I visited a wonderful bookstore this past weekend.
Shelves that almost touched the ceiling lined the walls.
Rare, used, and new books filled every crevice.
The store was divided in sections according to category.

I headed first to the children’s section.
I perused the shelves and saw spines of books that I immediately recognized.
I watched a mother read a book to her child at one of the tables.
Memories came flooding back to the times I read to my own children.

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Sometimes you see things during the course of your day that make you pause.
Last week, I saw two things on separate days.
They seemed out of the ordinary so it made me take notice.
Taking notice is one thing; understanding is another.

I was heading home after a day filled with errands.
The kind of errand-filled day that requires you to get in and out of your car frequently.
I was going home thinking about how a nice cup of tea would be perfect.
I was nearing the turnpike entrance.

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March is a month of birthdays in our family.
My husband and my firstborn have birthdays one week apart.
I tease my husband from his birthday in mid-March until my birthday in July.
Oh, how I love to be younger than him for four months of the year.

This same daughter overheard my teasing through the years.
When she went to preschool, the celebration of birthdays was always something special.
She told her preschool teacher that she and her daddy had birthdays close together.
She also told her teacher that her mommy was married to an older man.

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Growing up, news was reported in the newspaper, on the radio, and on television.
You would always see people on a train or bus with the newspaper tucked under their arm.
You knew that most people tuned into their local news station and 6:00 and 11:00.
If a major news story happened, a special report broke into the daily programing.

There was no need for twenty-four hour news reports.
Journalism was a trusted profession.
The times between broadcasts were used to gather information.
It was the time to check and double-check the facts before they aired.

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If you really want to show someone you love them, then listen to them.
I remember reading that sentence a few years ago and it has never left me.
It is profoundly simple.
It is inexorably true.

One of my children will always be an object lesson for that statement.
The one child who, tongue in cheek, will say, nobody ever listens to me.
It is not said out of desperation for she knows she is deeply loved.
It is said more out of frustration since in a family of five children, there are many voices.

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I went to the cash register, the one where you scan the items yourself.
The line was long since more winter weather is in the forecast.
It was the typical assortment of milk and bread that I saw in people’s baskets.
I was buying fruit and a few other things.

Six registers all being used with at least that many people waiting in line.
One by one people finished, and one by one people stepped up to begin.
Finally it was my turn.
A woman finished bagging her things and turned and smiled at those of us in line.

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When my children were little, I put notes in their lunchbox.
Sometimes the note would be on a napkin.
Sometimes the note would be on an index card.
The note was a tangible reminder of my love for them.

When they were really young, and not yet able to read, the notes were in pictures.
An eye, a heart, and the letter U said it all.
U R Gr8 was another note they loved to decode.
It was my way of letting them know I was thinking about them during the day.

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I remember when our oldest daughter got her first real bed.
She had graduated from her crib and was excited about her big girl bed.
She was excited at the thought.
She was not excited about the reality of sleeping in something so big.

We were hoping that God would bless us with many children, so we thought ahead.
We decided to buy beds that could be bunked or kept separate as two single beds.
It was this single bed arrangement we tried first.
The beds would be assembled as bunk beds a few years later when our sons were born.

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The weather forecasters got it wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Wrong for those of us living in the mid-Atlantic region.
Right on target for those living in New England.

A blizzard was coming.
Supermarkets experienced that; get ready for snow, kind of busy.
Milk, eggs, and bread were flying off the shelves.
Washer fluid and rock salt were disappearing quickly.

It was a typical batten down the hatches kind of day.

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