Due to RC’s powerful work connections with the taco-laden and financially astute, along with college friendships that survived binge-drinking and bad fashion, The Husband and I were invited to attend the Paul Simon concert on Saturday night with two of our favorite couples. We all met at Canoe, a fancy restaurant on the Chattahoochee River, for dinner beforehand, then headed in bumper-to-bumper traffic to Chastain Park Ampitheater. Our prime seats, located on ground-level in row 7 of the table-filled area near the stage, placed us in the middle of hundreds of fans whose diversity was represented more by age range than ethnicity. We pulled out our snacks–coolers of beer, bag of jelly bellies, zip-loc of beef jerky–and turned our chairs toward Paul as he strummed and sang. Surrounded as we were by tables of wine and gourmet platters, JB tried to class up the joint with a wedge of brie, only to see it mauled with beer cans once the sun went down.

We’ve known each other way too long to start acting classy now.

With Paul belting out favorites like “The Only Living Boy in New York,” “Sound of Silence,” and “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes,” and strawberry cheesecake flavor sticking to my teeth, I practiced my gratitude (easy to do with free concert tickets and good music, but still): a table full of friends who haven’t given up on me for fifteen years, a husband who drops seamlessly into those age-old relationships and embraces them alongside me. It almost made up for Paul’s omission of “Graceland,” “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard,” and “You Can Call Me Al.” (Hope began to run out when, at 9:45 pm, Paul announced that it was getting late.)

And tonight, following that weekend reminder of time-tested friendship and astronomical comfort levels, TH and I will board a plane and reverse-route the trip we took this time last year as we headed south to our new life. We will be revisiting what is now the old one, landing at LaGuardia (ostensibly for my work meeting, but let’s be honest–there will be more play than work, more cupcakes than conferences). We will visit burger joints and rooftop bars, Alta and Rare and Stanton Social and the Standard Grill. We will be greeted by faces we’ve missed, hear voices that helped narrate a most important part of our story. We’ll cover by foot and nausea-inducing cabs the terrain that made up multiple years. We will eat and drink and spend way too much money. We’ll be reminded of how blessed we are to have multiple places deserving of the name home.

And I, with each pavement-pounding step, will have a moment to express profound gratitude for a plan beyond what I ever imagined.

Last Sunday, May 15th, marked the one-year anniversary of the day The Husband (then fiance) and I watched the skyline of Manhattan slip away from the window of our plane as we flew south to Atlanta. A lot has happened in a year.

I’ve become a wife, an aunt, an independent contractor (ooh! fancy! or just another word for being paid less?), an Anglophile and whatever the opposite of a Francophile is (two weeks in England and France justify this), and a homeowner. Oh, and a blogger endorsed by one of my favorite authors (HAVE I MENTIONED THAT LATELY?), whom The Husband and I had the pleasure of re-meeting, a year after our initial encounter (when I told her he was my Ethan and she signed my wedding shoes and HAVE I MENTIONED THAT LATELY?). I dragged him to a screening of Something Borrowed (my third, his first) and wouldn’t you know, despite all his good-natured complaining, that his laughter was the loudest? Love that guy. And love that he stuck around with me afterward and posed for a rather girly picture. (And love, since we’re on a roll, that EG now feels like an old friend. Rather than a stalking victim. Score.)

One of the songs played at our wedding in August was the hymn “Come Thou Fount,” which we chose after we heard Sufjan Stevens’ version on the Friday Night Lights soundtrack. A month before the big day, we walked into the Alpharetta Community Center and a worship service that was being kicked off with our song, and we looked at each other and knew we were right where we were supposed to be, church-wise. And life-wise. And I have to admit that on that day, as on the day we said our vows, I let the words here I raise my Ebenezer roll on by without knowing their meaning. Until yesterday, when an article from Relevant popped up in my Facebook newsfeed and left me enlightened. And inspired.

I think about all the changes that define this past year–those mentioned above, along with the day-to-day transformation from a New York existence to a suburban one: deciding whether to hire yard help and have children, planning our Target list according to the week’s non-delivery menu, adjusting to vehicular rather than human traffic. And I find myself, in an echo of the Israelites two thousand years ago, humbled by the countless deliverances that have occurred to get me here. Deliverances from wrong relationships, moments of weakness, bad choices. My constant betrayals of grace that were met not with similar faithlessness but with unwavering devotion. And I want to mark these triumphs of love over imperfection that occur in spite of me more often than with my cooperation. I want to honor these “streams of mercy never ceasing.”

And so I thank.

And I write.

And I try to remember to live this life I’ve been given rather than let it roll on past me without uncovering its ubiquitous enlightenment and inspiration.

And in the thanking and writing and living, I feel my soul begin to cooperate with what it was made for, with who designed it. And so the stones are raised.

This time last year, I was rushing from my apartment in Murray Hill to a boutique in Soho, silently urging my cabbie to step on it as the back of my knees drenched his vinyl seats with sweat. I was headed to a book signing to meet one of my favorite storytellers, Emily Giffin, and The Husband (then fiance) was meeting me there so we could head straight to a benefit afterward, then to the wine bar with friends. (Just typing that sentence from our new home in the suburbs, where a wild night means TWO episodes of Tosh.0 and a vodka tonic, makes me tired. Big tree fall hard.) P.S.–note my red face and chest in the above picture. I was ridiculously nervous (as opposed to my baseline nervous, which is not to be shrugged at), but EG could not have been more gracious in the face of my borderline stalking. She signed my copy of Something Blue along with the “something blue” for my wedding–my shoes–while TH sat patiently nearby, taking pictures and not rolling his eyes.

So it’s rather fitting that this past weekend, exactly a year later, I took my seat in the theater for the movie adaptation of one of Giffin’s books, Something Borrowed. Twice. The Sis and I were booked to see it Sunday afternoon, but with a work-free Friday, I just couldn’t wait. I previewed the movie solo, then confessed this transgression on our way into the theater Sunday. The Sis gasped at my betrayal, then recovered and asked if it was good. And for the next two hours, we passed popcorn and M&Ms back and forth as we watched one of our favorite stories play out on the screen (with minor alterations), gleefully roaring at and repeating to each other the same parts as only our matching personalities can: lines everyone else missed, like “I did” and “That doesn’t sound right.”

In the aftermath of viewing that tale of a happy ending that only came after heartache, The Sis and I went to dinner last night with one of our longtime besties. She had a sparkler on her finger and a wedding in her future, and this cause for celebration was sweetly gratifying for me since we had navigated the treacherous terrains of college and the Manhattan dating scene together. For two years, we shared a shoebox fourth-floor walkup and hungover Saturdays, crazy nights out and greasy diner deliveries, laughter and broken hearts. We had coexisted among the high highs and low lows that only New York can bestow upon and hurl at a Type A, late-twenties girl who is having fun but sure wouldn’t mind losing the losers and finding The One any time now, thank you.

As I watched the movie, and listened to my friend tell her engagement story, I was faced once again with the reality of hard-won happy endings. Of complications along the way, what I used to see as pitfalls and obstacles that stood in between me and happiness–and how I secretly believed that they were red flags warning me that the joyful resolution paired with a catchy song didn’t exist. Not for me. Like Rachel, I had “no real faith in my own happiness.”

And to think, now, that without all of those trenches, I never would have gotten here. And never would have had the heart to truly love, to know The Real Thing when it found me. To feel the profound gratitude I do now, every day. I used to want to be one of those people who skated through life without difficulty or conflict, a person for whom everything came easy. There were plenty of them around me, and they seemed so carefree! My own parents, perhaps like yours, met in college and married at twenty-two, and I thought I would inherit their story like I did their DNA.  Then years went by and my singleness remained–and I realized that my bitterness quotient was about to explode if I didn’t tend to the life I was actually living rather than the one I had planned. As I set about doing just that, I began to see that none of us ever make it through this world without scars, even high school sweethearts. But now I know that there are no good stories without the messy parts. Tales without complications are rarely retold. Pain is one of grace’s greatest disguises, and how thankful I am for the transformation that always comes along with it. (And for the fact that I didn’t marry the guy I was dating at twenty-two or become a mother shortly thereafter…yikes. And amen.)

The Husband and I were looking at prints (or as he would call them, paintings–he calls all wall-hung artwork paintings; I love that guy) online the other day, trying to find a photograph of the New York City skyline for our family room. He asked me to choose between two, both of lower Manhattan: one with the World Trade towers present, and one with the double-light memorial instead. “The lights,” I told him, and he agreed. “That’s our New York.”

I never visited the city before 9/11/01, but I was there six months after to stare at the gaping holes that hatred had left in the ground. I will never know the searing grief felt by family members of the lost, but I have shed my own tears over the destruction. We are, none of us, an island.

When I saw the photographs taken in my home state yesterday–in particular a man holding his injured toddler son in his arms and sobbing–I felt the (in this world, all too familiar) shadow of sadness, of Why?, upon my heart. And there are too few answers for our taste at a time like this, when people are literally picking up the pieces of their lives. And these are the lucky ones. But then I looked at the background of the shots: of rescue workers, neighbors pitching in. Of the same toddler being carried by a different man, likely the father’s friend or relative, because, again: none of us is an island. And sometimes community is brought about in the most tragic of ways, but its beauty cannot be denied. Whenever love and goodwill are exposed, whenever they rise to the surface and push hate out, there is cause for thanksgiving.

My New York skyline was absent two towers, and for those who had been there during and before that great tragedy, they must have looked like gaping holes. But once every year, those holes are filled with light. I don’t know the answer to Why?, and I may not even understand the answer if it were given. Yet. But what I do know–and this I can say from experience–is that there is never rubble without redemption.

This past weekend, The Husband and I decided to venture out of the suburbs and into midtown, specifically Atlantic Station. This little enclave is a planned community of shops, restaurants, and apartments crisscrossed by a grid of streets and all situated around a green area called Central Park. It’s a mini-New York City in the heart of Atlanta, except that there’s no Empire State Building or East River or diagonal strip called Broadway or Naked Cowboy. And the grass in “Central Park” is fake, not to mention about twenty by twenty feet. But there’s a Rosa Mexicano and a huge stadium-seating movie theater, and we’re suckers for both of those, so we went.

After stuffing our faces with chips and fresh guacamole and pouring tequila on top of that divine mixture, we headed into the theater and claimed our seats for the showing of Scream 4. Within seconds, it became apparent that Atlanta’s gay male African American community had joined us for the evening, and I don’t think I have to tell you what a bonus round that was: constant yells at the screen (“Ooh, girl, don’t open that door!”) and commentary (“What is she wearing? That is just sad”) combined to create one of the most entertaining movie experiences I can remember. The last time I saw a Scream installment, a caped marauder wearing the Ghostface mask flew up the aisle as the audience wailed in terror. This screening? SO much better.

And maybe that’s because the older I get, the less tolerant I seem to be of fear-inducing scenarios. In my teens and twenties, I displayed a high threshold for adventure: zip lines, bungee jumping, moving to New York City. Now, I get nervous with a little air turbulence during a flight, and if TH gets stuck in traffic that delays his arrival home, I demand constant updates. During our Fabulousss Movie Night, as the first scene came to life and I heard Ghostface’s familiar voice (one that is remarkably consistent over years and killers, a feat explained in the movie by a reference to the new Ghostface app–naturally), I began to wonder if I could still stomach one of my favorite genres. I hid behind my hand for the first kill but was gently coaxed out with high-pitched, surround-sound laughter. And so I made it through.

A cinematic gore-fest was an unintentional and strange way to kick off Holy Week, but it did leave me a little reflective afterward (then again, what doesn’t?). I thought back fifteen years to when the first Scream opened, when I was a freshman in college. Over the years and sequels that followed, I sat in theaters and squealed with friends and stepped back out into the sunlight to live my life, trying to figure out who I was as I followed the roadmap I had created. I had a plan–along with no idea of what lay ahead.

I’ve always had to be careful about listening to voices–I tend to ascribe too much importance to the wrong ones. My constant prayer used to be, “Thy will be done,” but as soon as I opened my eyes and found there was no list floating down from heaven, I set about constructing my own. I had no patience for the Voice that speaks in stillness and silence. I always had to be doing.

And now, at thirty-three–the year Calvary cast its looming shadow over his final days–I find my life, in many ways, just beginning. A new start and a true love and a real home, all in the past year. All that matters most has been gifted rather than attained. I am more tolerant of stretches of silence, of seeming inactivity, because I know who labors on my behalf and the truth that all his ways are not apparent to me, are not written on a calendar for my approval. More often they are whispers showing up in moments of gratitude, seconds of realization that for me, any shadows are just a “small and passing thing” and can be such only because they were anything but, on the path to that hill. I’ve learned to listen to the only Voice that matters, to recognize it above all the others and know that it is, can only ever perfectly be, what love sounds like.

Over the weekend, some serious roadwork was accomplished without my consent. The area where Abernathy and Johnson Ferry Roads meet has been ablaze with orange cones for awhile now, and I thought they were just adding a couple of lanes. But as the CRV and I chugged along the pavement this morning, I felt an alarm go off in my head when my usual right-hand stoplight turn morphed into a long, lightless curve and I wondered if I had fallen asleep at the wheel. Had I missed the turn? For a couple of slow-motion seconds, I was completely disoriented. Then I looked up at the landmarks I know, the buildings I pass daily–and their presence told me to keep going. And soon enough I was deposited in exactly the right spot, headed north on Johnson Ferry. Right-hand turn no longer necessary.

The thing is, I’ve missed turns before. I’ve had hours added to trips, detours I did not pre-approve and was none too happy about. As a person for whom belief comes naturally–whose journey of faith has looked more like a curve than a turn, who grew up hearing about Jesus, who never suffered outrageous mistreatment at the hands of people who call themselves Christians–God has always been there, whether as a recipient of my praise or misplaced anger. When bad things happened, I always had someone to look to–and blame. Whenever I was diverted from my self-ordained course, whether in my car or in my life, I beat my hands on the steering wheel or clenched my fists and felt the anger rise, the frustration fill, and I looked accusingly at everyone else but in the deepest part of my heart I cursed God. I secretly thought the same of him that so many of my searching counterparts do: that he was Up There, out of touch and uncaring, spinning a wheel and deciding my life and changing my plans, remaining uninvolved Down Here as my heart broke and I crumbled.

The problem was never that I didn’t believe in him; I just couldn’t reconcile the things I heard about him with everything I could see around me.

And then, as the pain grew deeper and the way darker, all the words I heard from others grew more trite. God was letting this happen to test my faith? Great, so he’s Up There watching me, hamster in a cage, stumble through a funhouse of his making just to make me believe more? Or how about this one–that wrapped within every period of suffering is a lesson? So he’s a divine schoolteacher, rapping me on the knuckles so that next time I’ll get the right answer?

The God I heard about in others’ simple answers and quaint cliches sounded like a sadistic jerk. And did nothing to make my heart feel understood, or less alone.

I would do well to remember that: just like I didn’t find him in catchphrases and cure-alls, neither will others. I had to slog through the trenches of life, my hidden corners and dark depths, to know who he really is. To find that there are not always simple answers when it comes to faith. It lies in story, and we each have our own. And the story must be lived.

Last weekend I had some back-and-forth over this topic with one of the dearest people in my life. I thought about what my contribution to the conversation would have looked like six years ago, before my plan fell apart and I found truth in the rubble. It would not have looked like empathy; it would have looked like self-righteousness. It would have held more “This is how it is” moments and less “I don’t know”s. It would have been a list devoid of mystery, not a narrative full of twists.

I inherited a faith passed down through countless generations and mishandled along the way. For so long, I asked no questions of it, just grew more frustrated with my own doubts. I walked blindly down a path of my own making and called it His for years before things came to a head and I realized that the word I was using didn’t mean what I thought it meant–what I called Faith was just Religion, a self-improvement program full of props to make me feel better than other people. The faith I found on the streets of New York, in particular 69th between Park and Lex, quieted my efforts and replaced my pat answers with paradoxical, counter-intuitive truth. True faith will always be, in our own estimation, somewhat blind because the Almighty doesn’t tell us everything yet. But the vision opened to us when we unclench our fists and open our hands is beyond comfort or morals or lessons; it blows self-sufficiency out of the water and releases us from the burden of being our own gods. Not having all the answers is no longer a liability but an invitation into relationship. Into a story.

So many people object to my faith because they have been offended by it or its representatives. I have been offended, too–there are a lot of jerks out there operating under false identities (you can count yours truly among their former ranks).  But the greatest offense was delivered by the Gospel itself, which told me that everything wasn’t about me. And as long as I saw my place as a piece on a chessboard moved around for God’s amusement, I would have remained defiant. Instead, I know I have been written into a narrative of which my story is a tiny but imperative part.

I used to wonder where all the miracles were; why God no longer shows up in parting seas and water turned to wine. My life of religion was me standing in front of a bottle of Poland Spring, waiting for it to turn red if I prayed hard enough. These days I just head straight to Total Wine for my pinot noir, because my life is already full of miracles that only touch my consciousness because my eyes have been opened to see them. Storms that upend my carefully laid plans and in their seeming disorder create beauty beyond what I could have imagined; calm that pervades my soul in the midst of a world gone mad. I don’t have all the answers, but every day I find that what I do have is more than enough.

One of the assets of my job is that it provides me invaluable information about parenting. Mostly, how not to do it. When I have a kid in the chair who attempts to bite, spit at, or disarm me (I speak softly but carry a big drill), all I can think is, If I had ever behaved this way as a kid, and the phantom pain in my butt reminds me of the reward for defiance in our house.

I am thankful for parents who didn’t give me everything I asked for. Sure, at the time, I bemoaned (silently) their refusal to buy the latest toy at the store. They have the money! I’d think (having checked their wallets), outraged that any extra dollars weren’t earmarked for my whims. At no time in my childhood did I operate under the delusion that the world revolved around me. My parents were my parents, not my friends. Which is why, since we’re all adults, we can be friends now. Mostly.

So as I hover over tiny faces that howl when I demand compliance with what is not their preferred activity, I think about the kind of parent I’ll be: loving but firm, kind but not coddling, with a self-esteem that is not dependent on my children liking me and can withstand the slings (I hate you!) and arrows (I wish I’d never been born!) of misplaced anger. Oh yeah, I’m a smartypants who knows all about how to deal with spoiled children.

Which brings us to the irony of my relationship with the Almighty.

Thought he didn’t need my input at the creation of the world or any point in the narrative thereafter, I have assigned myself the role of Consultant to God almost every moment of my life. I do it when I get angry over things not going my way, when I try to alter the unchangeable, when I worry, when I fear. In every second that I am not experiencing pure gratitude (so…almost all of them), I am bellowing my displeasure into God’s ear and not so subtly implying that I could do better.

I need to learn how to drink champagne in the presence of God.

Recently we had some family converge upon our house, and the best way The Sis and I know how to deal with such chaos is to sip on something dehydrating and delicious. I had just rediscovered St. Germain liquer, a lovely springtime add-in, and I mixed us a couple of champagne cocktails with it. As we ignored basketball and enjoyed our beverages, I thought about how I used to consider champagne a solely celebratory drink–how I’d feel silly holding a glass of it in public at anything other than a birthday party or wedding for fear of someone asking me what the occasion was and I’d have to answer, “Tuesday?”

Now I reach for the bubbly because it tastes good and, let’s face it, holding one of those glasses and watching the suds rise lifts me right up with them, whether I’m in a dress and heels or barefoot in jeans, sitting in the freshly- mown backyard (thank you, lawn service), reading Ann and watching The Husband play basketball.

It’s time to drink more champagne, and not just because the weather is warmer and the days are longer. No, it’s time to start celebrating all of life, because he is in it all and even though a situation looks dire does not mean hope has run out. When I reach the end of my reasoning, the end of the answers I can find, I haven’t reached The End. I’ve reached the moment to stop, take a breath, and drink in the possibility that there are simply more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy, even when I secretly consider myself the smartest person in the room. Or the one with the biggest drill.

Last week I accompanied the Bro-in-Law and Niece to her doctor’s appointment. As she was placed on the table, her usually sunny disposition took a nosedive and the tears began to flow. I had worried about this moment, that all my big talk about being firm with kids would crumble in the face of her limited understanding, her lack of comprehension. Her desperate cries.

I found that while my love ran more deeply and surer than ever, I was still helping to hold her down. It was my love, my understanding that surpassed hers, that kept my hands in–yet on–hers. I couldn’t let go, even when, to her, holding on felt inhumane, forceful. I considered all the metaphorical tables I’ve been on in my life and the cries (and anger) I’ve emitted over the years. All the pushing and struggling against where I was headed. Where is that again?

Yesterday I examined a two-year-old, holding him still as he clamored for his mom. I cringed on the inside at the range of reactions that Mom might display, chief among them being, “Are you hurting him?” But she just laughed lightly and held her son’s hand (down) and said, “Sweetie! I’m as close to you as I can be!” And I realized that all my grasping has been a product of disbelief in what I most deeply hope for, even more deeply than My Own Way: the One who holds all power is with me–and for me. And today, as I walked onto our front stoop and saw the cherry blossom trees I didn’t plant, that mirror the one outside my New York City window–multiplied by two–I realized that quiet trust is the only response that fully answers his unfailing love. Gratitude is an opening of the champagne no matter the day, because I know what ultimately waits for me.

Here are the stats: Montgomery, Alabama is where I was born and raised. Birmingham, Alabama is where I received ten years of higher education. New York, New York is where I worked and met my husband.

Here is the story: Montgomery is where I first heard about God. Birmingham is where he allowed me to become utterly broken. And New York is where he put me back together.

I often refer to the Worst Two Years of My Life because I have a flair for the melodramatic and because, well, they were. And they occurred at the end of my time in Birmingham, when I was in a residency to learn how to repair kids’ broken teeth. Meanwhile, my world was crumbling. My friends and little sister were all getting married and having babies and settling down into their grown-up, stable happy endings as I pretended to be a contestant on my own reality show, Let’s See Who Can Make the Worst Decisions. School was a nightmare–the formerly perfect student seemed to be capable of nothing but screwing up. I was seeing a counselor and occasionally, God, but every day I was more overwhelmed with the desire to escape my own life. I considered quitting school, working at Banana Republic for the discount, becoming a carny–anything but what I was doing. I would often drive to a nearby neighborhood, where a church parking lot sat on a cliff overlooking the city, and sit in my car and sob. I don’t remember what my actual prayer was during those tortured moments, but hindsight and honesty tell me now that I was mourning the shattering of my own plan for my life and taking God to task for not saving me from this mess.

I was completely, utterly defeated. And had I not been, New York never would have happened.

When I told people I was moving to Manhattan, they called me brave. But I knew the truth: I was the opposite of brave; I was running. And within months of getting there, I was broke. But I had a date every Sunday night at Hunter College with the Truth, and it had indeed set me free. I was learning that the God of my youth–the Jesus Loves Me (If I Do Everything Right) God–had been misrepresented. I was learning that his love didn’t always look like success (suck it, Joel Osteen. No really–SUCK IT) and smooth sailing; that we had not in fact struck a deal way back when that exchanged my good behavior for his favors. I was learning how much bigger, more terrifying, and better it was to be a part of the narrative of grace and held by scarred hands that I couldn’t control.

Sometimes it looked like standing on the edge of a cliff and walking forward.

Last weekend, The Husband and I drove to Birmingham for a friend’s wedding. We dropped by J and H’s and caught up with them as their son told stories in his new, non-Southern accent and their daughter sucked down yogurt like she was preparing for a competition with Joey Chestnut on Coney Island. Then we checked into our hotel and as I threatened my hair with the curling iron, I heard TH mutter, “You have got to be kidding me.” Turned out he had brought his suit but no dress shirt. A quick call to the front desk sent him on a walk around the corner to a men’s clothing store specializing in overpriced garb. He came home empty-handed and we considered our options: drive to the mall and miss the ceremony, or improvise.

Minutes later, we were headed to the church: I in my purple dress; he in his suit jacket, suit pants, and golf shirt with a tie around the neck.

It was the right choice for a couple of reasons: one, we laughed about it all night and let others in on the joke (the virtue of not taking yourself and your wardrobe too seriously, especially at a Southern wedding, is not to be underestimated); and two, it got us to the ceremony–the first one we’ve witnessed since our own. And as the words were spoken and vows taken, I remembered why we need to hear our own stories over and over. Stories of searching and finding, of building upon rocks and choosing love when other options would be more convenient. We live in a world where lies are easier to believe than the truth, lies like one bite won’t hurt and the grass is always greener and you’re not being taken care of and this is all there is. Lies of faithlessness and ingratitude and arrogance dressed up as ambition and wisdom and self-reliance.

Sometimes, all it takes to reveal the deceit is a story.

Later, at the after-after party, one of my BFs told me that she gets it now, the enmeshment of TH’s and my lives when we got together and gave each other our time even when it meant forsaking all others. She gets it because she has reached that part of her own story, and I love it when my happy ending  is joined by a friend’s and there are new beginnings and the stories continue (and maybe, just a little, when validation occurs). I love it that I took TH to my former cliff and in a place where so much misery was poured out, I was able to look up, dry-eyed and joyful, and acknowledge the one who wrote the story, who carried me on waves of grace that refused to let up until they led me home.