This has been my prayer journal/notebook since May 11, 2021, It only has about 18 blank pages left inside. But it's beautiful to me.
I know that I started it on May 11th, three years ago, because I remember when I got it. It was a Tuesday. I was going through something really rough in my life at the moment... a storm that I couldn't even specifically identify, but God could. And He did shortly afterwards.
I was confused. Hurting. I still wasn't driving very far because I hadn't fully surrendered that fear over to the Lord yet. But there's a park about a mile from our house. And a CVS on the way.
So I stopped at the CVS, remembering that I had a $10 gift coupon, and bought myself a journal to take with me.
One prior Sunday, our Pastor encouraged everyone to write on a piece of paper, asking the Lord what He wants to say to us, and start jotting down our thoughts to see if any of them stood out.
It was already dark, and there wasn't another soul in sight, so I sat down at one of the wooden benches, took out my new journal, and used the dim lighting from a street lamp some distance away to write: Dear Lord, What is it that You want to say to me?
I sat. And sat. And waited... and it seemed that all of the chaotic mental pinballing that was plaguing my mind just melted away. I couldn't come up with a single thought. So I put my pen back into my bag, closed the book, and got up to leave.
But then I stopped. My heart still felt so heavy even though the thoughts wouldn't come. I sat back down, reached into my bag for a pen (it ended up being a different one this time), and tried again... "Speak to me; I'm listening."
And that was it. The rest of the page is blank.
But I remember what happened. I got back into the car and drove home.
What I initially saw as an unanswered question, was actually just the introduction page for an entire book--a time-capsule testimony of all of the ways the Lord has been speaking to me over the years... through prayer, studying His Word, writing out scripture (it never returns void), church notes, thoughts... my question didn't go unanswered... God answered my prayers in the best possible way... He strengthened and comforted me through the storms.
When I flip back through the pages, I'm encouraged. I glance over my prayers, writings and song lyric snippets, struggles, joys... and I can see God's hand in it all now... Praise the Lord! He has done and is still doing everything He promised He would... I just had to get quiet and listen.
Start that prayer journal.
“Then they cried to the LORD in their trouble, and he delivered them from their distress. He made the storm be still, and the waves of the sea were hushed.”
For the past two years, this week of dates... from my Mom's birthday on the 8th to her post-transplant birthday on the 19th... has been a mental, emotional, and even spiritual struggle for me. And I'm going to be candid about it.
Three years ago, those 11 days were filled with so much hope. I was absolutely convinced that everything would be successful and we'd have extra years with her. I had so much faith.
They said the transplant was a success. They said it worked. And I couldn't stop praising God for it. So many answered prayers for so many people over my Mom's health.
After what felt like ages but was less than a few months after the bone marrow transplant, she was able to come back home [I had moved to Charleston, SC by then]. In August, after Nathan proposed to me, she excitedly agreed to be my matron of honor. She also knew there would be another little one joining the family--a baby girl. And she knew her name would be "Norah," but she didn't know her middle name yet. It's "Jane," just like hers.
We joked about my DNA taking over her body and wondered if that meant she would start liking the same songs I do--even if she didn't before. I kept asking her to listen to this one song on my modern 'Jazz' playlist periodically--just to check. I don't know that it would most accurately be categorized as jazz though... it was more like a contemporary-hipster-funk song with random repetitive lyrics like "put it in my pocket in my pocket in my back pocket"... about a 'Circle yes or no' letter. She would always laugh when it came on because it was such a ridiculous song. I kid you not, it was actually called "Back Pocket." I thought it was catchy. I told her that when she started liking that song, it meant my DNA finally won out completely and we would basically be clones of each other at that point. [Of course, that's not exactly how it works, but we had fun with our interpretation.]
We planned visits for "after the whole corona-thing blows over" and her immune system was back in tip-top shape. Her doctors were keeping an eye out for GVHD (Graft versus Host Disease) which can be fairly common in various severities after a transplant. It started presenting on her skin in patches. But they treated it. She never let on that it was anything besides a minor inconvenience. A hiccup. I didn't take it seriously. I had all of that faith, remember? So I spent our conversations reaching out to her as my confidant. So much time wasted complaining to her... and I know now that she never saw it that way... she saw it as me allowing her to be my mom--even as a mother myself... and she saw it as her daughter loving and needing her... as a chance to connect and be there for me and pray for me and offer advice and encouragement. She was so good at it, too. It was never wasted time for her.
But just a few weeks later, the complications got worse. She waited at the hospital one day... all the way in Philly from the Poconos... for hours... HOURS... all day/night in an uncomfortable chair... mixed in with the general population when she was meant to be isolated... just to get sent home instead of admitted--when they should have kept her there. I remember my Dad sending me a picture of her with a text to update us on what was going on. She was covered up as best as they could, sitting in a corner with a mask on--as far away from everyone else as possible. She looked so frail. But I had faith. I kept telling myself... telling everyone that it would be okay... "because it just HAS to be..."
A couple days later, she was back in Philadelphia; her condition had declined in the absence of medical care.
But I'm not writing this openly to talk about her physical condition... this is about my spiritual one.
After my Mom passed away, my faith changed. I started allowing myself to entertain thoughts of, "Well, look where your faith got you. Your Mom is gone. What good did any of those prayers do after all?" or "Why would you even offer to pray for anyone? They've already seen that the ones for your Mom didn't work..." and the longer and longer I let them linger, the stronger those thoughts became. I allowed myself to feel like a fraud--diminishing my own beliefs over it all. And it pushed me away from my Creator.
I told myself I wasn't mad at God. I told myself the usual placations and kindnesses, "It just wasn't meant to be..." "She's in a better place now and free from pain" [which she definitely is], "She's still watching over you..."
I know she's with Jesus. I know she's free from pain and sadness. And while I don't believe she turned into an angel (Psalm 8:5, 1 Corinthians 6:3) or interferes with earthly things, I believe she already sees the whole picture (unlike us), knows about her littlest grandchildren, and knows that even in the midst of life’s heartaches and trials, God is still working behind the scenes just like He did for her, so there truly are no tears in Heaven (Revelation 21:4).
But still, I questioned my own faith. My own prayers. Those thoughts really can run you for a loop if you're not careful about forcing the bad ones out (Philippians 4:8).
Something stopped me in my tracks this morning though. I heard a song that was popular when I was in middle school and became a favorite to sing together with the track while we waited at the bus stop before school. "God of Wonders" ... My mom would always lift her hands--with the car in park, or do that quirky sort of signature recoil clap motion we'd poke fun at her for (if you ask me in person, I'll show you what it looked like)--no matter who was around. I'd sing and play the egg shaker for our audience of One.
She claimed she wasn't a musician and that she had zero musical talent (except for the triangle she would ring for dinnertime every so often if we were playing outside), but my Mom lived out her worship in so many other ways. I understand it now. She kept an atmosphere of praise in our home with worship music on cassette--or later on CD--playing during the waking hours of the day.
And even though my Dad was the one directly on the worship team (my favorite drummer ever), my mom was there too, behind the scenes, back in the overhead-projector days...making sure the printed lyric transparencies shifted, swapped, and repeated when necessary in order for the congregation to follow along seamlessly without any fumbles or distractions. All while doing that quirky clap motion. I have no doubt that her worship was a sweet aroma to the Lord.
And unlike the funky-jazz-like song about jean pockets, we both loved "God of Wonders". Her favorite was when Mac Powell would sing. Mine, too. We'd listen on repeat until the bus's headlights came into view through the trees and I had to reluctantly go to school.
I heard a version of this song today that I'd never heard before. But Mac Powell was still singing and the pieces all just seemed to click into place. My heart was ready to listen again with a fresh perspective.
Halfway through the song, I realized that there's a difference between faith and denial, even though it's easy for the two to get mixed up sometimes:
Denial says, "If I don't want something to happen, it can't."
Faith says, "I know bad things happen. I know the enemy attacks. I know the threats are real, but I know that my God is bigger than anything and everything we come up against and His ways are higher than ours" (Isaiah 55:8-9).
So even though I thought I was--I wasn't operating entirely in faith back then. And through my denial, I was minimizing the situation--therefore, minimizing God's greatness and carving my own idols in the process.
I wasn't trusting Him. I was trusting myself, thinking that if I just manifested enough positivity... if I just wanted it badly enough not to be real, it would happen the way I planned.
Pastor Trent said something yesterday at church that struck more than just a few chords. He said, "You'll only worship what you're in awe of."
I had to write it down. Because it's true.
I stopped being in awe of God's wonders because I started looking inward instead of up. (Proverbs 9: 8-10)
"You'll only worship what you're in awe of."
Then, Lord, let me forever stand in the amazement of You.
Forever a work in progress,
Elisha
---
Lord of all creation
Of water, earth, and sky
The heavens are Your tabernacle
Glory to the Lord on High
God of wonders beyond our galaxy
You are holy, holy
The universe declares Your majesty
You are holy, holy
Lord of heaven and earth
Lord of heaven and earth
Early in the morning
I will celebrate the light
And as I stumble through the darkness
I will call Your name by night
God of wonders beyond our galaxy
You are holy, holy
The universe declares Your majesty
You are holy, holy
Lord of heaven and earth
Lord of heaven and earth
Hallelujah to the Lord of heaven and earth
Hallelujah to the Lord of heaven and earth
Hallelujah to the Lord of heaven and earth
Precious Lord, reveal Your heart to me
Father, holy, holy
You are holy, holy
Dear diary,
A couple months ago, at a local farmer's market [I attended fully expecting to come home with fresh produce and maybe a chicken or two, but apparently a "farmer's market" isn't a market where farmers sell their harvests... who'd have thought?], I met a lovely couple who were on a mission to bring skin-healthy products to the community in innovative ways. They were awesome. And so friendly.
I left their stand with some homemade sleepytime massage oil for the baby, peppermint beard oil [I don't have a beard, but it just smelled soooo good], and a sample tin of customized powdered dry shampoo that was not yet on their website for purchase. It's tailored to blend in with your hair color and absorb excess oil from your roots/scalp while nourishing your follicles. However that works. 🤷♀️ Dry shampoo has always been a mystery to me, but I was excited to try it.
Except I ended up forgetting that I had it.
Now, rewind... or fast forward... [whichever came first or last, I can't remember]...
For Christmas, my sister Tris put together thoughtful care packages for our oldest sister Jenn, and me. It had chapstick, sentimental jewelry, necessities, all sorts of things she knew we each liked, and a new kind of charcoal toothpaste that wasn't paste at all... it was more like black tooth dust. I was intrigued. What you do is, you moisten your toothbrush, coating it with some of the dust, and then brush your teeth as usual; the end result: a whiter, brighter, healthier smile.
No one prepared me for the 'during' result though. The dark dust turns into a ghastly liquid coating on your teeth that doesn't go away until you thoroughly brush and rinse. [I like to scare my husband sometimes and smile at him with my black-tar-looking teeth when he least expects it. It's hilarious. You should try it sometime.]
Fast-forward to this morning.
I saw a matte black unlabeled tin on our dresser and suddenly remembered what was in it... Oh, no! I never tried the dry shampoo powder! I didn't know if my hair really needed it, but I was determined to gather some feedback for the generous woman (Ashley? Lauren? Rachael? I can't remember her first name, unfortunately) who trusted me to supply her with an honest review and had already been waiting a long time for it.
The problem was... I didn't know how I was meant to apply it. I tried dabbing my fingertip into the mixture to see if my skin would be able to act as a transfer... nope. Then, I tried to tilt and tap some of it into my cupped hand to sprinkle over my head... but as soon as I did, an impressively large smoky cloud expanded into the air and all over my face... like you'd see in a cartoon where Wile E. Coyote waited just a little too long before throwing the stick of dynamite.
So, with hair-colored powder all over my face, I found my way to the bathroom, setting the tin down near the sink to search for a makeup powder-brush instead (I have no idea why that wasn't my initial course of action to begin with). As I reached down into the drawer, my "Look, if you don't get all of your butts out the door and into the car within the next 15 minutes (including the baby's), you'll have to duck under the live stream camera to get to your seats and potentially get called out by Pastor Trent for being late" alarm went off.
Shoot! I still had to brush my teeth, somehow get all of this dust off of my face, make a fresh bottle, and get the baby dressed...
Mom-mode kicked in. Multitasking upon multitasking. I set everything down and took care of the baby, reminding the girls not to forget their Bibles and to make sure they're dressed appropriately for the chilly weather, made a bottle with one hand while pouring cereal with another and balancing the baby on my hip while using the other one to close the pantry door. It was empowering. [In hindsight, I should've just asked my husband for help, who would have gladly lent a hand, but it's so easy to get into the misplaced mindset of "I've got this" for everything that sometimes we forget that we've got help.]
I set the baby down and rushed off to brush my teeth, turned on the faucet, ran the bristles under, and caught my reflection... UGH, powdered dry shampoo all over my face like a poorly-done spray tan... I forgot all about it! So I took my glasses off, picked up the powder brush with my other hand, and started gently coaxing the particles off my skin while dipping my toothbrush into the charcoal tin to start brushing my teeth.
... Except... it wasn't the charcoal toothpaste container I'd dipped my toothbrush into. It was the dry shampoo tin right beside it... simultaneously, what I was now brushing into my scalp was powdered toothpaste.
They are NOT interchangeable.
So, we were a few minutes late to church today and my hair was a bit darker in a patch on top... and my mouth tasted like my hair was supposed to feel... but we showed up. And I didn't even mind ducking underneath the live feed camera... because we were surrounded by family and exactly where we were meant to be. No judgement, just love.
As Pastor Trent says, "If it's worth doing, it's worth doing poorly."
I don't think he means to purposely mess up or to not put forth a genuine effort... but rather, that if something is worth doing, it's worth it to take the first steps to get there... even if they're wobbly, imperfect, or nothing like you'd imagined... they're still steps in the right direction.
I'm not quite sure what the takeaway is... there were so many:
Wake up earlier and you'll have more time to get ready, ask for help instead of being pig-headed in thinking you can do it all yourself, make sure you know the accurate location of similarly-shaped containers before you take your glasses off, or even that right before church isn't a good time for experimenting with cosmetic samples...
But whatever it may be, we'll definitely be on time next Sunday and you're invited too.
Sincerely,
a perpetual work in progress,
me.
There's a little white trailer on the corner of our street, nestled right where the bus stops for the children to come home after school. For the past two years, I've stood there waiting just about every weekday... wobbling there during my pregnancy with Norah, pushing her in her stroller as an infant, and recently just carrying her in my arms since she's about outgrown her buggy and we're usually running 'late' (which ends up still being ridiculously early most days).
I've seen the gentleman who lives there, but only in passing... a simple wave and a smile, followed by, "Thank you for letting me stand here to wait for the bus every day!" and a gentle nod in reply. We don't share the same first language.
Some days, I find myself waiting there for half an hour or more before the bus comes... others, it's mere minutes... but there's no telling which it will be on any given day. And holding a squirming toddler-sized-infant can get quite cumbersome after a while... even as a mom (I know we're thought to have superpowers, but that one must've eluded me).
The wait can be exhausting sometimes though... and when we get back home, my arms often feel like melted Jello... but I can't complain. And wouldn't. After all, I could just drive the car down instead... but the fresh air sure is nice. The walk is nice too. And Norah likes to point, babble, and look at the scenery as we make our way down the street. 100% worth it.
Today, as we approached the tree we usually stand beneath, I noticed something else already waiting there. As we made our way closer, the details came into view... it was a simple handcrafted wooden stool chained to the tree so it couldn't get mistaken for roadside pickings and hauled away. And it was there for me.
No words exchanged... just a simple gesture in a neighbor's absence... from one person to another, as if to say, "I see you and I can help." I'm overwhelmed with gratitude.
God is good and people aren't all bad either. Thanks for the reminder.
Dear Mom,
I haven't stopped wishing you were here. And I know that's selfish, but looking back through our last messages has me feeling like I lost you all over again. Except the grief isn't the same. It's still raw, but without the denial.
I should probably take comfort in knowing I can talk to God about all of the things I still want to tell you... I feel like I'm in a conference call with Him when I write to you... He knows it all... down to how many tears I've cried missing you and the ones that were over other things. I'm just a person... one who cries a lot, apparently. You didn't though. Cry a lot, I mean... at least not that I ever saw.
I couldn't sleep... there's too much on my mind... and I know you'd tell me first to cast my cares... and I do, mostly... but sometimes a stray one slips through... and sometimes my fickle heart reels a few back. I'm a person.
I hadn't looked at our conversations here in a while... or maybe not as far back as I did today... and I just felt so ashamed. I was so wrapped up in something I was going through back then that seemed so hopeless at the time that I didn't even notice the change in your replies.
Your usual lengthy, thorough responses dwindling down to sentence fragments and stray emojis as the days went on... and I just kept going on about my problems... oblivious to yours... and that huge situation in my life... the one I was messaging about so much during your last weeks... it doesn't even matter anymore. It's irrelevant... I didn't know I was wasting our time together because I didn't think we were going to lose you. I trusted that we had more of it together.
...and then I get to thinking that if I'd have just listened and casted my cares from the start, I wouldn't have been too blinded by the overwhelm of my own life to ask you more about yours. And we'd have fonder conversations to remember... but that's selfish, too... because you don't need to remember them... I do.
I know I can't change it. The outcome. And I know that I should learn from it... but here I am again... wishing I could talk to you about my life. Not that I'd have called you at 1 in the morning anyway... but somehow just knowing I had the option to was reassurance enough.
So I'll close my eyes, work harder on casting my cares (1 Peter 5:7) without reeling them back in, and wake up with more answers than I had when I fell asleep.
I'm sorry for the times I took you for granted... I don't anymore... because I can't.
I miss you something terrible, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear love,
Do you know why I get so caught up looking at you sometimes?
It's because I don't always see you the way the mirror does. Sometimes I glance over and see the version of you that first showed me what it meant to love someone.
I see 10-year-old you and it makes me feel like 9-year-old me... back before life got complicated and relationships hurt.
I look over and see a memory... a silly little candle wish on a homemade banana cake that I'd marry you someday. The first birthday wish I ever remember making. It was you.
And there you are.
I can't help but to still be amazed by it all... you're my wish come true.
Dear Mom,
I'm actually doing it. I've been a bit nervous to share this with anyone because I wasn't sure I was going to go through with it, but I am. It's confirmed.
A couple months ago, I went to open up a document in Microsoft Word... and it wouldn't work. Something about needing to be licensed and yadda yadda... and when I looked up how to go about renewing it, I saw a promotion about enrolled students being able to have free access to Microsoft Office. "Heh, wouldn't that be nice!"
A seed was planted in such a silly way
...but nonetheless, it grew.
I thought about it. And then I thought about it again. And then I saw an ad for a university days later that sounded like exactly what I'd be looking for... IF I were actually looking... even though I wasn't.
It went from, "Well, there's no harm in applying, right?" to "Okay, well I was accepted into the program, but that doesn't mean I have to do it..." to, "I can fill out the FAFSA just to see how it pans out... but that doesn't mean anything..." to "I'll hypothetically budget for it...time-wise, too" to, "let's see how many credits would transfer" to, "hmm... I'll map out class requirements... just to see" to, "okay...this is actually doable!" to, "Wow, I'm back to being a full-time student again... let's do this!"
If anyone would have asked me months ago if I'd be going back to finish my English degree, I'd have brushed them off with reason after reason about how I'm needed more in my other roles and that maybe one day, I'd pursue the dreams I had for myself before life unfolded otherwise, but who knows when.
And then I'd have been thinking about it wistfully for hours afterwards-- the subtle heartache of wanting more, but not feeling like those wants are justified... or even that they're selfish. So they get buried again. And again. And again. You know how I am.
I prayed about it, though. I didn't realize how long I actually had been praying over it... the silent kind of heartbeat prayer that only God can hear... but He does hear them.
I brought it up to Nathan when the idea was just a little sproutling. He encouraged me to go for it... just the nudge I needed.
So I start in January. Already sent in the photo for my ID and all. 💜
I know you'd be happy for me, Mom. You'd say you always knew I had it in me and you'd be there for the times it might feel overwhelming or I start to doubt. And then you'd make some joke about the time I had to get an ID photo taken... in PA... the DMV. Hah! Yeah, I remember it. And I'll cast my cares.I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
You crossed my mind again today... as if there is ever a day when you don't. Maybe it was because of the dream I had last night... maybe it was because I remembered back to this time two years ago and how different my life was... how different I was.
I wouldn't have thought I'd be here, living in South Carolina of all the seemingly random places... in Charleston... like the dance move you showed me during spring cleaning when I made that silly video of you and I laughed saying, "well I've never been there, so I doubt I'll ever need to know this dance". But here I am... married to my childhood sweetheart, blessed with three daughters... living in Charleston, South Carolina of all places.
And while so much has changed over these past couple years, there are parts that stayed the same... like this song from the CD you gave me because you said the album made you think of me and what I was going through during that worrisome period of my life. And my need to remind myself daily to cast my cares and lay them all down at His feet... instead of stubbornly thinking that I can do it all on my own... and failing on my own.
Thank you for the songs... and thank you for the lessons. I paid attention more than you thought... and I'm happy you taught me the Charleston dance. 💜
I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
It’s been a while since I’ve had so much to say to ‘you’ openly. Some might take it as a sign that I started to close off… to compartmentalize my grief. Others might assume it means I’ve reached a transition from sorrow to acceptance. The reality is that I haven’t started missing or thinking of you any less; I’ve just been talking to God more. Directly. We’ve been hashing it out.
He showed me that even though I kept saying I understood and wasn’t mad at Him for ‘taking you away’… it was all just words; I didn’t actually understand, and I was actually furious. First at God, then at me, then at God, then at God AND me… marinating in the guilt that maybe if I were a ‘more Christiany Christian’ at the time (whatever that means) … maybe if my prayers held more weight… if I pleaded more… if I were louder… then maybe you’d still be here. You’re not though. Nothing is changing that. And that was silly of me to think, but I’m also human.
Remember when I was a little girl and I used to take turns in the pages of my diary writing, “Dear God,” then the next one would start off with, “Dear Jesus,” cycling through the trinity ‘so no one would feel left out’? I did that more recently with my frustration too… except I didn’t have the endearing nature of childhood naivety to obscure my intent. It was adult immaturity… a pachyderm ‘hiding’ behind a bonsai. I was bitter towards Them ‘all’. Shaken, but not stirred.
I stopped writing for a while. Internal suffocation. I don’t know if I did it as a subconscious effort to ‘punish’ myself… to sever my passion, my habitual outlet, to ‘punish’ God by keeping it all in (which is futile, really, because none of our thoughts or actions are hidden: Psalm 139), or because I just felt like none of it really mattered anymore… the same emotions cycled on repeat… who would want to relive it all in words, too?
I need to start writing again. But not about the same things as before—not the cataclysmic spectrum of past relationships, or the woes of a broken heart: passive-aggressive verbal arson. I see now that it was all just self-gratifying hollow justification for plank-eyed indignation—no matter how eloquently penned. I’m not going to live there anymore. The pain. The sorrow. It shook me without harvest.
I have a new purpose—or perhaps, I’m finally discovering one that was there all along. It wasn’t writer’s block… it was an intentional shift of focus—I was looking down when what I really needed was to be reaching up.
Yesterday, I heard Pastor Art Thomas say something that resonated quite loudly: “There’s life wherever the rivers flow.” And it brought to mind the very last song I ever sang at your bedside:
All who are thirsty, all who are weak
Come to the fountainDip your heart in the streams of life
Let the pain and the sorrow be washed away
In the waves of His mercy
As deep cries out to deep
We sing, come, Lord Jesus, come
Holy Spirit, come.
As I sing it again now, I realize that I was the one who was thirsty. I was the one who was weak. I was the one whose heart needed new life… a new purpose… all I needed to do was to let go of all the wrong things and fully embrace the right One.
You already figured it out.
I miss you, Mom… but we’re in good hands. And so are you.
Love always,
“Pookie”
Dear Mom,
We visited you today; it was my first time since the funeral... and Norah Jane's first ever... outside of the womb, at least. The girls would have loved to have been there too, but you know how summers go. They miss you a lot. We all do.
I know that we don't need to be at the cemetery to talk to you. But in a way, just being there makes you feel closer. Or maybe it makes me feel closer to you.
Could you hear your little namesake babbling half-words as she reached her hand toward the roses Dad lovingly arranged in front of your headstone? I could almost hear the wind carry your motherly whisper to caution her fragile fingertips away from the thorns. We had a moment... or few.
If I could've stayed longer, I'd have shared more... reminisced more... confided more... we have so much to talk about. A little girl never stops needing her Momma even when that girl stops being so little anymore.
It was nice to 'see' you... if only for a little while so the Janes could 'meet'. ♡
I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Kaleidoscopic Grace 