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I remember many, many years ago - when I was a young mom - pushing my three-year-old daughter Abbey on the swing. The swing set was one of those metal and plastic backyard contraptions, the legs of which eventually pull loose from the ground. I recall the sun was bright overhead, outlining a few cottontail clouds floating between us and heaven. Innocent in toddler-sized shorts and Velcro tennis shoes, Abbey was too young to understand such things as terrorism, war, pandemics

It’s her fault you are reading this. My high school English teacher in the 1970s and 80s, Mrs. Ledbetter taught me to love words.  I can still see her  slaloming between our desks in her blah-colored shirt and sandstone cardigan playing a haunting melody on a small bamboo flute. Her curly, mousey hair and leather loafers appeared mundane, but she was one of the most fascinating people I have ever met. Every summer, Mrs. Ledbetter would do something adventurous: white water

Mom and I waited in the car while Dad lumbered into the drugstore. Within minutes, he was sliding back into the front seat ceremoniously handing her a large, heart-shaped box.

When I was in elementary school, my father bought my siblings and me a wild pony, because it was less expensive than a tamed one.

When it was time for the Gospel, I prepared myself for a short daydream about the presents we would open back at her house, but to my surprise . . .