Love Practically (The Penn-Leiths of Thistle Muir, #1)

by Nichole Van

After all, contentment was not measured by experiences lived, but by one’s attitude toward those experiences.

Sister— I see your love, a patient stone, Rubbed and worn by worshipful hands. A pragmatic beacon of the sun, Lighting the path from where it stands. You drew forth order of chaos, Harnessed time and tamed hinterlands. But now, you are set free. To love . . . practically. Your world has spun a new axis, A different sun, your faithful gone. You, alone, must shape a new form, A home, a rhythm, a wild song, Sculpting the stone of yesteryear, Into a shape where you belong. And now I pray for you to see A way to love . . . practically.

This was the worst part of loss, Leah thought. The endless ambush of emotion. The sense that the worst had passed and then bam! Something unexpected—a sound, a smell, an image—would bring grief crashing down again.