I’m writing from the basement. It’s where I live with my husband, Glenn, and our golden retriever/border collie mix, Charlie Brown. We live in the basement of my parents’ home where they have lived since before I was born. I’m pretty sure we’re right where we are supposed to be and it’s a pretty big basement so it’s not as bad as it sounds. In a series of events that could only have been orchestrated by Someone with a bigger picture than I have, we have moved, incrementally, from our double-income-no-kids household in Bend to the situation we now find ourselves in: sharing my parents’ home.

But there’s more to it than just “moving-back-in-with-my-parents.” My mom’s health isn’t good, if I’m truthful, she has Alzheimer’s (as I write this she is heating Charlie’s water on the stove), and we’re here to give dad a helping hand. In reality it is simultaneously harder and better than I anticipated and desperately precious. And it turns out we all need a little grace from one another. This is our tale of grace.

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