I asked God for a memory I wanted to understand me
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cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
I asked God for a memory I wanted to understand me
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I hear the pattering of feet and my seven-year-old son bursts through the bedroom door. I squirm, anticipating the end of my slumber. Every morning, shortly after I hit my alarm at 5 a.m., he opens the door, declaring, “Mom, are you still here?” I roll over. The door is shut. Luis is on his…
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Today has been long and slow-moving. I’m confined to being stationary so what’s mostly busy about me today is my mind.
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