I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
Jimmy Carter’s eldest grandchild shares health update as former president nears 16 months in hospice
It’s been 479 days since Jimmy Carter entered hospice care at his home in Plains, Georgia.
Although the former president’s family initially believed he would only live a few days, Carter, at 99 years old, has defied the odds.
“God had other plans,” Jason Carter, 48, said.
Jason, the oldest of the Jimmy and Rosalynn’s 22 grandchildren, recently shared an update with Southern Living on the health of the 39th president.
According to the oldest grandchild, there’s “really been no change” in the last few months.
After nearly 16 months under hospice care, the last seven without his wife of 77 years, Carter is “experiencing the world as best he can as he continues through this process.”
“After 77 years of marriage… I just think none of us really understand what it’s like for him right now,” Jason said.. “We have to embrace that fact, that there’s things about the spirit that you just can’t understand.”
While family continue to visit the former president at his home in Plains, they find it difficult to predict what kind of day Carter will have.
More often than not, Carter spends his days sleeping.
However, a few weeks ago Jason visited his grandfather and the two watched an Atlanta Braves game and talked about the Carter Center and their family.
“I told him, I said: ‘Pawpaw, you know, when people ask me how you’re doing I say, ‘honestly I don’t know,’” Jason remembered. “And he kind of smiled and he said ‘I don’t know, myself.’”
Jimmy Carter is in my prayers every single day. Please share to keep him and his family in yours.
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