Grace given! Grace received!

 

Grace given! Grace received!

May 13, 2026

“Is that what we can expect today?” 

Those words shouted from the boat that day were a reminder of the grace we are given every day. It makes me wonder if God is sitting on the throne of Grace and asking, “Is that what I can expect today?” Let me give you the back story. I will do my best to explain. 

I was an avid water skier just a few short years ago. I entered the sport very late in life, but I became addicted to every aspect of it. The first time the girls and I skied on the course was at a local ski club close to our house. 

John became a close friend who invited us to give it a try there; he was a member of the club. Even though we thought we skied great, we were at a beginner level. I asked John, “What did you think of our skiing?” He said, “The girls did well, but your skiing is probably some of the ugliest skiing I’ve ever seen.” His comment didn’t deter me; I was fully committed to the sport. We joined the ski club, and over the years, our skiing improved significantly. We started to compete in local competitions. Waterskiing became part of our family, and the waterski community became part of our family as well. As with all sports, if you want to get better, you have to invest in coaching. 

During that time, a weekend-long waterski clinic was being held near us, a couple of hours away in Greenville, NC. Two of my waterski idols were coaching—Kristi Overton and Jeff Rodgers. All you had to do was call the number and register. Laura, our youngest daughter, and I really wanted to go. Sara didn’t express an interest in going: she just enjoyed the sport. 

I called the number, and I was a bit shaken when Kristi answered. I was so nervous after finding out who it was. She said she would love to have us there and explained the clinic's cost. She must have heard the distress in my voice when she explained the cost. I told her I would do my best to raise funds so I could make it. Just a few minutes later, she called back. She said, “I really want you to be able to make it, so plan on coming and just pay what you can, no worries; it will be fun.” Grace given! Grace received!

I was the only one who was going to get coaching; Laura came along with me to cheer me on. I told her to watch and learn as much as she could from the shore, and I would teach her everything I learned when we returned to the ski club. We met up at Lake Kristi early that morning, and the fog was slowly lifting off the water as the boat rumbled in the background. I know, and yes, the lady has her own lake, and that’s another story in itself. Laura and I were standing on the shore. I had my ski, gloves, and handle. There was a group of about ten skiers. We talked about skiing stuff mostly. 

In the distance, I saw a tall figure coming up the hill, and beside him was a kid on a small motorcycle. Someone in the crowd whispered, “That’s Jeff Rodgers.” I almost fell out from excitement. He was my all-time hero in waterskiing. He came over to the group and talked for only a few moments; he is a man of few words. His son was sitting close by on his motorcycle, enjoying his father’s time. Laura and I stood off to the side of the group, amazed at the waterskiing legend. Then Kristi drove up on a golf cart with her dad, Parker. We just stared at them awkwardly. Now we call that the goofy stare. 

Parker approached Laura and me and asked if we were both skiing. Laura said, “No, just my daddy.” He asked, “Where is your ski?” She said, “In the car.” He asked her to get in the golf cart and later returned with her and her ski, gloves, and handle. “She’s skiing this weekend, too,” he said. Grace given! Grace received! 

I could write an entire book on this family and what they have done for my family. This was a brief encounter with them, and in the years to come, life-changing experiences would take place because of them. I believe we crossed paths for a reason, and I thank God that He brought them into our lives. 

Now back to the lake. I continued to stare at my idol, Jeff Rodgers, and he said, “Who’s first up today?” Thankfully, someone spoke up and said they would go. I was trying to hide in the crowd because I was so nervous. They skied and seemed to do well. As the boat pulled back up to the shore, a voice from the boat said, “George.” I was shaking but ready to learn from one of the best. 

I climbed onto the platform and put on my ski and gloves. Jeff said, “Just relax and have fun.” I was thinking, Have fun? ‘Cause I’m here to tear this course up. I’m about to show you something. I dropped into the water, and the boat rounded the turn island, and then I started my glide out to get ready to enter the course. I had pulled so hard that I got into what is called a lean lock, hit some ripples in the water, and then fell before I ever entered the course. 

Who gets lean locked pulling out for the glide? I thought as I slowly rose from under the water. Everyone on the shore was staring at me as the boat pulled back over to me. Then Jeff stood up tall in the boat, slowly brought the ropes back in, and simply said, “Is that what we can expect today? I mean, really, is that it?” Then gave me one of the biggest and most comforting Jeff Rodgers’ smiles I have ever seen. Later in this life, I would learn that that is who he is. Grace given! Grace received! 

After that failed first attempt, I learned so much that I skied the best I had ever skied. Even to this day. I received. 

So many positive things came out of the meetings that weekend; it was never about waterskiing. There is and was a much larger purpose in those times. That’s for a whole book that I hope to write someday. There were experiences all over the United States of America that not only changed my life, but also those of many others, not because of me, but those who chose to share grace.  

The heart of this story is about grace given and grace received. In my life, there has been so much grace given. Have I received all that has been offered? Probably not. Why not? That’s the whole point of the story right now. 

To the addict, the lost, and the homeless. To the struggling marriage and to the one who wants to quit today—give grace. When I wanted to quit, grace was given; when my marriage wasn’t what it should have been, grace was given; when I felt less than, grace was given; and when I fell, grace was given. 

It’s up to you to receive the grace that is given. Never be so busy or so important in your own eyes that you can’t give grace. Those I met that day gave amazing grace and changed so many lives. Stand up tall in the midst of it all, smile, and know you’re going to be okay. Receive grace! Give grace!

The undercurrent of all of this, and the thing that took me months to put into words, is that the most amazing grace is the grace of Jesus Christ.

Receive that grace today!

Editor: Sandra Wester  www.sandwestedit.com 

TEARS

 

TEARS

March 20, 2026

Lately, my tears have been flowing pretty freely. They could break through during a movie, a short film, a personal encounter, a story, or even a slight glance. 

Sometimes it can be a curse to see pain as it exists in the present. Not all tears represent sadness, though. Over the last few years, I have learned that life contains beautiful moments of joy, happiness, and love. This should have been developed in my formative years, but those moments were spent in survival mode, figuring out the next hiding place or the next escape plan. So many tears were dropped in so many different places. Never to be found and lost in time. 

I want this story to uncover and define the tears of joy and the joy of sadness. The tears seem to come from the same aqueduct but from different regions of our hearts. That’s what makes this story both complex and simple at the same time. 

I spent most of my life fighting tears as if they were the enemy. I still fight them from time to time. The older I get, the more I lose this battle. Tears can jump out of my eyes in an instant. 

While I write, I usually play music in the background. I’m writing this story in my office, which also houses about four hundred vintage records. One of my favorites is playing right now, and it is speaking so loudly to me that I have to share it with you. I remember hearing this song for the first time when it was released in nineteen seventy-four, and it became my theme song; it describes my life as it was then. I encourage you to go and listen to it now. It’s called Haven’t Got Time for the Pain by Carley Simon, and it’s about moving past heartbreak and emotional struggles and choosing to focus on healing rather than dwelling on the hurt. It emphasizes letting go of the pain and not letting it take up space in your life. 

The pain I didn’t have time for then was buried deep in my soul, and I promised never to visit it or even shed a tear for it. It didn’t deserve the time or effort, as it had one goal, and that was to destroy me. I know we all have these memories, no matter how we grew up or what we encountered in life. We have a pain that we decided never to have the time for. This was my coping mechanism, and I believe it’s true for most of us. 

Turns out, some sixty years later, I had to find time for the pain, or it was going to end my life. This pain surfaced with a vengeance, and I didn’t know what to do with it. The tears flowed deep into the night, screaming unbearably in my mind. It became a voice in my life and started to control me. It would surface at any time; a simple grocery store or gas station visit would send me over the edge. My heart would start to pound, and I looked for a way out. 

Lisa, my sweet wife of forty years, sensed something was surfacing, and she knew it might be bigger than both of us. She has always had this second sense of my inner being and how it speaks. Her persistent question to me is always, “Are you ok?” She speaks her concern in the softest voice you could ever imagine. She follows with, “How can I help you?” Even today, she said, “I am here; I will shield you. I’m here for you.” She sees the struggle in my eyes, which opens a pathway to my pain, the gateway to my soul. 

One of the primary ways I’ve dealt with pain in the past is to separate from anything or anyone who causes it. It was so simple back then, and even now, I find myself falling back into that way of thinking. If it causes pain and tears, then I want to separate from it. Be it a story or a relationship, I end it and cut it off. No matter the cost, it has to go.

Over the last four years, I have learned that this is not a healthy way to deal with pain. The tears are still there, and these voices still seek to build a front and destroy. I believe I’ve made enormous progress over the last four years by learning to deal with pain; now my tears are turning from pain to joy. The tears flow from the joy of the relationships with friends and family. The healing in so many areas of my life has changed me. With every victory, there seems to be a counter to the pain that surfaces. 

The tears are recognized by what’s encapsulated in them. Every tear has a purpose. Some have the purpose of joy, and some have a purpose of pain release. You have to look at each tear that is released and question it. Why this tear? Look at it and discover the origin and the purpose, and then discover the extraordinary healing that tears can bring. Tears are like writers; they are storytellers.

If I haven’t said it yet in a way you can understand, your tears can lead you to death, or they can bring overwhelming joy to you. Your tears can bring your pain to the surface; it’s an opportunity to discover healing. There is one key element to this whole process: be willing to go down that path. 

The tears of joy are radiant and spontaneous, a sacred release of memories once held or new ones being formed. If placed under a microscope, they would shimmer with the language of love, mercy, and grace. These tears have the power to bring you to your knees, stirring a depth of emotion that words cannot explain. For so long, I’ve lived without them. Now they come quietly, mostly from moments with family members or through simple conversations of victory. Yes, the victories encountered over the last few years have brought these tears to existence. There is a river within me now, no longer held back and flowing freely without restraint.

There is an old saying: “Your past colors your future.” I believe that now, but we still have the power to choose the colors and how they are expressed. The tears of pain and suffering will rise; they are raw, unfiltered, and at times overwhelming. They demand to be acknowledged and not hidden deep in our souls. These tears are a raging river, carrying the weight of our most difficult seasons—the places where sin once took root, where wounds were inflicted, where we faltered, and where we were broken. It’s where torture took place, and it’s where death called us, but we didn’t answer. 

These tears of death are extremely heavy in so many lives today. Seek help from a friend, a spouse, a family member, or even a stranger who will listen. 

Tears are transparent, and when they are seen, they desire a response. Never be so busy that you bypass the opportunity to jump in and join the river of joy or the river of sadness. Both bring healing. Tears are telling a story of His amazing grace. Once lost but now found. Find time for the pain, or it will find your time.  

Editor: Sandra Wester  www.sandwestedit.com 

Lake Raleigh

 

Lake Raleigh

January 16, 2026

A TRIBUTE MY FRIEND ANNE

This story comes out of a vault from some fifty-plus years ago. If you have followed any of my stories, you know that when I call this a green door story, it’s safe for me to write. A green door story is just that; it requires some energy, emotions, and self-examination. In other words, it’s a story that is fun and a journey back in time. 

The yellow door and red door stories require so much more of my heart, and those seem to be off limits to my fingers for right now. Being in therapy now for more than four years, I can tell you that tremendous progress has been made. I have written one red door story and many yellow door stories. So why are we recapping this as we start to write this story? 

This is the first story I’ve written that parallels right alongside a red door story, and I am treading on a very thin rope that could snap at any time and tumble me into this unwritable experience. For that reason, I will start the narrative beginning with the bike ride to Lake Raleigh. The place I came from was nothing more than a din of torture for my siblings and me. If I go back one frame before this bike ride—one step off this bike and one fall in the wrong direction—I see nothing but torture, darkness, and pain. a time when life had ended for me. Now, let’s see if we can do this. 

On the hot summer days, we gathered together with our friend Phil, my brother Mike, and my brother Chris, who is no longer with us to recount this wonderful memory. He loved to fish. You already know he died at the age of thirty-seven from an overdose. He could never run fast enough from the pain. Chris would have loved this memory. My brother Mike and I have talked about this story recently. Sometimes he remembers facts that I have forgotten.

The lake wasn’t that far from where we lived, so we all would either ride our bikes or walk. When you are young, a few miles isn’t that far. Our path led down a couple of side streets and then to Lake Raleigh Road. It was a dirt road with some gravel spread on it in places. The road was winding and covered with a canopy of trees, not letting too much sunlight in. It was truly a road that was less traveled by any souls other than us. We had our fishing poles and maybe a hook or two. We found our bait under large rocks on the banks of the stream just below this massive dam. I say massive because at that age, this was the only dam we had ever seen. 

There was a large pipe at the base of the dam that had a giant valve on it, some kind of a release of sorts. This pipe had a hole in it, and it sprayed water to the center of the stream we fished in. The dam was old, and now I know it was built in the early 1900s. Water always flowed over it ever so slightly, and it had a smooth finish. It was dark in color and made a peaceful sound that seemed to silence the troubles of that day. It kept promises to us every time we came there. The promise to love us and accept us at its base, no matter what we had experienced and what was to come. It never judged but was a savior to us all. 

This place was so enchanting, calming, and tranquil, and it brought love to our troubled souls. We laughed at stories we recounted over and over. This place was a haven for us all. Our troubles didn’t exist there; the darkness was empty there, and the evil was not allowed in that place. We made sure never to talk about what was going on just a few miles away. There was no way we would ever allow these conversations to happen. 

The dam had its own folklore. According to legend, if you went to the top to fish, you had to be careful not to fall in. Catfish as big as Volkswagens lurked near the bottom, ready to swallow anyone who fell, and they would never be seen again. We respected that place, and in return, it gave us life. From time to time, we would venture up to the top, cast a line out, and then run back down the hill to our safe spot, laughing along the way. It was always a dare to see who would stay the longest. 

We followed the stream, fishing the whole way and gathering bait and fish along the way. Someone would yell, “Got one,” and “Got another one.” On and on the day would go. At dusk, we knew we had to be out of there. There was another tale that said if you stayed after dark, bad things took place there, so we always headed out when the sun was setting. 

One day, we found ourselves near the catfish pond, which was close to the creek. It was turning dark, and we were trapped. We saw a caravan of cars coming in from the back side of Lake Raleigh, and we were scared. Our hearts pounded with fear, and we needed a plan to escape, or else we were going to die. We lay on the bank, peering over toward those cars winding down that dirt road, kicking up dust. Then all of a sudden, a voice behind us yelled, “What y’all boys doing?” We turned ever so slowly, and it was our friend Peanut who had permitted us to fish in the catfish pond the summer before. “Peanut, we just want to go home.” Did you catch that? We wanted to go home. Back to the place that meant pain, suffering, and yes, new tortures, but it was still home. I know it doesn’t make sense, but we wanted to go home! 

I don’t even understand it to this day. The word home meant family; it meant there were times of some togetherness. It’s where our mother was. The one who was supposed to protect us but failed immensely! I’m getting so close to that red door now, so we’d best move on. I’m about to unload on this whole situation. 

Peanut would visit us at the catfish pond from time to time and was a savior of sorts, a friend indeed. After he saw the fright in our eyes that evening, he said, “Come with me, I’ll show you the way out.” We followed him on foot, pushing our bikes up the hill and down a road that was less traveled, and he guided us safely back. He pointed us in the right direction, and I still remember that to this day. It was the safe way. You always have to have a safe way back; never give up! 

Now, some fifty years later, Lisa and I were riding around, and she said, “Where do you want to go today?” I said, “Lake Raleigh. I want to go to the dam today.” She had heard some stories from this place, but I wanted to go deeper and finally write about it. She put it in the GPS, and we followed the directions. As we approached, I saw Lake Raleigh Road on the screen. My heart froze for a moment in time as it all flashed before me. To my right, nothing but destruction, and to my left, Lake Raleigh Road, peace and harmony. A gift that gave me life; it gave us all life. 

The GPS said, “Turn here,” but it was not Lake Raleigh Road; it was the road less traveled. It was the road out back then; it was the road right before where I thought we were supposed to turn. But wait, Lake Raleigh Road was now a dead end. How could it be? There is now a new way in, a new way around. As we entered this new road, I wondered if we would be able to get to the dam and if the stream would still be there. As we traveled this new way in, I could see the old way. Why was this, I wondered. 

We went down one road and then another and another. I was trying to find this place on my own. When I finally listened to the GPS, it took me right to the place I remembered, Lake Raleigh. I saw the dam from a distance, and Lisa said, “Why are you in such a hurry?” 

“I want to see that place one more time,” I said. “I have to see it. Can we even get there from here?” It had changed so much over the years. There were people and places there that didn’t exist back then. As we kept walking on the paved trail, I saw the dam. We headed off-grid to get there, and then there it was. WOW! 

My heart filled with overflowing love and thankfulness for that place. I even whispered, “Thank you! Thank you for providing me with a safe haven in this place. I feel you working in this place even now.” I walked down the stream a few hundred yards, recounting all the memories flooding in my soul, and a rush of light in the darkness reminded me of who God is. 

As I looked up at the dam, I noticed it had changed. The water running down the face of the dam now made a new, soothing sound. Its appearance had transformed as well. The pipe is gone, and the sound it makes today is truly distinct. 

The dam was rebuilt in 1976, giving it a fresh beginning, while maintaining its original purpose: to hold back water, provide those downstream with cherished memories, and serve as a reserve of drinking water for life. A new beginning, a fresh start, and a place that brings life to all who encounter it. Even today, you can follow the stream to reach your destination, and you may encounter Peanut, who will guide you to safety on a road less traveled. You understand. Then, when you return some fifty years later, you will see—you can do it! Don’t quit!  

This story has produced many more tears than I had ever expected. I didn’t see it coming. Remember, God never stops moving. He is still doing it! Trust His road.

Editor: Sandra Wester  www.sandwestedit.com 

The Ellie Inn

  

 The Ellie Inn

We have all heard the expression: if these walls could talk, what would they say? Use your imagination and join me on this explorative journey. Stop for one moment. Stop scrolling. Stop looking at the reels. Give social media a break and listen to the walls speak. Listen to the echoes of times past. Hear the people whisper; hear the forever of history cry out.  

Have you ever walked into a place and thought about the history, the memories, the pain, the joy, and the life-changing words that may have been spoken there? I’m sure all of you have walked into a room and been met by a memory—the scent of it, the glance it brings, the smile it evokes, and even the hug that it offers. 

I recently had an encounter at The Ellie Inn, which is adjacent to my neighborhood. As I entered the front door of this magnificent place, I could hear the memories of humanity as well as the dreams and hopes of its visitors. I heard laughter and, of course, sadness. This was our first visit to this magical place. 

Let me give you a bit of the history of this exquisite place, as the owners describe it. Nestled in Fuquay-Varina, North Carolina, The Ellie Inn is a restored 1900s schoolhouse, perfect for intimate gatherings and special events.

The Ellie Inn is more than just a place to stay; it’s an experience where history and elegance come together. Every room retains unique details from its schoolhouse past while offering the modern amenities and conveniences needed for a comfortable stay. The charm of Ellie Nicholson’s legacy and the inviting atmosphere of this beautifully preserved home provide guests with a sense of timeless warmth and comfort.

Whether you’re celebrating life’s special moments, seeking a unique gathering place, or simply wanting a peaceful getaway, The Ellie Inn promises a one-of-a-kind experience. Here, the echoes of history enrich your memories, creating a backdrop for celebration, relaxation, and connection.

Right from the owner's description, I heard the echoes and voices of those who have been in these rooms. How wonderful is this journey, and how marvelous is this place that speaks so loudly from history. This is where this story was born: from the place of if these walls could talk.

I have scheduled a time this week to sit and listen to the walls at The Ellie Inn. The owners were so gracious to allow me to write about this unique encounter.  

The Ellie Inn is a writer’s haven; it has all the components a writer needs. How blessed I am to have this experience. I feel like there may have been other writers before me in this place; I will find out soon because I will listen as the walls talk. They will tell me. 

I’ve arrived at the inn. I have this excited and anxious feeling in my soul. It’s hard to explain. I’m hoping that this will subside as I start to write. It’s not in the way at all, but the uncertainty of this story may be the cause. I’m exploring new territory emotionally. This place is magnificent! 

I first settled into a cozy spot near the stairway, a little area I’ve come to think of as the parlor, and later moved into the main entertaining space to continue writing. I am now sitting in a chair that wraps around me with a pillow under my left arm. As I look up at these walls, I wonder what has been said in this room. The dreams that were shared here, the lessons learned here, the names spoken here, and the visions that were discussed here. These walls are some twenty feet tall, and a sophisticated brown, textured ceiling crowns them. Their beauty sings new songs now. The past is gone, but the stories that speak here remain. 

I’ve finally calmed into a state where my mind and fingers move together, with no thoughts getting in the way. It feels like a river, carrying the stories of The Ellie Inn. My mind keeps telling my fingers to slow down. The river doesn’t need to rush. These stories are numerous, and this is not the end of the project. Take your time, my friend. Enjoy the writing. This is a special story.  

There is exuberant laughter here; the echoes are so audible and melodic, and it’s emotional for me as I hear them. My experiences as a child and later as a young person consisted of more survival than happiness. These feelings come unexpectedly in this place. I see myself in the corner of the room, curled up on the floor, in a time when hope was gone, and only sadness and the shadow of death filled my soul. 

The corner is my safe place right now as I listen to these stories. 

The joy is flowing all around me; it’s a river of laughter swirling around the room, like a whirlpool of grace, mercy, peace, and harmony. It’s a virtual vortex of love. As I sit in the corner in my own alternate world, thinking no one sees me, arms start to reach out to me from this whirlpool of love. They start to sing in unison: “Holy, holy, holy, bring your pain to the throne of grace and mercy.” The room is spinning faster and faster, and there are more and more now reaching out to me. As I lift my head, I can see others in the corners of the room. We make eye contact, and our hands start to move away from our curled position. 

This vortex of grace and mercy is swirling at a life-giving pace now, and I can see the faces of these radiant angels reaching out to me. I can see what’s written on their dreams and their hopes. It’s so extraordinary. I want to reach out, but I’m just not sure if I can. I’ve been here so long. Will I be here forever? I ask myself. Will I take a step and reach out to humanity and trust again? I glance around the room and view the corner across from me. I witness him reaching out his arms, and see the whirlpool gently pulling him in as if they have rescued a soul from the depths of darkness. At this moment, rejoicing erupts in this vortex of love, mercy, and grace. I hear the angels cry in an overwhelming sound of love. Will I be next? I’m so resistant at this moment. 

I want to move to a different space in the inn, but I can’t right now. The others must be rescued in all corners of the room. As one leaves, another takes his place. This is where hope lives. I have to stay for now. I know there are other spaces in the inn that need this sea of love to rescue them. But here I am in this space, still in the corner, but more alert now, slightly reaching out with my fingertips. I am more interested in seeing others rescued than taking care of my own rescue. 

I remember names from my past who were rescued by this whirlpool of love, mercy, and grace: Chris (my brother), Kevin (my best friend), Tammy (an important part of my story), Lisa (my wife), my sister, my mom, Keith (my friend), my dad, Matt (the son of Kevin and Tammy), and Shirley (a beautiful friend). So many in this glorious sea of love have peace now. I’m reaching out just a bit more now, experiencing the peace that is spoken in this place; I’m not sure if I am ready just yet. 

As the whirlpool slows, I can clearly see the arms of those who are still reaching out to me, inviting me to the table of healing, the table of love, and the table that represents the beauty of humanity. They are singing, “Come now, get up and start this journey. It won’t be easy but it’s a start. Let the pain stay in the corner, let the suffering die, and let the deserving be where they belong. This is not your fault.” The voices are loud as we face this reality of decisions. Will you come? Will you reach out and be one who comes to this place and now helps those who will come behind you? There are so many. It’s up to you to reach out. Your name needs to be written here. Lift your hands and join us. 

All we have to do is come to the inn and sit, listen, and be ready for the rescue. Love, joy, peace, and harmony; it’s a new beginning for us all. 

I must admit this whirlpool of mercy and grace is breathtaking. Its white, flowing clouds spin so slowly that I can see the vapors disappear at my fingertips as I touch them. I’m in the midst of a magnificent pool of gold, rubies, and turquoise colors, and nothing is hindering me from joining this place. And yet I’m always drawn by them—the others that need this more than me.       

I’m still not sure if it’s my time. I’m still working on myself, and I am hopeful that one day I will reach the place where I can completely heal. For now, I am standing in the corner and content with watching those who are pulled into the whirlpool of love, mercy, and grace. It’s okay to be you and to acknowledge that healing is happening. As long as you are here, you will have hope. Don’t quit now; renewal is happening here.

The Ellie Inn is waiting, and these lovely walls will always exude love, grace, and mercy. There will always be a whirlpool of hope here. Come experience this magnificent place of history. Will you join us here?

Editor: Sandra Wester  www.sandwestedit.com 

Coloring

Coloring

To begin this story and end it would be so simple. This page could remain blank—empty and void of words. This story is about just that. I have no memory from age five and younger, and there are gaps that stretch until my teenage years. Even now, in my late adult life, I am drawn to those blank pages, wondering what once filled them.

These missing years are called the formative years of life. What happens during these years defines your later childhood life and determines how you will react and interact with humanity. As of late, words are bringing healing to my life. As many of you know, for more than four years now, therapy has been a big part of my life. I am discovering that building relationships and cracking the door on new emotional experiences is helping to color in these blank pages in my life. Still no memory, but it’s encouraging me to do more with my immediate family, my grandchildren, and those in my inner circle. I’m not venturing out any further than that. 

New relationships are a stretch for me; crowded rooms of people are complex, and places in general can be taxing to my mental well-being. I have grown over the past years to smile, make eye contact, and even offer a handshake and a hug now and then. 

Why now, at my age? Well-meaning people have told me to deal with it and blank it out. The advice I receive most often is to just give it to Jesus. The blank pages have been there for so many years, and I was okay with that until I realized that this was much bigger than me. These pages are much like the tapestry I wrote about, parallel somehow. I think for the most part, the tapestry is about putting pieces in the right place and adding to the project of life until it’s complete, finished or not. This story is defined by the lines drawn on blank pages and the colors that are placed in the lines. They give a clear picture of the time and the event, be it a new memory or one that is just outlined in my mind. 

As the unlocked memories become visible, the lines are slowly growing into a full-blown remembrance. Some are endearing, and some are haunting and difficult to deal with. They don’t come at one time; it’s extremely slow. To give you an idea of how slow, this story started more than two years ago. It’s been sitting on my homepage, open with the first paragraph somewhat outlined. I just picked it back up today. 

After I finish a story like the last one, Behind The Eyes, I enjoy a moment and sometimes weeks of freedom from the pain, the words, the energy, the mental toll, and the expression of my humanity. It’s peaceful here. Then I look, search, feel, and see the eyes of the hurting and the smiles of those in pain, and I must write. I must start to draw the lines of memories. Colors are in my hands, wanting to become life inside my mind. I must let it happen. Every story has a purpose, and sometimes I’m never sure who needs to read it. It’s mostly just for me.

As of late, I have been awakened to deep memories in my soul. I’m not even sure if they are real or not. Some are of tender hugs given by my mom as she said goodbye to my brother and me for the last time. When we were removed from our home, she dropped us off, kissed us on our foreheads, and said, “I love you.” Then she disappeared. These lines are now being colored in with beautiful colors of love. I know you are wondering how my mother could do this. You didn’t experience the environment of our home, the torture done to her, and even worse, the torture done to us. I’m not talking about abuse; I am talking about torture. I hope to color these pages in soon. I have outlines, and I am starting to see the real life we lived in the darkest of times and the battles we faced. These lines are beginning to connect, and to be honest, I’m not sure if I want to see these memories. 

For the sake of those who are coming behind me, I must color these lines in, beautiful or dark; they must be forever written. The beautiful seems the easiest to color in. The lines that outline the dark are too bold, and the colors are even darker. 

For the sake of triggering those who may not need to know what’s in the bold lines, don’t worry, I will handle this with care, and you will understand what I’m saying. It’s healing that brings colors to these lines. We need to color in the good memories and the bad ones to bring closure. 

I learned something recently when we took our grandchildren out to eat. The kids’ menu came with coloring pages, and as they began to fill in the outlines, we joined them. To be honest, I was not interested in this activity, but they seemed to be excited about completing this picture. I saw the outline and already knew the outcome, but they wanted to color, so we did. As we colored together, I realized something: an outline alone is just that—an empty framework, waiting to be filled. It’s the color that gives it life, meaning, and joy. Without it, the picture, and perhaps the memory, feels incomplete. 

No matter the energy, no matter the lines, or the boldness of the lines, we need to color in the picture. It’s what brings the truth into existence. This is living water to our souls. Let the thirsty come. Let those who need to color come. Let those who want to color come; the blessing is in the coloring itself. Every stroke brings life to the bold lines and brings peace and healing to us who need to complete a picture—a memory that needs to escape the mind, cherished or dark. The awesome wonder of our mind was never meant to remain in black and white lines. So, color! It’s okay to color. You have time!  

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