She got brain cancer, my mum, who once changed behind closet door when Dad was in the room, and she now needed Dad to dress her. She sang off-key while he tender clothed her, and this daughter who used to peek through the crack and cry over the way Mum hid, this daughter now pulled up Mum’s Depend’s and brushed her hair as Mum told her over and over how beautiful she was.

(Part 3 of ‘What it means to look like God.’ Join me over at A Deeper Story today, friends?…)

**Please note, there will be no Imperfect Prose on Thursdays this week, as I’ll be leaving tonight to speak at Hungry for Hope 2011**