From the age of 5, I walked the half mile to and from kindergarten on my own. But I didn't know the route by osmosis. Before I was let loose on the streets of Long Beach, Mom showed me the way. She spent a few days walking with me, so that I would safely know how to go when I was on my own.
Now I am driving Mom here and there for appointments and so on. When the doctor yesterday acted as if Mom were invisible, addressing all his comments to me, my heart broke again, knowing how upset she would be by this. And she was. But she recovered, a blessing of poor memory I suppose, and we had a lovely evening together. A nice conversation with a taciturn, shy lady over dinner. Then a CD of classic music and time on the couch looking at old photos, telling stories, laughing and crying together. Remembering.
She is still walking me home, as I try to walk her home.
Jesus stumbled through the streets of Jerusalem, beaten and abused, bleeding and hurting. The women particularly are mentioned as hanging in with him all the way to the end. When the stone was rolled in front of the tomb, two of the Marys were there. That took hours, hours of the excruciating pain of watching a loved one suffer, as Jesus suffered more than anyone ever has or could. They did what they could.
Today I will do what I can. Walking Mom home, as she walks me home, and as Jesus walks with us both. All glory to him.
A California girl from a hot beach city marries a country loon from the cold northeast of Scotland, and she's spent the last three decades making sense out of life there. Reflections on a rural lifestyle, on identity issues and the challenges of moving so far from home,from a Christian viewpoint.
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