It is something we all take for granted.
We walk outside each day and retrieve it so we can bring it inside.
Some days we carry many things in our hands.
Some days we carry very little, with most of it ready to go in recycling.

Some people have to walk down their driveway each day to retrieve it.
Some just have to open their door.
Some only have to bend down and pick it up off the floor.
There are many ways we receive our mail each day.

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A friend and I pray together on the phone every week.
We look forward to our phone call.
We talk through things going on in our lives.
We talk about things that need prayer.

I often talk to her when I am walking.
I admit (and she already knows) that I usually have her talk when I am walking up a hill.
The hills are my time to listen.
It gives me a chance to catch my breath.

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She was raised in a Christian home.
Her parents expected her to go to church.
There was no excuse.
She didn’t mind though; she liked going to church.

Youth group was another story.
She went because it was expected, but that is all she did.
She never wanted to go to any activities.
She showed up for youth group and to her that was enough.

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We visited our son and daughter-in-love in DC this past weekend.
During one of our meals together, the subject of concerts came up in conversation.
I remember my first concert, I said, looking at my husband.
He should remember it, too, since he was with me.

Dad and I went to the concert on a date, I told my son and daughter-in-love.
We went to the Spectrum in Philadelphia.
That bit of information intrigued my son.
Wow, the Spectrum, he said knowing the history of the place and that is no longer there.

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It is always so lovely to linger after church.
There is usually someone with whom you want to catch up.
It seems to be different people each Sunday.
That is the joy of it all.

This day was no different.
In fact there were two people with whom I spoke.
It was during the second conversation, it happened.
A woman approached and stood back, so as not to interrupt.

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On a Bible study morning, I know the texts are going to come.
Women with young children can only put their plans in pencil.
Everyone’s heart is here in my home ready to study God’s Word.
Life sometimes, throws things at us at the last minute.

It has been one of those weeks.
Emails and texts came from various people with needs that demand prayer.
It is a privilege to be trusted with someone’s story.
They need help to carry the weight of their burden, since it is often too heavy to carry alone.

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I do not think about the contacts I have in my phone.
I know they are there.
They are alphabetized.
They are easily retrievable.

I have a favorite group in my contacts.
That was an easy group to put together.
It is simply my family.
Without searching, their numbers are all there.

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The invitation came to my Facebook page.
It was an invitation to be part of a prayer time.
I was invited to pray with others for the sanctity of life.
The prayer time was to be held at the three locations of our crisis pregnancy center.

My daughter, who is the mother of my granddaughter, is on the board of the pregnancy center.
We decided to go together to a location that was close to us.
This is near and dear to my heart.
Both prayer and the sanctity of life matter greatly to me.

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Years ago, one of my daughters went to Africa during college.
She went during her January term.
She was an education major.
A group of students went to Zambia to help out in the schools there.

No one had an iPhone back then, so pictures were taken the old fashioned way.
We all had to wait until she got home to hear her stories and adventures.
I will never forget listening to her as she sat at the kitchen table.
There was one thing in particular she would never forget.

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He was ahead of me in line.
He was the reason the line was not moving.
I did not fault him.
I just did not understand the problem.

I was looking around as I was waiting.
I noticed the people as they came and went.
I took notice of the man ahead of me in line.
My heart was moved.

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