It is not uncommon in moments of despair and grief to find myself either: in our chapel, knelt carefully infront of the altar, laying my heart out to God; or quietly sat in my room, carefully reading the theological literature I have accumulated over the years. To root myself in God in moments of despair and desperation is to find my anchor. And when I have that solid foundation, I am more secure in knowing how to go forward as the one that my fellow Sister's and the midwives look to for wisdom and courage.
It is important to acknowledge our strengths, given to us by the Lord, and I know mine lies in careful consideration and an ability to be level-headed in a crisis.
So, finding myself on the doorstep of the Turner house, with the threatening of tears spilling from my eyes and the ever growing lump in my throat is as much of a surprise to me as it is to Timothy, who opens the door.
"Sister Julienne," he says, almost questioningly. "Come in."
I smile, even though I feel my mouth wavering and twitching under the stress of my strained grin.
I move into the living room.
"Dad's been called out," Timothy begins. "And mum is reading a story to Angela ready for bed."
I nod and take a seat on the sofa. I have known Timothy his whole life, but suddenly it is difficult to converse and I can see he senses that, shifting slightly. His awkwardness reminds me so much of his father.
He looks to the door. "I'll get mum…"
"No…" I say, rather more firmly than I mean to. The last thing I wanted was to be here as an interuption to their usual routines.
Timothy gives a cheeky smile, "To be honest, Sister, Angela much prefers my reading. She says Mum doesn't do the voices properly."
I laugh and watch the teenager admirably as he leaves the room. He may have Dr Turner's awkwardness, but he has his perception of emotion from his step-mum.