My world shattered around me in jagged pieces. It was 2000 and I had just learned that my husband, Bob, had less than 3 years to live. I stood in the midst of a ruined life. I had nothing to give but an acknowledgement of this. I, who had already lost a daughter at age 7, was now facing the loss of my lifelong mate. The pieces of a once-satisfactory world cut fresh wounds in my heart. I was hopeless.

There would be no escape from a second sorrow and I knew it. So I begin to put one foot in front of the other. I showed up and did the best I could. Tears, chemo, caregiving, cooking, shopping, insomnia, exhaustion. One round after another. I summoned what courage I could.

A website to support my husband was born. I gave birth to what was to be my writing career. A one-woman enterprise done out of my dining room with nothing but honesty and death all around me. I gave what I had, the truth of a bad situation.

As the hard years began, Bob’s ribs would be broken by his disease, multiple myeloma—a fatal cancer of the bone marrow. We would spend endless hours in the chemo room and in the infusion center, where he received many, many units of blood. At the end he moved into hospice. He made his transition within 4 days.

I am still here, writing from the dining room. My words go out all over the world to those who stand in need. What they need and want is the truth, a certain energy of pure grace. For grace reaches down and showers out the splinters of the broken heart.

I have been walking the spiritual path for many years now. Recently I realized that I have begun to fly.

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