I love the cold air when I walk in the morning.
I am one of those people who love cold weather.
I do not like ice but a cold winter’s day is my favorite.
Put a little snow in the mix and I am one happy woman.

It was always so much fun to be outside as a little girl and see my breath.
I loved to see my breath on purpose.
I still find it amusing when I talk on a cold day and see my breath in front of me.
I do not think about it scientifically; I just love when it happens.

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I began to talk to her years ago.
She worked in the organic section of my grocery store.
She was a hard worker.
I never saw her idle.

Saying hello each week soon turned into short conversations.
Short conversations soon became longer conversations.
I heard so much about her life during those longer talks.
Things were not always easy for her.

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I was thinking about the word, approach.
I was thinking about all the ways it can be used in a sentence.
I looked up its meaning in the dictionary.
There are two meanings that are used most often.

Approach: (verb) to come near or nearer to (someone or something) in distance.
Approach: (verb) to speak to (someone) for the first time about something.
I have used the word in both contexts from time to time.
After that, I thought of the word, approachable.

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Right after we had our second child, we bought a station wagon.
It was white.
It had plenty of room for the four of us at the time.
It had a lot of room in the back for our groceries.

Hidden away in the back cargo space was something you would never know was there.
Hidden away, able to be flipped up or down, was the way back seat.
I have no idea if that was truly the name of the seat.
Perhaps it is the name my husband gave to it.

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It is not pleasant to turn on the news.
It does not matter which news channel you prefer, the hostility is palpable.
We seemed to have lost the art of civil discourse.
We have drawn our lines in the sand deeper than ever.

There are hot button issues.
There are those things that you know are not wise topics of conversation.
There are issues that deeply divide even family members.
However, there was a time when you were able to agree to disagree.

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The invitation was truly a gift.
The invitation was given to me in my favorite country store.
The store is in the land of Amish buggies; it is the place I go to buy my candles.
This particular day I had my future daughter-in-love with me.

I was glad she was with me, since she was a witness to the invitation.
I could not believe the words were spoken.
I was able to say a resounding, yes.
I left the store that day thinking, Did that really just happen?

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It is so wonderful to have Bible study in my home.
It is a blessing to see the cars pull up in front of my house.
It is a joy to see each woman walk through my front door.
They know the door is open to them; they know that there is always a chair ready for them.

The women sit at my long farm table in the kitchen.
Some sit around the kitchen island.
The rest are in folding chairs in the family room.
There is always room.

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We have all done it.
We see a string and we pull it.
If that string is on a sweater, beware!
You may pull the entire string from the garment.

My oldest daughter crochets.
She makes beautiful things from yarn.
I have watched her meticulously work on a row of a baby blanket.
She can easily pull out the last strand that she just finished, without disrupting the rest.

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I had to run to the post office.
Ours is a little country post office.
It actually closes from 12:00-2:00 each day for lunch.
Often there will only be one person at the counter.

The parking spaces for the mail trucks are empty since they are out on delivery.
The person working the counter is usually in the back working.
When I get to the counter, I have to ring a bell to let her know that I am there.
I usually hit the bell softly, since I know that she is busy finishing other things.

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You’re such a good artist, the mother said to her little boy.
I watched him as he was drawing on the paper place mat.
He was so proud of himself as he wrote his name in large letters with a red crayon.
He was showing the server his artwork when she brought their food.

I’m a good artist, the little boy said confidently.
Yes, you are, the server answered.
Yes, he is, his mom agreed.
I have his wonderful drawings on our refrigerator, his mom added.

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