I wrote as if I had an audience. As if someone else would someday want to know what had happened to me on November 29, 2013. My heart told me that this little “thing” was the real thing—the first flowering of my betrothal to Christ, and a gift that would never be taken away from me, as long as I lived.
"After six years of marriage and the birth of two children, Mary at last learns to build a convent of the heart."
That’s a beautiful way to end the book, I thought. But in real life, this hasn’t happened yet.