Friday Tidings

After going through hundreds of photos, my mind is swirling with faces. Cora hardly ever smiled, and she looked too thin. But her dresses were so fashionable. Her husband Albert’s smile seemed a little bit forced.  Then their daughter, little Gracie—dressed in taffeta, ribbons, and lace—had the cutest, shy smile. Who could afford so many professional studio shots? But year after year there were at least a dozen, until they stopped, and new ones never followed. Albert had left without a forwarding address. He never returned. Apparently, the money went with him.   Then, there was Glenn. Or, actually there wasn’t Glenn. I just knew it had been Glenn before his face had been carefully cut out of each picture in the photo album. How odd to look at a family picture with smiling Bobby, his mother, and a man’s arm draped over his son’s young shoulder, but no face to be seen. More than his face had been cut from a photo, Glenn was cut off from his family. Divorce severed ties on both sides

Being healthy is an incredible blessing. I'm reminded of this as I'm getting over a bad cold. Health has a lot to do with choices. We routinely tell teens, “Make good choices.” Alas, so should we.   As college newlyweds, we had a brief stint delivering newspapers. This meant working every midnight to 4:00 am. We somehow got through those shifts on soda pop and tootsie rolls. Sugar became a source of instant energy.    When you’re young you can eat poorly and survive, but now, at our age, poor habits show up in wonky blood tests.   So, this week we had an appointment with a dietitian. While we are long past those days of indulging in pop and tootsie rolls, sugar is still sugar and causes havoc—even fruit must be doled out in three small servings per day.  There are so many little choices we make every day. They add up.   The photo above was on the dietitian’s wall. Life’s most powerful medicine is being with those you love. I agree.   So, I hang pictures of all my rea

I was probably ten-years-old  when I asked Dad what borrowed time was. I’d heard some grownups talking about it while we were pushing our grocery cart through the Safeway aisles. I knew about borrowed toys—and that I had to return them, but who returns borrowed time?   I looked up at Dad as he was scanning the cereal shelves looking for oat flakes. He said, “It means that someone is hoping to get more time than they have.” He said it in a way that I knew I couldn’t ask the half-dozen follow-up questions I had.    Borrowed time became more real as I got older and had sleepless nights raising babies—it seemed like I was borrowing time from somewhere else to get through.   The real meaning of borrowed time hits the hardest when you know your time is limited with someone you love. A friend lost his wife to a disease that made the days get harder, even as the remaining time together became more precious. They knew the true meaning of borrowed time.   As I re-read my friend's Christmas c

I read an interesting article that asked readers to recall what sparked their passions as a child. Those early years were at the heart of who and what we could become. As young children, making money or worrying about what others thought about us didn’t matter—we could dream. The child could say, “I’m going to be the President when I grow up.” It wasn’t ego-driven, but by a desire to lead. I wanted to be a teacher and a lineup of stuffed toys became my students. I’d take extra time with Bunny who struggled to learn—something I was feeling too. I didn’t become a teacher when I grew up, but I still love helping the teachers who are so dedicated to their students. I have a heart for students who struggle too. Part of my childhood passion continues. As a child, I dreamed of playing the piano as effortlessly as my teacher. So, I would sit in front of the keys and pretend I was in a concert theater. It was my make-believe performance world, but it kept me from giving up.  Perhaps 20