The stories and glories of hugging a stranger a day ... and other life lessons
September 29, 2017
Hurricanes, earthquakes, fires and floods. Threats to annihilate another country.
That would be September 2017.
I was scared of the answer but I had to ask.
“God, are You angry with us?”
The answer was immediate.
“No, I am disappointed.”
I imagine Him looking down on us.
September 27, 2017
We needed a pump out. For the uninformed, that means cleaning out the holding tank on the boat of all the “you know what.”
In some marinas there’s a little boat that comes around to perform this essential function. In others you have to go to the pump out station to “di...
September 25, 2017
Once upon a time there was a woman named Ruth. That would be the Biblical Ruth. The one that married Boaz.
And gave birth to Obed;
Who begat Jesse;
Who begat David.
The David that would become King of Judah and God’s Chosen People.
And from whom comes the...
September 22, 2017
Christ has no body but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which He looks
Compassion on this world,
Yours are the feet with which He walks to do good,
Yours are the hands, with which He blesses all the world.
Yours are the hands, yours...
September 20, 2017
In the sixties. Well, I’m not even sure whether I burnt it.
Maybe, as a sign of being a liberated woman (with the wisdom of my seventeen-year old self), I donated it to freshmen guys as a lark.
I do know that one morning it was fluttering around the head of the Cecil Joh...
September 18, 2017
One stitch. That’s all it took. One danged stitch.
I’ve knitted my entire life. I believe I even taught a few people along the way.
I stopped for a few years.
Quite a few years.
Like thirty years and three countries.
And as we all know, nothing stays the same. Even knitting...
September 15, 2017
Lord of pots and pans and things,
Since I’ve not time to be,
A saint by doing lovely things,
Or watching late with Thee.
Or dreaming in the dawn light,
Or storming Heaven’s gates.
Make me a saint by getting meals
And washing up the plates.
Although I must have Martha’s hands,
September 13, 2017
As often stated before, I’m a product of that fine British institution, The Boarding School.
Those were happy years. Mostly. I’ve managed to delegate to the archives the nasty bits. Like a housemother that didn’t like me. To compensate, the cook, Ouma Dreyer, loved me.
September 11, 2017
And I won’t/can’t lose it, even if I wanted to.
Not possible. Not at my age. It’s who I am. For better or for worse.
So why do I care when people refer to my accent?
Well, I don’t.
Most of the time. Then it’s described in a certain way, using certain words and I find I do...
September 8, 2017
I’d gone to town with my mom. I hated the trip. Forty miles in a hot car. No air conditioning. This was the late forties.
And it was a dirt road. You had a choice.
Hot, cranky and miserable or,
Windows down, cooler and a mouthful of dust with every breath.
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