I entered the church doors and was greeted by my friend.
She was sitting there patiently waiting to open the door for the women.
Since our church has a preschool and an Academy, the doors are locked during the day.
She waits and serves in her quiet way.

She sits at her post, so that the women coming to Bible study will not have to wait.
She is the unofficial greeter with her quiet spirit and her enveloping hugs.
My friend is so tiny; I tower over her frame.
Yet there is not another person who can hug as warmly and as genuinely as she.

As we talked for a few minutes before going downstairs, I saw her.
A little girl from our church.

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The company did it again.
Another film about women’s beauty.
Not the airbrushed, cookie cutter beauty that society seems to crave.
Rather the unique, precious beauty of every woman.

I clicked on the link, knowing that I have never been disappointed before.
Once again, they made a film to get you thinking.
Once again, they made a film that contradicted what mainstream media portrays.
The premise was simple: are you beautiful or average?

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After any meal, a clean-up must be done.
The dishes are brought over to the counter so they can be loaded in the dishwasher.
The table needs to be wiped.
The floor needs to be cleaned.

Not a “get out the bucket and mop the floor” kind of clean.
Rather a “get out the broom and sweep up the crumbs” kind of clean.
There are always remnants of the meal beneath the table.
Evidence of the fellowship that took place there.

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It is the posture of choice.
It is the way most people walk to get from one place to another.
Head down.
Hands holding a device as they walk along.

It is rare to see someone walk with their head held high.
Gone are the days of meeting someone’s eye as you pass by on the street.
It has become a solitary world.
A world of personal playlists, text messages, and Twitter updates.

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My son was recently asked how our very Irish family celebrated St. Patrick’s Day.
He remembered the leprechaun that lived in the wood pile.
He remembered the notes with the tiny printing that the leprechaun left for us to find.
He remembered that he was never able to catch him no matter how hard he tried.

He had forgotten to mention however, that it was also his dad’s birthday.
It was the day to wear green.
It was the day when everyone claimed to be Irish.
It was the day of chocolate candy wrapped in gold and an Irish meal for dinner.

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It was so nice to get out and walk this morning.
Winter has taken its toll.
Paved streets that are usually clear have been covered with ice.
I knew it would be a matter of time before my old routine resurfaced.

It smelled like spring on my morning walk.
The last remnants of snow left by the plow are in mounds at the end of the driveway.
The snow seemed to retreat.
It was as if a blanket of white was pulled back from the house ever so carefully.

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We have lived in our current house for eighteen years.
Our youngest daughter had her first birthday in this house.
We moved into our home in July, on my birthday.
We left soon after we moved in to go to Atlanta to see the Olympic games.

Most of the rooms in the house were set up the way we wanted them before we left.
The dining room still had boxes of my mother’s good china.
We had not hung anything on the walls yet.
Everything we needed to do would be finished when we returned.

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I stood in the back of the middle school auditorium.
The same auditorium that served as the cafeteria.
The tables were removed to accommodate the chairs.
Chairs were set up in rows so the parents could support their children.

I had been in this room many times before.
I sat for orchestra concerts, choral concerts, jazz concerts, and award nights.
This day was different.
This day was a culmination of study on the Civil War.

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I am a shower person.
Some people are bath people as they enjoy a long soak in a tub.
I really love a nice, hot shower.
The hot water makes me come alive in the morning.

We have a footed tub in our master bathroom.
An old-fashioned claw foot tub with a telephone spray.
The tub is long enough for an adult to get lost for a while with a good book.
The tub is big enough for a young child to feel as if they are in a swimming pool.

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I couldn’t wait to learn cursive writing.
This type of writing was something you had to be old enough to do.
Cursive writing was not taught until third grade.
In my mind, third grade couldn’t come fast enough.

I knew that I would need a special tablet of paper.
I knew that I could even have a fountain pen with its own ink cartridge.
I was ready to turn simple block letters into an art form.
I looked over the cursive letters on the back of the tablet and traced them with my fingers.

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