In Memory of “Where were you…?”
**I heard it from my grandmother—the question of her day: Where were you on the attack of Pearl Harbor?
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Arms Outstretched
I ran into a friend today, and I started to cry. No, I didn’t actually run into her—just the figurative collision. But the crying was real.
In with the New
originally written for my “Family Time” Column in Fountain of Life Magazine, Jan/Feb 2016 It seems we are a people who love new beginnings. Turning over a new leaf. Wiping the slate clean. Starting over. Waking up to the dawn of a new day.
When Faith Becomes Visible: The Story of One Woman Who Did Not Forget
It was a moment to cherish. There I sat in her living room watching this precious woman, my grandmother-in-law, play her special version of patty-cake with my fifteen-month-old daughter. I couldn’t understand the words (they were in another language), but the affection was clear. And I knew I was blessed to be there.
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Honoring the Gray Haired–and Those Who Help Them
Kids: they’re kind of my thing. Babies, toddlers,… middle school, high school, college… you get the picture. As a mom, as a teacher, it’s been a natural thing for me to write about. All in my comfort zone. But since when does God let us get comfortable?
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No SuperMom
In honor of Mother’s Day,here’s a post for the other 364 days… [Originally written and published in my Kenosha News “My Turn” column] I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so ugly. At least as far as “dustables” go: Those trinkets you put on your shelf that just sit, collect dust, and look pretty? Well, this
Punishment or Protection? …When Life Seems ‘Out of Order’…
They looked at me like I’d killed their grandma. Or at least stolen their candy. In truth, I’d tried to save them from the machine that ate it. I was on an overnight field trip with several hundred middle schoolers. And where there are middle schoolers,
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Musing to the Music
I write to Josh Groban. No, not like sending him letters in the mail. Like playing his songs while I type. His music demands something. Creativity. Thought. A story. But not its own—Honestly, I can’t understand any of the Italian—instead, it lets me make up mine. His English words? They swirl around and around, blocking
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When You Spoiled the Easter Egg Hunt
I’ll never forget the look on her face. I was five, and we were on a school field trip, an Easter party at a park. So far it had been a fantastic morning.
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