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Maybe there was hope for him yet. Maybe he could learn how to care for another person—even for his property and servants. Stranger things had happened.

But she grew weary with hope as the leaves started turning orange and then falling from the trees. And nothing, absolutely nothing else changed.

Dear Beth,

I did not want to be alone.

I did not choose this, but here it is anyway: I am alone. It will not be forever, but for now, this is my situation. So I might be alone, but it will be on my own terms. I will make my life what it shall be. I will make my life beautiful on my own.

And, what’s more, I shall be amazing at it.

It came to me as I was out riding, as all the best ideas do.

I thought of you, as I usually do, but this time my thoughts were not full of nostalgia and pain. They were full of admiration. Where did you draw your strength from? How was it that you were so radiant even when you were in so much pain?

You used to admire Mary, who sat at the feet of Jesus, who chose the ‘right part’. She stayed there, at His feet, and that was enough. She stayed. And so did you.

We still have your favorite painting, the one of Mary seated at the feet of the Master. You would stare at it for hours when you were confined to your bed, and you would make Amy paint it for you over and over on the walls of your little room. And Amy was not old enough for such a complex painting, but she tried her best.

It had a message, didn’t it? I never realized it until now. (Grief does strange things to you. Distorts the way you look at reality.)

But I can see it now. I can see you, as you really were. A little girl, suffering, knowing she was soon leaving this earth, and yet you had such strength that would put warriors to shame. Meg with her exquisite manners and Amy with her beauty and talent, and me with my wild ways and my writing… And yet, you were the richest of us all.

This was your strength: Your faith. That was what sustained you. You stayed at the feet of the Master. You endured. You learned. I shall endeavor to do the same, even though I am not as patient as you, or half as clever. Or studious. And my faith is wavering to say the least.

But this is how I want to live. By faith. By staying where I am meant to be, by not fighting, not running away. By not being a coward.

‘That which will not be taken away from her.’

I thought it was people—I thought it was memories. But I see now how life and loss can strip us from everything we hold dear. So what is that which shall not be taken away from me?

It’s faith.

Faith.

I will cling to that, dear Beth, learning from your example. For the past months, I have been thinking that if I could keep myself alive—and sane—without Laurie, at least my writing would survive with me, and, admittedly, that is the better part of me.

Upon arriving back home, with these thoughts in my heart, I found not loneliness, but something much better than anything I have ever known: Myself.

I realized that I had been the best companion I had had in months.

Finally, I have found it.

The light.

Here is not food, but a banquet.

Feast yourself, it said. Be full. You shall not need anyone or anything, because you will be full.

It does not matter who stays or leaves, because here is treasure, here is a feast. Within me. I am here and I am a source of everything wonderful. I have enough—more than enough—inside my heart.

Eternally,

Your sister

seventeen

She found solace in words. Her own words, for once.