Through a window screen, and outside my home office window: a dogwood in full flower.
This week has brought tidings. News. Clarity.
Spring is in full bloom.
The day job is kicking my butt right now.
Christ the Lord is resurrected.
I know more of the path of my life now than I did four days ago.
Old friends have enlivened my days.
School is winding down, but not really.
Voice students are thriving.
Bedding plants are going in the ground on this Easter Sunday.
And all is well.
At the Easter Vigil, we were reminded of our baptismal vows.
Amongst my father’s belongings was this card I sent him for one of his birthdays.
I still write limericks.
To my parents on furlough in Lee’s Summit in 1991:
This would have been their first major furlough as missionaries, and the furlough where I came out to them.
Aunt Esther died five years ago this week.
Me with my great-aunt Esther Gutshall Summers at 96.
Sometimes I am wrong.
Wrong in my knee-jerk response. Wrong in my facts. Wrong in my presentation.
So today I got to say “I’m sorry.”
And I’m glad I said it. And I’m glad for the reminder that I’m not always perfect.
Meanwhile, my sisters and I each confessed Monday evening . . . that we are turning into our parents.
And that’s so wrong it’s right.
From campus Monday evening:
I was five years old. Kindergarten at West Boulevard Elementary, Columbia, Missouri in 1966.
And my Kindergarten class made individual holiday books.
I found this in my father’s collection of things, and rediscovered it at my own house a few weeks ago.
The contents are dribbling out this week!
Are these really bells and ornaments? My motor skills were awful….