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The Laughing Child

Olga May Cowling

Dear Nanna,

I started writing this letter to you about two weeks ago. I expected that I would have had a chance to send it to you and that you may have read it before you passed away. I never finished the letter, and you never had the chance to read it. But I decided to finish it anyway.

I wanted to write you a letter to say thank you. In reality, the exceptionally long list of things to thank you for would probably be too much for one letter, but I’ll see how I go.

Nanna, I want to thank you for all the little things that you have added to my life and to the lives of your family, these small snippets of your expression of your love for us. The countless birthday cards sent every year without fail, the coco-pops you kept in your cupboard just for us, the phone-calls, the letters, the games of trouble and of course, the gift of toothpaste at Christmas.

I want to thank you for your humour, your laughter and the way you loved people. Thank you for teaching me to value relationships and that worldly success or having lots of money are not the most valuable things in life. Thank you for rejoicing with us in the small things, a new job, or when we got our driver’s licence.

Thank you for your example of Godly faithfulness. My partners often told me that you had a difficult life. They told me that times were tough and you had lived through may hard and painful experiences. But through these many years, you endured and you taught us that God is the sustainer of life, and that He is big enough to carry us through anything. I loved your quiet confidence in Him.

Most of all Nanna, I want to thank you for showing us who Jesus is. My father (your son) is a great man of God, and I attribute much of that to you, I attribute that to the way you have mirrored to all of your children faithfulness and strength.

I feel sad that my future husband and children will never meet you but I would like to think that the example you have given to my family and I will, in at lease a small way, give them a glimpse of who you were.

I know that this letter doesn’t do justice to the remarkable woman that you were and doesn’t express my gratitude to any measure that would be adequate. But at least know that you were so very loved by all your children and their families. The hole that you left in our family, can be filled by no-one.

I am grateful that God has taken you now. I am glad that you have been re-united with Pa, the man that you loved and lived without for 19 years. And I can imagine you dancing with Jesus with an indescribable joy and just being glad that it’s all over.

Much love, always,

From Lisa, your youngest grandchild

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posted: June 25th • 9:58
3,278 notes
posted: June 21st • 9:33
289,288 notes
The Centre.

Jesus, be the centre
Be my hope, be my song

Be the fire in my heart
Be the wind in these sails
Be the reason that I live
Jesus, Jesus

Jesus, be my vision 
Be my path, be my guide

Be my source, be my light


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More or less.

More of You, less of me.

More of You, less of them,

More of You, less of this.

More of You, less of that.

More of You, less of me.

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posted: May 13th • 8:03
14,373 notes
posted: May 13th • 8:01
8,625 notes
God is within her, she will not fall; God will help her at break of day.

— Psalm 46:5

(Source: lovelyydarkanddeep)

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posted: May 13th • 7:56
637,441 notes

Tonight I come home and this house has a peculiar aura. Almost as if pieces of you are slowly fading away into some dark place I wouldn’t even find familiar anymore. No, I can’t say slowly, because it is perhaps anything but slow. The remnants of you are disappearing at a rapid pace.

At first I think I was hurt and angry and hoped that the fading would stop. It didn’t, and now I think perhaps I’m glad. I think I want you to go. I think I’m at peace with the fact that your memory in this house is fading to nothing, to no one. 

Just get out, I can’t take this anymore. 

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