I remember when our oldest daughter got her first real bed.
She had graduated from her crib and was excited about her big girl bed.
She was excited at the thought.
She was not excited about the reality of sleeping in something so big.

We were hoping that God would bless us with many children, so we thought ahead.
We decided to buy beds that could be bunked or kept separate as two single beds.
It was this single bed arrangement we tried first.
The beds would be assembled as bunk beds a few years later when our sons were born.

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The weather forecasters got it wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Wrong for those of us living in the mid-Atlantic region.
Right on target for those living in New England.

A blizzard was coming.
Supermarkets experienced that; get ready for snow, kind of busy.
Milk, eggs, and bread were flying off the shelves.
Washer fluid and rock salt were disappearing quickly.

It was a typical batten down the hatches kind of day.

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Much like a fingerprint, everyone has unique handwriting.
Even identical twins write differently.
The shape of letters, the spacing, the slope, the size, and the pressure to the paper vary.
Verification of the writer of a document can be done through the handwriting.

Our handwriting does not change much over the course of a lifetime.
Yet our handwriting can deteriorate over time because of illness or age.
Our personality often comes through our handwriting.
Both our printing and our cursive writing is unique.

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There is something about getting mail.
Real mail.
In the mailbox kind of mail.
Real letters written in someone’s own hand.

There is something about going to the mailbox by the curb and peering inside.
That immediate thrill of seeing envelopes stacked one on top of the other.
The sweet pleasure of seeing one addressed to you.
Seeing your name on the front, knowing that no one can open the envelope but you.

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It was just a short video but it captured my attention.
It was a video of a mother bird feeding her babies.
I watched the persistence of the mother bird, flying to and fro.
Going somewhere off camera to get more food for the ones in her care.

Before I could even see her in the frame, I knew she was coming.
The five little birds straightened themselves up in the nest.
They arched their neck and opened their mouths so incredibly wide.
The whole scene made me giggle.

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I saw two things this morning that made me go back to when I was a little girl.
It’s funny how a sight, a smell, or a sound transports you to another time.
First, I heard the sound.
The crunch of leaves under my feet as I walked.

I looked down at the mosaic that was before me.
Russet, orange, flaming red, brown all making a kaleidoscope of colors beneath my feet.
If I was little, I would be collecting these leaves, I found myself thinking.
I remember doing just that, many times.

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Time to start fall decorating.
Time to get a bale of straw and some cornstalks for the area next to my front door.
Time to select pumpkins and gourds and festive mums.
Time to get out Patches, a scarecrow that my children named years ago.

The weather is getting cooler.
My kind of day.
The nights are getting chilly.
Perfect to get under a blanket in my comfy chair with some hot tea and read a good book.

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I just finished baking a cake.
Not a cake that is covered with icing.
Not even a layer cake.
It is the Gallagher birthday and special occasion cake.

It became the Gallagher cake when my daughter was in a high chair.
It was right around the first birthday of my first daughter.
A cake must be made, but what kind?
We are not big “cake people.”

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I have the privilege of teaching a women’s Bible study.
For many years now, it has been one of my great joys.
To open the word of God, to dig deep, and to learn about Jesus is a great gift.
It is one we tend to take for granted.

Some of the same women have been coming to these Bible studies for years.
We have grown together.
We have prayed for each other.
We have shed tears together.

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