call those secondary losses. An example might be always driving alone somewhere, learning new skills such as banking or home maintenance, and of course loneliness. I want others who know and love widows to have insight into the dramatic life changes and challenges a new path brings to a widow and read Hope for Widows too. Grief is far more than the death of her husband. Hopefully, others who are not widowed will read it and then care more intentionally for the widows in their lives.

Please share a recipe with us.

Sticky Rolls

2 loaves frozen bread dough, thawed

1/2 cup butter

1 large package vanilla pudding (cooked variety, not instant)

1/4 cup milk

1/2 tsp. cinnamon

Spray a 9x13” pan with cooking spray. Tear off pieces of bread dough and place in pan, pieces next to each other. Set aside. Melt butter and add milk, dry pudding mix, and cinnamon. Blend until smooth and pour over bread dough. Our family doubles the butter and milk so we have lots of caramel with the rolls. Cover and refrigerate three hours or overnight. When ready to bake, remove cover and place in a pre-heated 375 degree oven for 30 minutes. Leave in pan to serve. Have a spoon ready to scoop up the caramel!

Why is this recipe special to you?

It was a traditional Christmas morning breakfast when my girls grew up. Now they have carried on the tradition and do the same for their families.

Thank you for joining us today, Marilyn!

You can get a copy of Marilyn's new book on Amazon.

Read more about Marilyn and her writing at her website.

Weep Boldly; Write Bravely --- A writing workshop in Raleigh, NC

Excited to announce the next grief and loss writing workshop!


Weep Boldly; Write Bravely


Navigating Grief through the Gift of Writing

April 27, 2024

All-day Writing Workshop

9:30 AM to 3:30 PM

Hampton Inn and Suites Raleigh NC

111 Hampton Woods Lane

Join us for an inspiring workshop where we explore the healing power of writing in times of grief. At this in-person event, held at The Hampton Inn and Suites at 111 Hampton Woods Lane, Raleigh/Cary, NC, USA, we'll delve into the depths of our emotions and learn how to express them boldly through the written word. Led by author, bereaved mom, and grief-writing advocate, Alice J. Wisler, this workshop will provide a safe space for sharing stories, finding solace, and embracing the therapeutic benefits of writing. Whether you're a seasoned writer or just starting out, this workshop will help you navigate the challenging journey of grief with courage and creativity. Don't miss this opportunity to weep boldly and write bravely as we embark on a transformative writing experience together. Lunch and coffee breaks are included.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ So, folks, it's been a few years since I've facilitated an all-day writing workshop to help those in grief and loss discover the benefits of writing. I enjoy these workshops so much, and feel it's time for one to be held in 2024. And, guess what? We have a date, time, and place. There will be a dive into what grief and writing through it entails, what to write and not write, tips on expressive writing, making your writing the strongest it can be, learning from each other, and silent time to freely write without distractions. I hope to see you there!

REGISTER TO ATTEND


PAYMENT

Send $70.00 payment via Paypal (use PAYPAL link below), check*, or send using Zelle to awisler3@gmail.com

Who is this for? Those who want to write from sorrow and trauma for healing, health, and hope

What will we do? We’ll discover how to express our thoughts onto the page; instruction from author and grief-writing advocate, Alice J. Wisler

What’s included? Coffee, tea, chocolate, lunch, instruction, and handouts

What to bring? Pen, notepad, and creativity

* Make your check to Alice Wisler for $70. If you sign up with a friend (you both need to acknowledge and pay together), the cost is only $67 each.

Mail check to:

201 Monticello Avenue

Durham, NC 27707

Pay NOW with PAYPAL to get The Early Bird Special.

No refunds or cancellations. Feel free to email me at awisler3@gmail.com with any questions.

Watch the video to learn more about the workshop--

Write Bravely! An All-Day Writing Workshop 2024

So folks, it's been a few years since I've facilitated an all-day writing workshop to help those in grief and loss discover the benefits of writing. I enjoy these workshops so much, and feel it's time for one to be held in 2024. The plan is to find a venue where we can meet and spend the day together, writing, sharing, and learning. Since I'm in Durham, North Carolina, I'd like to have the event in either Durham or nearby Raleigh or Chapel Hill. The day will start around 9 AM and end by 4 PM. There will be a dive into what grief and writing through it entails, what to write and not write, tips on expressive writing, making your writing the strongest it can be, learning from each other, and silent time to freely write without distractions.

Interested? Email me at awisler3@gmail.com to let me know of your interest and to keep up with the updates as the workshop location is disclosed, etc.

Watermelon in the Bathtub

Our family was—and still is—enthusiastic about fireworks. There was a time David even slipped in some illegal in North Carolina, the kind purchased across the border in his state of South Carolina. Every Fourth of July, we sat on our lawn in anticipation. David stood yards in front of us on the street and lit the torpedo buzz, the rockets, all the funny-sounding popping crackers. We cheered and clapped and buried our faces in ripe slices of watermelon.

July 4, 1996, Daniel was in the hospital having his monthly chemo injections. Our celebration of our nation’s birthday would have to be held inside Daniel’s hospital room. Daniel looked forward to watching the fireworks, hoping his hospital room window would provide a good view. But a nurse informed us there wouldn't be fireworks from Kenan Stadium that night; the reason was unclear.

Daniel bounced back from his disappointment when friends Sue, and her twelve-year-old daughter, Becca, entered the room with a watermelon and a knife. "We came to celebrate July Fourth with you!" said Sue in her vibrant Rochester, New York, accent.

Sue cut slices for each of us and served them on paper plates. Becca placed a plate on Daniel's tray table.

Daniel dipped his mouth into the fruit. With juice running down his cheeks and chin, he took another bite. He found a black seed and, facing Becca, spat the seed toward her and then, grinning, waited for her reaction.

She laughed; he filled his lungs and cheeks with air and let out another. It landed on his sheet. Our family comes from a long line of watermelon-seed-spitters. Mom had won contests, but it looked like Daniel needed some tips from her.

After the two left, Daniel said, "I think I've had enough watermelon." He lay on the bed, comically rubbing his tummy and grinning.

I looked at the half-consumed treat. It was too big to store in the fridge in the communal kitchen down the corridor. "Where can we put it?" Where did other patients keep their watermelons?

I'd read the thick binder about Daniel's medications and various procedures, but nowhere in any of the literature was there a section about proper protocol for taking care of leftover fruit.

"How about in the bathtub?" Daniel said.

What a great idea! "Why not?"

And so, we did just that.

[The above is an excerpt from the memoir, Life at Daniel's Place, by Alice J. Wisler. Get the book here.]

Superpower Levi

He wasn't just any dog; he had a superpower. Of course, when my husband brought him home, I didn’t see anything superior. I saw only a small mahogany boxer with white paws who peed on the kitchen floor.

I was not an animal lover (my husband was the canine-aficionado); I thought I could live the rest of my days without a dog. No dog fur to vacuum, no vet bills, and no grocery store trips for dog chow and treats suited me.

“What should we name him?” my husband asked the children as we watched the sleepy pup snuggle against my husband’s foot. He suggested Vegas because he likes the poker tables there.

Ben said, “How about Levi?”

Liz said, “I like that. He looks like a Levi.”

I wasn’t a participant in the christening. In my mind, this pup I had reluctantly allowed in the house was not going to win me over.

Levi didn’t try to gain my affection. In fact, he seemed to want to annoy me. He gnawed the jewel off a favorite sandal. He took my pink cap outside to the backyard every chance he got. On Thanksgiving, he stood by the counter on his hind legs and ate the pumpkin pie I’d baked.

When I dropped an ice cube on the floor, Levi chewed it. The next day I gave him one; he chomped it and anticipated another. I smiled. His ice cube love would save money on treats. If anyone peeled an orange, he appeared from the living room, the bedroom, or the den, begging for a slice. As he grew to adulthood, he "sang"—soulful songs—whenever my husband played the harmonica (badly).

Unexpectedly, my brother’s beloved border collie died. I surprised myself with tears over the loss. Levi cuddled up to me. Later, when my husband and I argued, Levi lay beside me. He looked at me with his dark brown eyes as though he could see into my soul. I sighed, let go of my anger, and apologized to my husband.

The furry bundle discovered that if he put his head on my lap when the clock chimed 6 PM—his dinner hour, I’d move from my computer to feed him. As I’d fill his bowl with kibbles, he’d twirl in circles—his happy dance.

One evening while my husband and I watched TV, Levi took his usual place between us on the sofa. As I stroked his head, I thought, I am a happy woman with these two men beside me.

The seizures were the start of his decline. The vet put him on medication, but the seizures continued. During the last days of Levi’s life, I sat with him on the sofa, certain I couldn’t live without him. He died on a December morning even though I begged him not to leave us.

When my husband and I drove 600 miles to pick up our new boxer puppy (I had already fallen in love with her photo on the breeder’s website), I was able to embrace the nine-week-old canine without a moment's hesitation. I suggested names for her, and one stuck—Bella.

Levi trained me well. Because of his superpower—a transforming strength that nudged its way into my heart—I can now call myself an animal lover.

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!