How I wanted a fountain pen.
I was in elementary school, in the fourth grade.
The year before we had learned cursive writing; now everything was to be written that way.
I laid out all my arguments as to why a fountain pen would help me write cursive better.

I wanted a blue fountain pen.
I also wanted a pack of extra ink cartridges.
I already knew how to change the ink cartridge.
I watched other people replace the ink in their own pens.

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Do you ever think about the fact that we walk around on autopilot?
Take for instance the question we hear and ask about a hundred times a day.
How are you?
The question is innocent enough except few of us wait for the answer.

How are you? Has become the greeting of choice.
It is similar to, It looks like rain.
It is said without really expecting a response.
It is a nicety, a courtesy; it is our go-to question.

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Paper or plastic?
That is the question that is always asked of me whenever I go to the grocery store.
I always request both paper and plastic because it is sturdier.
Through the years cashiers have voiced their opinion about what is better for the environment.

Paper bags waste trees, was one argument I have heard.
Plastic bags do not degrade in the landfill, was another argument that was voiced.
The cashier does not know that I use the paper bags to empty wastebaskets.
The cashier does not know that the paper bags are used to cover books.

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There was milk in my refrigerator.
I don’t mean cartons of milk, though there are many of those.
I mean there was milk that was somehow leaking from one of the cartons.
I found it as I took the carton out so I could pour some milk.

Our family has always been milk drinkers.
When all my children were living at home, we went through 13-14 gallons of milk each week.
Even my husband and I still go through 4-5 gallons weekly.
We all drink milk with every meal.

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My younger son will be married in July.
He is marrying a sweet, Godly girl he met in college.
They both love the Lord.
They both love worship music.

I have been blessed to hear the music they make together.
My son will play his guitar, leaning over the strings with his head down.
His future wife will sing with her eyes closed, the music etched on her heart.
That is the way it is with them.

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Ask any woman and she will tell you the one thing she does to pamper herself.
Perhaps it is a luxurious bubble bath.
Maybe it is going shopping with a friend.
Maybe it is a much needed vacation.

My one thing is actually something started by my daughters.
In fact, it is something I have done with each of them one on one.
It is something that makes me feel more feminine.
Even in the middle of winter, I will be a bit extravagant and allow myself this little luxury.

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For a dear friend and her children, time stood still.
Over the weekend, at the end of the blizzard that kept most of us snowbound, it happened.
My friend lost her husband, suddenly and unexpectedly.
There is grief, there is sadness, there is shock.

My friend is the director of a wonderful Christian preschool.
Her love for the children is genuine.
Her love for her teachers is obvious.
The love that they have for her is reciprocated a hundred fold.

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I went to the store to buy one thing.
I needed my lipstick.
Well, I didn’t actually need my lipstick.
I needed to have some spare tubes to keep in my drawer.

Anyone that knows me knows that I do not go anywhere without my lipstick.
It is at my dressing table when I get ready each morning.
I have an extra tube in my desk drawer in the kitchen.
I carry my lipstick with me in a special compartment inside my purse.

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I needed a watch battery.
I stopped at the kiosk in the mall.
The same kiosk that has helped me nine times before.
My little punch card reminded me of that fact.

Through the years I have had many watch batteries replaced there.
Different watch batteries for different watches.
The watch that needed a battery was my spare watch.
I was wearing the watch that I always wear but I wanted to ask them a question about it.

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My daughter is home from college.
It is her fall break.
Since she is an RA this year, she has been at school since mid-August.
It has been two months since she has been home.

I saw her when I went to campus for parent’s weekend.
I saw her when I watched her sing during her half-hour time slot in the courtyard.
I texted her, talked to her on the phone, and emailed her.
But she has not been home, here at the dinner table and here in her own room.

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