Search

postmodernfamilyblog

Multigenerational Mom Muses on Twin Toddlers & Twenty-Something Daughters

The 2020 Class of Grit and Grace

Yesterday was my senior students’ last day of high school, and unfortunately it was virtual. It breaks both my heart and theirs. I came to know many from this 2020 class as juniors last year, my first year at Cartersville — and those of you who teach know how those kids you teach your first year (whatever “first” it may be) live in a special little place in your heart.

But this crew didn’t just carve out a niche, they climbed in and set up camp. And when we were all yanked apart eight weeks ago, my heart was left numb and aching.

I miss them like nobody’s business. They are a smart, fun-loving group, full of moxie and mirth, despite life being more than a little unfair to them.

Several of them I’ve had the honor of teaching two years in a row — last year in American Lit and this one in journalism. There’s one particular group of girls who’ve written about the impact coronavirus has had on their lives — everything from emotional turmoil to lost milestones and missing friends.

But while they do address the negatives, what I find profound and powerful is the grit and grace they’ve uncovered in themselves, despite the unforgiving situation. I find myself humbled and inspired by these young adults.

One bubbly eighteen year old with eyes blue as May skies and an outlook equally clear, explains how she finds comfort in the pandemic: “I completely lose myself in words. [I have a] need for music and reading. It’s a haven for me, a place for me to say and think what I want … It feels like a sense of worth to have what YOU need set down in writing.”

Ultimately, the one thing she hopes happens after this pandemic pause is that “the world can come together and act as a whole instead of being separated.” In the meantime, she wants the earth to “catch its breath and just be.”  

Another student who never fails to maneuver through darkness in search of light inspires me more than she’ll ever know. This year was rocky for her, even before the shutdown, but she handled that upheaval with strength and resolve.

And now her year has been upended once again, but through it all, she’s remained optimistic. Sure, she has felt “down in the dumps,” but she also sees this as an opportunity to “hike, travel to beautiful gardens, walk, run, [and] work out.” She notes “how structured and unappreciative life used to seem, [when] most everyone took …everyday activities for granted.” Now, she’s determined to soak up the memories and moments until life resumes its normal pace.

A third senior with her own set of childhood ghosts has used her past to help her forge the future with confidence. She battled feelings of “not being enough” for a very long time, but along the way she’s gathered the wisdom to know better– and the foresight to know this pandemic will not beat her or her classmates.

“Seniors are strong and we will get through this. We might not finish this school year traditionally, but we are going to finish. You will not defeat our 2020 class. And we will be ready for wherever life takes us next.”

I don’t know about y’all, but I believe her.

And finally, a fourth senior, one with flawless hazelnut skin and an outlook far beyond her years blew me away with her words this week. She’s had a lot to juggle, caring for two young brothers at home and managing her own course load while her physician mother treats COVID19 patients. And though she admits to feeling proud of her mother, she has equal feelings of being robbed of her senior milestones.

“It makes me feel selfish, but people always say that the first step to recovery is admittance. So that means I’m not just dealing with the pain, I’m healing.”

I feel like what she says is just what this tenacious senior class is doing — dealing with the pain and healing. By seeking beauty and finding grace inside the struggle.

I would say I can’t wait to see where this world takes them, but then, the world’s not taking them anywhere. It’s definitely the other way around.

Baking is my Benzo

These corona days, I often feel overwhelmed and anxious. Like I’m not being a good enough daughter, friend, sibling, teacher, mother, or wife. Like I can’t possibly play all these positions I’ve signed up for in life. Like I’m one big certifiable mess.

The pater-familias phone check-ins are a hot mess. My dad wants to preach scripture or pandemic data at me. He keeps his own spreadsheets — alphabetical by county — and there’s been days I’ve laid the phone down, flung a few F-bombs, folded some laundry, fried up some burgers, and picked up the phone again to find he’s only on Bibb …

My house is a bonafide mess, no doubt. I found spaghetti noodles stuck like dried worms to my couch cushions yesterday. They were hidden under the growing landfill of yogurt cups, coloring sheets, spent socks and play-doh. I haven’t made spaghetti in five weeks.

My hair’s a hot and humidified mess. I look like Medusa in a meltdown most days — hair frizzy and flat-iron free for these six weeks of quarantine. Today Tate climbed into my lap and excitedly told me I have white hair on top. “You’re turning into Elsa!!!” Great. Only I won’t be Elsa. I’ll be Medusa morphed into Einstein in a nuclear meltdown.

After that compliment, I needed to find a way to soothe my anxiety and settle my spirits — and since I didn’t have the stuff for Bloody Marys or Mimosas and all other spirits are frowned upon before five o’clock anywhere, I decided to bake.

Baking is my benzodiazapine when I’m feeling like a frazzled failure.

So I put some James Taylor’s Greatest Hits, broke out the brown sugar and parchment, and poured all my stress into my Kitchen Aid. Before long, I was humming along to “How Sweet It Is” and feeling so much lighter and brighter.

There’s just something about the smell of freshly-baked cookies — like the whisper of something warm and kind that centers my soul when the world feels out of whack. I forgot all my worries, my white hairs, my sofa-turned-scrapheap, and I baked.

Baking has been my comfort my entire life. Back when I was held captive in the cult, sweet, cinnamon rolls showed me the way, the truth, and the light. During football season when my husband’s away, I bury my lonely in snickerdoodle batter and fresh lemon cakes. And now in quarantine, with the four walls straining to contain my hot mess, it’s chocolate chip cookies for my sanity’s sake.

I can’t do it all, and I definitely can’t do it all well. But I can do baking. And since none of us in this house need to eat four dozen chocolate chip cookies, tomorrow my three boys and I will be driving the city to deliver warm, kind whispers to the mailboxes of others feeling the hot, lonely mess of this pandemic time.

Raise your Glass to Mother Earth

Today is Earth Day, and it’s a beauty here in Georgia — one of those balmy days with scoops of melting clouds marbling their way into a lacy, eggshell sky. The tree tops ripple their applause, the birdsong sings its praise. Tomorrow the rains come, but today is fair and sweet.

Mother Nature is doing her best to distract us and honestly, she’s sometimes the only thing keeping me from wallowing in bitterness. The Earth is a faithful friend and a soothing constant in the midst of all the uncertainty right now. She can almost make you forget there’s a pandemic in our midst — at least for a little while.

I’ve been walking at dawn each day before anyone else is up, and those walks are just the dollop of sweet cream I need to jump start my sanguine soul.

There’s nothing quite like a wet, newborn morning to make you feel hopeful and focused again. Today as I ventured out, the sun was sliding into a crisp, 43-degree dawn. All the lawns were fresh dipped in soft light and glazed in celadon green. My breath fogged, in keeping with the river’s.

We’re kindred spirits, the River and I. Chilly, but moving. Searching.

A friend of ours has a saying, “If you’re not growing, you’re decaying,” and in these days of quarantine, it’s been easy to succumb to thoughts of decay and nothingness. Because it feels like there’s no forward progress. Like we’re all just treading water in a hovering state between drowning and life. An in-between state. A limbo.

I’m not used to limbo — although I did used to think it would be nice to get away from it all like a hermit on the hillside — just for a while. Well, that “while” has lost its luster.

But this Earth of ours, her luster is in full bloom. She’s been spiffing herself up — and I’m not talking simply iris and azalea blossoms here. She been doing a bit of spring cleaning while we’ve been sheltering in place: Blue skies are returning to L.A. and Tokyo, turtles are hatching on Daytona Beach; jellyfish are jellyfishing through the Grand Canal.

Progress through this pandemic pause…

A whole lot of revelations have been made during this stressful and polarizing time. Some good, some not so good. But today, on Earth Day, let’s focus on the positive revelations. How resilient and generous the Earth has been. How we can all learn from her example.

Get out and celebrate the Earth and enjoy her humblest of treasures today.

Find a field and wade through her clover, find a stream and watch it move; find some woods and pad through the pine straw, wander a gully or inspect a grove. Explore all the ragamuffin riches the unfettered world has to share.

Or, explore your own backyard…

Pack up a picnic dinner, park yourself on a quilt, and break bread with the ants and the bees. Weed your flowerbeds, mow your grass; toss a frisbee, ride your bike. Watch the world blur through a hummingbird’s wings; lap up the sunset from the slant of an Adirondack chair.

Whatever your potion, get outside and drink up a strong dose of Earth’s indomitable spirit. Swallow the lessons she’s teaching us all about resilience, generosity, grace and grit. And let them plant themselves in your soul.

Her spirit will surely help settle our own spirits in these most unsettling of times. And teach us a thing or two too…

What if it were your child in danger?

I keep reading posts from people demanding states and communities open up the gates and get back to business as normal. And I get so frustrated. Because things are nowhere near normal — and nowhere near ready to be.

This virus is deadly. Not because it’s necessarily more powerful than other viruses, but because we have no immunity to it. It’s brand new. And until we have the tools needed to fight this — antibodies and vaccinations and effective treatments — we need to stay put.

But then folks like Dr. Oz and Dr. Drew and Dr. Phil — all those first-name(ish) television demigods of medicine — recommend otherwise and folks are ready to live and die by their word. Literally.

And sometimes I just want to yell IN ALL CAPS through the screen “JUST GO OUT THEN… ALL OF YOU!” Go expose yourselves and let the wrath descend upon you like the plague that it is and then deal with it as you will.

But then, I know you won’t be the only ones to deal with it.

Nurses and doctors like my daughter will have to deal with it — and deal with you. Nurses and doctors who don’t have the option of staying in to protect themselves and their families from this deadly disease.

They’ve taken an oath to treat the sick to the best of their ability. But their ability is being compromised due to endless shift hours, crowded emergency rooms and sick wards, lack of PPE, lack of ventilators, and honestly, lack of common sense from so many members of the public riding the waves made by conspiracy theorists.

Every time someone defies the appeal to shelter in place, people are put at risk — your family members, essential workers, and ultimately medical personnel like my daughter are all put at risk.

And that is not okay with me. Yes, she took an oath to treat her patients, but she did not take an oath to put her own life on the line. She is not a soldier. But she’s doing it — and she will continue to do it. Because she has a soldier’s heart. And she has a caring heart.

But quit endangering her life by being stupid.

And it’s not just nurses and doctors. There are hundreds of people behind the scenes at hospitals who are growing sick and dying, too. People who never took a Hypocratic oath. People admitting patients, people cleaning patient rooms; people cooking patient meals. The unrecognized people of this pandemic — they’re catching it too.

When we thank the essential workers, we need to be thanking these folks, as well. We need to remember ALL hospital personnel — on the front lines and behind-the-scenes. And you need to remember ALL THE PEOPLE you are hurting if you ignore the advice of experts. The legitimate ones.

The Dr. Drews and Ozes of this world should be ashamed for revving the engines of the masses (literally) who are ready to reopen schools, reopen businesses, reopen beaches… and ready to spread this virus to monumental proportions.

And if you are one of those members of the masses, just stop and consider: what if it were your sibling, your mother, your father, your best friend inside the COVID19 ward — caring for… or being cared for?

And if that doesn’t make you stop and think… what if it were your child?

Think about it. And just stop. Stop the madness.

Shelter in place and listen to the voices of reason. The voices of science. The QUALIFIED ones in the research labs and on the front lines. The ones who know.

And stay the F at home.

I Miss My Students

I miss them all. I miss the quiet ones, the loud ones, the eager ones, the sluggish ones, the class standouts and the class clowns, and every one in between.

I miss my their smiles — the wide-open ones, the small, sheltered ones, the barely-there smiles, and the gummy, toothy grins,

I miss their drama — the boyfriend/girlfriend kind, the hair’s-a-mess kind, the math-is-hard kind, the parents-just-don’t-understand-me kind.

I miss their stories — the dog-ate-my-homework, the truck-wouldn’t-start, the baby-brother-cried-all-night, the forgot-it-on-top-of-my-best-friend’s-car stories.

I miss their creativity. The artwork that brings me to tears,the presentations that give me goosebumps, the insights that blow me away.

I miss them bargaining over who’s gonna make the Quizlet, arguing over who gets the comfy chair, debating over which is better: Sweet Chili Doritos or Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

I miss the small groups of dancers, ball players, and poets who convene in my room fifteen minutes before school every morning.

I miss my first period’s scramble to fit Stalin into our daily discussions and their impromptu Phineas and Ferb theme song serenades.

I miss my eighth-period gaggle of multicultural girls, chairs mashed eight-strong at a six-person table.

I miss the quiet kid in fourth period who whispers when he says a single word, and the rowdy one in second who has an Irish blush to his cheeks and a soccer jersey on every day.

I miss the boys named after Texas cities who stroll into class with their lanky legs and sheepish grins, and I miss the girls named after the seasons, with their calm, soothing ways and hopeful promise.

I miss my daily bear hug from my husband’s D-lineman and the sweet side-squeezes from my beloved Chipper girls.

I miss the red head who proclaimed himself “Testiculous the Great” while studying the Roman poets, and the mop-head who loves Joe Mama jokes.

I miss 10th grade boy humor.

I miss the dark, quiet beauty with the light dusting of freckles and the penchant for writing stories. I pray she’s doing okay.

I miss the awkward goddess full of frizzy curls and goodness who’s got no idea she’s a goddess yet. I pray for her confidence to continue to bloom.

I miss my golden-haired seniors with laughter in their spirits and spitfire in their souls. I pray their sunshine and lightning always stays.

I miss my students and I pray for them all. All my precious, quirky, needy, independent, oh-so-capable students.

These kiddos are inheriting the earth very soon — an earth currently coping with and recovering from the likes we’ve never seen. But they have what it takes. They have sunshine and lightning. They have passion and gumption. They have humor and grace and whimsy and wit. They have everything it will take to get through this and to get this world to a better place.

I miss my students, and I pray for them every day. Every. Single. Day.

the magic (and power) of words

Whether being driven to the Jitney Jungle with Mom or into the presence of God with Dad, I learned from a young age what words could do. My mother was a music major, and when she sang “Ave Maria” in the car, she opened up their magic. My father was a self-made preacher man and when he prophesied in our living room, he unhinged their power.

And while some people prefer the power, I prefer the magic of words. And believe me, there’s a world of difference.

Magic is revealed. Power is wielded. One shows itself to you. The other strips you bare — or does its best. Enlighten. Or ensnare. That’s what words can do.

And lately, against my better health and judgement, I’ve been caught up in the contagious power of words. In the feverish state of negativity running rampant right now. I’ve grown flush with fear and anxiety. Words have wielded their weight on me, and I’ve wielded out weighty ones of my own. And my recent blogs have been a result of that fever. And I’m sorry about that.

That’s not usually who I am. I’m generally an eternal optimist — an alchemist who tries to turn iron into gold. To dig around in the dark till I find the dawn. But social and news media’s words of contagious power got me.

Thank heavens a good friend recognized my symptoms, cautioned me against getting caught up, and prescribed the appropriate cure: Books.

In my cul-de-sac cult days, when things went all catawampus, I read books to escape. Words with magic to counteract the words of power being catapulted at me. Books sheltered and shielded me. They took me away from my reality.

Emily Dickinson, who self-cloistered for nearly her entire adult life, still enjoyed getting away from the four walls that both protected and penned her in. By reading.

She claimed “there is no frigate like a book/ to take us lands away,” and I agree. And what better thing to do while we’re self-cloistering (so much more poetic than “social distancing”) inside walls that protect and pen us in, than set sail on the pages of a book?

Big Magic, by Elizabeth Gilbert, has been my cure. It’s helped me rediscover the sweet magic of words again, which is what I desperately needed. But it’s also helped me remember the sweet magic of this universe and my part in it.

Gilbert’s words are positive and playful and they encourage us all to find the “strange jewels” planted in our souls by the universe. Some of us will rise to the challenge of unearthing those gems, she says, and some of us are content to sit back and let them simmer unseen.

These last few weeks, sitting at home on my couch, its been easy to turn slack and cynical and to leave the magic simmering somewhere. But her words are nudging me back toward action and light.

Big Magic’s subtitle is Creative Living Beyond Fear — and that’s exactly what I need right now — a way to move beyond fear and into a positive creative state. To go on my spiritual scavenger hunt to find the words truest to me. Words of love and inspiration and persistence.

Because words are my hidden jewels. My magic. I love to twirl them like pinwheels till they flicker and flash. To sharpen and shape them into glittering strings of paper dolls prose. To fling them like stardust into the nebula of my brain and see what riches take flight.

I need to remember to play with them again. Not wallow in them. To relish in their magic, not fall beneath their power.

And if you feel the same way, I highly recommend you giving Gilbert’s Big Magic a read.

She’ll help you find and reclaim your birthright.

feeling vulnerable

I’ve been trying to write about my feelings as we all maneuver our way through this insane path our lives have all taken. I feel like it’s good for my mental health. But today, I’m feeling pretty darn vulnerable. But I think it’s important I get it all out.

More and more days lately, I’m feeling like a failure. Have I done enough? Given enough? Been enough? To the ones I love? To anyone at all?

I’ve dedicated myself to raising children and teaching students. Of that, I am proud. But I don’t think I’ve done a very good job. There’s still so much more I could have given.

More patience. More attention. More lessons. More love.

And now, I’m tied to my house and I’m tired.

I woke up last night thinking I had the Corona. My back was stiff. Was it my lungs? Were they feeling brittle? Was I short of breath? Was that a vibration I felt in my solar plexus? Was I having chills? Was this the beginning of the end?

And if not of my physical health, what about my mental health? I’m an introvert. The first couple weeks of this whole stay at home thing weren’t so bad. If I’m being honest, I sort of liked it.

But now… now, I’m really starting to miss my daily routine, my students and their smiles, my coworkers and their sarcasm. My weekly trips to Kroger, my favorite table at my favorite Mexican restaurant.

I woke up this morning, thankful. Thankful the soreness I’d felt in my lungs is simply a knot under my shoulder blade from yard work, not the virus.

But still. I can’t shake this feeling that I’m just not good enough. Not good enough to mother my sons 24/7 with no break. Not good enough to be a good friend and daughter from afar. Not good enough to teach students remotely. Not good enough to write anything folks might really want to read. Not good enough to make any sort of difference in a pandemic.

Shakespeare wrote King Lear in quarantine. They say Newton discovered gravity. And me, I can barely do laundry and dinner, get dressed.

When life is at its normal pace, I can fake it pretty well. I can hustle and bustle and smile and teach, and I can be fairly efficient and fairly decent at most of it.

But when things have ground down to this — to slow motion replays day in and day out… I don’t hold up under scrutiny. All the errors appear.

When the days are stretched taut the threads will pop, the weak will unravel. I am a mousy, mulish mommy no body really wants.

My boys are in love with their daddy. They’ve never seen him so much in their lives. It’s like a carnival and he is their favorite ride. He carries them on his shoulders, drags them from his ankles on their bellies down the hall. He puts together their new bikes, blows up their new pool, and spins their world at his fingertips. Just like he does mine.

Me. I’m just me. Still here. Like I always have been. Tired and true, but nothing special.

I have children in other states who love me, but they’re grown with lives of their own. Time creeps and time flies. And I, I barely make a dent. Now more than ever it’s obvious.

This whole pandemic thing has me in an existential crisis, I know it has. Trying to figure out exactly who I am and what I’m worth. And whether or not any of it really matters. Coronavirus has so much power over my life, my thoughts, my loves right now. Everything I am and everything I do is so inexorably wrapped around it… and all of it, and all of us, are so very vulnerable.

I am a daughter of two seventy-something parents. Vulnerable. I am the niece of medically-fragile aunts and uncles. Vulnerable. I’m the mother of four children, two grown, two in the nest. Vulnerable. I’m the wife of a good man who loves us all really well. Vulnerable. I’m a teacher of 167 students I haven’t seen in three-and-a-half weeks. Vulnerable. And thousands of students over time I haven’t seen in some time. Vulnerable. I am a writer of essays and blogs and a novel in the works. Vulnerable.

I am all of those things. But who am I really? And is any of it really good enough?

I’m trying, but I’m tired. These slivers of day pulled taut and endless have me tired.

But I will keep going. Keep loving. Keep teaching. Keep writing. And maybe one day, it will all be enough. Maybe.

That’s the thing with existential crises… you really just never know.

pale and partly-cloudy self-pep talk

The morning breaks slowly, pale and partly cloudy. Kind of like me.

I’m sitting on my porch again, just after seven. This is where I go to center myself. To search for some light as the light starts to rise.

The sky is a watercolor gray with clouds of torn batting. It’s lighter there by the river and there’s no fog today. Except in my mind.

A crow calls. Harbinger of death. Three geese honk as they wing across the sky, heading north, the palest blush of pink stirred up by their wings .

The morning rushes forward, stalked by the caw from the crow and the pink pales as soon as it forms — soaked into the anemic dawn. Pale and persistent.

Kind of like me.

A friend tagged me in a post last night — a call to build-up-womankind kind of post. I’m supposed to search my phone for a solo pic and give a shout out to all my girlfriends. But there’s a problem. I support my womenfolk, have no doubt about that… but I have no solo pics. Just half-hearted selfies.

And I’m having trouble building up when I’m so down today. The night was unsettled. I tossed and turned. Had terrible dreams.

Even now, my mind is unsettled and tosses and turns. My thoughts, they’re dark — they’re gritty and moldy and dark.

Kind of like me.

I haven’t done my hair in weeks. Worn anything more than foundation (as sunscreen) in the same. I feel ugly and sluggish and sad.

Apparently, the feeling’s contagious. My plastic flamingos sit in clay pots on the back porch with nothing to embellish. No greenery. No flowers. Flanking emptiness. Their heads and bodies sag forward.

Kind of like me.

My youngest just came to the porch to tell me he doesn’t deserve his allowance this week. He stayed up all night. He couldn’t sleep. He’s feeling the darkness like me.

I pull him into my lap. We snuggle close beneath the soft blankets piled onto my lap while I write.

His little chin points downward, the sweetest little point on his heart shaped face. A heart shape. He is the shape of my heart. As is his brother, his sisters, his father, his aunts and uncles and grandparents and teachers and all his mama’s friends.

There’s my light. There’s my way.

I have no solo pictures because I am so much more than just me. I am a mother, a teacher, a wife, a friend. I am surrounded by love.

And with all that love — even from a social distance — I can do this hard thing.

We can do this hard thing.

We can lift up our sagging, drooping heads and project and protect and proclaim.

This world is still beautiful. We are still beautiful. We are guardians, we are embellishers. Our hearts are the pink and perfect harbingers of life. Of something worth showing off.

Pale or no, we are persistent.

diary of a prayerful dawn

I’m sitting on my porch this morning, the morning sliding in on silver moth wings over the river, and I’m trying my hardest to find the good. The silver lining. The moth wings on sunrise in the wake of all the darkness.

It’s 37 degrees. Fog lies heavy over the river. The trees are twisted in shrouds of gray. The grass in the neighbor’s lawn is slathered in dew. The birds are trilling their way towards the day.

And I. I am trying.

But yesterday was hard. And the day before. And the day before. I need, we need, all of us, all of humanity, need some miracles.

My daughter has been furloughed. Dentists’ offices are hard hit right now. All those mouths, all those caves of corona potential. So she’s home, on unemployment, for the next ninety days. It’s not the same. Nowhere close. And she’s nowhere close for me to help with much more than money. And while money helps, it just isn’t the same. We need the storm-to-be-calmed kind of miracle.

My other daughter. She’s working a floor where I just learned of multiple confirmed and presumed positive cases. And for the last ten days, she’s made rounds there with no masks. Checking patients without proper PPE — because hospitals are forced to make tough choices right now. Sacrificial choices. Rationing protective gear for higher risk areas. Because no matter what we hear from the oval office, there just isn’t enough to go around. We need a fishes and loaves kind of miracle right now.

And my students. We learned yesterday we won’t be returning to school. Not to the building, at least. And while on-line learning is taking place, it’s just not the same. I want their faces. Their boundless energy. Their spirited answers, gentle ribbing, and endless jokes. Their impromptu sing-alongs at the end of class. I want their contagious joy and youthfulness. I’ve aged a gazillion years in the last three weeks and I cried a gazillions tears yesterday afternoon. We need a water-into-wine miracle.

All the children of mine — and they are all, indeed, mine — are hurting. When one hurts, I hurt. When they all hurt… the pain is unbearable. We all need a healing miracle.

And then there’s my boys. Blissfully unaware, blessedly naive. They hunker down with us here in our home and relish the privilege of having us 24/7. And it is definitely a privilege. I know that. There are so many parents out there worrying over kids home alone without school, without supervision, without food, without support. We need a feeding of five thousand times a hundred thousand miracle.

There’s so much worry and uncertainty. I don’t know how much more of all this hurt I can handle before I break. Before we all break. All of us.

As I type, the sun just keeps climbing the sky, gilding the leaves and banishing the fog and cold. As I type, my phone alerts me to the multiple overnight submissions from my beautiful students, gilding the hardness with resilience and grace. As I type, my youngest son cracks the porch door, eyes twinkling from his fresh, springtime sleep and gives me a smile.

And as I type, I pray.

I pray for a miracle. I pray for life to return.

I pray for an Easter miracle.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑