Day 365

My First (of MANY) masks!

I was so ecstatic to push past my heavy coats in the hall closet and reach for a lighter jacket for an afternoon walk this week. The right pocket felt lumpy and I reached in and pulled out my first mask. “Oh, that’s where it went” I mumbled to no one in particular.  But the memories flooded back.

The mask had arrived on May 2, 2020. Prior that, we were using the disposable ones. But now it seemed like this virus was lingering a little longer that we expected so our daughter bought us masks off some new website. We were barely going anywhere except a walk in the neighborhood, but it felt secure to have the cloth mask in case we needed it. At the beginning it was uncertain, Dr. Fauci wasn’t sure either.

Soon we added more masks to the pile and shortly after, designated a cute container by the door to hold them. BTW we now each have multiple cloth, thin disposable and N95’s at the ready. Lipstick became less essential.

All our groceries came in delivery trucks/cars at this point (still do) and we were carefully wiping everything down with the wipes were managed to find. Ordering out food felt risky but by Easter, we took a chance.  No indoor dining ever.

Your story is probably similar.

We all had a Covid-birthday, a Covid-Christmas, as well as celebrated Easter, Memorial Day, 4th of July, Labor Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, New Year and Valentine’s Day in our masks or home alone. At least that was our experience.

Many of us also attended COVID-19 weddings, graduations, and funerals. Sometimes on a screen. Sometimes in a tiny group where no one hugged. My mother’s funeral was like that. So was my aunt’s.

If we had known what was ahead, we might not have been able to bear it. Instead, it rolled out one day at a time.

Along the way, I kept track of those days by number as well as a record each day of the cases/deaths in our town. I also cut out headlines and photos from print media to remember, or more accurate to pass on to future generations. I won’t be forgetting. Certain parts are so painful.

This morning in my journal, I wrote March 11, Day 365. Since the beginning, 4001 recorded cases in my town with 114 deaths.  One year. It has finally come around. Last year’s March 11 is still deeply imprinted. Read about it here:

To commemorate today, we are going in this afternoon to get our second vaccine. So fitting that the appointment landed on this memorable day. The window is slowly opening, I’m wondering what the view will be. I don’t expect or want it to be the same as before.

I’ve long believed one can’t simultaneously experience and process at the same time. As for Covid, I’m still way into experiencing. Stay tuned for the process.

Hope for the Best,


Other posts I wrote about Covid:

Eight Ways to Remember These Days

What’s Your Covid Coping Style?

” Hi” from Heaven? An Amazing Find.

Two months ago, my mom died. I can’t say I’ve ever felt her presence, as some experience, but I’ve certainly felt her absence. Especially on Monday evenings when we used to talk on the phone. Due to her stroke in 2016, those calls began to ebb, but I still find myself sometimes reaching for the phone on a Monday after dinner to give her a call.

But an odd thing happened shortly after her death.  At this point, it would be helpful to read this story first. This is the back story about the history of the personalized napkin rings from my family growing up. It is an important part of this tale. The Lost and Found Napkin Ring

The second back-piece of this story is that on the morning this event occurred, I was listening to a devotional-type podcast and a question was asked the listener:  Which aspect of Jesus’ personality do you most enjoy? I remember exactly where I was in my car when I said out loud, “his playfulness.” Over my long life, I have many stories of experiencing that side of him.

Four days after my mom’s death, my husband, daughter, and I were getting ready for dinner. Many friends provided meals for us that week and this evening’s fare came from some of our daughter’s friends.  For this dinner, I decided to set the table up in a special way. We are everyday-candle-lighters but this night I chose fancier plates and decided to go with napkin rings.

Remembering how much my mom liked the ones with the names, I decided to use mine since I had it back now. I didn’t use it often, but this was the perfect occasion.  BTW, all my napkin rings live in an old piece of furniture that belonged to my maternal grandparents. This sideboard was in the dining room of her growing-up house on the farm and now in my dining room.

I reached into the top drawer and right away saw my silver napkin ring. I grabbed it along with two other types for my family. When I slipped my white linen napkin into the ring was when I noticed it.

The napkin ring did not say Tish, it said Betty. My mom’s name. 

Like the rest of us, she had a napkin ring too which was lost along the way. When my childhood friend returned my lost ring, mine was the only one.

I incredulously held the silver napkin ring and initially wondered if the one I thought said “Tish” had been my mom’s all along. A quick check of the drawer yielded the other one, mine. So now I have two. Definitely news to me!

The mystery remains.

Perhaps I had it all along but I have no memory of seeing it before this day. Maybe my friend gave it back when she found mine. I don’t recall that either. Those possibilities don’t change the story. I was unaware that I possessed it and it showed up on a night near her death when I planned to honor her memory with the special touch.

Or maybe it was the playfulness of Jesus laughing with my mom when I found it. Very consistent with other encounters like this. That’s my vote!

I guess I’ll find out later.

Hope for the best,


Mourning Armband Wanted

Our last time together in 2020.

I’m longing for a black armband. Not the kind I wore back in college to protest the then-current war but one for mourning. Didn’t this used to be a thing? I think I’m OK without the long black dresses and veils on the women I saw in Italy in the 70’s. Their attire was head-to-toe black following a death in the family. I just want an armband. I may look/act/even feel “fine,” but the ache is still there.

Two weeks ago, fourteen of us in our masks crowded under a small tent-like structure to bury my mother. It was cold, rainy but so were our hearts. The smallish funeral procession – it was immediate family only due to these novel times – had properly winded across town from the church to this familiar cemetery.  Out of respect, or the law, cars had pulled over to let us pass. I found that touching, along with everything else that day.

The long hearse stopped by the rose-colored, heart-shaped stone which listed my dad’s name, birth and death dates and my mom’s name and birth date, the rest will be filled in soon. On the back side is their wedding date, May 22, 1948, and the terms of endearment they called each other, “Sug & Sugie.” We are a grave-visiting family so I often stopped by here on my trips to Quincy. My mom liked to keep the flowers current.

A few chairs were set up, draped in blue. I got one of them. Maybe because I really am the oldest now. The graveside service was much shorter than the one at the church: The one she had planned with me years ago on a Sunday afternoon at her dining room table. This one seemed to end with the Lord’s Prayer but I knew there was going to be a postscript.

“Moonlight Serenade”, the centerpiece song of the Big Band’s, Glen Miller Orchestra, filled the air for the final goodbye. I knew my whole life that this melody would be played at this moment as mom had made that very clear. I just didn’t know how much it would break my heart.

After saying hi to my grandparents buried near by and bye to the rest of the family, Tom and I got in our car and drove home. 5 hours. Covid, you know, no after-party.

Food, flowers and cards were waiting and kept coming. In case you wonder if that’s really helpful, it is. I finally took the cards down this week.

I read in Genesis 50 this week that the Egyptians mourned for Jacob for 70 days. I think I’ll do the same and more for my mom.

I just wish I had a black armband so all who pass me could remember too.

Hope for the best,


PS Here is my mom’s obituary Betty C. Wiewel

Tales of Christmas Past: Receiving My Doll a Second Time.

Standing tall on my bookshelf.

How many presents from your childhood Christmas’s can you really remember? I loved them all but recall very few.

One thing I could count on every Christmas morning was a new doll waiting for me under the tree. Funny, but I spent much more time playing with paper dolls instead of real ones. Maybe my imagination took me farther with them. Nevertheless, I couldn’t wait to spot the latest doll each year.

BTW, all the dolls had a certain “fragrance.” Whatever 1950’s dolls were made of left an imprint in the air that always smelled like Christmas. It is still a favorite olfactory memory often found in new shower curtains.

My 7th Christmas, I received a very special doll called, “Little Miss Addie.” She was a promo for AD detergent around 1957, and my mom had to send in a label or box top or something along some money to get her. She came adorned with a little mink stole. I was enraptured with that doll, but she was so fancy my mom wasn’t crazy about me playing with her too much. (Keeping “nice” things nice was a high value of hers.)

I remember some of my playmates received them too and we would carefully make up worlds involving the lives and times of Little Miss Addies,

I eventually lost track of Little Miss Addie but not the memories from that Christmas. She disappeared somewhere in my house when  Barbie dolls came along and later records, make-up and other must-have items for teenage girls.  She was hiding somewhere in the corners among the artifacts of my childhood.

Over 60 years later, she turned up again in a remarkable way. My mom no longer lived in the family home and it was time to sell it. My sister-in-law and brother’s family and I started in on what we called, “The Big Dig.” Fascinating items were discovered and discussed often during peals of laughter. But no Miss Addie.

The day before the sale, photos were posted by the auction company to let buyers see a preview of what was for sale. I scrolled through them and there was my Miss Addie doll! She had been found after all but not by me.

I was determined to buy her back but, as in the terms of the auction, we could no longer just take things. On the day of the sale, the kind auctioneer saw me digging in the boxes for her before someone else bought her. When I found Miss Addie at last, he told me just to take her home.

All the magic of those Christmas mornings are wrapped up in this long ago gift. I see her everyday now and don’t plan to lose her again!

Do you still have a favorite toy from a childhood Christmas?

Hope for the best,


PS. A while back,  I shared some Advent stories and inspiration in a Christmas sermon called, “Open the Advent Door: Four Things We All Want for Christmas.” Here it is, take a listen.

First Week of Advent: Eight Ideas for the Slow Down Year.

22 Days until Christmas. For the first time in decades of Christmas planning and celebration, this year seems full of time. My December calendar is completely blank for non-work appointments since I cancelled my one dental appointment next week.

For all the reasons we are way too familiar with, we aren’t visiting friends or going to parties or concerts or plays or stores like all the other years. No one is stopping by. When we put up our smallish tree this year, (not by design, that’s how it came from the order: short) I consoled myself that no one would see it anyway.

Since all the things we can’t do this year are too often front and center, I’m turning toward embracing what is now possible since there is all this extra time. Here are a few…

  1. Enter into Advent all day long instead of 10 minutes after dinner. I have a pile of Advent & inspirational books for the season and reach for them throughout the day when I might have been running another errand in previous years.
  2. Plan something enjoyable each day to feed your Christmas spirit.  One of my favorite Christmas books is Madeleine L’Engle’s,  “The Twenty-four Days Before Christmas” where she introduces this fun idea to celebrate the season each day. I bought myself a paper calendar with little doors to open every day and look forward to that simple task.
  3. Savor your favorite parts of the holiday that you can still do during Covid. No need to rush.  I love writing Christmas cards over the course of a week in the early morning with quiet carols in the background.
  4. Trade in your usual bedtime reading material for seasonal fun and inspirational stories and books.  My Christmas book collection is large but the on-line library works fine too.
  5. Curate your music. I don’t want mindless carols this month but holiday sounds that will bring me into worship. I’m trying out new-to-me artist and tunes. So far, so good.
  6. Decorate intentionally. Less can be more this year if everything you put up is meaningful not just rote. In contrast, you might go all out and show off your fun stuff to an audience of one or two. I’ve put off buying a wreath for years and I’m picking one up Saturday!
  7. Skip the movies that might trigger sadness or loneliness and go for ones that make you laugh or take you deeper into the story.
  8. Move often, eat well. The “openness” of the schedule allows more time for taking walks and making slow food.

I jotted some notes this morning about some things I want to do next year and it sounds like fun already. But this one is here now with the possibility of additional hours to savor, a daily date with the star of the show, and new memories never before made. True gifts.

I’m all in to see how it will unfold. You?

Hope for the best,


Thanksgiving in “Ordinary” Time

Table for 14: Not this year!

Thanksgiving this year will be in the last week of the long stretch of “Ordinary Time,” the way the church calendar designates the liturgical year.

No one I know is referring to this holiday season as “ordinary” time! I recall with chagrin how we sat around at our most-unusual Easter and said, “at least Thanksgiving will be normal.” Got that wrong! One thing we all know, it will be remembered.

While we all long for the familiarity of the sameness for all the comfort that can bring, same old-same old can become a blur. Can you really remember something distinct about the last, say, five Thanksgivings? It’s the off-the-rails ones that are most remembered.

My most memorable Thanksgiving, so far, was the one the sewer backed up. Hard to beat that one for novelty! We didn’t want to make a big announcement or forbid the use of the toilet so my husband surreptitiously slipped down to the basement between courses and with a few tools, kept the operation under wraps and the floor clear of water.  We called a plumber the next day.

All the celebrations when the toilet didn’t back up are fuzzier. I remember Thanksgivings in categories.  The childhood ones around my grandparents long table with all the younger cousins. Then the dinners at our house in Quincy with the same people. After that came the ones with Tom’s family and finally the ones with our new family. Those include the big ones and occasionally the small ones. Loved them all, but they are somewhat non-distinct. Except for the years someone played our neglected piano.

Not this year. So far, nothing seems same-old about what will be happening next Thursday. No crowd big or small, I’m still working out the menu for 2-3. Maybe we’ll do a puzzle. The only known is that we will write in our Thanksgiving journal. (Thanksgiving Journal)

I see a lot of ideas of how to pull it off “creatively” this year…zooming with family or friends, eating outside, going for a fresh rather than frozen turkey, ditching the turkey altogether, distributing food to others and more. Are you trying any of these or other ideas?

Maybe, instead of all the focus on logistic planning, this is the year to really dig deep to give thanks. More than a headline when it’s your turn to share around the table.

What elements of your life didn’t change this year or blossomed in the right direction? What basic components of the day to day are you especially grateful for? Who helped you get through the year? What delivery service kept you supplied? This year’s list might be longer than usual!

But this I ask you, don’t write it off. Grab the day and hold on to it and imprint it for the forever files. This is the one you’ll be talking about for years to come. A chance to write a new script, just this once. To really look at the components and choose what will fit: The food, the schedule, the interaction in-person or digital or none at all, the TV off or on. etc. Instead of replicating, try innovating. Re-frame is the operative skill.

It won’t be just like the others, that’s for sure, but it might be the most remembered. Make it count.

Hope for the best,


PS Are you interested in a two hour At-Home Advent retreat December 5, 8:30-10:30? Ask me for details.

PPS A year ago today I got my 2nd knee replaced. It’s doing just fine, thank you!


I love the digital postcards that arrive!

Greetings from Spain! Every day I step onto the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage trail and move closer to the Cathedral at the end. I plan to arrive sometime in February. A life goal fulfilled. Sort of.

I’m doing the whole pilgrimage through an app. The Conqueror Events. The appeal is that I get to see my progress each day on the map and I love checking things off. Without a tangible goal and a way to keep track, I would likely minimally move.

My first intentional walking came during my first year of marriage when I picked up a book called, “Aerobics for Women” (Kenneth Cooper) and decided I would take that up. Running never enthralled me, this seemed doable. When I saw there were progress charts, I was all in! Tom often joined me walking around our neighborhood and he liked plotting distances.

We left that neighborhood the next year and as well as that practice and got all caught up in the stuff of life. We enjoyed hiking on weekends away but it wasn’t an everyday thing. Later, I walked to the park with the four kids and that was about it. For 20+ years.

During the Avon walk.

As I approached my 50th birthday, I wanted to celebrate by doing something officially stretching. Like hard. Like a LONG walk. Just two years earlier, Avon started a 3 Day 60-mile walk for breast cancer, and it was coming to Chicago in 2000. I signed up.

The training was grueling. Fortunately, there was a ton of support from the organization with instructions for how  to prepare and I followed it exactly.  By the time the walk started, I had raised well over the required $1800 and my legs were ready to walk for three days. An adventurous story I’ll tell at another time!

Now that I was an experienced long-haul walker, I looked for something else to conquer. Lake Geneva (WI)  or rather Geneva Lake as the lake itself is called was my next goal. It is a local ordinance that the entire area surrounding the lake, 26 miles, can be accessed by walkers. Geneva Lake Shore Path A lovely walk but not too plentiful in “facilities” shall we say.

My first attempt was with Tom and we got to 24 ½ miles when a tornado came up. So close, but no check off yet☹ The following summer I tried again with a girlfriend and we completed the walk. But we didn’t stretch at all after finishing and just climbed in the car and drove 90 minutes home. I had to be lifted out of the car!

Without a specific goal, walking became more casual again. As much as I would like to “just do it,” it was easier to find something else easier to measure or cross off. Until pedometers came along. Step counting, just my thing!

Then my knee needed replacing.  No step counting for months. Slowly I built back up again.  One day I hit 30K steps! But then the other knee started going down. Both are titanium now so no more sidelining. Hopefully.

I’m in it to win it now (again.) But it’s getting cold. I have a treadmill, but it is so boring.

Thus, the long walk through Spain. I think I’ll do the English Chanel next. If I sit out too long, I may not get going again.  I’m working up to the Appalachian Trail. That will take awhile. BTW, I feel strong!

Are you a check-it-off kind of person too? Does it help you to keep track?

I’ve got 1.65 miles to go today. The view is exquisite!


Hope for the best,



The Year My Mom Ran for Office

By far, my most memorable election year was 1972 when my mother decided to run for Adams County Circuit Clerk.  I come from a long line of politicians on both sides of the aisle, so this was no surprise.

My family of origin all grew up on farms or in small towns but various members somehow met Presidents Truman, Roosevelt, Nixon, Johnson, Reagan and got invited to Clinton’s first inauguration.  My mom and nephew ran into George W. in Austin and my daughter-in-law, granddaughter and daughter have all met Obama.  A few years ago, I was finally able to cross off “Meet a President” from my life list when I shook hands with Jimmy Carter.

In my lifetime, my grandfather, father, brother, and cousin all ran for political office. A few of them actually won!

Mom decided to enter the race early in the year and had already won the March primary. When I arrived home from doing mission work in Italy The Night I Preached in Rome in late summer of 1972, the campaign was in full swing. I was newly engaged, fresh out of college and hadn’t found a job yet. My dad asked me to hold up on that and just work for the campaign. I readily agreed.

She had a funny, competent campaign manager that she met through church connections. Walter had the last word on everything and delivered it all with a thick New York accent. We all liked and respected him.

Her opponent was a long-standing incumbent and my mom decided to run a clean campaign, no badmouthing of the other guy.  She wanted to win on the strength of her platform, not by discrediting him. Very consistent with her character.

Most of the campaigning I was part of took place behind the scenes. Getting yard signs delivered, making calls, listening to her practice speeches, and whatever else was needed. Later, we started going from house to house in town knocking on doors. It wasn’t all glamorous like on West Wing!

My main memory of that fall was of church basements for chili suppers and chicken dinners. I think we went to every small-town church that would have us and smiled all evening during the meet and greet. Mom would give her speech and the rest of us would try to get her votes.

The momentum was building, and Election Day arrived, November 7, 1972. I cast my presidential vote that year for McGovern over Nixon but moved over to the Republican side to vote for my mom and her friends. Still my voting trend to pick some of each party depending on the candidate.

The whole team gathered over a huge spread of food to wait for the results. It was so nerve wracking! The results weren’t instant like they are now but by the end of the evening we knew she had lost.

The condolences and flowers started coming in the next day, but I remember my mom stayed in bed a long time. I’m sure I was sympathetic but was probably too fast to get on to the next thing. I’ve learned a lot about sitting with pain over the years.

My mom moved on and soon was the executive director of the YWCA. Quite a change from her previous career as a nurse which had ended after a fluke accident on the job when she severed her Achilles tendon.  Her sadness about losing was overshadowed by her pride in running.

For Christmas in 2005, I presented her with a gift of a scrapbook from the campaign. She kept it close at hand in her living room.

I don’t plan to ever run for political office although some in my family may again someday. I do hope to hang on to the spunk and courage it took of her to make the decision. She won after all, just not the circuit clerkship.

Hope for the best,


Ode to a (Lonely) Piano

The family piano from my childhood.

After years of lessons, I can’t really say that I know how to play piano. I’m not quite sure what happened making those connections between the notes and my hands.

My mom was big on self-improvement and decided taking piano lessons was a good cause in that direction. She and my dad purchased this used spinet piano in the late 1950’s and found a place for it in our living room in Quincy.

A piano teacher was employed, Mrs. Jenkins, who lived up the street. I dutifully walked up there every week and sat next to her on the bench as she opened a John Schaum beginner book with such hope. Mr. Jenkins was always watching TV preachers.

I think my mom paid something like $20-25 a month for the lessons. I felt somewhat bad not really getting the concept even though I practiced at home, usually under some duress. Soon, my brother was walking up the street to Mrs. Jenkins too.

By the time I got to high school, I quit going to Mrs. Jenkins and now took lessons at school. While Mrs. Jenkins didn’t do recitals, Sister Arthurn, my new teacher, did. “Ebb Tide” was a popular piece at the time, and I chose that for my recital. Somehow, I memorized it and pulled it off. My mom was so proud! She talked about it for years.

I officially ended my piano career sometime in high school and had no regrets, even though I still did wish I could actually play. I would say hi to the piano when I was visiting Quincy but no lost love.

On a random day in May of 1986, when I was very pregnant with our fourth child and not thinking at all about pianos, my mom called. Surprise!

“The piano is on it’s way to you.” She announced rather than asked. She decided she wanted the space back in the living room and hired two guys from Quincy to drive it the 300 miles to me in the back of their pick-up truck. (Not at all close to piano movers.) “You took lessons the longest so it belongs to you.” Really?

So we found space in our living room and there it sat. The kids enjoyed banging on it and every so often someone would visit and actually play it.

Three years later, I set my oldest on the same path, piano lessons from a local teacher. He seemed to feel about it the same way I had. I can’t remember how long those lasted but kids # 2 and 3 also took part in the grand tradition of learning to play the same piano.

Our youngest asked if she could skip piano and try something else and I readily agreed. The lid stayed closed unless someone came over to play and then it really rocked!

Meanwhile, the piano became an excellent place to display the photos of the month. I rotate the pictures based on the birthdays of that month and significant events that have taken place. Halloween and Christmas decorations look nice up there too.

Enter the grandchildren! The young ones always open it and pound away. The older ones have their own piano at home and really do know how to play. It’s fun to watch them go at it and try out the pedals but I’m really done now.

Like my mom, I now want the space back and am ready to pass on the piano. It is horribly out of tune and two keys stick. I tried to donate it to a foundation, but no one got back to me. I then offered it as fr*e to all the sites and so far, no one has shown any interest. We can’t bear to just throw it out. 

As I write this, I’m listening to piano music. Kind of ironic, but it is one of my favorite genres.

I’ve discovered my hands are better at words than notes but someone can bring this piano back to the life it was built for.

Hoping it brings as many stories to the next owners as this one has for us.

Would you like a piano?

Hope for the best,


PS I still have a few pages from my John Schaum beginner’s Christmas album 🙂

The Scent of a Woman: a Memoir.

My first memory of perfume was the ever-present bottle of Revlon’s “Intimate” which always perched on my mom’s dresser. She only wore it for special occasions and regardless of the amount left in the bottle, my dad would replenish it every Christmas. It’s been decades since I’ve had a waft of that scent but if I ever would, my whole childhood would flash before me.

“Heaven Scent” was the first smell in a bottle I remember wearing, more because it was trendy, not so much because I liked it. “Wind Song” was another popular one with the girls of Notre Dame High. The hunt was still on for a fragrance that would be just mine and like countless others, I found it in Chanel # 5.

A spritz of that classic scent would transport me to faraway places where no one saw me as a figuring-it-out-somewhat-floundering-teenage girl but a savvy woman ready to take on the world. I loved the fragrance and it also began to show up for Christmas  in the iconic black bottle. I proudly displayed it on my dresser and sometimes carried it around with me if I needed a shot of confidence.

I’m sure I took a bottle of #5 with me when I left for college but soon it no longer seemed to fit the girl I was evolving into. Musky incense was the new fragrance, not the church kind.

I have no scent memories after that until a dear friend presented me with a bottle of the perfume, L’Air du Temps (The air of summer) around 1976. I don’t think it was for my birthday but a surprise gift. “It smells like you.” she said. I loved the fragrance and have been wearing it every summer since. At the end of September, I ceremoniously put it away to pull out again the following May.

“Baby smell” was my signature fragrance for many years. Sometimes the sweet elixir of newness, sometimes sour scent of spit-up. The season of life that seems to last forever comes with its own unique offerings for all the senses. My going-out times were rare in that era, and I never thought about spritzing something on for an ordinary day like I do now.

Over the following years I would try a random perfume sample at a rare visit to the department stores. Someone who looks like they are dressed to go and perform surgery is always offering a new scent to try. I was in search of something that might “smell like me” for the rest of the year and eventually found it in Cashmere Mist. Light and not overpowering like so many.

Done. Finally, by this “Act Three” of life, it’s good to have few things settled, minor as they may be, to have more energy to devote to all the things that aren’t.

But on Tuesday this week, during a sacred time with a lifelong friend, she presented me with a small bag. Inside was a bottle of the life of my dreams I was pining for in my angst filled high school years.

Chanel # 5. I sprayed it on my wrist and felt no more longing, just satisfaction.

Whatever I was hoping for, in the seasons of waiting for my life to really begin, had been delivered. It all, of course, looked different than I imagined but the end result was the same, gratitude.

The familiar scent had come back around, it now smells like contentment. I’m wearing it everyday.

Hope for the best,


Top photo credit Image by <a href=”;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_campaign=image&amp;utm_content=1460067″>andreas N</

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