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Never Seems Enough

On one hand, I rationalize: I’m plenty involved in giving and helping strugglers. I give my time, ears, money. On the other hand, it never seems enough. Irrational, but the thought is haunting and there like the undercurrent in a river. I remember junior high school in a big city. Those three years taught me how it is to feel like an outsider, a nobody. People all around me, and yet, I didn’t feel like I was there. Now, as a senior adult, I hear from people about how they feel invisible, no one caring, loneliness, illness, fearfulness. Human stuff, hard stuff. When my table is full of Thanksgiving and I am surrounded by loved ones listing their blessings and gratitudes, the burden seems heav


I have been plotting and planning with a granddaughter about her dad’s birthday. Thinking about his birthday led me in the opposite direction: toward mothering. His birth changed my life! Surely that is normal. Last week my hairdresser showed me a photo of her granddaughter with her best friend, holding their baby dolls they had to take care of for several days and nights. (Assignment from school.) I just hooted! The photo said it all. These girls carried their “babies” wherever they went: shopping, a restaurant, classes, on a bus. The girls even set alarms to wake them up in the night so they could feed, diaper, cuddle babies. The photo reminded me of how troublesome, how consuming the moth

What We Do and Say Counts

I believe God brings the right people into our lives at the right time, so I have a story to tell: A dark blue one-ton Dodge dually with a big enclosed trailer pulls in along the edge of the parking lot. It has the car wash attendant’s attention. He watches the man open the door of the trailer and lower the ramp. The attendant walks over and sees the man untying a big motorcycle. “Thought you were unloading a horse!” No comment. “Well, it’s a ride, anyway.” The man gets on the motorcycle, cranks it up, and pulls it into the first bay. The attendant, once a motorcyclist, says, “It’s an Indian!” “Yep, friends ride Harleys, but not me. I ride an Indian. And tomorrow I’m taking my bride for her

Life Repeats Itself

It’s funny how life repeats itself. My mother kept a shelf of coffee cups. Likewise, I have two shelves of coffee mugs. Maybe as many as twenty or twenty-five mugs. I know I really need to pack half of them up and take them to the Salvation Army. We use two mugs, well, maybe four per day. We choose the same mugs over and over: my husband goes for the horse cups, I go for those with designs and painting imprints. We both like a handle that fits the hand. Like a good hammer or a writing pen. If I get quiet, the shelves make me smile. I can almost hear the laughter, the voices, the talk surrounding the mugs. I struggle to give these mugs away. They came from friends and family on birthdays and

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