I don't know about you, but throughout my life I've found that when things were at their bleakest, when I was so lost in despair I'd not be sure how I could go on or if I even wanted to, or I've been near to death through illness, someone has always turned up. Often it mayn't be until long afterwards I'd realise just how timely their coming in to my life had been. It's something that fills me with awe and, in all honesty, I'm sure it's what's given me the 'Pollyanna' attitude I'm always 'accused' of having!

One such time was many years ago, some months after my fiance', John, had died. I guess most folk had thought it was time I should 'pull myself together and get on with my life'. But for whatever reason I just couldn't find the tools within me to do so. I knew a man in London, a Doctor Geofrey Spencer, who suggested I come down for a break. It wouldn't change how I felt but would be a break from my surroundings. Doctor Spencer is one of my heroes and has been kind of like the 'family' I never had. He's such a warm and caring person and he always believes me. He knows I would only call for help as a last resort.

While down in London I recall talking to some guy and well, maybe it is easier talking to strangers but I recall telling him 'I can't even bake bread any more' Baking our own bread had been something John and I did every Thursday night, ready for the Sabbath the following day. He taught me how to plait the dough and I just loved the whole experience. Gradually it got that I'd make it during the day whilst he was at work. Anyhow, for some reason the fact I could not face making the bread after his death seemed to be very distressing, as though I'd lost all the things I loved. I don't recall the guy said much except that he had a book he'd like me to have and that it actually spoke of things I was feeling. I wasn't really in a reading mood but ever the polite English woman I thanked him and well at first just put it away. But when one day I began to leaf through the book I found my eyes filling with tears as I realised just what a beautiful gift it was.

The book is called The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran and found it did indeed talk of the things I was feeling. In a chapter headed 'Work' I found the reason the friendly stranger had thought to give the book to me. Here's just a little sample:

Although it took me some time to see it I realised therein lay my answer. I'd not wanted to bake bread because it was something I'd only done with joy and somehow I'd not wanted to do it with a heavy heart. It felt as though the love and happiness with which I'd set about baking our bread - which, incidentally was never the same two weeks running and always a source of anticipation as to whether this week's would be even better than last's - were some of the main ingredients.

Perhaps baking bread had been a painful reminder of what I'd lost.. But once I realised what else I would lose if I shut off all the things we'd shared, I began to come to terms with things. I had been so busy trying to bury the grief I was feeling I'd not realised I was burying the good things also. And though realistically I guess I'd have realised it at some point in time, by giving me his book to read, that kind stranger in London had started me off on the road that has led me to where I am now. Baking bread is nothing special, folk do it every day, yet for me it had been something of a different nature, it had been an act of love and soon it became one again. I had first done it for 'us' and later began to do it for myself.

Like any other couple our relationship had some troubled times but never once did we hate or purposely hurt each other. I cannot know if John and I would still be together by now had he not died, nor can I say that I'd always have felt as I did in the time we did have. But I can say that every day was a joy. Every little thing I could think of to please him, surprise him or make him laugh, brought me so much pleasure. He was so sweet, and would always surprise me with silly little things. Sometimes I'd go in my handbag and find my favourite chocolate bar, or sometimes he'd have hidden one under my pillow or in my 'undies' drawer. One time he woke me at 4am to take me out to see the sun rise. And one time I made him cry by waking him in the middle of the night to ask him, "Do you promise that whatever happens you'll never hit me?".

I had known the answer, of course, but I just had to hear him say it. I felt bad for many years after he'd died for that question, yet I know he understood. He had cried, not that I'd asked him, or that he felt betrayed in my even thinking such things of him, but because I was so damaged and so unsure of my ability to make good judgements about people. He knew I knew he'd never hurt me but as he'd said at the time there was no point in him trying to answer. Had he been the kind of person who would abuse anyone, let alone someone he loved, of course he'd deny it. But if he sat up all night and all next day telling me he'd never lay a finger on me except in friendship and love it would make no difference unless I trusted him.

John taught me many things. How to bake bread, how to make a great tequilla sunrise and how to compose a photograph. He taught me that it doesn't matter where one came from or the circumstances that bring folk together, it only matters what one does from that point on. One's past does define who or what one was or had to be for whatever reason, but if one sincerely desired it, then each day, or hour or moment is a chance to change. He told me that though I could not control what I was, I could control who and what I wanted to become. But his most precious gift to me was that he taught me what love is.

John taught me that love is not feelings or words but actions. Love is communicating your doubts and fears, your joys and sorrows. Love is recognising the other's faults and failings then understanding them and trusting the other person will do the same. It is not love to deny these things. Nor is it love to be sentimental by trying to gloss over things that are not working. Love, sometimes, is recognising that things cannot be for the two of you and helping the other on his way with a smile. Love is putting the other person's wellbeing before one's own. Love is learning to be part of each other while encouraging the other to maintain their own identity. Love is sometimes being the teacher or the pupil, the friend or the parent, the leader or the follower, but love is never the judge or jury. Love is not only trusting and believing in each other, but encouraging the other to trust and believe in themselves. Love is knowing these things and striving daily to achieve them and not minding if one or the other of you fails now and then, for love is knowing each other's heart.

John was a loving father to his beloved Jane and dear friend to his ex-wife Mal. He was kind, gentle, funny, understanding and full of compassion.