How wonderful when everyone is home!
That is how it has been for the past five days.
Meals, fellowship, conversations…just being together.
It is a gift that I don’t take for granted!

I love to watch and listen to my five children relate to each other.
Even though they are adults, there is still the same brother and sister dynamics.
That is a good thing.
The stories…they each can finish.
The friendly teasing…the inside jokes…the remembering!

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You recognize it right away when you hear the song.
First few notes and you know it.
There has been many movies made from this TV show.

Mission Impossible.

Just say the words and the song comes to mind.
I don’t remember what night it was on TV…but the opening sequence always intrigued me.
The mission laid out for Mr. Phelps…the tape self destructs…the show begins.

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When people come to visit, there is one compliment I love to hear.
It has nothing to do with decorating styles or furniture choices.
It has nothing to do with whether they enjoyed the food.
It is simply: There is something different about your home!

That something different is nothing that deserves a pat on the back.
That something different is nothing I can buy at the store, or manufacture on my own.
That something different is the presence of the Holy Spirit.

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I was thinking about my aunt today…the one I cared for…my mother’s younger sister.
She was a story teller.
If she wasn’t telling a story…she was singing.
A bit of the Irish in her!

My favorite stories were about her life during the Depression.
She and her two sisters would sit on the marble steps of their Philadelphia home.
They had to be creative and make their own fun in those days.

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My youngest daughter babysits for families from our church.
This morning, she babysat for a special family with two daughters.
This afternoon, she babysat for a precious family with four sons.
She loves each of the children and they love her right back.

There is such a difference between girls and boys…not just anatomically but in the way they are wired…in their likes and dislikes…in the way they play.

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I just finished baking.
I have a special baking cabinet in my kitchen with all the essentials.
Flour, sugar, brown sugar, spices, baking powder, baking soda, chocolate morsels…
Every time I open that cabinet, it brings me back to my childhood.

I have always heard that smells, more than sights or sounds, can trigger a memory.
I really think that is true.

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I am going to physical therapy for Achilles tendonitis.
It is getting so much better and I am so grateful to the wonderful physical therapist that has been working with me.

As I was at my appointment this morning, I was watching all the people.
All of us have had a level of discomfort that brought us there for different reasons.

One mom was there with her young son.
He was waiting while she was being treated.
He was three years old.

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I was baking this afternoon.
I thought about the neighborhood where I grew up…and Mrs. C.
She had three children, much older than me.
In fact, her two daughters babysat for me when I was little.

I used to love to go to Mrs. C’s house.
She and my mother were friends.
When everyone else had rugs, she had hardwood floors.
When everyone else had store-bought ornaments on their Christmas tree, she had handmade ones…with wonderful strands of popcorn wrapped around from top to bottom.

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When my youngest daughter was in second grade, we visited her new classroom and her new teacher on the open house day.
The school was a building she was familiar with, since she had been there to support her brothers for different events and concerts.

As we walked inside, on that open house day, we passed the cornerstone in the front of the building. We must have passed that a hundred times before, but her new found awareness of math made her take notice.

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After my mother died, I was thrown into the kitchen somewhat unwillingly.
It was either learn to cook or eat pizza…often.

I wanted to learn to cook.
I had watched my mother a bit, but the kitchen was her place.
Cooking was not something we did together.

My best friend, all those years ago, lived down the street.
Her mother took me under her wing.
I spent so much time in their home.
Mrs. F was a wonderful cook and an excellent housekeeper.
She exuded hospitality.

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