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Holy Innocents

Today is the Feast of the Holy Innocents, the toddlers and babies killed by Roman soldiers at Herod’s orders after Joseph fled to Egypt with Jesus and Mary.

I have never liked the traditional way of describing these kids as martyrs. A martyr chooses death rather than betraying Christ. Little children suffer and die before the age of consent and from the terrible things adults do.

I also am not sure abortion is exactly the best modern comparison to what happened that day. As far as we know the tiny innocents in their mother’s womb do not have consciousness yet. I imagine them, at least early on, as in a dreamlike bliss, violently but quickly disturbed and ended by abortion. Abortion is violent and tragic in several ways. However, as Pat Benatar sang, “Hell is for children.”

This is a good day to pray for children around the world who suffer the violence and callousness of adults, especially from state sponsored terror and genocide where there is no safety, no relief, where parents cannot protect them, such as in Gaza where parents write their children’s names on their limbs in case they are killed so they can be identified, where children are orphaned, maimed, under the rubble, starving, sometimes being operated on without anesthesia if they are lucky enough to find care at all. Surely their blood cries out to the Lord. We all know the outrageous numbers. Hell is for children.

Ukrainian children suffer war as well, and I am struck by the fact that Russia is taking the children away from their parents and into Russia. It reminds me of our child separation policy during the last Trump administration; something a lot of us lost sleep over, protested but felt powerless to stop. The damage to those little ones is profound and many of them were sexually abused as well, or never reunited with their families. It’s a method of torture I believe, to do this to kids and their parents. Some of those children were nursing babies.

In many countries life is so dangerous or poverty is so great that parents are forced to flee with their children to find safety or go where life is possible only to be rebuffed and unwanted, subjected to detention or camps or sent back to the dangers they fled after an often long and dangerous journey.

In Sudán, famine threatens and children die of malnutrition as parents look on helplessly. This is happening in so many countries.

I haven’t heard what life is like for the children of Haiti as their country descends further into chaos, violence, and gang rule.

We know children are forced to fight and kill in parts of the world. Children are trafficked and live lives of nightmarish abuse.

Children are abused in their churches, schools, and families and too often the abusers are protected instead of the children.

And here in America, the leading cause of death for our children is gun violence. .

These are things adults have done or conditions the world of adults have created that massacre the souls minds and bodies of children who deserve safety and love, freedom to be kids. These are the holy innocents of our time.

This is overwhelming. What are we supposed to do? Jesus was stern about any harm done to little ones.

We need to be a part of lessening their suffering, advocating for them, of challenging the structural sin of our world, and the wrong headedness of the powers that be. Nothing will change if we don’t.

Hell is for children, but we are allied with Heaven and we hold the gift of prayer given to us by God. As we stand up for children and help as we can, God makes our prayers and actions big and far reaching. We can be everywhere he is, holding frightened children, drying tears, giving strength, transforming the world.

Holy Spirit, we pray for the Holy Innocents of our time and we dedicate this day to them. You are the comforter and the giver of life, the one who strengthens, uplifts, transforms, the Spirit of Love and Truth, Father of the Poor. Make your way through this world bringing light and nourishment and peace. Make us repent of the sins of the world and show us what we must do. Guide our prayer for every child everywhere in need of rescue and relief of sorrow and fear. May our leaders prioritize the needs and rights of children to safety and freedom and family life.

Bless every little heart on earth on this day of the Innocents.



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Remembering the Aggie Bonfire Tragedy

If you are not familiar with Aggie Bonfire it was a long standing Texas A&M University tradition. It was the largest bonfire in the world. When I was a child we could see its flames from our front yard. My mom used to have the hose ready because the cinders would drift over the roofs of our neighborhood. Fire trucks would line the field it was held in.

It was designed by A&M Engineering students. It got bigger every year. It was the funnest to attend when I was a teenager. The Corps of Cadets formed a ring around it to keep drunk people from getting too close. It was a huge community wide party. The Aggie band was there and there was lots of singing and cheers.


A&M does not have cheer leaders. We have yell leaders. Cadet Trainees in overalls with no shirts leading. The yelling.

There was an old fashioned outhouse on top with our rival schools’ initials on it. Bonfire burned the night before our game with them. I say “our” even though I was never a student there. My parents were. Not me. However if you grow up here you’re part of it. Not much else goes on around here.

The weeks before bonfire are when the building happens. It’s a night and day thing. Girls signed up to be “bonfire buddies” and bring snacks and hot drinks and encouragement to the kids working on it. The entire process took three weeks or so. It involved giant cranes. You could see students climbing all over it in their hard hats tying logs with wire, watch its progress as you drove past on the Main Street of the town, Texas Avenue.


November 18 1999 was the end of it.

The Bonfire collapsed in the early hours just before 3am.

I woke up a bit before that with an intense urge to get up and pray the rosary. I tried to ignore it especially since I had my toddler asleep in my arms. “Get up! Pray now! Get your rosary and pray now! Now!” So I did. We lived near campus then. In the midst of my sleepy prayers I heard ambulances and sirens – more then I had ever heard before. That day I was giving Communion at the hospital. I saw staff crying in the halls, parents gathering in a glass room waiting to hear about their kids. I took communion to a young Aggie CT in intensive care but he was unconscious so I just prayed.

If you are from here do y’all remember how we were asked to stay off the phone so parents could get through to find their kids? And how the restaurants offered meals? And how our priests heard confession from young people trapped under the logs? And how all the other schools sent banners that were tied between the trees around the site? I don’t miss bonfire though I grew up with it. I’m glad they don’t do it anymore. Later I found out one of the dead was a cousin of mine from a part of the family I didn’t really know. She was a freshman and we were supposed to get together for coffee. Jamie Hand. Anyway I doubt anyone who was here for that could ever forget any of it. God bless all the families who lost someone.

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Cookies in spirit

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Something Zane loved to do was make cookies. This is something we did nearly every day. I used to hold his hand to help him crack an egg and make sound effects for him. He liked that. He used to try to eat the butter and show his enthusiasm for our baking activity by mouthing the bowl. His very favorite part was pouring the mix into the bowl. I used to say, “Here comes your favorite part!” I bought the same cookie mix today and I’m in my kitchen making cookies in spirit with Zane, smiling and chuckling at the parts of our process that I remember.

Well. my granddaughter will be happy and surprised to see cookies when she gets home from school.

  • Zane was a young nonverbal autistic guy with cerebral palsy that I took care of for the last four years of his life. He died at 20 years old on August 22.
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Decisions. I hate those things.

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I have been rather dysfunctional lately. I go to work (I still have one of my jobs) and I come home, do the minimum such as take care of my chickens cats and dogs. Then I lay in my bed and stare at the ceiling. My heart hurts. I feel like I am dying. It’s grief of course, for Zane, who died suddenly and unexpectedly August 22 of this year.

At the same time I have lost my job. I took care of Zane for about four years. I also take care of Mac, another special needs young man.

So I have lost my main job, my job with Zane, which is a crisis in itself. It’s hard to make decisions when you’re grieving and it’s not the best time to do it. However, I don’t have time to do this any other way.

I really love working with special needs young people. I seem to have a knack especially with those who are nonverbal. It is a calling I believe, to do this work. It’s a work that is love. It means a lot to me.

I interviewed with a new family. It went very well and they would love me to come work for them. I liked them too. I said I would let them know in a day or two. Then I cried in the car and had to go over and hug Zane’s mom. We sat on the couch and talked for a while about Zane, about things. Her loss is so great I had to stop typing for a few seconds just now thinking of it. I feel guilty talking about my own grief but I can’t help it.

When my mom got restless or had a problem she needed to think about, she re-arranged the furniture and cleaned madly. Sometimes she pulled up carpet or made new curtains and painted the living room to match. I’m not good at sewing. I don’t have money for paint. So I stuck with re-arranging the furniture and cleaning madly.

I talked to my friend Shawna who somehow manages to give me clarity when I need it. I continued to clean madly. My dogs were a little concerned.

I thought about how I am worried about the pay for a prospective new job which is far less than I made at my last. I wondered how I would pay the mortgage now. I finally got a house and I am not giving it up. I was thinking about what to do about that.

However the main issue is grief. It’s hard for me to think of replacing Zane and trying to love someone new already. I reflect that I have never failed to love anyone I have taken care of. In the nursing home where I did my clinicals there is no way to really get to know the people you care for. You take care of their immediate physical needs and even if they’re crying or something you have ten other patients you have to get to who need to be changed or whatever. Even then I always cared for each one in a loving way as best I could. That’s just how I do it. I can do this.

I have a daughter in college. I will do whatever I can to make sure she gets as far with her education as she wants to. She is busy applying for master’s programs lately. No matter what she is going. My other daughter has been going through hell this summer. It’s pretty unimaginable the way she is holding it together. However she needs me. Sometimes she needs my help. I’m going to be here ready.

If there is anything in my life I have learned to do it’s grieve and fight for my family at the same time.

I can work out the pay part somehow but I prayed about my next person to take care of. I think this could be the one I asked for or was led to. . I think I will try it and do my best.

The dogs needn’t worry. I think I am through cleaning for now.

OK, Beloved Lord. Lead on.

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An Honor Walk


Today I did something I have never done before. I took part in an “honor walk” for someone I love very much who has died- just yesterday in fact.
I had never heard of an honor walk before. This is something that was done today for this person so beloved by so many. I can’t tell you who this person is to me because the family has not shared anything on line as far as I know so I won’t either.

However I thought this honor walk was pretty touching. Everyone came at such short notice and it was a lot of people!

It had to be carried out quickly due to the family’s decision to donate the organs “so he can be the answer to another family’s prayers.”

His body would be flown to Dallas for this purpose.

This death was sudden and tragic. Everyone I saw there in the ICU was still dazed from the shock of it. Hospital staff had us line the halls. Some of the people had signs with pictures of him saying “We love you.”

We seemed to stand there a long time. I didn’t know many of the others though I could guess who many of them were. I introduced myself to some I had heard the most about. I regretted that I somehow forgot my rosary. I always have one in my pocket but I didn’t remember today. I made desultory conversation with an interesting young person next to me whom I had met several times before. It was awkward or I worried it was.

I repeated “Jesus Maria” in my head as I tried not to let my emotions or my social anxiety overwhelm me.

In High School my best friend, Philip, was killed in a car accident. I remembered vividly watching his mother, Helen, go stoically through all of the necessary procedures. Afterwards I tried to stay close to her through the varying stages of her grief and mine.

A lot of feelings from my past came up standing there because I felt so terrible for the family. I remembered the last time I would ever see my first husband’s face after he had died in a car crash when he was twenty-eight. I had to ask my dad and brother to remove me so the funeral home people could close his casket because I just couldn’t leave Marc’s side. Standing and waiting today I kept thinking of the trauma, shock and horror this family must feel in these last moments with the body. I felt those feelings of horror and bottomless darkness from my past that I wish I could save them from.

I had to sort things out. I didn’t want to avoid my own grief for this person now. But I also needed to be present and remind myself that this is not my trauma. This is their trauma. This is their day, his day. I wanted to pray and to be there. I wanted to grieve this person and not my other people I’ve lost. I so wanted to strengthen the family and love them. As someone who is all full of trauma and loss myself this was hard to do.

Staff handed out water bottles and tissue. I noticed I was crying a little bit. That’s a sign of healing for me because I did not have that ability for many years. It is a recent development.

Finally the hospital bed carrying our person was pushed between the two lines of people from the other end of the hall. Everyone stood in silence. After the family had passed we followed. He was propped up on pillows. His eyes had some kind of shiny stuff on his closed eyelids. There was a ventilator tube coming out of his mouth. There was the face I loved, empty of expression now. He didn’t even look that empty when he was sleeping. He was definitely gone. Still I mentally told him I loved him knowing he could spiritually hear. I asked him to look after his family.

Finally we came to an open door leading to a kind of dock. A chaplain invited us to pray together which we all did. A hospital staff member of some kind read out some words of gratitude for what the family was about to do, and a blessing. She cried while she did it. The mother of our person spoke to him for a while some loving words. I couldn’t hear them exactly. And he was sent out.

I saw a beloved grandmother in the hall and hugged her and the weeping grandfather too.

The parents hugged me. I so wanted to be a comfort to them. I think I was. It seemed that way.

We were all guided back out to the lobby where I joined my step mom and daughter who had come with me, having known him too. I had stood with the family and close friends. My step mom had pushed me over there. I hadn’t been sure I should be so forward but it worked out.

I thought the honor walk was beautiful. It was fitting. It was just like the family, who are so loving, to do this.

I will think about it for a long time.

This is not my trauma but the family’s. However, I grieve. I do grieve terribly.


Now that the family has openly shared about Zane’s death I can too. I was his care giver since he was 16. I loved him – I do love him- very much.


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O Brother where art thou

I did not cry for nine years after you self destructed like a kamikaze in our midst. There are not even any pieces left to sort through. Where did you go and why couldn’t I stop you. We were closer than close and I should have known when you locked me out what was coming. We always said when we didn’t spend time together neither of us was right in ourselves so we should always make sure to connect no matter what was going on. You kept trying to apologize, trying to come back into our front porch days. You said “When I hurt you I hurt me and I can’t stand that I hurt your feelings. I hate that.” And I always said it was ok. I said we can work through anything just like we always have. I had faith in that. Absolute faith. How crazy did you have to be for me to not be surprised. Denial is more powerful than I ever thought. When you said “I’m scared I might be mentally ill,” I should not have reassured you that you weren’t. The last time I saw you I hugged you brother and I rubbed your little head. You looked like a small boy that day who had been sick, safe at his parents’ dinner table. Your letter to Dad said I would be OK. Well I’m not. None of us are. You must have hurt so badly to do something like that. You just needed it to stop. I thought oh he will be back like always. He just needs to think. I was so close. But I think you thought we were far away and you had no idea how to get back. You couldn’t find us. And you thought we couldn’t help. I finally cried the other night and it was about something else. It felt weird. It didn’t last long. I wish I could miss you the way I miss everyone else. But there is just a void where you used to be. Like the Mariana Trench. No one knows what’s down there, only how unfathomably deep it must be. I’ve been there. But I couldn’t understand anything.





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St. Dymphna

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700 years ago in Ireland a young girl left her home in the middle of the night as swiftly and silently as she could. She left with a priest,  two household servants and a court jester who were her friends.  She was not fleeing a forced marriage to a foreign prince or running away to a convent. She was running from her own father who seemed to have lost his mind after her mothers’ death and was trying to make his daughter marry him in her place. 

Dymphna and her friends were able to make it to a Belgian town called Gheel.  

She must have been a hard worker and had a compassionate heart. She and her friends established themselves in the town and Dymphna began caring for the sick and the poor. She had a special sympathy for people suffering from mental illness. She still shows that sympathy now through her intercession. 

Eventually her father, who was a minor Irish king, found out where she was. He had her priest executed as soon as he arrived and demanded Dymphna return home. When she refused he beheaded her on the spot. She was 15. 

The people of Gheel eventually built a church over where Dymphna was buried. Over the years it began to be noticed that healings happened at her tomb, especially healing from mental illness. 

Inspired by St. Dymphna’s special concern for the mentally ill the people of Gheel began to take into their homes the pilgrims who came to visit Dymphna’s tomb. In a time when the mentally ill were chained,  beaten and  locked away the families of Gheel made these sufferers part of their households with acceptance, freedom, dignity and whatever level of responsibility they could handle. Some stayed for a short time, some for the rest of their lives becoming members  of the family. 

Gheel became famous for this model of family care that seemed to work so well. This tradition is still ongoing though now combined with a hospital that is only used when absolutely necessary, and with modern medicine as part of overall treatment. 

Gheel’s example makes us want to rethink the way we treat the mentally ill, especially those whose conditions  are severe. Gheel shows us how it could be. 

Among us here the mentally unwell often end up without homes or anyone to assist them. Federal and state agencies set up to help these people are understaffed and overwhelmed. It is a testament to  serious failures on our society’s part. To see some poor emaciated sufferer shouting and waving his arms at traffic with toilet paper wrapped around his legs as I did last week breaks the heart. It’s wrong and we know it. Unfortunately our state is last in mental health access in the country. 

Gheel and St. Dymphna challenge us. How can we as people of faith contribute in a respectful and merciful way to necessary change, to the well being of people who suffer mental, emotional or neurological difficulties? Our society is not set up for them. How can we help? How can we change that? 

Perhaps we can begin by asking for St. Dymphna’s intercession and inspiration. 

St. Dymphna,  healer of mental and emotional suffering, pray for us. Pray for everyone in mental or emotional pain, especially those left on the outskirts without resources. You inspired a whole town to take people with mental  suffering into their homes so that they might live near you and the place you are buried.  They still come and stay with you and the people of your town today. Help us build a culture of compassion and acceptance so these children of God can live with dignity among us  as the people they are and so that the rest of us don’t miss out on what they can give, on their potential part in building community.  Show us the way. Amen.

St. Dymphna’s feast day is May 15th. She is the patron saint of the mentally ill, victims of incest and domestic abuse, and runaways.

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Yes I did say 70×7 but stop freaking out about it

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Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?”
 Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy times seventy times.

Mtt. 18 21-22

It’s been almost nine years but I’m still not sure whether I have forgiven it or not. I still struggle with how I am supposed to forgive someone who turned out not to be who I thought they were. Forgive who? What was that who was that?

In the aftermath I realized I was thinking of the whole mess about once every 15 seconds. I began training myself to repeat the names of Jesus and Mary any time I caught myself dwelling on the whole thing. I had dwelt on it long enough truly. I increased my prayer time. I decided to try to stop talking about it. It helped a lot. Slowly I didn’t think about it, not even every week.

I went to Confession. In exasperation I asked the priest, “How do I get to Father forgive them for they know not what they do?” He said my penance would be to go out and meditate on the crucifix in the church and ask the Lord, “Father forgive me for I knew not what I did.” Instant peace came to me then.

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As time passed I realized that I “forgave” this person over and over again while they were still in my daily life but not in any real way because what I did was be upset about what they had done, avoid them for a while and then simply go on as before so that they did the same things again and again. My kids suffered emotional scars because of this lack of boundaries on my part. I let this person be with us for so long. At the time I didn’t realize how much the girls were harmed especially when they were still young. How did I fall into this trap? How could I not know how mean this person was being to them? Even the things I did know about them should have been bad enough. I should have not allowed this person around my daughters. I certainly did do things I didn’t know I was doing. Those mistakes seem crazy now.

Then at a time of another tragedy in my life, this person set out to ruin my reputation, blame me, interfere with my friendships and even my family relationships, to tell distorted versions of my private sufferings, commandeer one of my daughters with lies and emotional scenes when she needed me most and was too young ti break out of that situation. This person deeply hurt my other daughter as well during a time of grief and shock for my family with hateful accusations and not allowing her to retrieve what was hers and precious to her from the house. This person also participated in grave financial harm to me and one of my kids that we will never recover from. I was emotionally and socially betrayed on a level that was traumatic enough to keep me curled up on the couch for days. I never thought they would go that far especially at a time like that. Why was I shocked? I can’t answer that fully.

One thing I have learned from all this is that being a forgiving Christian does not mean having destructive people in my life. Even Jesus had boundaries.

But Jesus did not entrust himself to them because he knew their hearts.

Jn. 2:24

However I sometimes still feel angry at this person, even after I have peeled away several layers of resentment and reached certain levels of forgiveness. I didn’t feel that it was complete. Because of those feelings of rage coming up now and then, especially recently, I tend to think of this person every time I pray the Our Father. How can I forgive this person as God forgives me? God forgives me more than completely. God is mercy, God is love. I always ask that I will be able to do this. I have learned forgiveness is a grace. We just have to be willing to receive it. Was I willing? I didn’t know. My mom used to say that sometimes we have to ask to be willing. Other times we have to be ask to be willing to be willing. Sometimes the situation is so difficult we have to pray to be willing to be willing to be willing. I think this is like that.

Recently, sitting quietly in prayer, I felt that the Lord untangled my thinking a bit about what forgiveness looks like in a situation like this. In a flash I understood that all Jesus wanted from me now was to pray for this person’s salvation. I felt my heart open as it seemed the Holy Spirit prayed in me for just that: for this destructive person’s salvation. It was an understated but all the same beautiful moment. I understood that God did not need my tortuous worry about my lingering feelings about this, or the useless dead end paths of my self judgement or scrupulosity on this point. Just prayer for their salvation that is all. The rest was between that person and God. Oh.

Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me.  But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

2 Cor. :8-9a

Then I prayed the our Father in freedom and when I said, “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,” I almost felt a kiss from Jesus, and I had to smile. I love that guy.

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The holidays without them

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A few days ago I was interviewed on local Catholic radio about loss and grief, my stories and relationships with my family and friends who have died, and how my faith figured into the journey.

One of the questions I was asked was whether I had any advice about handling the holidays. As you may know I lost my first husband in a car accident 25 years ago. Then, between 2012 and 2015 we lost four family members, all tragically. My second husband we lost to brain cancer. Six months later my mom, only 63, died of a combination of things; COPD, Lymphoma, untreated Lyme’s disease and dementia. My brother committed suicide in 2015 and my step dad died in a house fire four months later. These were the people we usually spent the holidays with.

Honestly we haven’t done well with holidays at all since all that, especially without my mom, the holiday queen (or shall we say dictator). We hardly ever had to do anything except bring a thing or two and stay out of her way, being unquestioningly obedient and obsequious to her requirements of us. These included No (more) practical jokes (that had been a major coup attempt to take over her iron fisted rule over the holidays) no disorder or chaos of any kind, and everyone cooperate peacefully and sing Christmas Carols whether we liked it or not.

We missed all of that after her death. We would never be able to cook like that (and for DAYS), set a beautiful Fiesta ware table like that, make flower arrangements ourselves from our own garden or provide the atmosphere she did. We would never do two Christmas trees; one artistic and one victorian style in different parts of the house, or line the sidewalk with luminares, or cover everything with color themed lights, or wrap the presents in themed artistically matching colors. Or be her. We could never be her. Nobody could. And nobody Could read The Grinch Who Stole Christmas like her. It only made us sad.

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So that first Thanksgiving without her we did something completely different. We had a chaotic Thanksgiving pot luck at my step brother’s house. It was loud with football on the TV the whole time and music playing and people in the band room banging the drums and everybody talking in every room. Lots of people people people.

My step brother has become more of a recluse since then. We don’t see much of him though there is no ill will and only deep affection between us. We keep in touch.

So pretty much we didn’t really do Thanksgiving. I mean not really. Sometimes we did very little and it depressed everyone even more. Other times we did nothing. It would just be my daughters and me and the babies.

At Christmas we did what we needed to do for the three kids but everyone kept it as simple and quiet as possible. It was hard not to get depressed. We usually did get depressed. I truly longed for Christmas to just be a religious feast day instead of all the other stuff on top of that.

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Eventually we began to bring back some traditions we missed, like going around the table doing “wishes and gratefuls” on Thanksgiving. You say three things you are grateful for about the year. Then you wish the person sitting next to

you a year of whatever you see them needing or wanting. We brought that back. The kids come up with some pretty sweet and funny things to say too.

We brought back our old household tradition of leaving Santa cigarettes and beer on Christmas Eve. We know from experience that is what St. Nicholas is into. He left cigarette buts and beer cans all over the yard that time he set up a trampoline for the girls all those years ago. So we give him what he really wants.

But THIS year for the first time I am truly excited about the holidays. Because THIS year we have a HOUSE to have these events in! Our own HOUSE again. We have room for sitting at the table, to invite friends too, room in the kitchen for my daughters and I to cook together, a yard for the kids to play in. We don’t understand football at all but I want to put it on anyway. It will remind us of our men and we will just be comforted by it, not, I am hoping, sad. I think we may even be happy.

All of my mom’s Fiesta ware except a tea cup and a salt shaker were destroyed in the fire but I have been building a new collection. And we have SO much to be grateful for!

I plan to introduce some new traditions as well. We plan to light candles on the table for each of our beloved dead. Also when the girls were little we had poetry night and A.A. Milne night. On A.A. Milne night we would take turns reading from The World of Pooh and laugh and laugh. That stuff is hilarious. We continued that into their teens and laughed just as much.

And poetry night we could read one of our own poems or someone else’s we admired. We used to have a lot of fun with that.

We used to break into a family dance sometimes after dinner.

I’m thinking we could read aloud from The World of Pooh after Thanksgiving Dinner and then have a family dance.

On Christmas Eve last year I got the kids to memorize a poem each. It turned out really funny. (Especially the Shell Silverstein ones). I should start working with them earlier this time. But we can have poetry night again this Christmas. We will all do a poem!

There is even a yard for the kids to play in afterwards. I think it will be good.

Mom’s house was always filled with cigarette smoke on holidays because so many of us smoked. None of the smokers are with us anymore. But maybe we will light one up just to recreate the ambience.

I almost forgot we have a fire pit. So we can have a fire and my youngest can play guitar and we can sing our family song, Wish You We’re Here by Pink Floyd. 🙂

And any time my daughters and I are together we end up telling stories about the people we miss and what they used to do or say back then. We still miss them. But mostly we laugh.

And anyway, we know they are still here. They are probably laughing too. Even Mom. 😉

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