I held the hand of a mother whose daughter had passed away.
I held the hand of a mother in grief.
I held the hand of a mother who could not forgive herself for not seeing her daughter’s pain.
And I spoke to her about my journey of forgiving myself.
That it took thirty years for me to forgive myself.
To be brave enough to write my book Belonging.
That I had to be whole in order to find peace.
That I could only write from peace.
A peace that passes all understanding.
A peace that surpasses words.
A peace that is frequency.
A peace that is the energy of love.
And I saw something shift in her soul.
Something shifted in her body.
I told her that her daughter had been an angel.
That was the truth.
Everyone loved her.
There was not a person who did not love her.
She was Courage.
She was strong and kind.
Sensitive and soulful.
Deeply connected to a well, a source of infinite wisdom.
An “old soul”.
I spoke with her not to her.
My daily conversations with God.
When I regularly err in judgement.
Often with the best intentions.
But causing discomfort, causing others anguish.
Unintended but painful realisation of my actions.
I held her hand, and I asked her if God would want her to forgive herself.
To live in peace.
The peace that passes all understanding.
The peace that knows no words.
I saw something shift in her body.
A glimmer of grief lifted.
The peace of frequency.
The peace of faith.
Forgiveness Articulated In Trust and Hope.
I felt in that moment, so humbled
Such reverence for this path I had somehow been guided to walk
The gift of living
The gift of Grace.
Thank you for tribing with me