My Husbands Near-Death Experience

In the midst of my husband’s valiant battle with rampant, widespread cancer and unbearable pain that dominated his body and mind, we were given gifts. Gifts that eluded me; gifts that now, in hindsight-after his death, I see as priceless gems and abundant splatters of grace.

It had been a distressing day for my husband. He had spent most of it in the fetal position and screaming out in agony. His doctors and palliative care team were not able to control or manage his pain. I had spent the day, rubbing his feet, massaging his back, softly singing his favorite songs, and reassuringly praising him. Thankfully, for the first time in days, he fell asleep in a calm slumber. I decided to pull myself away to go home for a few hours to see our youngest daughter who has profound autism.

On the drive home, I wept and prayed concerning David’s pain. I pleaded for guidance and that our Almighty’s presence would prevail and be our stronghold. As soon as I walked in the door, about midnight, the phone rang. It was my husband, yet his voice was different, stronger, and even a little merry. He asked me to come back to the hospital. In addition, he was adamant about me contacting all of our loved ones and asking them to join us. He had an intense need to affirm and tell everyone what he appreciated, admired, and loved about them.

When I returned to the cancer wing, one of his nurses ran up to me expressing her disbelief about what was transpiring. Before I opened the hospital room door; I could hear my husband’s voice echoing through the hall. The frailty was diminished as he chatted away. Upon opening the door, I felt paralyzed in shock, as he was sitting up. His demeanor, posture, and smile that had all been altered, had returned. It was as if an elixir or magic potion had restored his body and mind.

The room was full of people: family, friends, nurses, doctors, the chaplain, CNA’s, and even the sweet, housekeeping staff. Everyone was being drawn in to listen to him. He was magnificently like his pre-cancer self; but, also so different. My husband was a Christian; however, he was soft-spoken and did not articulate his beliefs or have Bible verses memorized…until this day, this moment in time.

There was literally a mixture of joy, concern, and a glow illuminating from him as he spoke. He said that he was so worried about the state of our world. That he had seen our Lord’s majestic face and that His arms were open wide for everyone. That loving others with a genuine, selfless, unconditional heart was the way to healing. He described what he saw surrounding God- a captivating, resounding peace. He shared with us how he had spoken to his dear mother and beloved family and friends that had previously passed away. He even pointed to places in the room where their spirits were and that his childhood dog, Dusty, was actually lying at the end of his bed.

After a little while, he decided to walk around to greet others. Over the two and half months of living in the hospital, we had the honor and privilege of getting to know on a personal level many of the patients, family members, and most of the staff. As he had not walked for a while, we got him prepared with a harness, walker, and wheel chair behind, just in case. One of the occupational therapists came and joined us as she heard what was going on. As we made our way around the loop, he spoke, waved, and thanked everyone. He then started relaying some of my most cherished Bible passages. He was fluent, eloquent, his gait strong, and there was a meticulous determination that resonated from him. My mind was swirling. I was speechless upon seeing God’s miracles at work. I felt like I was in the middle of Advent, the time of silence and being in awe. I anticipated what was coming next.

He started to get weak. We wheeled him back to his room, assisted him into bed, and re-hooked his IV’s. He reached for me and gave me a tender kiss. He then closed his eyes and slept soundly. An hour later, he woke up again in brutal pain, and all memory of what had occurred was wiped away.

His healthcare team and I met to discuss our next steps, and how his near-death experience had baffled us. We knew it wasn’t a prank and that there was no rational or logical explanation. It was truly a blessing, a rare treasure amidst the suffering, and irrefutably a gift from above.

My heart and prayers are with you as we are bonded by our grief journey. I was compelled to open up and disclose these fragile, precious moments with the hope that it might bring comfort or validation to someone. I would appreciate hearing your stories. As always, you are welcome to comment and/or share. Also, if you haven’t liked my page already, please do so. 

Blessings and Peace to You, Heart Sisters, 

Lisa Dempsey Bargewell

Valentine's Day: Grief and Relentless Joy

Feb.14, 2012 was my beloved husband’s last day at home. He was in the cancer unit most of January, all but a few days in February, and the entire month of March leading up to his demise. That morning, as I walked into his office and saw him stooped over in pain, my concern took over as I said, “You are not supposed to be working, come lie down and I’ll rub your back.” His gallant, re-direct reply was, “I am not working; but, I have something important to do-I’ll be done in a few minutes.” I started to anxiously question him; however, my youngest needed my attention with her Valentine cards. Two hours later, he was vomiting blood and we headed back to the hospital.

One evening during the inferno of my grief, as I was yet again crying out for my husband since his arrival in heaven, a sacred, forceful phenomenon guided me to his computer. I noticed his iTunes account that I had never opened. I clicked on it and a file popped up that was labeled, “Lisa, Open…it’s our endless love!” It was a love message and a chronological playlist of 20 songs that had been “our songs”- from the first blessed moment that God allowed him to grace my life until our final, cherished, melodic dance. The file was dated Feb.14, 2012- Valentine’s Day, his last day at home!

Well, the day came, the dreaded day, the first Valentine’s Day without my husband. Despite all my former feelings of being charmed with Valentine’s Day, I now felt out of sync with the world, unloved, like a castaway. I desperately wanted back in the homeland of David’s arms. I plummeted into the trenches of despair as I recalled his last day at home.

I have always been captivated by Valentine’s Day. Even as young as three years old, I can recall seeing my mother flip over the calendar to February and with a flutter in my soul, I anxiously counted down the days. On my 5th Valentine’s Day, during Sunday school, I gave my heart to Christ. From that day forward, the engaging, cemented words from my Sunday school teacher became ingrained as my lifetime goal, “God, here is my heart, love people with it!” Yes, I have enjoyed all the romantic hoopla and festivities of Valentine’s Day; but, to me it runs deeper. It is the culmination of our Savior’s unrelenting love and the commitment of agape, unceasing love for each other. What childhood V-Day memories do you cherish? What does Valentine’s Day mean to you now?

As I reminisced about previous V-Day’s, I realized not a Valentine’s Day ever passed that I wasn’t busy organizing a party for my children’s choir, Sunday school class, or for my daughters’ schools. Nevertheless, nothing compared to our V-Day family time; the simple, glorious, home-spun delights and activities that made my girls happy and nurtured our marriage. Furthermore, I was enthralled by the random acts of love that my husband bestowed on me, for instance: staying up all night to help me frost 100 cupcakes, waking up to a trail of love post-its, or finding out that he filled up my gas tank. What treasured Valentine’s Day memories do you hold in reverence of your beloved husband?

Now, it has almost been five years since David’s death and I still wrestle daily with my grief; even more so on Valentine’s Day. As I glanced over to look at a photo of my husband, my Bible caught my attention. In my harrowed state, I wanted to nudge it away. On the other hand, I could tell something was speaking out to me. As I poured over the pages, my eyes continued to wander back to Romans 8:38-39, NIV: For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Jesus Christ our Lord.

These verses captured my thoughts as it reiterated God’s unwavering pursuit of us, even to the point of Him becoming a human. His relentless love is unlimited, unshakable, complete, and given equally without merit or measure. This promise of grace allowed my spirit to dare to reach out again. It bolstered my belief that through God’s orchestration that David’s abiding love is surrounding me and that he is urging me ahead. I viewed Valentine’s Day as a loss. My sorrow had blinded me and blocked out the sweetness that still prevailed. I am challenging myself this week to rekindle my old, mesmerizing feelings about Valentine’s Day.

Dear Heavenly Father, You know my emotions are running rampant. Valentine’s Day triggers a spectrum of grief. You know how much I loved and adored my husband. My ache is constant, my yearning is unbearable. Please help me, strengthen me, and open me up to Your sustaining love that knows no boundaries, depths or heights. Thank you for Your relentless love, allow it to cling to me, echo through my being, and radiate to others. Amen

As always, you are welcome to comment and/or share. I hold all of you close to my heart as we walk this grief path together. Please don’t forget that you are relentlessly loved!

Hugs to You,

Lisa Dempsey Bargewell

Tears and Grief

Today is my deceased husband’s birthday; the fifth one that I have spent without his physical presence. As I am wearing his sweatshirt, sipping tea from his favorite #1 Dad coffee cup, and typing this blog on his computer, sorrow pierces my heart. As a result, tears seem to be my constant companion with triggers at every turn: my daughters’ faces, our environment, a sound, a song, a movie, a scent, a feeling, a dream, a thought, a prayer…all can produce tears.

For me, tears seem to encapsulate a spectrum of emotions from shock, disorientation, anxiety, hopelessness, yearning, and loneliness, to tears of gratitude and thankfulness. Sometimes, the myriad of emotions can occur simultaneously or sequentially. Oh, yes, I feel like a mixed bag of nuts! Do you ever feel this way?

As I have grappled through all the crucial phases of grief and back through them again and again, my soul knows no time line or resolution. However, I have discovered that my tears have been my unleashing portal, my widow warrior armor, my thought process, my expression of faith, and cathartic release. Has crying helped you?

My husband’s last birthday on this earth was bittersweet. We celebrated in the hospital. Despite his tremendous pain, he welcomed all of his guests with authentic joy. He tried so hard to put on a brave face, chit chat with everyone, ask them about their lives, express his appreciation and love, and even enriched the conversations with his captivating dry wit and unique sense of humor. After all his guests left, the hospital room was quiet and reality kicked in, he grabbed my hand and said, “Lisa, you can let it go, you can cry now.” He knew I was holding back the entire time. We both wept profusely together. It did not change the course, or detour the path; yet, we somehow felt cleansed, stronger, and unified. This reminds me of a Jewish saying: “What soap is for the body; tears are for the soul.”

A few weeks after my husband’s passing, I received a card with a verse on the front: “Don’t cry because it is over, smile because it happened.” At first, this quote from Dr. Seuss upset me. In my emotional state, I wasn’t ready to smile. Through the passage of time, I have come to comprehend the words. As I loved so profoundly, I have found that love and pain are intertwined. I cry tears of anguish as I recollect the cemented memories of watching my husband in excruciating pain. I cry tears of relief that he is out of his pain. I cry tears of utter sadness as I envelop my daughters’ grieving hearts. I cry tears of longing as I ache for him. I cry tears of all-encompassing reverence and happiness as I am honored that I was given the grand privilege to be with him for 24 years and that my daughters’ knew what it was like to be genuinely loved and adored. Furthermore, I cry tears of gratitude as I know we will be reunited again.

When I was six, I began having a dream of God crying over my bed during my times of distress. As an adult, this dream still embellishes my mind and resurfaces at certain times. Christ’s image is so clear, so life-like, and vivid. His tears join with mine. Four sets spilling down my face; the warmth of his fingers brushing them away. As I have pondered this sanctifying, enduring, comforting dream, I am humbled as I recall Charles R. Swindoll’s reassuring quote: “A teardrop on earth summons the King of Heavens.” I truly believe that each tear is entered into our Savior’s ledger. “Tears are prayers too, they travel to God even when we can’t speak.” See Psalm 56:8

In addition, tears can be a natural, therapeutic, stress reliever. While I was at my last doctor’s appointment, again, a trigger occurred and my tears emerged. Despite my embarrassment, my doctor encouraged and educated me with the following. William Frey II, a biochemist at the St. Paul-Ramsey Medical Center in Minneapolis, found that emotional tears have 24 percent more protein than reflex tears. Tears aren’t just salt water; they contain leucine enkephalin, an endorphin that modulates pain, and hormones such as prolactin and adrenocorticotropic, released at times of stress. She then handed me a box of tissues and suggested, “Cry and revitalize, it’s your survival tactic.”

Well, I better close, as I am on my way to visit my husband’s grave. If your tears run the gamut like mine, please give yourself the permission to cry. Tears empower us to embrace this journey of life, enable us to open up to healing, reaffirm our beliefs, and center us- deciphering how we are uniquely changed, how far we have come, and how we can proceed forward.

Thank you for reading my blog and for your support of my page. I whole heartedly believe that we gain strength from one another. I appreciate you being my heart sister as we walk this grief path. As always, you are welcome to comment and/or share. 
Blessings, Grace, and Hugs to You,
Lisa Dempsey Bargewell

My Husband's Angelversary

My husband’s 5th angelversary is fast approaching. My capsized heart still cannot grasp the flood of pain that engulfs me each day. It truly feels like it was just yesterday that I kissed his lips and held his hands for the last time. In numerous, multifaceted ways, I feel like grief is a never ending passage and I am paralyzed in an altered state. Do you ever feel like this?

Yesterday, as I went through remnants and keepsakes of our love, I came across a card, one of many that he gave me. The front was embellished with a rainbow and this insightful quote from John Macduff, “Trust God where you cannot trace Him. Do not try to penetrate the cloud He brings over you; rather look to the (rain)bow that is on it. The mystery is God’s; the promise is yours.” The coaxing whispers of our Lord simply amaze me, as I know He planted that card for me to see; a true nugget of wisdom to spur me forward.

Whenever I catch sight of a rainbow, an instant and automatic, “awe and oh” seems to escape my lips. They are inspiring, mesmerizing, and calming all at once. Furthermore, I always feel like rainbows are God’s equivalent of receiving a card sent with His unsurpassed, saturating love. They reflect the glory and majesty of our Lord. Beginning with red and ending with purple, they signify a sign, promise, and a covenant.

Before my beloved husband’s passing, due to his cancer, he endured months of physical and uncontrollable pain. One afternoon as a storm brewed and thrashed outside, I prayed once again that David would be healed, and in fact, begged God to switch our roles, to give me the cancer and spare him. Just as I said, “Amen,” I glanced out the hospital window, the rain had ceased and switched to a breathtaking rainbow.

Since my husband’s death, countless rainbows have appeared. For example, I saw one while picking out my husband’s grave plot, then, on his 1st angelversary (which happened to fall on Easter), also, on his 4th birthday in Heaven, as well as on our youngest daughter’s last birthday.

If I could rewind time, I would. If my tears could bring my husband back, they would. I don’t want to live without him; however, I desire to honor God, my husband, and my daughters. I know my husband would want me to live a life of fulfillment and joy, just as I would desire for him if our roles were reversed. There is no how-to manual on how to be a widow, no academic class, or no rehearsals. So for now, as I muddle my way through, I am striving to seek and absorb the hope of “rainbow” messages via our Master Designer.

The symbolic meanings of rainbows speak volumes: affirmation, creation, potential, purpose, and transformation and the list can go on and on. The questions rainbows stir up and allow me to ponder are: What does God have in store for my future? How can I exercise my faith, calm my anxiety, and feel rest assured and evolve in His plan and promise? It is time to take a fresh look, a new perspective, and as George Gordon Bryon so profoundly stated, “Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life.”

Amongst our shared grief… widow to widow… friend to friend, if you are like me, and your faith seems to falter sometimes, please embrace the courage that is innately instilled in you to recognize the “rainbows” in your life. You are a woman in transition, recovery, and healing. You can do this!

Dear Heavenly Father, Today is yet another milestone without my beloved. I still cannot fathom how I have made it through another year without him. It is truly by Your grace that I can proceed forth. As I shelter my heart with Your strength against all the turbulence, downpours, and sorrows of life, help me to open up my being and to recognize Your "rainbows" in the midst of my grief. Amen.

As always, you are welcome to comment and/or share. I appreciate how we learn from each other. Also, if you haven’t liked my page already, please feel free to do so. Thank you again for your support. 

With Warmth and Hugs to You,
Lisa Dempsey Bargewell

Tis the Season to Be Gentle with Yourself

During this time of hustle and bustle and the most wonderful time of the year, my widow’s spirit is not as jolly or as calm and bright as it used to be. Christmas seems to spur on a tangled web of grief sentiments. I feel like a Christmas package that arrived on my doorstep; all damaged, tarnished with grime, and bent out of shape. I seem to need the constant reminder to be gentle with myself, especially during this season. How about you?

After my husband’s funeral, my home was quiet, way too quiet, I sat down with the intention of reading my pile of sympathy cards. With my heart leaping out of my chest, tears staining my cheeks, numerous thoughts of disbelief thrashing through my being, I grabbed the first one. The second sentence said, “Be gentle with yourself, Lisa.” I reread it, as my widow fog was definitely taking over. I pondered-what did that really mean?

As I was missing the other half of my soul, I became disoriented. In the process, I literally forgot how to emotionally take care of myself. In the dredges, at my lowest point, I recalled that sentence, “Lisa, be gentle with yourself.” I came to the realization that I needed to make a grace-infused commitment to myself.

Each of us as widow warriors process our loss in individual ways. Your idea of being gentle should be tailored to your grief journey. The following ideas are just suggestions that I have learned about being gentle with myself during these past 5 ½ years. Not that I have all the answers; I stumble, I fall, I get up, and I try again. Please let me know what being gentle with yourself means to you. What has worked for you?

1. Simply Just Breathe

I appreciate the words of Fulton J. Sheen, “Time is so precious that God deals it out only second by second.” In the days following my husband’s death, breathing was really all I could muster the strength and energy to do. I existed…I breathed, second by second.

2. Allow Yourself to Grieve

Grieving your own personal way is the only way. There is no wrong or right as long as it is healthy. I have screamed, cursed, vented, ranted, stomped, kicked, and cried, oh how I have cried. I found if I speeded up the process, then I became numb. If I detoured it, I became anxious, if I buried it; it always manifested and erupted later. You have to digest and assimilate your loss in the manner that is therapeutic for you.

3. Let Go of Unnecessary Demands

I had to literally train myself to filter and simplify my life from all the bombarded, extra duties. I had to be brave and sometimes say, “No.” I also had to learn to allow others to carry some of my load.

4. Carve Out Me Time

If you are like me and you can’t block out hours for yourself…maybe you can find minutes? I decided to start writing again. Do something just for you to rejuvenate and transform your soul. Find a Passion- “Get absolutely enthralled with something. Throw yourself into it with abandon. Get out of yourself. Do something.” Norman Vincent Peale.

5. Allow Peace in

My mantra every day since my husband’s death has been: “Peace in, peace out, God in, God out.” Please claim the inner peace that is your birthright no matter what your faith or belief system.

6. Dive Into Prayer, Meditation, Devotion, and Visualization

As I have been seeking discernment and purpose for my new life, I have found that these avenues provide clarity, renewal, and sustaining strength.

7. Speak Affirmations to Yourself

Invest time in daily reminders such as, I am_________ I can do this___________, use positive, revitalizing, descriptive words.

No one can do all the above at once. “Start by doing what is necessary, then what’s possible, and suddenly you’re doing the impossible.” St. Francis of Assisi.

My hope for you is that you can implement ideas to restore and be gentle with yourself during this Christmas season and beyond. If you haven’t liked my page already, please do. As always, you are welcome to comment and share.

With Blessings and Warmth to You,
Lisa Dempsey Bargewell

Tears and Wonder at Christmas Time

The first Christmas after my husband’s passing, I felt numb, in disbelief, engulfed in sorrow, and oh so alone. I attempted to put on my mask and proceed forward for my daughters’ well-being. However, isolation seemed to grasp me as the rest of the world appeared to remain untouched and intact.

The second year without my beloved husband, the denial and shock had worn off and unfathomable grief blanketed me. I again went through the motions of Christmas for my girls.

During our third Christmas as an incomplete family unit, my youngest, precious daughter, who has severe autism, adamantly decided she wasn’t going to open her Christmas presents until Daddy returned home. As I have to prepare her for all facets of life, I spent the month of December doing festive crafts, seasonal lesson plans, and Christmas activities with her. Despite all my efforts, Christmas day came and she wouldn’t even go towards the tree. Until my oldest, married daughter, who is full of such insight, suggested that we change the environment and add some new traditions. Lo and behold, when we visited their home, my youngest decided without prompting to miraculously open her gifts! Her sweet smile returned and beamed. I stood in astonishment at this turn of events.

No, this change of plans didn’t solve or take away our pain, but it forced us to re-think, redefine, and come to the realization that our sense of wonder was not completely gone. That life can be agonizing, yet magical…fragile, yet full of miracles….seemingly complex, yet intricately intriguing, devastatingly catastrophic, yet divine- all simultaneously. I had to relearn how to regain that sense of appreciation and awe again.

On the way back from my oldest daughter’s and son-in-law’s home, Amy Grant’s version of “Grown–Up Christmas List” serenaded us. The line, “I am not a child, but my heart can still dream” became etched into my being. Next, “O, Little Town of Bethlehem” reminded me of when I was a children’s choir director. I had explained to my choir members that an Episcopal minister from Philadelphia, Phillips Brooks, had written this carol in 1868, after returning from the Holy Land at Christmas time three years earlier. His words encapsulated the marvel of the little town, that the everlasting Light is ever present, and that the silent and even secret way that our Savior came into this world provides hope and wonder.

The fourth year, the fifth year, and now the sixth Christmas without my husband, I can’t deny, I still long and ache for him. I know I always will. The flame never dies, the commitment to honoring his name, will never end. Nevertheless, I have started to feel glimpses, splatters, and random moments of wonder amidst the tears. Life beckons us forward. Joe Batten so profoundly urged, “Never lose your sense of wonder.”

If you are in the same situation that I am, striving to hold-on to the opulence of your everlasting love, merging your old life with your new life, and attempting to embrace your future, please receive and relish the unremitting charms and wonder that surrounds you.

How are you dealing with Christmas? As always, you are welcome to comment and share. Also, if you haven’t liked my page already, please do so. 

Christmas Blessings and Hugs to You,
Lisa Dempsey Bargewell

Seeing My Husband's Spirit In the Corridor

The steadfast, champion hands that tenderly, passionately, and protectively held mine for 24 years, turned blue, cold, and limp in mine.

The Sign

As I fumbled out of the hospital room, fragmented conversations of sympathy from loved ones swirled in my head. A faint, pleading whisper called me to proceed down the hallway. At the end of the corridor, a male patient and a PT appeared. She was assisting him in his walking; instructing him to keep his head up, swing his arms, and praising him for his efforts.

I was drawn to the man. He was about 6 feet 5 inches, wore a hospital gown, his head was partially bald from chemo, and he looked ravaged by cancer. Yet, his stride was strong, his head held high, and there was an apparent glow about him. I couldn’t divert my eyes. My legs were paralyzed in place. They walked closer. In the tangled crevices of my heart, I knew it was my beloved husband.

As he passed me, in my breathless wonder, I noticed his illuminating smile was full of serenity and a sense of mischievousness and awe. The same look that crossed his face when he used to lovingly lean over and kiss me each morning and remind me, with a twinkle in his eye, that it was a new day to love and be loved! A group of people flooded the area, the trance was broken, and the two of them disappeared around the corner.

For the last month of his life, my husband could not walk, lift his head, or focus his eyes. Seeing his gait with a renewed sense of strength, his body functioning with purpose, heading towards God’s throne of peace and joy, was an indescribable, unparalleled gift! Upon sharing what transpired with hospital staff and doctors, they all expressed how this occurrence seems to happen to some widows and always in corridors. I attempted to make rhyme and reason of it, questioning if there was anyone else in the cancer wing that was as tall or skinny as my David. Or, if there was a PT that resembled the one assisting him. The resounding answer was, “No”.

I daily ache and yearn for my husband. I have known the depths of suffering, despair, and defeat. The weight of grief smothers me, it thickens my air, congests my lungs, strikes at my heart, and yet, I know that I cannot allow it to enslave me or hedge me in. I rejoice in God’s sovereignty that my husband has been restored to wholeness and that he has a new life engulfed in our Father’s arms. I desire to be restored and not oppressed. I am reminded in the midst of my broken places of Alan Pedersen’s insightful quote, “Grief isn’t something you get over, it’s something you go through.” In addition, Dorothy Parker’s famous words, “We might as well live,” have guided me through the process.

5 Years Later

As the 5th anniversary of my husband’s death is almost upon me, I have been reliving each ingrained, bittersweet memory. Our blissful times together and the harrowing chaos of cancer seem to be intertwined and play havoc in my mind. Nevertheless, I continue to be drawn back to my husband’s appearance and the image of the corridor. I believe that God and His unwavering grace orchestrated and visibly allowed me to see my husband’s transformation as a healing analogy. Likewise, that the hallway and corridor displayed the profound alteration of navigating life’s transitions.

Even in my obscured walkway of grief, I can hurt or attempt to heal myself. I can escalate or de-escalate my situation. I have the choice to make my life miserable or joyous. J. Pierpont Morgan summed it up, “The first step towards getting somewhere is to decide that you are not going to stay where you are.”

Growth is painful. Change is painful. “If you can find a path with no obstacles, it probably doesn’t lead anywhere” -Frank A. Clark. For me, each day has become a lesson on learning how to praise our Lord down the uncertain path of my imperfect progress and unlocking the doors to new possibilities.

Shortly after my husband’s passing, I received a most welcome, thoughtful card from one of my husband’s nurses. It said, “In the corridors of life- Trust in His timing, rely on His promises, wait for His answers, believe in His miracles, rejoice in His goodness, and relax in His presence.”

As you ponder, discern, grow, reflect, and embark down the corridors of your life, my hope is that you will feel refreshed and that each door that opens or remains closed will lavish you with calmness, wonder, and unsurpassed blessings.

As always, you are welcome to comment and/or share. Also, if you haven’t liked my page already, please do. I am so humbled by all of you and continue to hold you in my heart as we encourage and uplift each other.

With Prayers and Hugs to You,
Lisa Dempsey Bargewell