It’s almost always difficult for a (previously) only child when a new sibling is introduced into a family. In the world of cats, it’s no different. Allow me to explain with a little vignette… Characters: Zephyr (aka Big Orange), age 6½, only cat in the family for over a year, and Persephone, age 4 months. Setting: every room in our home. Plot: young upstart kitten upsets the balance for middle-aged cat. Scene 1: The living room, first introduction.
I’m sitting in a hotel room in Munich, Germany, as I write. My husband is at a trade show and I tagged along. We’re heading to Berlin for a day and a half after leaving Munich. It’s been seven years since I’ve been in Berlin, my former home, and I’m getting excited.
There are few things in the world I crave more than time alone to write. Don’t get me wrong, there are things I love more — my family, for instance — but as to craving, as in wanting more of, I think that time alone to write tops the list. The truth is, other than my weekly column, I have no time to write. This leads me to two thoughts: 1) thank the Lord for my column! And 2) I’m too busy. But aren’t we all?
I just got done viewing “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?”, the documentary about Mr. Rogers. The filmmakers did a wonderful job of showing us who Fred Rogers was, of explaining the things he stood for. Things like love. And acceptance. And respect for children as intelligent and emotion-filled human beings, not just short people who were to be seen and not heard.
Grief. It’s what’s on my mind. Not, “Good grief, Charlie Brown,” which is a phrase I’ve used often enough — though when parsing it out, one can’t help but wonder how the phrase came about — but bad grief. Real, heart-wrenching, aching grief.
Things which you can stare at for minutes at a time without getting bored: 1) Waves on the shore 2) Fire in the fireplace 3) Babies 4) Kittens Things which I need more of in my life: 1) Waves on the shore 2) Fire in the fireplace Things which get in the way of doing what you need to be doing: 1) Babies 2) Kittens
The summer I was 10 years old — or I might have been only 9 — a friend of mine came to play once a week. Her father was building a house for a neighbor who lived about a quarter of a mile away, so he’d drop her off every Thursday morning and we’d play all day while my sister kept an eye on us.
I don’t have the words (which is not something I say very often) to describe taking one’s child to college and then driving away. He didn’t turn around to wave as we pulled out of the parking lot. Which was not necessarily a bad thing.
It’s summer and that means Bible camp. You maybe thought I’d say “mosquitos.” Or “sunscreen.” Or lazy evenings out on the deck. Well, we’ve got plenty of mosquitos, and rest assured; the sunscreen was packed into camp suitcases with serious admonitions about its use. And as for the deck, which has recently completed its restoration regimen ably executed by my talented husband, yes, we’ve been enjoying it as much as the mosquitos and heat allow.
It was a warm August afternoon in the city of Eugene, Ore., when David married Kathy in a small chapel in the presence of their family and friends, 60 years ago this week. Kathy’s dress, made from silver-shot fabric her soon-to-be-in-laws brought back from Damascus, tarnished in the heat and sweat. David’s white tuxedo jacket, the height of style and panache, suited him perfectly.