For those of us who are Christians, who believe in the miracle of the resurrection of our Lord and Savior, this is the most important week of the year, the one in which we focus our hearts on what Easter truly means. And while I like chocolate bunnies and a new fancy dress as much as anybody, that is the overt commercialization of this holy time, not the reason for the celebration. Capitalism is alive and well in America, no doubt. I think I have been contemplating this sacred period on the calendar for months now, primarily because of my illness, but also because of a picture, one that belonged to my grandmother. Simply framed, it is a depiction of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. It hun
It has been a long, cold winter here, which makes us welcome spring with great enthusiasm. We anxiously await the warm temperatures, having missed the sun on our faces. We long to shed our heavy coats and sweaters for shorts and flip flops. It is an annual ritual, one most of us joyfully anticipate. And yes, perhaps this changing season in particular is a metaphor for life. We don’t realize the value in something until we lose it, even temporarily. And that makes the rediscovery all the more sweet. Years ago, when we built our home, there was no landscaping whatsoever and the task of coaxing the Georgia red clay into becoming a suitable planting environment was a real challenge. I had a few
I remember the first time I realized that those number signs on the side of the highway were mile markers. I don’t recall how old I was, but it must have been on one of those rare vacations for our family when “Are we there yet?” was a constant refrain. I suspect that my frazzled parents thought that having me count them would keep me occupied, focused on the destination, rather than how long before we arrived. I don’t doubt that whomever came up with the idea of such road decor had children of his own. But what has been interesting to discover is the fact that the official term for them is milestones because when the ancient Romans first used them on their dusty roads, they were, quite lite
I can’t take credit for this story, nor can I give credit to the source since it has been in my repertoire for so long, I don’t know how I got it, but if I had a dollar for every time I retold it, I would have quite the nest egg. What is important is not so much the tale itself, but what magically happens when it is shared. That’s really when something wonderful materializes. Literally. And so, I thought that it might make a good blog post. The story has been altered a bit, embellished over the years because, well, I wanted to put my own spin on it, so here is my version: None of us will live forever. It is an undeniable truth, a law of the universe. Inevitably, the seasons pass, and we watc
It has been a particularly brutal flu season this year, which has made all of us a little more guarded in public places. We suspiciously eye folks who cough or sneeze in the grocery store, and bathe in hand sanitizer as a precaution. Everybody’s immune system is challenged at such times, the fear of “catching it” very real. We ask “Did you get your flu shot?” which has become as common a greeting as “How are you?” And that got me thinking about how immunizations work. When I was a young child, polio was the big threat to the general population. My mom, ever so cautious, would watch me as I played in the front yard, on high alert to the dangers of the disease lingering in ditches and puddles
