The Ring

If you've been reading my ever-so-sporadic posts for awhile, you know that we've had a bit of a rough stretch around here. Last year, at the end of what was inarguably the worst summer ever (please God), my dad and stepmom invited us to join them at the beach. We hung on by our fingernails until that week arrived and then, after a 5 hour trip that took 10 and a half, we arrived, ready to relax and unwind and hopefully, recover a little. We were there about an hour before the frantic phone calls started coming. Another crisis. another punch in the gut. Stay? Go? Navigate. Problem solve. Pray hard. We stayed.

The next morning, Barbara and I left for a walk on the beach out in front of our house. We went for a long time and then turned towards home, remarking on how easy it was to lose one's bearings along the coastline. So many houses indistinguishable from the neighbors. Some distance from our house, we were met by Katie, who breathlessly informed us that Karoline and Sarah had left the house to come find us and Sarah had been stung several times by a wasp. Sarah was back at the house with Mike, but Kari had taken off down the beach to find me and Katie had no idea where she was. 

I took off at a pretty good clip to get back to Sarah, all the while trying not to let the rising sense of doom I'd learned so well over the previous 18 months get the better of me. When the voice in my head reminded be of Mike's brother's serious bee allergy, I hushed it. When I remembered the other Sarah, who was never too far from our minds, I pushed it away. It's just a sting. It's just a sting. It was actually several stings, but Mike had already started icing them and we quickly dosed with Benadryl and Sarah seemed to be handling it all just fine. Mike and I sorted out the confusion and mixed signals that had resulted in little girls somehow heading to the shore on their own and then decided that I'd stay with Sarah and he'd go look for Karoline. No one knew if she'd turned right or left off the walkway from our house. I will admit my heart raced while I waited for them to find her. So many, many things kept going wrong. I was learning to expect bad news. But it wasn't long before he found her and we all settled in to a much relieved, if a little rainy, day at the beach. 

The next day, the sun shone and we headed to the water. Blankets spread on the sand, books at the ready, shovels and buckets, and sunscreen--we were finally going to sink into this much needed vacation. We played and chatted and constructed castles awhile and then Mike got in the water with the kids and I went up to the house for water bottles. Heading back to the beach, I crossed that walkway (carefully avoiding the wasps), and I knew right away. 

Mary Beth was sitting on the blanket, foot in a cast, watching the quiet quest playing out in the ocean.

"He lost his wedding ring, didn't he?" I asked her, scanning the scene before me--all of them in the water, knee to waist high, looking down into ocean. 

"Yep. He said not to tell you. He's sure he'll find it."

My eyes filled with tears. Dang. Nearly 28 years in, my heart still flipped a little every time I noticed that ring on his finger. Apparently, this was a season for stripping away. 

He got up the next morning and went to the beach early, to look for the ring again. When I saw him walking on the sand, in the now familiar head bent posture he'd held down there since the day before, I went to meet him. Wouldn't it be perfect if he found it? Just the best story? The beacon of hope? What was lost is found? 

Dude. It's a tiny band of gold in vast ocean.

We didn't find it. Further, this was not the season where replacing it immediately was feasible. This was the season of broken air conditioners and pipes bursting and cars breaking down, among countless other things. 

Christmas came and I'd saved enough, a little at a time, to buy a new ring at that most elegant of jewelry stores: Costco. It only came in one size. Turns out that wasn't his size. The ring went on a shelf until it could be sized. Our finances are an open book. We have no secrets and no way to surprise each other, really. Sizing a ring up requires more gold and more cash. It was no small feat to plan a surprise.

I bided my time and saved my pennies.

The Knights of Columbus were planning to facilitate a wedding vow renewal at every Mass on Father's Day. And, it turns out that Father's Day was to be Lilly's baptism day. Perfect. All our kids would fill our "usual" pew and they all be there for the vow renewal. They would be in on the ring secret and we'd surprise him.

I found a Bible passage I wanted in the ring, something to represent this midlife token of our life together, something replete with hope. The ring wasn't pipecut like the old one. This ring was rounded and looked more like his father's ring. It had soft edges, but shone with a brightness unexpected in a symbol of a marriage nearly 30 years spent. It wasn't a replacement, didn't even try to be a do-over. It was at once new and again. And I loved imagining the day to come.

The first child started vomiting the Sunday before Father's Day. All week, they fell ill. I was up 'round the clock and when I wasn't tending sick children or doing laundry, I was staggering through Recital Week at the dance studio. Two long rehearsal nights and copious costume notes gave way to two shows on Saturday. I climbed into Mike's car to go home after the last show completely depleted.

Angry words were said. Feelings were hurt. I might have cried myself to sleep, except I didn't sleep. 

I wasn't sure I was even going to Mass. The baptism had been postponed because too many critical people were sick. Only three of our children were well enough to go to church with us. In our bedroom, I broke the chilly silence and tossed the ring box to him. I muttered something about this not being how I planned it. He took the ring out, unceremoniously shoved it onto his finger, and said it fit. So that was fun.

(An aside: he reminded me later that once upon a time he tossed me a ring box and pretty much botched a proposal. All true.)

We went together to Mass, me without makeup and thanking the stars for dry shampoo. We were later than usual, so we sat in a pew several rows back from our usual one. This really, truly wasn't one bit like I'd imagined the day. When it came time for the vow renewal, Stephen was sitting between us. The priest invited married couples to stand. Mike stood. I stood. Stephen stood. We laughed a little as I moved Stephen over and pushed him back into his seat. A little comic relief was a very good thing. Father asked us to join our right hands. Okay, lightly intertwined fingers. Now turn to face each other.

Big breath. I'll tell you what, it's super hard to stay mad and to keep a straight face while looking at each other and repeating those words.

We couldn't do it. His fingers tightened around mine and I held his hand like I really meant it.

We went home to celebrate Father's Day. And the real grace in the sacrament of marriage.

It was ten days later before I told him the ring was inscribed. Late at night, we had a really good talk about the couple years we'd just lived together. Life had thrown us one thing after another and we'd caught them, deftly as we'd caught ring boxes. Mostly, we'd walked them together and mostly, we'd been each other's comfort. Even as we spoke together that night, new things had just presented themselves, new sorrows and new challenges. The next morning, Michael and Kristin returned from her family's house in Gloucester and we all went to church on a Wednesday afternoon for a private baptism before they left again for California.

The old ring had been inscribed "Once upon a time and forever." I'd loved that then and I still love it. The new ring makes no reference to a fairy tale. Instead it reminds us that winter passes and the season of singing comes again.

I believe it. 

Mama's Reading: The Awakening of Miss Prim

Yesterday, Anne Bogel wrote about books chosen for her by her family. In that post, she wrote, “Fiction is a great empathy builder, because the process of entering into a different—albeit imaginary—world forces the reader to see things from another point of view.

I’ve been thinking and thinking about that quote. I read fiction voraciously as a child, a teenager, and a college student. I inhaled it. It was the air I breathed, the force-- more than any other-- that formed me. I think I’m very empathetic. Actually, if one can be too empathetic, that’s me.

And then I stopped.

Just like that. In 1990, I stopped reading fiction altogether. As my children grew, I’d read kidlit to them or with them, but I never picked up adult fiction.  1990 was the year I had cancer.

Before cancer, I fully expected my life to unfold like a novel. There’d be some conflict, some struggle, and then there’d be resolution and happily ever after. Of course not every novel I read was so tidy, but most were. My childhood was a turmoil, so I figured that when I left home and married, that was my denouement. It would be smooth sailing from there.

As anyone who has every married and had children can attest, that was a ridiculous supposition. Married life is full of turmoil of its own. In my case though, cancer was an abrupt, rude wake up call in my happily-ever-after daydream. With it came more raw emotion than ever before (and believe me, the before was plenty packed with emotion). In the past, reading had been my escape—into other people’s carefully crafted worlds where I was safe from reality and able to engage without fearing. During and after cancer, I was so filled with my own emotions and those of my husband and son that I couldn’t take on anyone else’s—not even those of fictional people, especially since I have a heightened sense of empathy.

A few years ago, I started reading fiction again. I began to allow myself to get lost in the story, to feel with the characters, to be carried on emotion. I have no idea why this happened when it did. I have not had emotional margin in about five years. But happen it did and I'm very glad. The nice thing about neglecting fiction for 20 years or so? I have a backlog of great books to be read.

As I read, I have the impulse to share, to discuss. That never happened pre-cancer. Books were always my private world. Now, I’m aware that there are people, like me, who always have their noses in a book, who enter fully into fictional worlds and who see them as clearly as I do. That is a happy discovery!

So, let’s see if once a week or so I can share with you what I’ve been reading in the last couple years.

First up is The Awakening of Miss Prim. I adore this book! Love, love, love it.  I binge read it in an afternoon. Then, I picked it up a few months later and read it again. Now, it lives in a basket on my nightstand and I just leaf through it every now and again and read a few random pages at a time. It fills me. It's also book most likely to be Instagrammed  because, well, it's just such a pretty book;-). 

This is a beautifully written debut novel translated from Spanish. Set in the fictional town of San Ireneo de Arnois, it’s the story of Prudencia Prim, who answers an ad to care for the library of an eccentric, well educated, and (I think) utterly charming gentleman. He's a faith -filled man who lives according to principle and he's able to talk intelligently about almost every book imaginable, save Little Women (what?).

It’s a story of pride and prejudice with Austen-like characters. It’s the story of conversion with some C. S. Lewis-like dialogue. It’s the story of an idyllic town where people live their convictions that, for all its unrealistic idealism, is also somehow inspirational. There is even a packing and leaving reminiscent of The Sound of Music. To read the book is to want to bake a pie, brew tea, engage in community, talk literature, and enter into the mysteries of faith.

For an educator, there is a strong current of educational philosophy throughout the book. The town’s children have the best of all worlds: community school and home education, together harmoniously, with each person giving according to his strengths. It’s remarkably simple and yet just beyond reach for those of us outside the fictional village.

Faith, love, literature, philosophy: it’s all there—masterfully written in such a way that this book begs to be discussed. It is charming and intellectual, replete with delightful literary references and yet, at the same time, it’s the story of a soul and its simple turn towards the source of beauty.

““I have to tell you that equality has nothing to do with marriage. The basis of a good marriage, a reasonably happy marriage-don’t delude yourself, there is no such thing as an entirely happy marriage-is, precisely, inequality. It’s essential if two people are to feel mutual admiration. Listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you. You must not aspire to finding a husband who’s your equal, but one who’s absolutely and completely better than you...
[Men] must seek women who, from one or several points of view, are better than them. If you look back over history you’ll see that most great men, the truly great ones, have always chosen admirable women...
If you reflected a little more deeply you’d realize that you can only admire that which you do not possess. You do not admire in another a quality you have yourself, you admire what you don’t have and which you see shining in another in all its splendor.””

““What beauty will save the world?” she murmured.
He peered at her through the gloom inside the car.
”Dostoyevsky, Prudencia? Dostoyevsky? If I were you, I’d start worrying.”
Miss Prim, snugly wrapped in her employer’s coat, gave a happy grin, unseen in the darkness. ”

““You say you’re looking for beauty, but this isn’t the way to achieve it, my dear friend. You won’t find it while you look to yourself, as if everything revolved around you. Don’t you see? It’s exactly the other way around, precisely the other way around. You mustn’t be careful, you must get hurt. What I am trying to explain, child, is that unless you allow the beauty you seek to hurt you, to break you and knock you down, you’ll never find it.” ”

““So seek beauty, Miss Prim. Seek it in silence, in tranquillity; seek it in the middle of the night and at dawn. Pause to close doors while you seek it, and don’t be surprised if it doesn’t reside in museums or in palaces. Don’t be surprised if, in the end, you find beauty to be not in Something but Someone.” ”

My copy is dog-eared and highlighted. So many lovely lines to revisit!

I do have to admit I was disappointed with the ending. It seemed abrupt after such careful plot and character development. I wanted to know so much more about Miss Prim’s personal journey after she left San Ireneo. If I’d been Natalia Fenollera’s editor, I would have asked to see the letters that were exchanged between Miss Prim and Mrs. Thiberville during Prudencia’s time away. I’ve literally lain awake at night imagining what those letters held.

If you’ve read it, what do you think the letters said?

If you haven’t read The Awakening of Miss Prim, treat yourself. Right now. Go ahead. Indulge. You’ll be so glad.

Summer Reading

We're changing things up around here this summer. Instead of the traditional "How many books can you read this summer?" kind of challenge posed by the library and some local businesses, we're going for "How big a book can you read?"

My summer theme (come on, all your seasons have themes, too, don't they?) is Slow. I want to nurture slow. I want to practice slow. Every person in this house needs to pull over to the slow lane. We've been going so fast and so hard for so long, we've forgotten what slow feels like. To sit idle seems like some sort of sin. To face a day without a lengthy to-do list makes one feel untethered. We've forgotten how to be still and know.

There's nothing like a fat book to slow a soul into a place of rest. 

I chose some fat books for summer reading this year. For the girls, the bonus was pretty new editions of fat books. Sarah will read The Little Princess. She has heard this story read aloud and loved it as much as any little girl named Sarah who has a heart for good will love Sara Crewe. She loved it a lot. And she's over-the-moon delighted with this pretty version. There have been literal sighs of contentment coming from her direction.

Karoline is my voracious reader. She's the one who reminds me all these years later what I thought the biggest benefit to homeschooling would be: the opportunity to stay up late and binge read and not have to get up for the bus in the morning. She reads like I do-- with her whole self invested in the story. She's been burning through the Harry Potter series with a goal to read the last book before our late August beach trip in order to move on and pack Rick Riordan in her beach bag. So, she was annoyed by my suggestion that she read Little Women and Anne of Green Gables this summer. I did have a plan, though. First, she's got four chapters left of Harry Potter Book 6. She'll be finished tomorrow. Then, that only leaves Book 7. Two weeks, max. There's a whole lot of summer between the second week of June and the last week of August. ...

She'll read Little Women and Katie will read Anne and then they'll swap. Both girls have heard both books read aloud. I'm huge fan of read alouds and I dearly love Audible. I have an Audible book going for my personal reading at all times. Always. It's my sanity (and we'll talk about that tomorrow). My kids, too, have all grown up with books read aloud. It's so good for them to hear quality language all the time.

But let's talk a minute about some pitfalls. At a recent conversation in our family about a beloved book, my third child looked up with endearing big brown eyes and said, "I have absolutely no idea what you all are talking about. I have no recall about that book whatsoever." 

"Yes, you do," replied his sister with authority. "We listened to it in the car that time we drove to Florida when Karoline was baby..."

"Oh, yeah," he said. "I remember the South of the Border signs and counting the Walmarts off every exit in Georgia."

"But do you remember the story at all?" I asked.

"Nope. Not a bit. Now that she's mentioned it, I do remember a story, but I have no idea the details of it."

This is amazing to me, because I am 100% certain that story sunk in at the time. I have blog proof in the form of a little story of my own. 

So, I wanted to pursue this conversation a little further. Patrick has ADHD. There is no doubt about it. He knows it. I know it. Everyone in the athletes' study center knows it. Everyone who has sat next to him at Mass knows it. He is in perpetual motion even when sitting down and his mind wanders--big time. He also finished his undergraduate degree in three years and he'll have a Master's Degree by December. He knows his strengths and his weaknesses and how to work with both. 

As we talked about the book, the trip, and countless other books on audio in the car, he explained how he'd hear snatches of the book and then go off on rabbit trails in his own mind, asking all the questions, making up answers, detailing his own narratives, and pretty much zoning out. He's a smart kid, so he could hold his own in discussions later and he clearly wowed me with his ability to absorb the particular speech patterns of the book. But years later, he remembers almost nothing of the content of many, many books.

The conversation then included the girl who'd been his sidekick for all those stories, the one who actually did remember the book. 

"I hate audio books," she pronounced firmly. "Hate them. I want to see the words. I want to have the language in front of me. It doesn't become a part of me unless I see it. I remember the audio books, but I also remember being frustrated because I couldn't see them."

Another now-grown child, the one whose sense of story is strong, but who still fights with the printed page all these years later: "I remember every story. I can tell you where we were when we listened and whether or not I liked the narrator." And boy, does he remember the details.

Here's the thing: Every child needs to develop the ability to listen to a story. It's a necessary skill. But that means of delivery won't play to every child's strength. Some books are worth "reading" both ways. For some books, the printed language is so excellent and will so impact the child's writing that it should not be missed. For some books, the lyrical quality of the words really do beg to spoken aloud. Little Women and Anne of Green Gables fit both those categories. Plus, these are beautiful editions. And (wait, there's more!), they fit our criteria for fat summer books.

So, both it is. Karoline will easily blow through both and finish well before she wants to start the Percy Jackson series. Katie will need the summer for both.

I have no idea how I found Escape from Mr. Lemencello's Library, but I ordered it for Nick when I ordered the others. It's light and fine for summer. The publisher's description pulled me in: 

“Charlie and the Chocolate Factory meets A Night in the Museum in this action-packed New York Times bestseller from Chris Grabenstein, coauthor of I Funny, Treasure Hunters and other bestselling series with James Patterson!

Kyle Keeley is the class clown and a huge fan of all games—board games, word games, and particularly video games. His hero, Luigi Lemoncello, the most notorious and creative gamemaker in the world, just so happens to be the genius behind the construction of the new town library. Lucky Kyle wins a coveted spot as one of twelve kids invited for an overnight sleepover in the library, hosted by Mr. Lemoncello and riddled with lots and lots of games. But when morning comes, the doors stay locked. Kyle and the other kids must solve every clue and figure out every secret puzzle to find the hidden escape route!
”

 We loved The Mysterious Benedict Society , all of them, (that's a fabulous price on the collection;-) and this one sounds like it could be equally lovable. But it's not fat. So, for his fat book he's going to read Nation on Kindle (with backup Whispersync audio, if necessary).

 Stephen is well-read. Period. He's read them all. All of them. (Note: that booklist is really buried and I bet no one has visited it since the blog migration two years ago. I should do something about that, because even I had to adjust the code to find it...) He loves classics. He likes to dig deep. He's actually incredibly literary in a family that's full of boys who struggle to sit still with a book. It's fun to talk shop with him. For this summer, I bought him The Brothers Karamozov. I wanted strong characters with complex psychology. I wanted a book we could discuss for hours on end. I promised to read it with him. he received the book with obvious gratitude for its weight--both physically and intellectually. Good pick.

This post is long and my people are stirring, so my summer books will have to wait until tomorrow. ...

Gathering my thoughts and trying to hold it together

Outside my window:  The roses are taking a little breather. Daylilies have faded. Lavender is in bloom. And my brand new hydrangeas are hanging on—we’ve been diligent at watering.

Listening to: Waiting room noises. Mary Beth is getting a couple of cortisone shots under Xray guidance this afternoon.

Clothing myself in: Capris, a t-shirt, and these fabulous shoes for the third or fourth season.

Thinking and thinking: The upside of stress and how to get good at it. I watched the Ted talk  and now I’m reading the book. Very, very interesting. Maybe even lifechanging.

Pondering:

“Being in a hurry. Getting to the next thing without fully entering the thing in front of me. I cannot think of a single advantage I've ever gained from being in a hurry. But a thousand broken and missed things, tens of thousands, lie in the wake of all the rushing.... Through all that haste I thought I was making up time. It turns out I was throwing it away.” 

--Ann Voskamp in One Thousand Gifts

Carefully Cultivating Rhythm: It’s summer! Wheee! I’m truly committed to making this a slow summer.  Eileen's Slow Summer Series has some fun inspiration in that regard. 

Creating By Hand:  Making plans to create a quilt for Paddy’s Range Room in the fall. Blue and Orange without being tacky…

Photo credit: Kristin Foss

Learning lessons in: Resilience. Almost from the moment they left, we have been preparing for Michael’s and Kristin’s visit home. It was to be the first time most of us met baby Lilly. My husband and I recognized that as our kids have gotten older, our house is being asked to be used differently. Christian came home to live after graduation while he works on a documentary project. Patrick comes and goes and almost always brings someone with him. And now, Michael brings his wife and babies from across the country to spend a week or two at a time.

To make space for this kind of living, we gutted our basement. Longtime readers will remember that the basement has long been a black hole dumping ground. Not any more. We invested time, treasure, and thought into making the basement a soft place to land and a welcome retreat for little ones and big ones alike.

I loved the project, loved thinking about this touch or that, this detail and that, all to make it work for them.

They arrived in the middle of the night, after flying from California. Even though it was after 1:00, we were up and ready to show them the surprise. I’ll admit, it felt a little like HGTV.

Then, less than 48 hours into the trip, the first child fell ill—wicked, wicked gastrointestinal virus. From that day until they pulled away 10 days later, at least two people would be sick at a time. Really sick.

We didn’t go to the Farmer’s Market

We didn’t go to the pool.

We didn’t go to see Finding Dory.

Dance recitals were missed.

We didn't sew a stitch.

We only played in the sprinkler once.

I held the baby exactly 3 times and two of those she was crying inconsolably.

We did 32 loads of laundry in 5 days.

We didn’t garden together.

We didn’t collaborate creatively on some Internet projects we’ve been dreaming.

My father couldn't come to celebrate Father's Day and meet the baby because we were worried he'd get sick.

We didn’t have a baptism.

My family has learned a lot about disappointment, loss, and grief in the last couple of years. This trip was the carrot we held out to them. “Sure, they’re moving away, but they’ll visit. And we’ll make those visits so special. Let’s make a paper chain to count down the days. Let’s make a list of all the things we’ll do. All the things that matter to you.”

Someone burned that list.

The takeaway? Life is hard. When my bigger kids were little, I did everything in my power to shield them from the hard. I wanted a happy, idyllic childhood for them. Mostly, we succeeded. When there were just a few and when they were young, we could retain enough control that—with a little luck—we mostly kept things happy.

But that’s not very realistic. In hindsight, it’s probably not the best training for real life, either. It’s not such a bad thing to learn when you’re little that all is not going to go your way and some things will be very, very disappointing. I’m trying to see the blessing of the teachable moment we’ve been presented with these later children.

I’m trying really hard to model resilience.

And then, I get in the car, away from where anyone can hear, and call a friend or two and wail a little. I’m so grateful for those two women who have cradled my sad heart and sifted all the chaff and still love me.

Because sometimes, I just get super tired of trying…

Encouraging learning in: The value of long, lazy, unplanned summer days, especially where reading very thick books is concerned. More on that tomorrow.

Keeping house:  Kristin pointed out to me that if we wanted to create a place where a tired young family could rest and retreat, we did well. As miserable as it was, it happened in a beautiful, comfortable place. That’s a blessing

Crafting in the kitchen: As a family, we’ve been working really hard at improved nutrition lately. I’ve made good use of Dr. Greger’s Daily Dozen app to remind me where I want to emphasize. Dr. Greger’s strategy is altogether vegan. I read his entire book, How Not to Die, in an effort to address some health concerns that have crept up here recently. It’s a super interesting, incredibly well-researched book.

I’m not holding anyone to strict veganism, but I am working towards it for myself. I’m making breakfast, lunch and dinner for everyone, including my husband, every day. I’m seeing meat as more of a condiment—an afterthought, really—in veggie-centric world.  Mike has the app, too, and he’s teaching me a thing or too about how to sneak those bean servings in and how it’s possible to be consistent, even while traveling. Packing lunches for him has taken on a life of its own as I play with different “bowl” combinations and do lots and lots of research on some favorite apps and in favorite cookbooks.

To be fit and happy:  Mary Beth says she’s going to run a half marathon at the end of September. So is my friend Nicole. Please let me remind you that I’m sitting in a waiting room while Mary Beth gets the same old foot injury treated again. I’m dubious about her half marathon plans. I thought about registering, too. I really do want to run that far, just to know I did it. But I also wrestle almost daily with the tension that comes with the unpredictability of having this many people under my care and trying to fit into an outside schedule. So, if I registered for that half marathon, I’d worry every time someone got sick and I missed my training day and through the schedule off. Further, I’d worry about what unpredictable thing would happen on race day. Also, I’m not really interested in racing. I want the challenge of the goal for personal reasons, not for the competition. And I want the Tshirt and the sticker for my car. It seems stupid for me to pay $100 and take on all the stress of the unknown just so I can run in a crowd (I dislike running in crowds) and get the shirt and sticker rights.  So, I’m telling you all right now: sometime this fall, I will be fit enough to run 13 miles. When I do that, I plan to buy myself a shirt and magnet for my car to celebrate;-).

Giving thanks: for a beautiful hour at the park with Sarah and Lucy and Kristin and Lilly.

Loving the moments: when everyone is feeling better at last and all the laundry has been washed, dried and put away.

Living the Liturgy: Yeah. It was a whole lot of “Lord, make haste to help me” recently.

Planning for the week ahead: We’re cleaning up around here. I have two boys taking driving tests this week. Nick has a lowkey tournament in Leesburg on Saturday that will likely take me past the Trinity House Café. And maybe I’ll hit the Leesburg Famer’s Market, too. Maybe. I’m kind of hesitant to make a single plan…

In grief, grant grace

In the blink of an eye, little boys can be snatched from safety into the jaws of alligators. This is not Peter Pan; it’s a real life horror story. It strikes at the hearts of every parent who has ever held a chubby hand. And when it happens, the whole world knows almost instantly...

Then something insidious takes over, something that threatens to forever eradicate the culture of love by handing it over to be devoured by the basest of human reactions. Please read the rest here.