We filled our hydration packs with water, made sandwiches on sourdough bread, tossed in tangerines and trail mix, and grabbed layers of outer wear. It had been too long since we’d hiked in the wilderness.
This photo was taken at our wedding. Seven of our kids and grands come from a different location on the planet. Dan’s daughter was adopted from Korea. She married a man whose parents immigrated from Thailand. Dan’s son married a first-generation Persian woman. My son chose a Hispanic bride. And my daughter and her husband adopted three boys from Uganda.
We are an American family.
It was C. S. Lewis who said:
Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.’
On our way home from serving more than 200 meals at Family Kitchen last evening, the thought came to me: I’m looking forward to going to Hawaii [Dan and I are flying out tomorrow], but take Hawaii out of the picture and I’m deeply content where I am. Here. Now.
It hasn’t always been this way, though.
I’ve written about my passion for drafting lists, about completing items not on my list and adding them for the simple pleasure of checking them off, about the time I drafted a list of dating qualities as a widow and then filed it away at the advice of a friend only to discover later that Dan met every. single. requirement.
This blog isn’t about any of that.
During the time it set under our Christmas tree, an Amaryllis stalk sprouted in the small box. No water, no light, no nutrition. A squashed, bent-over stalk.
“I bet our neighbors are jealous of our sidewalk,” my husband commented.
Dan and I added on and refurbished our home last year. Before they would approve our permit, the brilliant city planners required we put in a sidewalk. At our expense.
I was on a roll. The words were hurtling off my fingertips onto my laptop screen like so many tennis balls sputtering out of a launching machine gone haywire.
