In case you haven’t been following along, here’s Part I and Part II of an essay about our search for home, starting over, and our tragicomic earthly pilgrimage called “Everything Profound Moves Forward in Disguise.”

Here’s the final installment.

I know a grand total of two people here; Johnny, a singer-songwriter, and his wife Felicia, a nurse-practitioner (their first-grader son Soren technically makes three). Dear friends in their early 40s who I met through recovery, they also happen to be Catholic.

But that’s it. I have no other connections or ties to Tucson. Pushing 70, I’d be starting from scratch. I’d have to find a place to live. I’d have to figure out how to move.  I’d have to change health insurance, car registration, libraries, grocery stores, hair salons, movie theaters, libraries. I’d have to adjust to a new climate, zeitgeist, way of life,

I’d have to find friends, fellows, people of some kind. I’m an introvert, but I also love people, long for people. It took me years in LA to learn how to balance that longing with the silence and solitude I need: not only to live, but to write.

And it would probably take me years again.

There’s all that, plus leaving for good would be wrenching. It’s not like I’m contemplating a move to some wilderness outpost, or even to a foreign country. I’d be going 500 miles, a mere seven-hour drive. But if I’m a low-level nomad, I’m also a heavy-duty nester. My apartment is filled with flowers, prayer cards, fairy lights, pottery, candles, icons, and rugs that I’ve arranged just so. How to leave the Meyer lemon trees, the rosemary bushes, the old-growth camellias, the wild fennel? How to leave the huge native California garden I’ve created, crammed with sages, buckwheats, toyons, and a Western redbud?

Say what you will, the Golden State is gloriously diverse, bountiful, sunny. It has beaches, mountains, deserts, oceans, forests plains. It boasts palm trees, rose gardens, In-N-Out burger, surfers, movie stars, artists, storytellers, and serial murderers. It’s driven by an ostensibly laid-back but unquenchable, ever-exuberant energy. There’s a reason so many millions of people have wanted to live here, move here, live here, die here. Love it or hate it, California has cachet—and LA has cachet-plus.

For thirty years, wherever my road trips have taken me, no matter how many or how few miles I’ve driven, on the way back my heart has skipped a beat at the green freeway sign: “Los Angeles,” with an arrow beneath it, pointing home.  


Saturday night I walk to Vigil Mass at Santa Cruz, a church sits on the edge of the ghetto and resembles a hulking, slightly lopsided, Moorish wedding cake.

Built in the early 1920s, it’s the oldest mud-adobe structure in Arizona, and that the upkeep for such a gigantic space clearly far exceeds the parish’s means is clear.

Inside, the statues of angels and saints look to be molded from papier mâché by kindergarteners: no matter. The priest’s homily goes on way too long: no matter.

I’m a stranger here: clothes that stick out, the wrong race, vaguely unwanted in that way that aging women, traveling by themselves, are always vaguely unwanted: no matter.

Never do I feel more at home than in an “ordinary” Mass: young girls fresh from the beauty parlor, construction guys just off work, harried mothers with frail abuelitas in tow, mewling infants.

Mass for me is part of staying at my watch. Christ stayed at his watch, and the people before whom I bow are those who stayed at their watch, too: the martyrs, the saints, and the artists who laid down their lives for their work—Margot Fonteyn, van Gogh, Beethoven; Billie Holiday, Dostoevsky, Caravaggio—the dancers, painters, writers, and musicians who have shored me up all my life.

If ever you want your faith in humanity restored, in fact, attend a Mass and study the faces of the people as they return to their seats after Communion. They’re the faces of people who have just made love, or been told they’re about to have a baby.

I, too, return to my pew carrying a secret inside. “Lord I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.” In order to be healed, you have first to be sick; to be wounded.

Friend to all misfits, outcasts, malcontents, neurotics and obsessives, Christ is in solidarity with every little action we take toward beauty, truth, and light. He died to encourage us not to give up, not to take the easy route, to do what’s scary for us even though it might not be scary for anyone else, to keep on going even if no-one else notices or cares.

By the time we emerge, it’s dark. The stars are shining. The courtyard is lit by pale green string lights that glow against the inky sky.  Traffic roars by on 22nd Street. I carefully pick my way across the intersection, thinking of the pedestrians who must surely have been killed doing likewise.

If I myself were hit by a car, no-one but God would know that after taking the Eucharist just now, I had prayed, “O good Jesus, accept this Holy Communion as my Viaticum, as if were this day to die.” Viaticum: food for the journey.

Jean Sulivan (1913-1980), French priest, wrote a number of novels in the ‘50s and ‘60s critical of clericalism.  The protagonist of The Sea Remains (1964) is a cardinal who, weary of pomp and perks, leaves Rome and then has a conversion: to humility, to love.

Even so, he doesn’t want to do away with the Church; rather, for the first time, he sees through to her mystery. The glitter is somehow both necessary and a veil: without the tawdriness, the hypocrisy, how would we recognize ourselves? Without the pomp, however risible, how would we reach for something higher: something harder?

“Parades, publicity, all the forms of propaganda and spectacle—he’d give them away to the devil if the devil would take them. But…the gospel couldn’t be delivered to the world in its pure essence. If the soul were without a body, there would no longer be a soul. A love without some degree of opaqueness would no longer be a tangible love. The Church had constructed its body, the body that was its shell, which had grown larger century by century. The fire was not blazing up because the walls were too high, the shell too thick. But perhaps the fire should not be allowed to burn with too high or bright a flame. Otherwise the crowds would come, fascinated like flies around a lamp; they would clap their hands, be overly receptive to miracles but blind to the heart of things, wanting the resurrection, of course, but certainly not the agony or the death. The Church, with its ramparts, its possessions, its works of art, the Vatican, the cardinals—none of all that existed for itself but rather so as to permit a revelation in human consciousness…In any case, it was necessary to pass through scandal and overcome the obstacles. But total purity would be yet a greater obstacle. Had I read Nietzsche? ‘Everything profound moves forward in disguise.’”


I’ve finally finished off the last of the food I brought from home—wizened tomatoes, a limp bunch of Tuscan kale—and venture out for supplies. I discover The Time Market and stock up on olive oil, mustard, cured meats, cheese, tortellini, and bread.  

Then I wander the dreamy streets north of University Boulevard: old bungalows with generous yards, screened-in porches, meandering gardens. The air is clean, the air balmy, the sky deep blue with masses of shape-shifting clouds. I’ve always loved the desert, unpretentious yet mysterious, including—in fact especially—the heat. One of those annoying people who’s always cold, my bones have never fully unthawed from the 38 winters I spent in New England.

I could so live here! The median home price is $250,000. Even I, on my self-employed writer’s income, could possibly afford to buy a house here (that would be a first!)—and at the very least, rent.  

“Do you know the origin of that word ‘saunter?’” mountaineer John Muir once asked an interviewer. “It’s a beautiful word. Away back in the Middle Ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going, they would reply, ‘A la sainte terre,’ ‘To the Holy Land.’”

In the early 90s, suffering from cancer, novelist Jennifer Lash (1938-1993) took off, alone, for the Camino de Santiago.

On Pilgrimage is her account of that journey. She’s in too much pain to walk, so she takes trains, buses, taxis. She’s uncertain whether she believes. She’s open. She’s a seeker: observant, wry, deeply sensitive to nuance, beauty, the emotional temperature of any given place.

In one sublime passage, she observes:

“While [Sister Agnes of the Taizé community and I] were standing together at the back of the basilica [of St. Michel D’Aiguilhe in Le Puy, France], there was suddenly a tremendous gust of wings. Sparrows and pigeons were continually flying around, but this gust of a bird was mighty and different. We looked up, and there, high above the narthex was the unmistakable, compelling face of a barn owl. Again and again it flew and paused, frantically crashing its white body with terrible hopelessness against the dusty windows. Every so often it would fly the whole length of the church only to soar up again into another barrier of light. I cannot describe how unbearable it was to follow the flight of that bird, knowing that we were quite incapable to give it its freedom. There were holes and spaces, if only it would see them. Each time it failed, the pause and stillness became longer, and the fearful despair of the bird felt greater.

We left for the library. We couldn’t bear to be there. Later, the whole experience haunted me. The gaze of that particular bird is so involving. I suddenly thought, what if God witnesses in every man a divine spark, which flies within us blindly, like that bird, crashing in terror, punched and pounded from wall to wall, blinded by obstacles and dust, and yet, God knows, that there is a way for natural freedom and ascending flight. What an extraordinary pain that witness would be.” 


As often happens, a couple of people have emailed this morning asking for prayers. So later I walk through the Barrio saying the Glorious Mysteries of the Rosary.

If there’s one way I know my life has borne fruit,  it consists in the people who have read my work and who write to, email or call me: housewives, monks, single fathers, nuns, hermits, women in desperately unhappy marriages, women in or out of desperately unhappy marriages who are crazy in love with a priest. Priests. People who’ve been sexually, emotionally or physically abused.

People who are pissed at the Church, pissed at their mothers, fathers, siblings, children, neighbors, boss, elected officials. People in sorrow, grief, doubt, bewilderment, rage. All of them nonetheless burning, as Christ, did for the Kingdom of God to be kindled.

I’m spouseless, childless, aging, not rich, not famous. I have no social status. My poverty is precisely what people are drawn to. They’re not threatened. They’re not afraid to approach.

As Emily Dickinson wrote to a grieving friend: “The crucifix requires no glove.”


Cesare Pavese died at 42, a suicide. Discouraged over the political situation in Italy, suffering from depression, and crushed by a brief, failed love affair with an actress, he rented a hotel room and took an overdose of barbiturates. “Death will come and she’ll have your eyes,” he wrote in one of his last poems.

My own romantic obsession almost killed me. Every minute of every day—for years—was agony. I tried everything: 12-step groups, Confession, spiritual direction, endless examinations of conscience and moral inventories.

I felt like I was being flayed. My feet broke out in a form of eczema so severe that the doctors as a last resort suggested chemo.

This was over a guy, by the way, who I never even kissed.

Even as I underwent this harrowing of my soul, I knew the experience was essentially religious. Even in my bewilderment, I “trusted” somehow. I suffered through depression, humiliation, a sense of bewilderment and betrayal and absurdity. I suffered through the sense that my work and my love were going for nothing; the fear that I was not only a failure and a reject but crazy. I suffered, of course, a broken heart.

But never for a second did I think I would have been better off had I been able to “breathe through” or “go with the flow” or “dance like no-one was watching.”   

“To be sure,” Victor Frankl wrote, “man’s search for meaning and values may arouse inner tension rather than inner equilibrium. However, precisely this tension is an indispensable prerequisite of mental health…I consider it a dangerous misconception of mental hygiene to assume that what man needs in the first place is equilibrium or, as it is called in biology, ‘homeostasis,’ i.e. a tensionless state. What man actually needs is not a tensionless state but rather the striving and struggling for some goal worthy of him.” [1]

At last, after what seemed like a cruel and impossible amount of time, the obsession lifted, that particular tension dissolved, and I emerged: my personality intact, but my will and my inner equilibrium transformed.

Mine is a life practically no-one would want. I eat alone, work alone, sleep alone. But along with the ragpicker kid in the Mumbai undercity, I saw that my poverty was in a sense my wealth: my narrow, semi-mutilated existence a thing of strangeness and beauty that mattered absolutely, even if to no-one but me.

When the dust settled, I saw also that to follow Christ creates an irrevocable divide. It requires a decision—a cut—the most decisive, complete, and permanent cut of all. My kingdom is not of this world,” he said, and much as you love the world, you’re increasingly in the world but not of it. Your exile is increasingly complete.

You follow a completely different star. You can interact with any number of different and varied individuals and groups of people, but at a certain point, you have to withdraw in a way, to your Inner chamber, where all the true, hard work takes place.

I’d wanted to span two worlds. I thought I could belong exteriorly to a community that was secular, godless—creative, “fun”—and still maintain a private, inner life of Mass, contemplation and prayer. But I hadn’t been able to split myself that way. I couldn’t serve two masters.

I saw I’d always been meant for the cloister; for a vocation of prayer that naturally embraced celibacy. Not because I’m too bitter or dysfunctional for intimacy—I was married for 14 years and in many ways loved it. But marriage wasn’t my vocation. Marriage wasn’t how I was meant to bear fruit. 

I kept thinking of a former nun with whom I’d stayed on my cross-country pilgrimage, a consecrated virgin[2] who ran a place called the Franciscan Appalachian Hermitage where she rented out cabins for twenty bucks a night. “I know it sounds strange,” she’d once told me. “But one man wouldn’t be enough for me. I want all! I want Him!”

For my own part, the station of single, celibate laywoman that emerged from that long dark night suits me down to the ground. I’m doing neither more nor less than any other single person in the Church is called to do, but that I’m able to embrace celibacy with a sense of humor and a capacity for surprise—that I see it as a gift—ringsof the miraculous.

That doesn’t mean I’m euphorically happy all the time. As St. Thérèse learned by the end of her short, pain-filled life: “There are no raptures, no ecstasies: only service.”  

On the other hand, I also live, on some level, in a permanent sense of stupefied wonder, of crazy joy.

I still want Don Quixote to adore Dulcinea but I also realize that to fritter away my life pining for and fantasizing about the impossible is an offense to love: ridiculous in the wrong way. My passion hasn’t diminished one iota: rather, it’s been channeled.

Pavese, God rest his soul, jumped the tracks. He took all the pills (literally) at once. He missed what was right in front of him: the slow, excruciating dismantling of the ego; the gradual, bit-by-bit severing of earthly attachments. He forgot that everything that happens to us is extraordinarily important—especially the pain.

There is only one way through this vale of tears. Minute by minute, you suffer through: wasted, half-crazed, eyes wide open, without anesthesia. You continue to stare—with a frantic intentness—outward.


The day before departure, I sit out one last time on the yellow glider, gazing out over the horizon

How can this all end?: the long shadows cast by the saguaro, the drunk guy ambling down the street playing a recorder, the UPS man yelling, “Package!” followed by a thump on the front stoop.

My addict psyche causes suffering, “but total purity would be yet a greater obstacle.” The part of me that can’t waste a morsel of food is the same part that weeps at the hummingbird’s magenta throat. The part that can obsessively fixate on a human being is the same part that’s ablaze with divine longing. The part that can’t sit still is the same part can’t wait to get out of bed each morning: that’s alive, that’s excited, that rants, rails, exults, and cracks up laughing with equal intensity.

I wouldn’t have it any other way. The poor-in-spirit, rich-in-tragicomedy pilgrimage will continue, if I have anything to say about it, up to my last tortured, gasping breath. 

In Robert Bresson’s film A Man Escaped, the protagonist Fontaine is a member of the French Resistance. “Death in itself I could accept;” he observes from prison, “but I wanted my relatives to know that I had fought to the end, without relaxing or giving up.”


The next morning I wake in the dark, drink my coffee, say the Divine Office. Sweep the floor, take out the recycling and garbage, gather the towels into a pile. Kneel by the bed and say a prayer for the next person.

Into the car go the leftover food, the freshly refrozen ice packs, the snacks for the front seat, the travel mug coffee for the 3 p.m. caffeine hit.

A U-turn, a horn beep goodbye to the ‘hood (like anyone cares), and I’m out into traffic. At the entrance ramp to the freeway I make the sign of the Cross, finger my rear view mirror crucifix, and take one last look over Tucson.

Will I be back? Do I have the strength to endure more loneliness, to stare even more deeply into the abyss, to start over one more time? Am I willing to discover new ways to allow myself to be consumed; to prepare for death?

To the casual observer, a dusty Fiat; a 68-year-old woman with wild hair and her Ray-Bans askew. But look more closely!

Her lips move in a silent plea. Her heart beats to the pulse of the universe. The morning light comes over the mountains: amethyst; blood-red.

Everything profound moves forward in disguise.


[1] Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning (Boston: Beacon Press) 103, 105.

[2] In the Catholic church, a consecrated virgin is a woman who has been consecrated by the church to a life of perpetual virginity as a bride of Christ. Consecrated virgins are consecrated by the diocesan bishop according to the approved liturgical rite. Consecrated virgins spend their time in prayer, works of penance and mercy, and apostolic activity, and may live either as nuns of a monastic order or “in the world” under the authority of the local bishop.


  1. Anonymous says: Reply

    Thank you for writing about being spouseless and childless (and more). I am glad I read every word of this!

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      Thanks—there’s so much we don’t talk about re being single in the Church, and a childless woman, period…I’m grateful to give voice to this station, such as I’m able…

  2. Anne Mallampalli says: Reply

    My reading of your writing is prayer. Thank you.

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      Love that—thank you Anna.

  3. Phillip Aller says: Reply

    Thank you Heather. As always you touch us in those recesses of our hearts and souls where you remind us we are all connected and not as alone as we imagine too often.

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      Bless you, Phillip—

    2. O happy fault! That which you thought was for naught was for your good. This is chock-full of insights and new ways to think. I am pleased you’ll be in “Dappled Things,” and just as glad that I can say “I read it here first.” I wish you a most blessed rest of the feast day and may St Therese continue to pray for us!

      1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

        Hi Angela, just to be clear, the “Dappled Things” offering is a another essay, written about the time just after I’d actually moved to Tucson. This is a kind of companion piece…and yes, the felix culpa. The thing that seems like the worst thing actually turns out to be the doorway into a whole new way of seeing, being in, moving through the world…I was in Fort Wayne on Therese’s feast day, giving a talk on her to a Catholic women’s group called Kingdom Builders…altogether a lovely experience, not least of all walking along the Fort Wayne Rivergreenway…
        Thanks for so patiently and faithfully following along!

  4. The very essence of life in this piece. I will re-read all three this week and continue thinking.

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      Wonderful–that’s what a good essay does, to my mind. Invites us to think…in real life, things aren’t usually tied up in a neat bow…greetings, Sonja!

  5. Love….. “my passion hasn’t diminished one iota: rather, it’s been channeled”. Thank you! dear Heather!

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      I do think this is what happens if we’re lucky…thank you, Glenda.

  6. Mary Jane MacNeil says: Reply

    Hi Heather,
    I need to give my two cents worth and unsolicited advice.
    Your writing I think contain so much of the pain and tension that we all
    experience in one way or another as we hit the big numbers.
    I work as a liver transplant coordinator in Atlantic Canada.
    Many of the wonderful people,that I support are living single lives.
    This has becoming more and more the norm is the 20 years I have
    been in this job ,with 40 years nursing experience ( some in Newark, my favorite years).A social support network is critical to being considered for the transplant waitlist.
    Most people at the close of their lives don’t sail off into the sunset or gently fade away. There is usually a catastrophic event, like a stroke or fall.
    So important to have even one person, who can come if you call.
    I know people who felt that they had no one to call, when Covid struck them down.
    The second thing I would say that makes for a happy old age,is a spiritual home . A downtown cathedral,
    Where the masses of humanity pass through is what speaks to me, but every one
    Has their preference.The third thing is the landscape that speaks to you.
    Whenever you wrote about LA, it seemed like it satisfied so many of the
    Facets of your wonderful personality. I’m sure Tuscan is wonderful , but as you write,it seems like a very limited existence. Doesn’t seem like you.
    I vote cut and return to LA. You had friend to pack your truck and help you move.
    Jeez that counts for a lot today. Just my input.

    Followed you for many years and I love your writing.
    Speaks to the depth of my heart.
    Really want you to be content!
    Mary Jane

    1. I know it wasn’t your intention but your reply triggered all sorts of fear in me; until I remembered Teresa of Avila. “Whoever has God, lacks nothing. God alone suffices.” God led many of the Saints to lead far more limiting lives and amazing lives they were.

      1. HEATHER KING says: Reply


    2. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      I love this idea of living very close to a church or cathedral and have thought of it many times as of late, Mary Jane. I actualy didn’t write that Tucson was a “limited existence”–it’s a very different life from LA but at any rate the “real” life, to my mind, is the inner life…Moving back to LA I have zero intention of doing or desire to do…that would truly be a move backward. I’m content to “be in the hallway,” as they say, possibly forever! Anyway I’ve been in Fort Wayne and Chicago all week–yet another adventure…thanks for your support and input…on we go.

  7. i can not think. i don’t understand what you are writing. but all the words are wonderful. they are filled with nature and the good old days. all the ideals of the sixties and seventies. i am 61, and we come from this time.
    pain – you are accepting your pain. and it has a light. i can see it. i am in pain too. i suffer from anguish. guilt.and all my life is wrong but i have to live it. and show the christian character. which i always think is joy. but maybe it is sadness too.
    you are showing this mangled life of yours in bloom. and so normal.
    i am aspiring to that. although i can not think what you are writing it affects me on a much deeper level. i do that, is what i say.
    not driving around or going many places. but to live with my suffering in an accepting way, in a lightened way.
    and just living the normal life.
    let us do that! it is the christian way!

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      Beautifully, beautifully said, Tina–“Which I always think is joy, but maybe it is sadness too”…”to live with my suffering in an accepting way”…”this mangled life of yours”/ours…all of that is exactly what I’m trying to get at. Our desire; our longing, questing, thirsting souls, tiny lights shining in the darkness, move forward disguised as our broken, conflicted, aging, physical selves…and though our lives and quests may seem utterly uninteresting or even grotesque to the casual observer, to us they are precious beyond compare…

  8. You and I are soul sisters….. you never fail to leave me feeling less alone, both in the world and in who I am. You leave me laughing, crying, and in complete astonishment at how deeply we are loved. AND how deep we love. Thank you. 🙏

    I lived in Tucson for a bit in the 80’s and loved being there. If/when you are ever back in the northeast, would love to meet! You can contact me through my blog’s contact page.

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      Watch out, I have been known to take people up on offers like that, Elizabeth! Thanks so much. You know, you’re the second person this week who has said I make them feel less alone. I’m hoping that’s a work of mercy I can offer up to my account when the sheep are separated from the goats…really, that means the world to me. I might add that to my social media bio. “Writer. Speaker. I make people feel less alone.”

  9. As usual, this is a thought-provoking piece of writing. This morning at Mass the first reading was from Habakkuk:
    And the Lord answered me:
    “Write the vision;
    make it plain upon tablets,
    so he may run who reads it.
    For still the vision awaits its time;
    it hastens to the end—it will not lie.
    If it seem slow, wait for it;
    it will surely come, it will not delay.”
    I immediately thought of your title. Nietzsche said something similar, but I would like to know what you mean by it (I can be rather dense), although it makes me think of the way Jesus spoke in parables to the people. Also, the poor and uneducated understand him, while the educated and rich don’t have a clue. A poor helpless baby born in a stable is king of all creation.
    Thank you, Heather.

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      You’re very welcome, Ron. As to what I meant by the title, I don’t have anything to add–the whole essay is a riff on it and it’s summed up/spelled out in the last paragraphs–

  10. Michael Demers says: Reply

    For this is the secret of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all the time may be the greatest vagrant of all; but the saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea.

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      Love it! Thanks, Michael–

  11. Mary Jane MacNeil says: Reply

    Dear Heather,

    For sure, Tuscan is not a limited existence,
    but just a different color palette than that of L. A.
    Just important to build some aspect of support, formal or informal, wherever we chose to live.
    As I had said, I have worked in healthcare for 40 years plus and
    from my personal and professional experiences, I see this aspect of aging often gets overlooked, by independent people living on their own.
    The transient lives that many of us now live, makes this
    aspect of even more challenging to establish.
    Love your writing and I deeply appreciate the
    spiritual aspect of all of this. The practical nurse in me, wants to sure these considerations don’t get neglected in the process of revaluating where you stay or go next.
    Take care,Mary Jane

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      Mary Jane, thank you and believe me, your points were very well taken. As I said, I love the idea of living very close to a church, and you couldn’t be more right that community is essential, especially as we grow older. Keep in mind that though I do bare my soul here in some ways, I also have a huge zone of privacy and hardly share every detail of my day-to-day life, friendships, etc. For every time I feel a lack of community, there are many others when I feel overwhelmed and jammed–which is part of the reason I moved to Tucson in the first place. So it’s all an unfolding, minute-to-minute journey. Suffice it to say that as my prayer deepens, I see that building community is one of my main responsibilities/desires…so again, thank you for your wisdom, support and care.

  12. Mary Jane MacNeil says: Reply

    Oh thank you Heather!
    You always bring me to the only place that
    Makes sense in this crazy world, the foot of the cross.
    Really is the best place to be and the place I easily stray from.
    There is never a straight path and always tension,
    As we make our way to eternity.
    I know the written word can be a far stretch from the reality
    We struggle with. So thank you for your kindness and understanding!
    Just a side note , I spoke to our team social worker
    that is newly divorced and as a consequence has many new challenges in her life. I asked her how I could softened my harsh words in this post.She writes really well
    and she is a great resource for me whenever I craft a difficult letter.
    I shared with her about how I love your blog and books, as well
    as the story about the little sparrow in the book,’Worth more than a farthing’
    She was so delighted in your style of writing, I think she is now hooked on you blog!

    God works all things for our good!
    Take care,
    Mary Jane

    1. HEATHER KING says: Reply

      Yes, yes, and yes-Bless you and thank you, Mary Jane–


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