![]() When I tucked our littlest girl into bed last week, she turned toward the windowsill by her bed and bemoaned the dying flowers browning and drooping there in a cup she’d filled with water right to the brim. ![]() I kneeled beside him as Bill bent down and turned our earth, because the man knew that the soul, more than anything, needs the gift of rootedness in a world of cutting and slashing, hacking and severing and being detatched from whence we came. ![]() He came over 4,000 km last May with a hat and gloves and a precisely folded list of flowers that he’d researched that were up to the task of weathering my harsh winters. “I didn’t send you a sympathy card to mark the one year anniversary since your Dad was killed, and I didn’t send you cut flowers for graduating with your masters from Wheaton. ![]() The man looked me straight in the eye and flat-out told me:Ĭut yourself off from what truly delivers sustenance - and nothing can truly deliver you. ![]()
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