trimmers. Irritated, I make coffee, clean a little, then sit down to
I read words posted online by a broken-hearted man whose mother
struggles with a dreadful disease from which she will not recover.
My chest pulls tight. I consciously breath deeply, slowly,
rhythmically. Still, the tears ... I'm helpless. I cannot bring
health back to the mother or lay a hand of comfort on the son.
So I pray: God, please comfort them both. Soften the edges of their
And, thank you, Jesus, for the small-town cacophony ...