ABSTRACT
Book writing is a frightening exposure. It demands vigilance so that one does not disclose what is honored as private. At the same time it forces a look at experience that can be shared and that, although difficult, is potentially helpful by extension. I consider myself a veteran in living with chronic sorrow. It’s a battlefield but it isn’t. I think it enhances some experiences, and it forces the finding of words to say to myself and to others. My two beautiful girls, one daughter living and the other long dead, have affected me like nothing and no one else. When they were born there was no way to guess that they were so damaged. They were beautiful babies. And they were the victims of whatever forces come to bear in afflicting what cannot be overcome. Sometimes I think they have taught me everything that’s worth anything.
