One more gift


Don’t you love them? Isn’t there something truly delightful in the whole process of giving and receiving gifts?

I have been given many gifts in my life and though they have varied in size and importance I have valued them. I love the little reminders around my home that someone at sometime thought of me. I value the giver and I value that they have thought of me as they have wrapped a gift intended to bring pleasure and an expression of love. I delight in my gifts. If you have been to my home, you know that knickknacks adorn my shelves and windowsills.Occasionally I de-clutter and put some things away for a while but I cannot bring myself to throw any of them away. There are too many treasured memories attached to them. I still have things on my shelves which I was given as a child and which have become part of the fabric of my home.


Just another day.

November. How does it strike you? What does it evoke for you?

In some ways it is not at all my favourite month, in others it will always be special. I was born in November and while I was growing up, November always meant magical moments of anticipation for me. November was special. So much so that I felt annoyed and even offended with the sentiments in Sara Coleridge’s Months poem because she made November sound so unappealing.

Dizzy Dizzy.

Once upon a time I wasn’t dizzy. Then I lost my balance. Two years ago, long or short, depending on how you look at it, I still had a sense of balance and I could still depend on my body and my brain to give me reliable information about where I stood in relation to the ground. Then, one day, my balance was gone.

Too many hats.

I think there are people who go through life fairly self-satisfied, content with who they are and what they do, regretting little or nothing. Sometimes I think it is unfortunate that I do not belong to that group.Sometimes I think it would be nice to live without regrets but on the other hand I tend to agree with Socrates’ statement that the unexamined life is not worth living. And as self-examination tends to result in a deeper awareness of one’s own failings, I suppose that regret is integral to a life worth living. Ignorance may be bliss – at least for the one who remains ignorant – but I don’t want to bulldoze my way through life, careless of my impact on other people.

Good grief!

Recently I grieved my own death.

Before you think that this post is a posthumous visit, or that I am a total narcissist, please let me explain. I was standing in the kitchen with Mia, the same kitchen where I had been standing almost twelve months previously when Dali had received the phone call from the hospital, a call which we were both expecting and dreading, that his mum had just passed away after an intense but all-too-brief battle with cancer. Mia was perhaps remembering the grief and intensity of those days last November, the necessity of saying goodbye to “Stará mama”, the last ever-so-gentle hugs, the last kind words and the last loving looks. Perhaps her young brain was trying to wrap itself around the concept of future days and her own mother’s mortality. It had been an ordinary kind of day

grace for another day.

I sometimes lose sight of the fact that I need grace ALL THE TIME.

I need it, not just for the big things but for the little things too , for major and minor irritations and for all the details that make up my everyday life. It is in the small stuff in fact that I sometimes need grace the most because it is the small things, day after day, which can wear me down the most if I let them. I need grace to recognise my own limitations and I need to receive grace for my own shortcomings, and being the mother of four children at various stages of growing up gives me plenty of opportunities for both these things.

Losing home – part two

Almost three years after my first meeting with Dali, I walked down the aisle and, in the sight of God, my family and friends, I gave Dali my solemn vow, my “I do”, for better or for worse.

In the year leading up to our wedding we had seen each other briefly at Christmas, (my first Slovak Christmas and the first Christmas I had ever spent away from home-cabbage soup, fish and poppy-seed covered bread balls seemed like a poor replacement for roast turkey with all the trimmings, but that is another story). Since Christmas our only contact had been letters and an occasional expensive long distance phone call.

Losing Home

You need to understand about me that I am a homebody at heart.

I didn’t set foot outside the United Kingdom in the first decade of my life. School holidays were mostly spent in the magical setting of my grandmother’s home in the village of Talsarnau in North Wales, overlooking the estuary and the italianate village of Portmeirion in the distance. Occasionally we made it as far as South Wales to see my other grandmother. The furthest I ever travelled in those first 10 years of life was probably a week-long visit to Edinburgh, which, at the time, held all the fascination of a foreign country for me.

East meets West

Meeting Dali has been one of the more tangible miracles in my life, at the time unquestionably supernatural and ever since one of the clearest evidences of God’s intimate interest in the details of my life.

Growing up I had my own ideas of how I would meet the love of my life. Based on a vague understanding of how my parents had met, I imagined that I would meet my future husband at university, that we would exchange glances across a crowded room

a new direction

Welcome to my new blog about faith, family, and finding my way.

Hi. I’m Laura and I am pleased to welcome you to my blog. Please allow me to introduce myself.

About me.

I am a 46-year-old British woman with Welsh, English and Irish roots.