I Don’t Know How To Let People Love Me

by Leigh

I know what I’m doing. I’m nothing if not predictable when I grieve.

The insomnia returns first, then my normally impressive appetite departs. I withdraw, needing time and solitude to process. I put off discussing the loss with my best friend because once I do, it will be real.

I cry in private. Tears may well up when I’m with friends but I’ll force them away, unwilling to be the girl crying at the bar, in the airport, in church.

People ask how I’m doing and I say, “I’m in shock. We’re all still in shock.” I can’t make sense of my aunt’s unexpected death.

I check in on my cousins and get updates from my mom. We speak the same language and bear similar memories; I need not pause to give back story while I coax my feelings out. But they are back in Illinois while I am here and I am taken aback by the alone-ness.

My family and I, we’ve lost more than our fair share of loved ones this past decade. It never gets easier but I do know myself. I know how to mourn. What I do not know is how to let other people in on the process.

I don’t know how to let people love me while I grieve.

An email or a text comes through and I don’t know how to respond. I crave community while fearing it. I’m relieved I haven’t been in town to go to church; I don’t think I can bear the call to worship, the mingling of souls.

My brain is broken right now, leaving me quiet. Never one for small talk, this is all too deep and painful to bring into dinner conversation. I’d rather listen to you, my default. Only I don’t have the capacity to advise others and though I know you don’t expect it of me, these clipped wings of mine are cumbersome.

I can’t adjust to these changes.

I can’t adjust. Or I won’t adjust?

I’m a social worker by training, a caregiver by nature. It’s easier for me to give than receive, though I know the benefits of letting others be strong for us when we are weak.

I ask for prayer, I say I’m in shock and share little snippets of what Aunt Sue meant to me. That’s it. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve said “I can’t go there right now.” Maybe it’s self-preservation or what I needed in the moment. I tell myself it’s enough but I know I’m robbing people of the opportunity to love on me.

Last week I visited a friend in Austin. We spent some time with her older brother. He talked about the difference between transparency and vulnerability, noting, “transparency is admitting weakness, vulnerability is admitting need.”

I am transparent but vulnerability has long been my struggle. It comes down to this: I rarely know what I need and I don’t want to be an imposition on my friends.

A part of me doesn’t want to ask, in that lovely passive-aggressive “they should know what I need” way. Truthfully, I’m afraid to let anyone but a select few all the way in to my grief and despair.

My INFJ heart mystifies even me. How can I let others into the depths? How can I exchange internal processing and tied-with-a-bow conclusions for unformed thoughts and mercurial emotions?

I don’t give my friends enough credit. It’s as if I think they’ll change their mind about me at any second. As if this dark grieving version of myself doesn’t merit their attention.

My friends are nothing but kind. They tell me they want to be there for me. They ask what they can do. But my default continues to be, “thank you, I’m fine, keep us in your prayers.”

I want someone to come over with a bottle of red for an uninterrupted hour. I want to dawdle over a piece of cake and talk about nothing and everything. I don’t want platitudes or wrinkled brows over my choice of words. I don’t want to explain myself to strangers or invite sympathy. I want friends who will journey with me.

I’m afraid to say these things. Afraid no one will take me up on it, afraid someone will. Afraid to voice my real feelings.

Is it selfishness or pride? Is this everyone’s default in seasons of grief?

I have been burned in the past. I offered up my past struggle with depression, only to be dismissed. I went to lean on a friend after another loved one died, only to find they’d disappeared. Others simply couldn’t handle the “strong one” not being strong.

Right now I need solitude to recharge. Four weekends away have depleted me and I have not had time to truly mourn the loss of my dear aunt. I’m challenging myself not to let this be an excuse to withdraw. Respite is good, but let’s toe the line before the hermitage.

I don’t know what else I need. I don’t. Some of my friends might, however.

Perhaps it starts there. A few tentative words, a handful of Kleenex, and the faith that the ones who love me will love me still. Weak and broken, yet still me.

62 Responses to “I Don’t Know How To Let People Love Me”

  1. Andrea November 9, 2012 at 5:43 am #

    “I am transparent but vulnerability has long been my struggle. It comes down to this: I rarely know what I need and I don’t want to be an imposition on my friends.”

    Yes. Very much yes.

  2. sonja lange November 9, 2012 at 7:27 am #

    Thinking of you.

  3. suzannah | the smitten word November 9, 2012 at 8:01 am #

    i love you, leigh, and i’m praying comfort and healing peace now. wish i could bring that bottle of red. i’m glad you have some time home at last and glad you’ve opened the door, too. may God truly supply all your needs even those you can’t yet name, though the hands of those who love you most.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 11:58 am #

      To finally have time at home…I’ve felt myself exhale this week. It’s a start. Wish you could be here but glad I got to see you a couple of weekends back. That was a gift in itself.

  4. Shannon November 9, 2012 at 8:05 am #

    Handing you a tissue, and my thoughts and prayers from a fellow INFJ…

  5. Amanda November 9, 2012 at 8:13 am #

    The birth of our twins was my first crash course in letting people love me well. My husband knew how and he helped me to learn. Then the last few years when dad was so ill, it became a necessity. It was either learn to let people into these broken, hurting places, or sacrifice my family’s wellbeing to my pride. I know that place is different from yours, but I want to encourage you with this: accepting the care and help of others, even (especially) when you are too hurt to know what you need, is something an introverted, “strong” heart can learn. And you will. Meanwhile, imagine how much grace you would give me if I wrote these words, if I was in this place, and give yourself just as much, please.

    You are loved, Leigh. Thank you for these lovely, vulnerable reminder to care for each other well, even when we aren’t sure how. Looking forward to our bottle of red.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 12:00 pm #

      Friend, you don’t know how thankful I am to have you in my life. It’s hard to believe I haven’t always known you. We’ve traveled some difficult roads this past year and I am honored you let me part of yours. Now I will do my best to let you be a part of mine. Thank you for all you’ve done the past few weeks and for the forthcoming bottle of red.

  6. Casi November 9, 2012 at 8:22 am #

    I love you Leigh. Thank you for this post. I get it. It reminds me of an old Shauna Niequist post that I saw on FB yesterday. http://www.shaunaniequist.com/blog/2010/2/2/on-asking-for-help.html
    Praying for you friend.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 12:05 pm #

      Oh, thank you for sending me that post. Shauna taps into this so perfectly- asking for non-specific help, allowing people to care for you instead of being too independent to ask. Love you, friend.

  7. Ed November 9, 2012 at 9:08 am #

    We mourn, we try to pick ourselves apart, and we wait. What a rough season. Thanks for sharing where you’re at and daring to be vulnerable. I’ll be praying that God meets you in this time and walks with you as you take each next step. There are no tidy resolutions, but there are steps, and you’ve taken a bold one here.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 12:06 pm #

      Thank you for praying, Ed. I wonder if the untidiness of it all is what prevents me from knowing what I need. There are no good answers and I’m OK with that. It’s just the rest of it- figuring out how to incorporate loss, giving ourselves grace in the meantime, and so on.

  8. Hännah November 9, 2012 at 9:16 am #

    Ahh, yes. This is me. I forget that I need the slow-down, the alone time, the silence or the one-on-one discussion to process, to breathe, to grieve. It’s so hard to let the others in on the internal aches and groans without feeling over-exposed and wanting to cover it up and pretend you’ve moved past it already and just showed them because you thought they should know, instead of letting it be genuine and letting them love you where you’re really at.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 12:08 pm #

      Thank you for letting me know this resonated, Hannah. It helps knowing I’m not the only one who responds this way. Grace to you.

  9. Tanya Marlow November 9, 2012 at 9:29 am #

    “transparency is admitting weakness, vulnerability is admitting need.”

    I am transparent but vulnerability has long been my struggle. It comes down to this: I rarely know what I need and I don’t want to be an imposition on my friends.”

    Oh – lovely Leigh – i cant quite express the effect that reading this post has just had on me. I actually stopped brathing, i think. In writing about you so clearly and beautifully you have just written me. I am also the one able to admit weakness, unable to admit need. I am the caregiver, the one who has been burned in the past and remembers it and holds back. I tell people what I have been through rather than what I am going through. I don’t want to be an imposition.

    This is courage – right here – this writing, and I am in awe of you for it. I pray that you are rewarded for your bravery in your friendships and that you are able to fall apart a little safely.

    With much love x

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 12:10 pm #

      See, Tanya? I knew we were kindred spirits! Thank you for understanding my words here and even seeing them in yourself. It helps knowing I’m not the only one. This was a hard post to write and even harder to publish but I am astonished that you affirm courage. And yet, I suppose that’s what it was. Much love and grace to you as you walk through this tension in your own life.

  10. Esther Emery November 9, 2012 at 9:50 am #

    There’s too much truth here for me to not answer it. I’m an INFJ, too, and am so good at isolating my heart in times of vulnerability that even my closest friends can’t tell that I’m doing it. (I’m an actor, too, even my professional training is in theater.) But I’ve fought this battle, too, and what I learned is to stop fighting it.

    I would encourage you to trust the silence, and the solitude. In silence your heart can heal, and it can calm, and THEN it can open. A calm heart is a Practice, not a personality trait. And I’ve learned to rely on the mystical body of Christ for this, to be a bridge between me and others when it isn’t the right time for me to spill my guts (what guts? where are they? I’m still looking for them!) and when I don’t have courage (yet) to ask people to be with me in my silence. God has this…the thin space that holds your mourning and your joy all at once…you don’t have to try to hold it by yourself. You don’t have to be the distributor of your experience as you are the distributor of your story on this blog. Just BE. In Christ. With us. That’s where the healing is.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 12:19 pm #

      Thank you, Esther. There is such wisdom in your words. I do trust the silence and the solitude but I recognize it can become a crutch. For now I will rest in this thin place and try to be open to how others can walk alongside me during this time.

  11. Kelly @ Love Well November 9, 2012 at 10:02 am #

    Sweet Leigh.

    I would challenge you: I think you DO know what you need. Or at least, what you’d like. Pick something from that paragraph, and the next time a trusted friend leans close, just ask.

    I know it’s possible that they won’t be able to act upon it right then. But I think risking vulnerability is worth it. By doing so, you are letting someone else in.

    And one more thing I thought of when I was reading this: Maybe, because of your career, you know too much. Maybe there is no “response” to love other than to accept it.

    Love you so much, friend.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 12:21 pm #

      Ah, Kelly, my sweet oracle friend. Truly I had no idea those things might be helpful or what I needed until I wrote that paragraph. It was good to write this, scary as it was to hit publish. I’m trying to say yes when people ask how they can be there for me. It’s a start. Love you right back.

  12. the Blah Blah Blahger November 9, 2012 at 10:20 am #

    Thank you for sharing where you’re at…as the grief counselor, you’re probably just as bad as a doctor with an illness. ; ) Be open to the ways people want to love you. Be gentle with yourself and those around you. And treasure all the wonderful memories of your beloved aunt.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 12:22 pm #

      Ha! Yes. I am absolutely the worst at taking my own advice. But at least I recognize it and I’m trying to do better, trying to give myself grace and be open to how others can care for me.

  13. Renee Ronika (@reneeronika) November 9, 2012 at 11:38 am #

    Sending love and prayers for authentic, spirit-filled renewal. Here’s to hope, Leigh. Much, much love.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 12:22 pm #

      Thank you, friend. I appreciate your prayers and encouragement so much.

  14. Barbara Luehring November 9, 2012 at 11:40 am #

    Grief is a time to let yourself be–however that shows up. If you want to be alone, be alone. If with a friend drinking wine and talking about anything and nothing, be that. You know that other love you and do not judge–so also be that way with you.

    Grief comes in waves, washes over you, drowns you. But there are moments between the waves–moments of joy, or peace. Be with the waves and also the moments.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 12:25 pm #

      The wave imagery is very apt, Barbara. I do think I do a good job of caring for myself in times of grief- unfortunately, I’ve had a lot of opportunity to live this out. I also see how withdrawing can become a crutch and how I miss out on letting people love on me. We are all parts of communities and it’s important to let our loved ones be a part of the process of mourning. Not entirely but they should have some piece of it, even if only as witnesses to the grief we bear. I know this logically but practicing it is a whole other matter.

  15. Anne November 9, 2012 at 12:06 pm #

    Leigh, your words here are beautiful but it was the comments that made me cry. You are loved, dear.

    Wish I could bring you some tissues and a bottle of red. Sending love and prayers instead, which kinda seems like a raw deal.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 12:26 pm #

      Thank you for loving me and praying for me and checking up on me the last few weeks. I can’t tell you how much it helped to be with you during Influence, before we even knew what the outcome would be. I’ll take a rain check on the wine and tissues.

  16. alece November 9, 2012 at 12:25 pm #

    hugging your heart, friend…

    and you can always talk or not-talk as much as you want/need/can…

    no matter what, i’m here.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 2:44 pm #

      Thank you, friend. I so appreciate the ways you’ve been there for me already.

  17. Leanne Penny November 9, 2012 at 12:29 pm #

    There is no feeling on earth like the awful and uncompromisingly permanent end that comes with death. I hate this feeling and I am so sorry that is where you’re finding yourself these days. If you ever want to talk to a semi-stranger who is sure not to be offended no matter what you say, I’m here for you. Only a computer or telephone away.

    Give yourself as much grace as you can, engage in the art of self care and lay down as many “have tos” as you can right now.

    Remember in Grey’s Anatomy when Izzy just baked muffins for a week or in PS I Love you when she holed up in her apartment and sung and got stinky? Isn’t it unfair that the movie characters seem to have more space to be weird and out of commission when they’re grieving?

    So, it’s okay to be weird or quiet, just don’t bottle, you know this.

    You are so loved and cherished, and I am so so sorry that you lost a sweet soul in your Aunt.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 2:49 pm #

      So much to love about this comment, Leanne. Thank you for grace, for prayers, for permission to be fully me.

  18. Annie November 9, 2012 at 12:50 pm #

    Grief is so hard. It’s messy, isn’t it? It’s also hard to watch someone grieve…or to even know what to say. A close friend of mine lost her father suddenly this past June. Here it is 6 months later and it’s still as fresh as if it happened yesterday. Her panic, her depression, the insomnia, and me feeling completely helpless. I’ve found that a silent hug goes a long way.

    This is a wonderful post. Made me weep. My heart goes out to you and my prayers go up.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 2:50 pm #

      It’s certainly not a linear process, that’s for sure. Thank you for caring and praying, friend. It means a lot.

  19. Ashleigh Baker November 9, 2012 at 12:52 pm #

    Oh, I get this, my friend. A similar loss-filled decade left my entire extended family in a similar state of mind. None of us quite knew how to handle so much unexpected death, so much shock, and yet we all processed differently, of course. I’m the retreater, burrowing into my own shell, but my cousin is the one who talks it all out, and my other aunt is the one who just cries when she speaks. The best has been when we each learn to allow space, to just be there, to pull close when needed and step back for a moment. I know you know all of this. I love you. I’m thinking of you.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 2:52 pm #

      I find it easier during these times to be with or talk to family. Even though we process and grieve differently, we’re in this together. They don’t require as many explanations. I find it harder to let friends in, especially friends who never met my loved one. It’s a cop out to some degree, I know. Wishing we were at your coffee shop hashing all this out. Love you, friend.

  20. bethany November 9, 2012 at 1:09 pm #

    “My INFJ heart mystifies even me. How can I let others into the depths? How can I exchange internal processing and tied-with-a-bow conclusions for unformed thoughts and mercurial emotions?”

    Holy verbatim. This is exactly what I struggle with too, Leigh, along with the reality of friends that forget that even though I’m the “strong one” I can’t always be positive or placating about how I feel when my grief weakens my resolve. The hard part about being an INFJ that I’ve only recently begun to understand is that even though we process much of what we feel internally, we can never be wholly independent of the external world. We need friends willing to hunker down with us, even if we can’t articulate that all the time.

    I wish I could hunker down next to you with a bottle of red and a box of Kleenex. I’m praying for you, friend. Much love.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 2:57 pm #

      “Holy verbatim.” That cracked me up, Bethany. So glad to hear from a fellow INFJ, though I hate you understand what I’m going through for similar reasons. They say INFJs are the most extroverted of the introverts so what you’ve said makes perfect sense. Thank you for the prayers and support.

  21. Pat Wilner November 9, 2012 at 1:48 pm #

    Oh, Leigh, my heart goes out to you. Your feelings poured out here brings back the hole left in my heart with my father’s sudden and tragic passing. It brought back a memory of running into your Mom one day in Kohl’s about a month or so later. I was wrapped up in one of my father’s sweaters. It stilled smelled of him. My emotions were so raw that particular day. I happened to run into your wonderful Mom and just one hug from her caused my tears to erupt. But, you know what … I needed that. I needed her. God placed her there.
    You may be a social worker by education and vocation. But, you are STILL quite human with all the same emotions and needs as those you have ministered to. And, yes, sadly sometimes our friends let us down. Sometimes they just don’t know what to say or what to do. Sometimes new friends and relationships grow from our needs. I wish I was close enough to bring over that bottle of red and listen to your heart whether it be the grief that comes out or stories of your wonderful aunt.
    I remember crying in church the first Father’s Day that my Dad was gone. Your Grandpa’s hugs meant everything to me that day. He didn’t have to say a word. His arm was around me and I was warm. And, that was just one day of many days of tears.
    I don’t have the education and experience that you have. But, I will tell you that you just need to grieve and how you do that will differ each day. Let the tears roll or put some music on that your aunt would have loved and remember her that way. CALL those friends and just say, “hey, I need to talk” or “can we go get a cup of coffee”.
    You’ll get there in time.
    And, if I can help in any way, please feel free to call me or email me at any time! I will be thinking of you and praying for you during this time of grief.
    Hugs and prayers,

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 2:54 pm #

      Mama Pat, thank you for these kind words and for the prayers. I’m so glad my family could be there for you during such a tough time. Tracy will take care of me in your stead. You’ve taught her well.

  22. Bekka November 9, 2012 at 2:11 pm #

    I hear your heart in this, Leigh. I know that fear, the fear of whether or not asking will result in dead air on the other end. I guess it’s a fear of the unknown response.

    Really wishing I could sit down with you, share some cake (or anything chocolate will work for me), and just let you breathe. Much love and blessings, my friend, as you process through your grief. May a good friend spend time with you in person very soon.

    • Leigh November 9, 2012 at 2:58 pm #

      Thank you, Bekka. I appreciate this encouragement and solidarity.

  23. Brenda November 9, 2012 at 3:10 pm #

    Sympathy from my INFJ heart to yours. It’s really hard to let even your closest friends into your grief, but when you do, it makes those relationships so much richer and deeper. Just prayed for you.

    • Leigh November 10, 2012 at 10:54 am #

      Thank you for understanding and for the prayer, Brenda.

  24. sonika November 9, 2012 at 4:14 pm #

    I’m shocked.

    I lost my grandmother two Sundays ago, so suddenly…and this post? All of this is me, down to the last detail. All of it.

    I, too, find it easier to be transparent than to be vulnerable. It’s that “why burden others” mentality…and from where I stand, it’s not pride. It’s not selfishness. It’s just fear, and maybe that’s just fine. I’m so glad I’m not the only one who’s responding to friends’ concerned questions with, “I don’t know what I need…but please just be here.” I want to believe that they’ll be here when I come up for air.

    All of it, Leigh – the issues with sleeping/eating, needing solitude but craving people, feeling mentally broken, wanting to talk but not wanting to, not knowing how to respond to texts/e-mails, being physically far away (I’m studying abroad at the moment), being afraid of church, being way too independent for my own good – wow. From one broken heart to another, I know that there are no words, but I’ll just let you know that even in this muck, you’ve comforted another woman tonight.

    • Leigh November 10, 2012 at 10:57 am #

      I’m so sorry for your loss, Sonika. I am astounded by our similarities and wondering if perhaps this is why I felt compelled to write my way through this issue. Maybe God knew we both needed the solidarity for such a time as this. Thank you for letting me know my words comforted you. Grace and peace to you as you mourn. May those who love you find ways to care for you and may you be open to their support.

  25. Miles O'Neal November 9, 2012 at 9:10 pm #

    Sharon and I would love to meet you some time when you’re in Austin.

    As for not knowing how to respond, if you’re with the people who lobve and understand you, you don’t have to respond. Just be. Let their love surround you, hold you, protect you, flow through you, protect you, bathe you, heal you.

    For the rest of the world? Don’t worry about responding. They’ll either get it or not, and nothing you could do would change things.

    You’re awesome and loved, and we’re glad you’re you.


    • Leigh November 10, 2012 at 10:58 am #

      Thank you, Miles. I don’t know the next time I’ll be in Austin but I appreciate the offer.

  26. Amy Young November 9, 2012 at 10:13 pm #

    I have long believed that grief is the fertilizer for the soul. It’s messy, smelly, and not the most fun part of growing things, but in the end, it produces richness. Sorry you are in the midst of such a season. I’m thankful you’re not alone.

    • Leigh November 10, 2012 at 10:59 am #

      What an apt description, Amy. So true.

  27. Diana November 9, 2012 at 10:55 pm #

    You know what, Leigh? I think you’ve done a magnificent job of letting people love you. LOOK AT THESE COMMENTS. You are open and honest and real – and sometimes, in the midst of deep grief, some people will be flummoxed and uncertain. But that is really okay, because, in the long run, we’re all doing the best we can. And sometimes we do it awkwardly, but my – you have a deep circle of support around you out here in cyber land. And you’ve even managed to open the door to IRL with some of these dear ones. So, as simply as you can, just sit in your own pain and questioning and let people sit with you. That’s what we really want, I think. An occasional quiet companion, maybe a hug or a shoulder rub or a shared tear or two. Death is tough – it’s relentless, and it’s permanent. And some days, that truth just overwhelms. Let it. The only way out is through – but you know that already, right?

    • Leigh November 10, 2012 at 11:02 am #

      I have been overwhelmed by the grace in these comments and the offers that have come of it. In the last few days, I have done my best to push through my fears and to tentatively explore out loud what I only ever process internally. It has been hard but good. Thank you for such wisdom and encouragement, Diana. I always love hearing from you.

  28. Karen Kramer November 10, 2012 at 8:23 am #

    Wrapping you in hugs and prayers, dear one. Love you…

    • Leigh November 10, 2012 at 11:17 am #

      Thank you, Mom. Love you, too.

  29. Laura Wileman November 10, 2012 at 11:18 am #

    I’ll journey with you, twin. Love you. <3

    • Leigh November 12, 2012 at 9:27 am #

      Thank you, twin. Love you right back.

  30. Leanne Shirtliffe (Ironic Mom) November 11, 2012 at 9:36 am #

    Sending you big, warm Canadian hugs (even though it’s -19 C here this morning).

    I’ve been in the same boat, not with death, but depression (a few years ago, thankfully). I’m still trying to learn that I don’t need to wait until *after* I’m through the crisis to ask for help.

    I wish I could take you out for a deep fried pickle and a beer. The pickle would have enough sodium to replace tears shed and the beer would quench our thirst from laughing.

    By the way, I love how the universe collides sometimes. Do you know Michelle from Skipping Stones? She wrote about her aunt’s death in the past couple of days too: http://steadilyskippingstones.com/2012/11/10/saying-goodbye/

    More hugs!

    • Leigh November 12, 2012 at 9:26 am #

      Thank you, friend. Wish we could go out for fried pickles and beer, too. Perhaps someday! I didn’t know of Michelle before but her story definitely resonated. Thanks for sharing!

  31. Annie Barnett November 12, 2012 at 11:50 am #

    Leigh, this is one of the most tender, honest things I’ve read in such a long time. I know a bit of this struggle too, and I’m grateful for your writing about it, your leaning into that hard, awkward unknown, and the courage to write it out here. Holding your words close here.

  32. Mary @ Giving Up on Perfect November 12, 2012 at 1:33 pm #

    I’m glad you have time, home, now. Grieving is hard. Honestly I don’t think there’s a right way to do it, although I guess some people can describe healthy ways. I don’t know about that. What I know is that your admission here – that is good and smart and probably healthy. I like what you’ve said about the difference between transparency and vulnerability. I’ve been wrestling a bit with this for the past year or so myself – trying to figure out why I feel like such a fraud, even when people say things like, “Oh, you’re so honest.” or, “Thank you for being so real.” I think this, what you’re talking about, has a lot to do with it. I’m not sure. But I’m thankful for what you wrote here.

  33. Katherine Willis Pershey November 15, 2012 at 12:15 pm #

    Oh, Leigh. Prayers for you and yours. Grieving is such hard work.

Leave a Reply:

Gravatar Image