Lost in Books

Lost in Books

My 5-year-old son and I are sitting side by side on the couch reading.  I with Annie Dillard’s An American Childhood, a book I should have read long ago and he another A-Z Mystery.  I have a bag of chips on my left and every few pages he raises his hand out, without speaking for another chip.  My 7-year-old is elsewhere in the house, probably in the smallest space between two pieces of furniture, curled up with his own book. 

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Favorite Part of the Day

Favorite Part of the Day

I started when my boys were quite young. 

My sons, 16 months apart, needed me at every 5-minute interval…or both at the same time. 

I started to see the days meld into one another, an endless sea of diapers and yoga pants.  I needed something, even just one thing to set them apart.  Each night before sleep, I’d write that one thing down in my journal.  That one thing I could hold on to for that day.

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Fruit Tastes Like Love

Fruit Tastes Like Love

No music.  No singing.  These were not women who would pat my red head as I passed them by or give me a little squeeze.  They didn’t pop a piece of ripe cantaloupe in their mouth as they chopped.  They simply cut, chopped, diced, sorted into dixie bowls.  This was the morning snack for the Vacation Bible School kids, including me.  Fruit I normally would not have a home.  Fresh fruit that was not from a tree in our yard was a treat, a luxury.  I looked forward to 10am when I’d be passed one of these bowls along with a little plastic fork. Was it duty?  Was it a job that needed to be done so they signed up to do it?  Was it an act of service to God?   Not sure which but with each bite, I felt loved.  

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