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The tiny skiff sailed across the English Channel in the foggy dead of night. Icy winds and frothy waves tossed the boat from side to side, nearly capsizing the fragile vessel. But my grandfather, nineteen year-old Ralph Waldo Tacker, kept a steady hand at the helm even though his fingers were numb from the cold. He was carrying precious cargo-President William McKinley. The bodies of brave sailors encircled the commander-in-chief to provide warmth and protection. A heavy black tarp covered the craft so enemy patrols would suspect nothing more than a lonely fisherman trolling for tomorrow’s catch. Grandpa arrived at the English shore just before dawn where a cracker-jack escort greeted President McKinley and whisked him to safety.

“Boy” my nickname for my grandfather, seldom spoke about his Navy days in the heat of World War I. But the carnage he witnessed forged a strong faith in God and formed him into a remarkable man. Tough as nails and fiercely protective of those he loved, this man in my life was my mentor and my champion. I climbed up in his feather bed awaiting his colorful tales of “Geewhizzicus’” and “Wallygoppers.” He curled his big bicep and made his Navy ship tattoo undulate up and down his arm. Three little ducks adorned his right foot to remind him of his salty days at sea.

I now know that his love for Jesus and his steely courage sustained him as he witnessed the carnage of wounded soldiers suffocated by mustard gas and maimed by bullets piercing sinew and bone. The blood-soaked bodies were piled into his vessel and rushed to the safety of British hospitals across the briny waterway. Boy never mentioned the atrocities he witnessed. But his wartime days motivated him to cherish every moment and live his later years with unmitigated joy.

Juxtaposed on his life’s canvas of grief and loss were brushstrokes of another man. Boy was a creative and accomplished musician. My sailor Gramps tooted the Sousaphone for none other than John Phillip Sousa himself. He bellowed peppy marches under Sousa’s artful baton. Can you imagine? He played “Stars and Stripes Forever” the first time it was ever performed! What a remarkable experience!

But I didn’t know feisty Ralph during his stint in the Great War. I knew the man of persevering faith he became. He opened his arms wide to welcome his granddaughter and twirl me until I was too dizzy to stand. Yet even as a five-year-old, I noticed the limp he carried from a wartime wound.

On the Grandpa scale from one to ten, Boy was an eleven. His belly laugh woke the neighbors. His rich, chocolate-covered bass voice bellowed “Bringing in the Sheaves” in his church choir. And his boisterous humor and brilliant exposition of the Scriptures peppered the Sunday School lessons he taught week after week after week.

I recall scooting around his coffee table, barely able to stand on my rubbery legs, noticing the huge Bible-marked with his handwritten scribbles in the margins lying open on the glass top. That Bible was always in his hands or on the table before him. He served as a deacon in his church until he was too weak to leave his bedroom.

My grandfather knew me better than anyone. He prayed for me constantly. I’ve been told that I started shaking my booty to rock and roll before I could talk, so Boy assumed my fondness for “dancing” showed musical promise. He purchased a toy piano and showed me how to tinkle the ivories with my chubby index fingers. Boy was my biggest fan. He taught me to worship God with reckless abandon, and watched me pursue a career in Christian music for the next twenty years. He always attended my recitals or sat in the congregation cheering me on as I played, sang or conducted.

I sadly recall his last day of life. His booming voice had become raspy and quiet. Boy smiled and squeezed my hand as I approached his hospital bed for the last time. “Julie Girl,” he said, “Why don’t we sing Amazing Grace together?” I tearfully joined him in the words “When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun, we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise than when we’ve first begun.”

I am God’s child because of Grandpa Boy. And I live in a country where I can freely express my faith in Christ because of Boy’s bravery and sacrifice. Thank you, my wonderful hero! I still miss you every moment!  

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I still feel the sizzle of burning flesh when Talid, my Turkmen Christian brother, had his feet branded with a white-hot iron. He narrowly escaped and limped across a scorching desert to safety. My dear friend, Iranian pastor Anoush, was forced to witness his captors raping his wife. He didn't recant and neither did she. My precious Ellen was a Harvard professor who left her lucrative career to serve God in Uzbekistan. The secret police split her skull with an axe and left her for dead. Fictitious tales? No! I have countless friends who lay down their lives every day for the gospel. I burn with passion for missions.

Passion is a fascinating two-pronged concept. Passion can mean affection, ardor, animation, ecstasy, fervor, fire and joy. Conversely, it also means agony, devotion, fury, intensity, suffering, vehemence, wrath and zeal. Jesus turned over the temple tables and said “Zeal for my house has consumed me.” (John 2:17) Paul writes to the Philippians in Philippians 3:12-14: “I do not consider brethren, that I have captured and made it my own (yet) but one thing I do … (It is my aspiration) forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the supreme and heavenly prize to which God in Christ Jesus is calling us upward.” The craggy-faced apostle also wrote “For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.”

Such singular focus defines a passionate life. My little flame began to flicker when I was six. Every December I received a plastic mayonnaise jar with a hole cut in the top and a label marked “Lottie Moon.” I figured her Mom must have named her “Lottie” because she wanted a “lottie money” for the children overseas who hadn’t heard about Jesus. This brave lady who crossed the ocean to tell boys and girls the Gospel made me cry every Christmas. I pictured myself beside her, reading Bible stories and hugging those skinny little children with slanted eyes and open hearts. Week by week, we sang at the top of our lungs the lyrics “…red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world.” I knew who they were, and I gave them my quarters, pennies and dimes.

By the time I hit high school, Lottie’s voice was faint in my ears, but I still heard her haunting tune. I was preoccupied with impressing teachers and chasing boys. Lottie, Hudson Taylor and William Carey were fairy-tale characters in my estimation. However, I had a fondness for Spanish and spent five years rolling my “Rs” and eating guacamole -- the green goo I proudly pronounced “guadakamockee.” The summer of my sophomore year was spent in a quiet casita in Saltillo, Mexico. The jalapenos were tasty, and the teenage guys were cute and extremely friendly. Even though my hormones distracted me, living in the Latin culture warmed my heart for missions once more.

My senior year of high school was spent serving as state president of the Pan American Student Forum of Texas. I ran for office because I knew Mrs. Moreno (my politically-minded Spanish teacher) would give me an easy “A.” To my shock and surprise, I announced in my annual address that I wanted to be a missionary to South America. There it was -- bare naked, the truth deep in my heart emerged for all the world to see. I had been outed -- I was eager, ecstatic and excited at the prospect of crossing the border to share my faith.

So why didn't I immediately leave the hallowed halls of Baylor University and take up residence in a mud hut in the Amazonian jungle? Why didn't I don my serape and guaraches and head south of the border? Well, God had other plans ... Roger walked into my life. It was love at first sermon and God called me to be his wife, a pastor’s wife. Our call from God to serve Him was clear. We applied to the Foreign Mission Board of our denomination to serve overseas, but our request was denied because of Roger’s health issues.

We were devastated. How could this happen? The smoldering embers of passion for people across the globe still burned brightly in our hearts, unquenched by disappointment and disillusionment. During the ensuing days, God led us to the wild, wild west in Tucson, Arizona. You have to understand that when we came on the scene 30-some-odd years ago, the smell of gun smoke still filled the air, and ornery gunslingers were a not-so-dim memory. Tucsonans were tough, independent and scrappy. Arizona was still a faith-frontier, miles from the southern Bible Belt where we grew up.

Planting, sowing seeds of the Gospel and watering the hard ground took many years of cultivating the desolate desert soil. Would Roger ever go to foreign fields and live the life of a jungle pilot or itinerate preacher? The answer was an unsuspected no. But to our amazement, God gave our church an abundant harvest-an army of missionaries sent from our church around the world. Casas Church became a launching pad. Our call from God was to give money, recruit man-power and sow seeds of fervent prayer. Countless members now serve abroad as beacons in dark countries still waiting to hear the message of Jesus.

In spite of Roger’s physical challenges, we have had the privilege to speak to thousands of missionary pastors and leaders in 32 countries around the globe. I still cry every time I hear about God’s work across the ocean. When I eat a meal or shop at the grocery store, I ask myself how many hungry children would these dollars feed? When I walk through the doors of elegant American homes, I wonder how many people could fit into these rooms to house a church? I remember the icy room where Russian believers gathered as Roger preached. No room for chairs, we stood nose-to-nose and arm-in-arm.

We retired from full-time church ministry after 35 years. Was our ministry over? No! God has given us a worldwide missions venue. Preach It, Teach It, our website (www.preachitteachit.org) provides free resources for pastors, missionaries and Bible teachers in 213 countries around the world. Every day we counsel hurting servants of God who have nowhere else to turn. We've chatted, counseled and prayed with Indian, African and Chinese pastors this week alone. My vision of a mud hut and a single tribe in the boondocks seems so far from the scope of what God has done. Every day I wake up, excited to encourage and teach my brothers and sisters around the world. My heart beats with them and for them.

I am wearing a tiny pearl necklace some lovely Peruvian ladies gave me as a thank-you for teaching them the Bible last fall. These precious women, poor in worldly goods and rich in faith, scrimped and saved a portion of their grocery money to give me this priceless thank-you gift. Yes, passion’s fire is both agony and ecstasy. I agonize that I am apart from all of my loved ones worldwide, but I rejoice in the part God has given me to play in their ministry and in His mission.

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Who really knew you? Who left their world to enter into yours? Sadly, one lady who attended one of our conferences in England said, "My dog. When I came home from school and wanted to share my day, he was the only one who would listen." Can you imagine the pain in those words? My mother knew how to enter my world. She knew how to love her daughters!

Tea parties are part of a little girl’s DNA, along with dress-up and boy hating. My earliest tea soirees consisted of my baby blankie, Yogi the teddy bear, and Arf-Arf, my stuffed beagle. The fare was simple -- baby bottles full of water and dried prunes. Mom determined that only dried fruit snack spills would come out of my bubble-gum pink bedroom carpet. Yogi and Arf-Arf were water-soaked, but the prunes kept them regular.

When Kathy, my little sister, entered the picture, the tea parties became more elaborate affairs. I had to bribe her with real food to induce her to play. Milk and cookies were on the menu, and Barbie, Skipper, and Midge were the esteemed guests. Our only male doll, Ken, was never invited. He spent most of his days lonely and naked in the toy box. Ken couldn’t wear evening dresses or rubber high heels like Barbie (at least not in those days), so he remained in solitary confinement, only to make an appearance as the occasional dream date or groom. Kathy was younger than I, so I forced her to “be Ken” -- a humiliating job when playing pretend.

Now, back to the party plans. We scoured the house for the perfect location. A bed sheet covered the dining room table and satin pillows were surreptitiously absconded from the living room couch. The milk was filled with strawberry Quik, and we stuffed Fig Newtons down our throats lickety-split. Our Barbie and Midge dolls refused to eat because they were always dieting to prevent their perfect little plastic bodies from collecting cellulite. Barbie, created in 1964, is still in impeccable shape. If you see her in the toy aisle, nothing droops, wrinkles, pooches, or freckles. She is forever flawless and ageless. I hate her. 

My momma understood our fascination with tea celebrations. Growing up on a dirt farm in East Texas was hard for my mom. Grandpa and Grandma B barely eked out a living for their tiny family. Everybody worked day and night to plant, harvest, and can the food they ate. Her parents couldn’t afford many toys, so Grandma B created dollies from corn husks and scraps of cloth. Momma never owned a china doll, but these little companions fashioned with love were precious to her. The crude little corn husk girls gathered in the corner of the living room next to the coal-covered fireplace. Tea sets were costly, so Grandma B gave her little tot the cracked cups that were no longer usable for morning coffee. Mommy was an only child, so the friends who gathered around her tea table were imaginary. But she had an elegant tablecloth — a doily my Granny had artfully crocheted with white thread and little blue beads. Mom cherishes that lacy treasure to this day.

Those were her childhood tea-totaling days. As a grownup, Mom worked as the accountant for Dad’s business, so Saturday was our special day together. Saturday morning did not seem special at first glance. Mom marched us down to the kitchen, shoved a bowl of Cream of Wheat (it tasted like paste) down our gullets, and passed out the cleaning supplies.We dutifully performed our morning chores, knowing that there was fun to be had when we finished our tasks. After all, Momma knew how to work hard. So her little charges were required to “earn” their fun before teatime began. Our happy “tea outings” did not come without a price. But it was worth the effort.

You can imagine the delight my mom had at treating her little girls to a tea party in grand style. ... Saturday’s activities were not simply relegated to cooking and cleaning. At noon, Mom blew the whistle and gleefully proclaimed it was time to go “messing around.” We threw down our spatulas and plungers and scrambled upstairs to change clothes. Mom exchanged her white socks and granny shoes for panty hose and red patent leather pumps. I cast off my grimy t-shirt, washed my armpits and donned a frilly dress. Looking fresh and perky in our frocks, we completed the ensemble with flowery hats and white gloves. Mom spritzed us with Sois de Paris  toilet water (did it really come from a toilet?) She stuffed us into our Monza Spider convertible, stepped on the gas and sped toward downtown Dallas.

These special Saturday afternoons were tea parties in grand style. At Titche’s Tea Room, gloved waitresses poured English breakfast tea from silver pitchers. Wedgewood china adorned the tables. Baskets bulged with tiny blueberry muffins, scones with clotted cream, and watercress sandwiches. A real live pianist played a Steinway grand piano as we sipped the warm beverage and raised our pinkies. Kathy and I used our inside voices, folded our napkins, and avoided food fights for at least an hour. Mommy was so proud.

Every sophisticated socialite spoke in hushed tones. If the whole experience wasn’t glamorous enough, Elva the pianist pounded an arpeggiated flourish that signaled the start of the fashion show. Beautifully appointed models strode down the runway in rapid succession. They strutted their stuff as we gawked at the gorgeous duds. Suits from Chanel, scarves from Hermes, evening gowns from Armani, and bags from Burberry dazzled the onlookers. Mom would have to hock our convertible to buy an outfit. The models descended the stairs and visited each table, describing their ensembles and revealing their exorbitant prices. We pretended that the Chanel suit was a real bargain, but Mother knew all we could afford were the blueberry muffins.

Some Saturdays, I pretended I was swishing down the stairs like the stick-thin models, though my potato sack frame would look like a stuffed sausage in a strapless sheath. On rare occasions, a stately model would show off an A-line dress, which was “fashion speak” for “this will fit fatties.” I dreamt a handsome prince would burst through the doors, slip a Gucci pump on my chubby appendage, and carry me away in his carriage.

Kathy, growing restless, was busy using the tablecloth for a napkin when her little linen square dropped to the floor. The strawberry jam on her cheeks added zip to the otherwise pristine white table runner. A snooty waitress sent a withering glance her way, but Kathy didn’t care. She had paid for those muffins, by golly! (Or Mom did…) As the models disappeared back to the dressing room, Kathy seized the opportunity to do what she did best -- to be the center of attention. She bounded up the stairs onto the runway, twirled three times, and showed the snooty ladies her jingle-bell petticoat. Instead of administering the whipping she deserved, Mommy giggled and applauded. The other ladies followed suit. Yep, tea parties were the best, for grown-up ladies and little girls alike. Only a loving, imaginative Mommy could watch her daughters sipping water from plastic teacups and fulfill their tea-party passion so completely. We left Titche’s tearoom dazzled and delighted. Even our table manners improved ... for the most part!

Jesus Christ, loved us enough to enter our world, to lay down His life for ours.

Thank you, Mom, for doing the same-every day, every moment, throughout your life. I love you. Julie

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Jack woke up at dawn, sleepily padding down the hall to the kitchen to down some breakfast before work. As he lumbered toward the fridge to grab milk for his Cheerios, he found a tear-stained note taped to the door:

“Honey, I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore. Being a mom is too hard. If I stay, I’ll go crazy. Please don’t try to look for me. I love you all. Goodbye. Bonnie.”

This sounds like an opening scene of a Lifetime movie. Only it wasn’t Lifetime. It was real life. And it broke my heart.

Bonnie was my mommy-buddy. Every mother needs one. When your rugrats try to flush Oreo the cat down the toilet, forage through the trash for snotty Kleenex and try to climb the backyard mesquite all before 8 a.m., something’s gotta give. I was a shy, over-committed pastor’s wife. I wasn’t looking for a friend. I watched our first baby die an agonizing death five years earlier, and at long last; God had given us two healthy girls. I was overjoyed (and overwhelmed).

Bonnie came to the rescue. She befriended me with open arms. Danika, her stunning, curly-headed toddler, was the same age as my fireball, inquisitive handful, Brianna. Our youngest two, Bronwyn and Donnie, had just appeared on the scene eight months earlier. We met at church, stumbling out of the nursery after separating Danika and Brie from a playful wrestling match. Our two youngest were safely locked in their baby carriers, smelling of overripe diapers and strained carrots. We giggled over our wiggly charges, exchanged beleaguered glances and arranged a play date for our kids.

Brie and Danika couldn’t wait to whoop it up together. The local park was filled with swings, doodle bugs, sand and endless possibilities for expending energy and making muddy messes. As time went by, little Donnie and Bronie joined the party as partners in crime. They became experts at antagonizing their older siblings. Bonnie and I oversaw the ruckus, but we shared more than a common calling. We were not only mothers, we were soulmates -- the closest of friends.

My friend was one of the most brilliant, creative, amazing women I had ever met. Her kiddie birthday parties were extravaganzas replete with clowns, Italian cream cake and costumes. She taught our brood how to make masterpieces with macaroni, yarn and buttons. Bonnie was also a savvy businesswoman. She started work at our church overseeing the tape ministry (does anyone still own a cassette tape?) and managed to launch it into a nationally syndicated radio broadcast.

Two of my most cherished possessions came from Bonnie’s artistic hands. An amazing portrait artist, Bonnie etched a stunning family portrait for our 10th anniversary at church. Her second masterpiece was a beautiful study of my five-year-old Bronwyn bowing her head in prayer. I proudly display them as frozen moments of a happier time we shared together.

“Friends for life” was my dearest hope. Pastors' wives don’t always have the luxury of such a precious gift. But seven years into our friendship, something changed. Donnie contracted an extremely rare nerve disease (RSD) that ignited every nerve bundle in his body and left him with constant searing pain. He writhed night after sleepless night in agony. The doctors found a few drugs at that time that would dull the pain a little, but no specialist could offer any hope of a cure. I tried to help, mustering church friends to give Bonnie and the family some relief in their endless caretaking. Donnie went from doctor to doctor, hospital to hospital. Nothing helped. When Bonnie was down, mostly I just held her and let her cry.

A month later, we received the shocking phone call from Jack. Jack, an affable teddy-bear of a husband blurted out the bad news.

“She’s gone, Julie, she’s gone!”

I thought Bonnie had committed suicide.

“Slow down, Jack. What do you mean?”

I prepared myself for the worst.

Jack sobbed. “She left us. She just packed up her bags and walked out the door. I’ve called the police, the hospitals, the morgue. It’s like she’s a ghost. No one can find her. What are we going to do?”

I was speechless. I had no answer.

Roger and I rushed over to the house. Jack, Danika, Donnie and older brother Andrew sat motionless, staring at the floor. I held Dani close to my chest as her tears soaked my shirt. Donnie, hunched over in the corner, shook and said nothing. “We’ll find her,” Roger assured them. “She probably just hit a rough patch. I’m sure she’ll call in a few days.” We waited and prayed and prayed and waited.

But the call never came. Two years later, I learned Bonnie had changed her name. After plastic surgery and a makeover, she appeared in an article in Women’s Weekly as a successful businesswoman in Boston. Bonnie started a new life. Jack once again tried to reach out in desperation but there was no response. Devastated, the family limped along without her.

Bonnie was a runaway mom. Unthinkable. Can God forgive her? Can her family forgive her? The family would forever live with the pain, but God has a forgiveness and healing that is far beyond our understanding

My prayers were angry prayers. “God, bring her to her senses! Make her pay for what she did to those children.” The Holy Spirit stopped me mid-prayer and spoke very clearly. “Julie, get up off your knees and read Hosea.” I pulled out my study Bible from my nightstand, shuffled the paper-thin pages until I found the minor prophet.

The rough-hewn farmer turned prophet received an enigmatic message from God. Hosea 1:2: “When the LORD began to speak through Hosea, the LORD said to him, "Go, take to yourself an adulterous wife and children of unfaithfulness, because the land is guilty of the vilest adultery in departing from the LORD."

Are you kidding me? The role of prophet’s wife is a demanding one. Hosea was going to need a lot of support to preach against the wickedness of Northern Israel. And now, he’s supposed to marry a hooker? And how did Hosea meet her?

Hosea, in the midst of a fiery message to the crowd, peered across the hillside and glimpsed the sparkling eyes and chestnut hair of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He finished the closing prayer and raced through the crowd, touching her shoulder. “May I ask your name?” he whispered softly. “Gomer,” she replied. Gomer is Hebrew for “perfection.” Hosea was instantly smitten. She was THE ONE. But just as God predicted, Gomer came with some serious baggage.

Later that evening they were strolling in the moonlight and Gomer described her checkered past. Was she a cultic prostitute at the Bethel Baal Temple? We don’t know for sure, but it was bad.

“Why did you do it?” Hosea asked, shocked and disappointed. Perhaps she said, “I was raped by my uncle when I was 13 -- thrown out of our home and called unclean. They disowned me. I had nowhere else to go. It was either the street or Baal’s temple.” And she wept. And Hosea proposed.

In Hosea 1:3 Hosea married his gorgeous sweetheart Gomer. Then she had their first son. God said “call him Jezreel, because I will soon punish Israel.” I hate it when kids become sermon illustrations! But this one was God’s idea. So Hosea and Gomer dubbed their oldest boy “God’s avenger.” Sounds like a super-hero, don’t you think? Give that boy a cape and a helmet!

But in the space of three verses, Hosea begins to doubt his wife’s faithfulness. Perhaps she stayed in the marketplace too long. Perhaps she was taking too many evening “power walks.”

Verse six tells us Gomer bore a daughter. God told Hosea to name her, “Lo-Ruhamah, for I will no longer show love to the house of Israel.” The word for daughter in these verses is “girl child” implying she might not be Hosea’s child. Lo-Ruhamah means not pitied, not loved. What a terrible name for a little girl! “Oh, Unloved, come eat your roasted goat…”

But things went from bad to worse. Two verses later Gomer had another son named “Lo-Ammi, because God said “you are not my people and I am not your God.” The “boy child” (not son) means “not my flesh, not my son.” The baby of the family looked nothing like Hosea, and Hosea’s heart was broken.

The preacher’s house was full of kids, but two are not his own flesh and blood. Tragedy came to the parsonage.

Then Hosea received the same “Runaway Mom” letter my friend Jack did. Gomer left her “Dear John” letter by the door: “Don’t bother to look for me. I am not coming home. I have gone away with a man who makes me feel happy and fulfilled. I am sick of dirty diapers. I’m tired of you. I’m tired of the kids. I’m through.”

Hosea prepared for the toughest job of all: single fatherhood. Those were bitter months while Gomer was away. About a year later, Dad was changing Lo-Ammi’s diaper when the word from God came in Hosea 3. “Hosea, true love keeps on loving even when you’re changing diapers on someone else’s baby. If you love Gomer, go and get her.”

The poor preacher went to the First National Bank of Samaria, withdrew his life’s savings -- 15 pieces of silver and one and one-half homers of barley. Then he made the rounds of the slave markets, looking for his runaway wife.

Hosea’s friends were disgusted. “She dragged you through the gutter. Why are you doing this? She’ll just run away again.” But he continued his search.

He located her at the slave market in Bethel. When he glimpsed her haggard appearance, he hardly recognized the love of his life. She was broken, her shoulders bent over. Her hair was filthy and matted. Shame contorted her face. Even though she knew Hosea was in the crowd, she was too afraid to look up.

“What am I bid for Gomer, the daughter of Diblaim?” the auctioneer cried.

Hosea was faced with one of life’s greatest choices: the fear of rejected love. Will she have him? She left me once … will she do it again?

The auctioneer shouted once again: “What am I bid for Gomer, the daughter of Diblaim?”

Hosea mustered all the courage he had. He pushed through the crowd and hollered,

“I bid 15 pieces of silver and one and one half homers of barley.” The auctioneer was stunned. The crowd was hushed. How could a poor preacher possibly offer a king’s ransom for this bedraggled creature? Her beauty and worth were gone.

But Hosea loved the runaway mom, his runaway, unfaithful wife. He didn’t care. She was worth it all. He took his wife to his breast, caressed her straggly hair and welcomed her home. Hosea’s love story applies today. God never, ever stops loving us.

Motherhood is wicked hard. All moms want to run away on a bad day. But just like God, those around her need to hold her close, give her encouragement, support and never, ever give up loving her.