The day this photo was taken (11/25/19) was the day before our daughter Debbie died. She was a Spina Bifida baby in 1968 and these final days of her earthly life we told ourselves it was a miracle she lived past her 50th birthday, that because her death was not entirely unexpected we would celebrate her life: the unspoken was "grief would not be a heavy weight.” Weeks did pass before I consistently was able to name my feelings “grief,” before the ache of the swiftness of her passing would take a toll on my spirit, even before I understood we had missed a final opportunity to engage in conversation since she was unable to speak. Each of us spoke to her, wept over her, prayed for her and trusted that somehow that made a difference, that she left knowing she was loved. Going forward, much of my grief work will have much to do with writing—like this but also letters to Deb. And I will sit on the bench that will house her ashes and welcome the feelings that come; there is no dodging the loss, there is only going through it. Grief is teaching me it will not surrender, so neither will I.