Thom Garrett these tales of Grace destroy me every, single time. Just turn me into a blubbering pile of mush and feelings and outrage and gratitude and hope and sometimes I think I can’t be a blubbering pile of mush right now and I try not to open one up but then I think if she could so live up to her name in the face of such upheaval and have such strength facing her own mortality, and if you could walk that walk with her without closing off bits of yourself in protection and then honor her memory in such a lovely way, still all the way open — because it’s clear that you are still open — well, then I can damned well let a little bit of your light in here, and let it make me feel stuff that’s sad and painful and hard to feel. Because what it makes me feel is not even a drop into your bucket of feels and you insist upon feeling every one.
You make her so proud. I know you do.