Of Mice and Moving
“No, I don’t want to move,” I argued. It was an ongoing dispute. How I loved my little house with its pale blue siding, bright blue doors and wide white deck.
“No, I don’t want to move,” I argued. It was an ongoing dispute. How I loved my little house with its pale blue siding, bright blue doors and wide white deck.
It’s astonishing what you become in the eyes of a younger person. I guess she doesn’t understand that as friends we can no longer toss balls back and forth to each other. Now we toss words.
Now I know how Jesus felt when he knew his days were numbered. How his heart must have ached to leave behind those he loved.
I lift the apples out from the bottom of the box. They’ve been there all winter. They are no longer the firm, round gourmet delights they were when first placed there.
“My grandchildren are being raised Catholic.”
As a Protestant, (and an elder in the Presbyterian Church), that statement is one I never thought I’d have to make.
I wasn’t very full of hope. We’d hit some hard times and the place we were headed seemed like the end of the earth.
“Come on Patsy, I have something to show you.” The voice filtered through the depths of my sleep. A hand shook my shoulder gently and strong arms lifted me and carried me outdoors. I shivered in my night gown, and the voice entreated me. “Listen.”
“A different kind of Bible study.”
So read the invitation in the church bulletin. Would it entice anyone? Would it entice staunch Presbyterians?
My husband stood outside the open RV door in stunned silence. What had been a spotless RV was now strewn with sheets of paper towels and soup.
Although I have travelled many places, this particular journey is the strangest I have ever made. I have discovered that in losing a husband, I have lost who I am. Who was I before I took on all the roles of wife, mother, grandmother?
