Walks With Rory

My darling girl. How has it been a year? A year since my heart was ripped out. Only to be ripped out again in February when my dad died. So much loss. I have seen so much goodness and provision from God amongst the grief. But gosh, I miss being your mom. I sat looking at your pictures tonight, gazing into your sweet face, remembering taking you to all the places. The vet visits for acupuncture or laser treatments. The trips to the pet store afterwards for treats and to find more food options for you. The years of searching for foods you would actually eat that I could feel okay serving you. The batches of organs I prepared, stinking to high heaven, to include in your homemade meals that I lovingly made you for years.

The walks. Oh, all our walks. Me and you baby girl. We walked everywhere. I miss you sniffing. I miss you chasing squirrels. I miss you disappearing in the ferns. The jingle of your necklace. Your pink harness. The scent of the shampoo while bathing you. The mounds of fur that would pile in the bathtub. The trips to you get your nails. Your teeth cleaned. How you always knew where Nama lived and could lead us to her apartment. Picking you up after we would be gone on a trip and you would run around crazy and bark at us, giving a proper scolding about how could we leave you like that. The gifts you gave every time we came home from work. Toys. Paper towels. Root beer bottles. Anything you could find lying about, you would offer to us.

How you would smoosh your head into my face for more kisses. The sweet little sighs when I would pet you and sing to you. How you would tap us when we stopped petting you, insistent on more. Drinking out of our water glasses. That you would eventually only drink out of glass. And only filtered waters. Preferably with ice. You loved cauliflower and spaghetti squash. And the gluten free blueberry muffins. And the cinnamon “crack” cake.

How you paid no mind when people showed up at our house. Glancing over but quickly dismissing their presence. Unless it was Nama. How you liked to sleep across the bed width wise, no mind to where me or your dad would go. Your routine every time we arrived at a hotel. You refused to go potty until you had gone into the room and inspected it. Then you would go out. And come back in and hop on the bed and rearrange all the pillows and blankets until you were comfy. You hated the car. But you never wanted to be left at home. Which was evident by the number of sets of window blinds you ate to try to get to us. You were ridiculously smart. Cleverly devising ways to get me up out of my seat, to either steal the seat yourself and make me give you a treat.

You were a joy, my darling. Pure joy. The best dog. An irreplaceable dog. And I desperately miss being your mom.

Lake Crescent. We drove around the whole Olympic Peninsula today. It’s nice when it’s just your backyard because there is no hurry or rush to see everything. We can meander and see the random things because we can always come back tomorrow. We stopped at Lake Crescent – our favorite lake ever. Today was the first time we have ever been there without Rory. I am not sure I can count the times we have driven up – to explore, to walk, to paddle. We’ve brought John’s parents, our niece, my mom and aunt – and always Rory in tow. It was where we discovered that she knew how to swim when she jumped out of the kayak in attempt to quickly dog paddle herself back to land. Just the thought makes me laugh out loud.

We often moseyed through the meadow with its tall trees and long grass that was full of little flowers. Back and forth to haul our kayaks and picnic gear. The view from the side of the lake next to the meadow is breath taking. The lake folds into the mountains and clouds often hang in the cleft. The water is multiple shades of green and blue and so clear you can see every rock. Due to low nitrogen levels in the water, there isn’t much algae so the water is gorgeous.

Dogs aren’t supposed to be on the trail between the meadow and the lodge but we always took her anyway. Soft trails with lots of ferns. Her favorite. We adventured around the lake in the snow one winter. The lodge was closed and no one was really around. It was such an experience to see everything draped in white. Rory never minded these crazy adventures.

Today we arrived without our girl in tow. It was a beautiful day. Some sun with random clouds that sprinkled droplets from time to time. The forget-me-nots were in full bloom. Everywhere. I was not expecting the flood of grief upon arrival. Seeing her everywhere. The fresh Spring ferns surrounded by thick patches of the friendly little purple flowers. I wept. My obsession with Forget-me-nots started from the Outlander book series by Diana Gabaldon. We’re still waiting to know who planted them for Claire to find at the standing stones. But over the years, as I search them out in the month of May, I have come to see her in the forget-me-nots. They grow wild at Scenic Beach State Park too (see Chapter 1) and I was endlessly trying to pose her in the Outlander flowers. She would never cooperate but they make me think of her now. Jamie Frasier and Rory. 

We walked the paths from the lodge to the meadow and sat where we always sit at the edge of the lake and stared out. I have no idea how we were alone on such a beautiful day, but I am glad we were. It was a good place to mourn. To cry. To remember. I’ll never forget you sweet girl.

My darling Rory. It’s the first day of the new year. I am trying to fall asleep but either the stress of the day or the game I was playing on my phone just before bed has me too stimulated to sleep. The stress of course being family. I feel like I’ve reached a weird phase in life where I see the toxic patterns & unmet needs and it upsets me. As I lay here, I run through all the hard parts, sad bits, and hurtful people that have left me living feeling rejected, assumingely unwanted and full of shame for my existence. You know, all the things that you get to tell to a therapist to explain why you’re there. This, of course, invariably leads to thinking about my (our) failure to own a home that has left us moving every few years and me throwing out so many of my belongings that won’t fit in the next pod/van/etc. I start to wonder if I should prepare again by getting rid of the rugs rolled up on the closet. The rugs we bought for you. To prevent you from slipping and sliding as you haphazardly tore around through the house on a wild adventure of pure joy. I think of you waltzing into the kitchen, stopping on the rug and looking at me to see if I have any food to offer. You’re old in this memory. I immediately think of August 17^th and of you dying in my arms. My heart breaks again. I so wish I had reason to roll out those rugs again for you and to have you back zooming around the house. I miss your companionship. The house still just feels wrong. Sigh. Now I am definitely not falling asleep as tears roll down my face and I wonder about all the things I don’t understand about life.

This year, Lord willing, I hope to try to change/heal/improve some of my thought patterns stemming from my past. I wish you were here to process with me, to listen, to comfort as you instinctually just knew how to do. For tonight though, I will dry my tears and remember that I am already unconditionally loved by both your dad and my heavenly Father, my value and worth determined by Him who gave His life for me and that I can obtain no higher status than I already have as one of Christ’s own.

The first October after we moved to Washington, we decided to take a road trip south to visit a famous short family’s pumpkin farm. On our way home in the early afternoon we searched the map for a park to take Rory out for a walk. We were in Felida, which is in the southern part of Washington and we had just eaten the best gluten free Cubano sandwich either of us had ever had. We came across Whipple Creek Regional Park and decided to check it out. Like most parks in the PNW, it’s forested land with a series of trails winding through.

Whipple Creek just had a unique essence to it. Mysterious maybe. Beautiful of course. The leaves had been changing colors for weeks, so oranges, yellows and reds were strewn through the branches from the ground surging up hundreds of feet. Many trees already given up their foliage for the year, creating dark shadow like figures through the forest. It had not yet rained much, so the trails were now filled with a crisp colorful patchwork of leaves. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The glorious satisfaction of the leaves crackling underfoot. The light autumn breeze would occasionally pick up creating a flutter of twinkling leaves in the sunlight.

As we meandered through the park, enjoying the sights and sounds of a new place, something seemed to catch Rory’s attention. We never saw any squirrels or rabbits along the way, but maybe she caught a scent of the something on the wind. Or maybe she was also caught up in the spooky sense of awe and wonder in this perfect Halloween like setting as she started to take off running down the path. I let John chase behind her and the fully extended leash. After they disappeared around a turn, I could still hear them galloping through the leaves and then Rory started to bay. She howled her deep beagle “baroo” as she made her way through the forest. Over and over again. I laughed, enjoying this new wild instinct in my girl. I paused in a spot where paths crossed to wait for them and on a trail slightly below, I could see a group of teen girls passing by. Talking, laughing and probably wondering about the howling animal running through the forest. And they were dressed as witches. A pre-Halloween costume walk perhaps? It just added to the eerie effect of the autumn woods.

When John, Rory and I finally reconnected, we tried to make sense of this new phenomena. The best we could come up with is the call of the wild. After moving to the PNW, all these new senses seemed to awaken in Rory. More adventure. More freedom. More alive. It was a joy and a gift to get to watch her experience it all. This walk with Rory will forever remain my favorite fall memory.

We had no idea Rory was deaf or partially deaf until someone asked us if she was. Wait, what? How could she have lost her hearing and we didn’t notice? After this person pointed it out, we spent weeks coming up with random ways to test her hearing. We still were unsure. It definitely seemed like she had diminished hearing but was it actual deafness or just selective hearing? She’s a beagle after all. They are not compliant and do what they want. We asked the vet and he did a few basic tests as well and he seemed to think it was probably both.

It was probably a year later before we realized it could have been the ear drops she had received for a really nasty ear infection she had the previous winter. It was a resistant bacterial strain, so they gave her something strong. I hadn’t questioned it at the time but now I wish I had read all the inserts because hearing loss was a side effect. Not that it would have changed anything because we also couldn’t leave her with a nasty ear infection. Regardless, once we knew she couldn’t hear us, things were just different. It was sad knowing she didn’t know when I was talking to her, calling her one of her many nicknames or singing her lullaby’s that she often fell asleep to. Some say they still feel the vibrations of the familiar words and songs but I missed that tender part of our relationship.

At the time we discovered Rory had lost her hearing, we were staying with a family member. We had put our belongings in storage and went to help with a few family matters in another state. We had been contemplating staying in this state to be near family and buying a new home. We got involved at a local church and joined a small group. Our small group felt like what church family should be – warm, genuine and safe enough to share your struggles and receive truth in love. We monitored the new home build that was continuously delayed and travelled to other states nearby to try to offset some of the stress that comes with living with another family. All the while, mourning the loss of living in Washington, where we had dreamed of the being for so long.

Unfortunately, after the holidays, there was a falling out with those we were staying with. To preserve relationship, which has been reconciled (Praise God), I don’t want to go into all the details, but the event left me having heard the cruelest things I’ve ever been told in my life and left us without a place to live. We still had a couple months on the home build. We couldn’t really afford to rent anything or drain our savings before we bought a home. As we packed up our immediate needs, I called my small group and asked for the suggestion of a decent local hotel. After a few texts among them, we were told that one of the single girls in our small group would go stay at another’s house and we could stay in her townhouse so we weren’t just in a cold hotel room after this event. It was also arranged that our church family would come pack us up the next day and get our belongings to a storage unit.

The three of us were warmly welcomed into her townhouse and told to make ourselves at home. It’s a good thing Rory had travelled with us so much, so this shifting of where we slept probably wasn’t a surprise to her. We got settled and I cried over what happened. It was probably the one of the worst days of my life and we had no idea what the future would now hold. Yet as we tucked ourselves into bed that night, I had never felt so wrapped in God’s loving kindness and care. It felt like I was physically held in His arms. God clearly knew we would need these exact people, who truly lived out being the hands and feet of Christ, offering their homes, time and care.

Lying there, I randomly started saying Rory’s name in a super high pitch voice. Apparently, I hit the right tone because she heard me. Even she was shocked by it. I am sure it was confusing for her to hear her name after so many months of potentially nothing. She looked me at with what could only be construed as pure joy. She got up from the end of the bed and laid down right on my chest and fell asleep. She had never done this before! And I was in pure bliss – she had heard my voice and she was sleeping on me!

That night, despite all that was wrong and crumbling around me, I was not afraid of the future.

“So we can confidently say, “The Lord is my helper; I will not fear; what can man do to me?”” Hebrews 13:6

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Grief. I am new to grief. At least the grief from losing a loved one. I could write a book on losing hopes and dreams but I’ll save that for another chapter. Before I was a stay-at-home dog mom, we would drive to the beach in Ventura after work to get space from the nuances of corporate life. Walking in the sand and the water grounded me in more ways than one. Some days the tides would be right where I thought they should be. Plenty of beach to relax without getting wet but the shore close enough to splash in. Some days the tide was hundreds of meters out and you had to walk quite far in the thinly wet sand to finally reach the roll of the water. Yet other days the tide was so high there was no beach and you would get sprayed by the waves just standing on the jetty. The water was deep and there was no playing around. In the last six weeks, this is how I have come to see grief. Most of the time it’s just there. Sadness, mourning and tears mixed with functionality, peace and gratefulness for the way it happened. In some moments it is like the thinly wet sand, where it takes a long walk through memories and physical remembrances to get to the tears. Yet other moments, the grief feels so deep that any little thing can unleash the tears and leave you feeling like you may drown in sorrow.

Rory hated the water. When she was young, she would run along the shore chasing birds. As she got older, she avoided it like the plague. She would stubbornly walk through the sand only because she was attached to a leash. She would not even tiptoe near the water and would attempt to pull us back to the trails or parking lots. One Summer we took her to a beach where dogs were allowed off leash. We thought this would be great fun for her. Freedom to frolic as she pleased. There was nowhere for her to run off to, the beach was down a staircase with tall cliffs running parallel to the shore. But our girl wanted none of it. She proceeded to run to the cliff and climb up it. Like a mountain goat. Anything to escape the shore. Some days she would acquiesce and just sit on a towel with a scowl or facing the wrong direction. For some reason though, when we moved to Washington, her interactions with water changed. She would go out in the rain, stomp through puddles and dig where the water meets the sand. She would tolerate rides on the kayak but if she could see shore, she would try to hop out and swim on her own. We didn’t even know she could swim. Was it the maturity of an aging dog? Was it her new found “call of the wild” attitude she seemed to embrace in the outdoor landscapes of Washington? Something else entirely? We’ll never know.

Will grief change like this over time? Will the tides ebb and flow into more predictability? Will it shift away from something that sometimes hurts so bad I wish I could physically rip it off of me? Will I someday be able to sail with the grief, jump off and swim through it to the shore without the fear of drowning? I hope so.

Unfortunately, grief is part of the human experience, due to the fall in the garden. If you love any living being, there will be grief. Even Jesus in his humanity wept at the death of a friend. And he knew he was going to raise his friend to life again (John 11). Luckily, Christ also overcame the world. I believe this means grief does not have to destroy us. If you are in Christ, you can have the assurance that He is using the loss and grief for your good (to shape you more like Himself) and his glory (Romans 8:28). It can hurt. We can feel sad and cry. We can be overwhelmed. But at the end of the day, He is our shepherd, our potter, our strength and our comfort. And that is the hope we can rest in. Even if I am never able to swim in the rising tides of grief without falling apart, I know I can look to a day when I can. Maranatha!

“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” Revelation 21:3-4

Most stories probably begin at the beginning, but here we are starting at the end. Rory was my heart dog. Our heart dog. She was equally bonded to both me and my husband John. Our favorite activity together was walking. Walking trails, walking beaches, walking sidewalks, walking neighborhoods – you name it, we’ve walked it. The walks have looked different in different seasons of life. Which is what makes relationships with our dogs so significant. “A beloved dog walks with us through the wars that assail us”. I recently came across this quote by New Testament Professor, Robert Yarbrough and I was just struck by how fitting it was considering my ponderings the past few years about my walks with Rory. I started the Instagram profile WalksWIthRory in a different season a few years ago, but it really helped me treasure the walks with my dog and see the love and mercy of God throughout the story of my life. My final two walks with Rory weren’t the most breathtaking or the most adventurous, but they were precious and truly filled with God’s mercy and grace. 

Rory turned sixteen on June 9. Her health problems had started a few months prior. We had known markers in her blood work were not good the previous summer. Multiple scans over the months didn’t provide any clear indication of what was going on. In April, her symptoms became noticeable so we did some more bloodwork but the vet didn’t really have a grasp on it. Her vet office kind of shifted us around and we no longer saw the more experienced vet who knew her and we were dumped with a young gal who did not know her.  Around that time we started seeing a vet closer to home who could do the acupuncture and laser treatments for her arthritic back. At the first appointment she told me Rory either had dementia or a brain tumor or possibly both. She likely had around six months left. Maybe a year. We started her on some new supplements and they seemed to help until they didn’t. Her pacing increased. She had trouble settling and John had to cradle her to get her to fall asleep once she was exhausted from pacing. She walked but at some point she just seemed to zone out and power walk through the rest. I could barely keep up with my old dog who had gone so slow sniffing everything for 16 years.

By August the house was becoming doggy dementia secure. Gates, blankets and boxes blocked off stairs, railings, corners and appliances so she wouldn’t fall, crash or get stuck too often. Unfortunately, like a toddler, the one day at the one moment, they will find the one thing that they shouldn’t. The blankets covering the railing above the stairwell had inched over just enough for her to see the railing, I guess. I had just left to run a few errands. I called home to see if we needed more of this or that. The phone went quiet and my husband says, “Come home now, she’s hurt.” She needs to go in. I panicked. I sent my closest friends and family a quick text, Pray for Rory. There was no time for details. Before I got on the road again, I mapped the closest emergency vet and started calling. Vets and ER vets are hard to see nowadays. Apparently, there are none left since Covid. Yay. I race the few minutes home and run inside, with instructions that we can bring her into this ER vet nearby and they can triage her. It could then be a 4-6 hour wait if she needs anything. Only when I got inside, she looked okay. I mean she was alive and not bleeding. John explained she went through the railing and fell the 4.5 feet to the platform between the floors. The way she was splayed out, he thought she broke her neck. But somehow, in the those few minutes before I got home, she got up by herself. We rushed her to the ER vet and they took her back. We were both afraid this would be it. Eventually they called us back to a little conference room. I was beside myself. But they brought her into us. Said she appears to be fine. Nothing was broken but she may be sore from the fall. The very nice vet asked some questions about her issues (maybe it’s a brain tumor) and very kindly offered the advice that it was okay if we think it’s time to put her down. But we weren’t there. Our dog just lived. We took Rory and her pain meds home. Such began the last week.

Two days later we had a scheduled visit with her physical therapy vet and we discussed what had happened. “I think it’s time,” she said. But. But. But she’s walking and eating, I pleaded. She said she has to eat to live. She then asked what it would take for me to feel like it’s time. She kindly lasered Rory’s back and all over her neck where she landed. We left with things to think about. Saturday night was hard. She paced all night. At one point she stopped along her circle route and put her head in my hands. It truly felt like she was saying, “Mom, please make it stop”. I cried and cried. On Monday morning we had an appointment with her regular vet to talk about treatment options. They pretty much said it’s time and we can give her some meds to help everyone get some sleep but it’s time to make a plan for the end.

As we drove home, we were faced with the question of how do you make this decision? How do you decide when? We stopped at the grocery store and I could barely get through the store. I wanted to cry, scream, wail. I wanted to be wearing black and for everyone to know I was mourning for my precious puppy. So many feelings. Bargaining. Anger. Denial. Crying out to God. How was this real? How have we reached the end? We spent the afternoon watching her and sizing up the situation. The vet suggested trying the meds for a week. It wasn’t going to fix anything though. Could we make this decision? I scoured the dog dementia Facebook group for the millionth time. Buried in a comment thread someone posted an article called “The Good Death”, written by Dr. Mel Newton, a country vet who has provided end of life care for all kinds of animals. I read the article out loud to John. We were both in tears. We both knew what we had to do. This article flipped the question from “how do I know when it’s time?” to “what are you waiting for?”.

I picked up the phone and dialed the numbers to the local vet who provides at home end-of-life services. I could barely speak the words. I started crying immediately. The receptionist was so, so kind. She has clearly received this phone call many times before. She told me to breathe. That she needed me to get oxygen. She was kind and patient as I forced the words to form. “We have appointments available Wednesday or Thursday afternoon”, she replied. My mind tried to lay out the week. Two days or three days left with my dog? Wednesday? I have responsibilities. Thursday? I guess it’s Thursday. She said I could take the evening and talk to my husband. We cried more tears as we let this take shape in our brains and hearts. I didn’t want to lose the appointment and wait another week for her to struggle further. They close at 6pm. At 5:59, I dialed the number again. “I am sorry to call so late. I know you want to go home”. The kind voice told me to not apologize at all. That they were happy to help me and take as long as we need. We went through the details. Then I asked for the out option. What is the cancellation policy, just in case there is a miracle? “The morning of, we will call to confirm. There is no charge to cancel for end-of-life services.” I had my out and thus began the timer to the end.

Walks. Snuggles. Lots of filet mignon. Love. Kisses. Tears. Fears. Grief. Lamenting. Those days are a blur. I got a text from a friend back home in CA. They were in Washington and hoping to see us on Friday. Not just any friends but two of the most loving people I have ever met in my life. And somehow God placed them in WA the week that was going to be my hardest ever. I was honest and wasn’t sure I would be up to company, but just the idea that God had put them in close proximity gave me so much peace. On Wednesday morning I went to volunteer at CareNet, a pregnancy resource clinic, like I always do. I wanted to be around people and I knew these ladies loved their animals too. We sat around the table and shared stories and grief. We were all in tears. We all prayed together.  I left wrapped in love.

Wednesday night we drove to our favorite state park, Scenic Beach in Seabeck. It was our routine. We love the trails and the views. Rory loved the ferns and digging on the beach. While this time was just a walk and probably more for us than her, it was good to do one last time. We sat on the porch in rockers and watched her look out over the ocean through the railing. I snapped a quick picture to remember. At some point I panicked because the next day I was going to have to tell everyone that my beloved dog was gone. I had no words. I had nothing to say. No story. No clever epitaph. There was nothing. But God heard that cry of my heart. As we rounded a corner, a women came up to us and asked if Rory was a beagle. “Yes”, I replied. She then asked if she was a puppy. I laughed. My 16-year-old girl, the night before her death and I am being asked if she was a puppy. My heart leapt because all of the sudden I had something to say. This was Rory. Everyone has always asked if she was a puppy. People with their old looking beagles asking how young she was, only to reply that she as 3-5 years older than their dog. We always laughed at their astonishment. Why would tonight be any different?

Thursday was long day of waiting. What do you all day in anticipation of the worst moment of your life? Well, we walked. We walked at our favorite park. We took multiple laps because we didn’t want it to end. She sniffed in the ferns. (Thank you, Lord, for giving her that moment – for me.) She napped at home. She was held. We cried. I prepared. Pictures were spread out. The page in my Every Moment Holy liturgy book was flagged. Piles of bacon were cooked. We weren’t sure where we should do it. Over the years I had imagined she would be in our bed with both of us next to her. Kissing her and whispering to her all the things we’ve whispered to her over the last sixteen years. But that wasn’t reality anymore. She didn’t get on the bed now. She was deaf. Her mind wasn’t fully there. So we were just in the living room and completely unsure of how it would happen. The doorbell rang. Oh gosh, here we are.

Peace. Peace as only God can bring it. “She’s ready”, the vet said as soon as she saw her. The vet has been doing this service for over 13 years and she said she can always tell. We chatted and she watched Rory circle around. “Brain cancer”, she said, “that’s not just dementia”. Peace. There was nothing more we could try that would change anything. And nothing I could have done that would have changed it. Peace and relief washed over me. We fed her as much bacon as she wanted as the first shot of sedatives were given. She was in my lap when they started to kick in and she began to slump into me. “I guess we’re doing it here”, I said. And in that moment, I knew there was truly no better place for it to happen. As she fell asleep (just sleep), I held her in my arms and kissed her. I whispered all the things that I’ve always whispered to her. I could feel the weight of pain and disease lift off her body.  She felt like young Rory again. Relief from the tightness of old age. Soft and relaxed. She laid on me for quite some time as we cried and reminisced.

As the final shot was administered, we read and prayed the liturgy for losing a pet. “Here was your good creature, O Lord, pondered and called to life by your own compassionate design… our hearts are unprepared for such loss and we are deeply grieved… We are thankful for the many blessings of knowing this creature and for the lingering imprint of such a cherished presence in our lives… now we say goodbye… O Lord, how long till all is made right?… for what we feel in this loss in nothing less than the groan of all creation… You are merciful and loving, gentle and compassionate, caring tenderly for all that you have made… so that even our sorrow at the loss of this beloved creature will somehow, someday be met and filled, and, in joy, made forever complete…”. We handed our girl and our broken hearts back to the Creator and tried to bring Him glory in the hardest of places.

I hung on to her and we kissed her as she lay limp in my arms, eventually resting her on a blanket. I laid next to her and kissed her like I always had. We wrapped her up and as the vet picked her up to carry her out, her beautiful big ear flopped out of the blanket. I rushed to it and kissed it over and over again and tucked it back in.

This death was a truly beautiful experience. I am so grateful to God for allowing it to be like this, intentional and enveloped in love, and not after the tragic stairwell accident. My heart is forever in awe of His goodness, His kindness and His compassion.

RORY ILENE 6/9/07-8/17/23