This week our parish hosted an Advent Mission. One evening, there was an elderly gentleman beside us. Everything about him gave the impression of a quiet, gentle soul. But his eyes told me he had seen many things. His eyes were soulful and doleful, deep brown, and they made me want to know his tale.
The man at the mission made me wonder if people can tell by looking at me that I am broken. Some days I don't want to go out because I think that people will be able to see my heart through my eyes. I want to spread joy to others, with a smile and a kind word, yet some days I need those smiles to be aimed at me. And maybe a hug, too.
The mission priest answered a burning question for me. He said that the moment we stop telling stories of someone who has died, that is when they truly die. I hope people don't grow tired of me remembering Ben through retelling his stories, for they keep me alive as well.
I love making bread from scratch. I always picture Mary kneading the dough for her little family. I put a little of myself into each batch that I make. I put my prayers in there, too, as I knead the dough, thinking of all the people who have asked for prayers and for those who God puts on my mind. I also always pray for the dear friend who taught me to make homemade bread.
Have you ever noticed that the more detailed a job you do when cleaning the floor only results in the most and messiest spills immediately afterwards? Just wondering.
Apparently I can have a clean house and uneducated children or a messy house and happy, smart children. Hmmmm. Oh, well, you've been warned if you ever think of coming over for a visit or tea.
From the sublime to the trivial, that is this week's takes and how my mind is usually working. Can it be any other way with a house full of kids?
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