Through the Fog with Love

We Know Each Other By Heart

Category: Walking with Faith

  • Asking, When I’d Rather Give



    Sometimes the most difficult thing isn’t the caregiving — it’s asking for help. This post is for anyone learning to ask, not because they want to, but because they have to.
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    I’ve always preferred to give.

    It’s in my DNA , in the way I was raised, in how I live, and how I love. I like to show up with something in hand: a cake, a meal, a warm gesture, a practical solution. I like being the one who helps, not the one who needs help.

    But life, as it so often does, has asked me to grow in ways I never expected.

    These days, I spend my late nights doing the quiet work when he is finally asleep and I can catch my breath. That’s when I research, think clearly, and write. I study government websites, read between the lines of policy documents, and craft careful emails — because someone I love depends on me. And even though I don’t like asking, I do it. Because I must.

    That doesn’t mean it’s easy. It can feel humbling. It can feel exposing. But it has also been an invitation to courage.

    You see, navigating the system isn’t just about ticking boxes. It’s about learning a whole new language , the right words, the right framing, the right timing. It’s listening carefully not only to what’s said, but to what’s not. It’s knowing that help exists, but often hides behind unclear forms and closed doors.

    So I’ve made it my quiet mission to learn how to open those doors. Not just for us, but perhaps, one day, for others too.

    And even in the hardest moments, I’ve been met with goodness. With neighbours who just show up. With friends who don’t ask what I need, but simply do. With practical kindness that arrives without fanfare. With the community that rose for me when I needed it most.

    That’s the part I hold on to when things feel heavy. The deep reminder that I’m not alone in this. That grace is often tucked into the smallest acts — a message, a meal, a shared silence.

    I’m learning, too, that asking isn’t weakness. It’s strength wrapped in vulnerability. It’s the quiet bravery of someone who refuses to give up.

    So yes — I’ll keep writing those emails. I’ll keep staying up late and chasing clarity in a system not designed for ease.

    Because there’s a kind of hope that lives in persistence. And because love makes you braver than you ever thought you could be.

  • Graces in the In-Between

    When my husband went missing, I was terrified. I searched the streets he’d wandered before, willing myself not to cry. He was only gone for an hour but it felt like forever. I didn’t keep him safe that day… but the community did.

    And then, something remarkable happened.

    In the hours and days that followed, grace arrived quietly, again and again.

    Friends and strangers rallied. Messages came through — kind, thoughtful, immediate.

    Soup was delivered by a neighbour we didn’t even know. Flowers arrived, unannounced. A friend from afar left a bag of fruits on the front step, tucked gently beside the “Welcome” mat. Brunch was brought over by friends — shared over stories, with extras that lasted us for days.

    And then there were the offers. People I didn’t even know reached out — offering to sit with him so I could take a breather. Some just said, “If you ever want to chat, I’m here.” A few left their mobile numbers, saying, “If you ever need help, please call.”

    And then my neighbour — always steady — quietly built a ramp at our front door. No fanfare. Just love, measured in timber and care.

    A ramp built quietly by a neighbour — a small slope, a lighter step, a path made easier.

    A ramp built quietly by Paul, our neighbour — a small slope, a lighter step, a path made easier.

    Now when I open the door, I see it: a path made easier, a way made safer, a gesture that carries more than its weight

    That ramp has become a symbol to me — not just of practicality, but of what happens when people decide to show up. To see you.
    To hold what you’re holding, even if only for a moment.
    To make the ground a little less steep.

    His condition will only progress. There is no reversing the journey we’re on. But in the in-between — the spaces between heartbreak and resolve — these moments of kindness come.

    They are the graces that find me.

    Not dramatic. Not loud. But thoughtful. Precise. Timely.
    The kind of grace that says , “You are not alone.”

    To everyone who reached out, dropped off, built, called, texted, or simply stood beside us — thank you. You were grace in the shape of people.

    And may little graces find you, too, in all the in-between moments that life quietly asks us to endure.

  • Faith Carries Me Through

    There are days when simply making it to nightfall feels like a quiet triumph. Days when I find myself at the edge of exhaustion—worn down by the constant demands of caring for my husband whose world is slowly unravelling. As his dementia deepens, so too do the challenges. And yet, in the quietest, most difficult moments, the vows I once spoke— for better or worse, in sickness and in health — don’t fade into memory. They rise within me, steady and clear, asking to be lived out once more.

    I don’t always have the strength. Truthfully, there are moments I want to stop, to step away from the weight of it all. But I never truly can, because something greater keeps lifting me.

    That something is God. It is not my own willpower that keeps me going—it is grace. God meets me at the edge of my endurance and gently carries me further. When I’m overwhelmed and feel as though I can’t take another step, He becomes my strength. When I am lost in the fog of weariness and worry, He reminds me that I am not walking alone.

    I’ve always known, deep down, that I’m not here just for myself. That life was never meant to be lived only inward. Love — especially the kind that stays through hardship — asks me to give, to bend, to hold on. It’s not about grand gestures. It’s in the quiet, daily choosing to show up. And sometimes, when I’m sitting with the weight of it all, I think of that verse—”Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for a friend.” Not as something I strive for, but as something I’ve come to live in my own quiet way.

    These vows I honour are no longer just about marriage—they have become a sacred calling. Each day I choose to love, not out of obligation, but because of the grace I receive. I cry, I stumble, I grow tired. But then something quiet rises within me again: a stillness, a strength, a whisper from God that says, “You are not alone.”

    And so I carry on. Not because I always feel strong. But because I believe—deeply, humbly—that God walks with me. He holds me up when I can no longer stand. God is beside me, every step of the way.