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Tuesday, December 31, 2013

I Am Redeeming Time

It’s morning after Christmas and the house sleeps. I know where the floor boards squeak complaint when stepped on there. I walk soft zigzag careful not to wake them. Nutmeg greets me morning “mew” in the guest room turned wrapping room.

And this ridiculous bright yellow life preserver under my arm. My prayer partner. I rescued it years ago from somewhere in the garage. And it’s rescued my knees ever since. We’re both well worn and so attached and I know I’ll leave this world the same way I entered, but will God allow this preserver past the gates?

“You will be kneeling on grace,” I hear Him say. And my knees sigh cricky.

I shift. Nudge space between rolls of wrapping paper, bags of bows and ribbons, a tape dispenser, construction paper, pinking shears and glue stick for handmade cards. All is unwrapped now.

And now I come to the Gift, “Unwrap me. Untie me. Lift me out of this box. I am Yours.”

I open Bible. Holy gift card with my name on it and it says, “I AM…yours.”

His love undoes me. Tissue paper falls away from heart and eye and wrapping lays crumpled at my feet and I am out of box. In light.

My soul stretches. And romps. Yes. Romps. I resist responsibility to “pack Christmas” and straighten room. I leave it all there and it’s a yellow dog morning outside. It’s all sun on face. Because, “I AM…yours.” Yes. Because all is light.

Long December arm reaches ray in hand and tilts my head back and presses warm gentle til my lids close. It’s how I see sun glory. Behind lid and straight on and orange gold glow moves slight when eye shifts slight.

I turn to look over my shoulder. There is shadow. My image lies down long behind me. Reminder to lay my life down. To live prostrate before God glory light and gold fire. To get me out of the way. Because as long as I am in this body and the taller I stand and the bigger I make me, there will be shadow.

I lay myself down. Flat in sun stream. I do. Right here on the leafy cold ground. And the shadow goes away.

I would read later about shadows in Wikipedia, “A shadow is made when an opaque object blocks a light source from traveling through it.”

I don’t want to cast shadows. Don’t want to live full of me. All opaque object.

I say to the Light of light, “Travel through me!”

“You are light in Me,” Jesus says and I am more amazed at this right now than ever before. Is it because I have never before physically laid down in leaf decay upon musty earth solely (and soul-ly) to remove my image? To give my soul physical illustration? To say, “This is what it looks like. Feels like. Smells like. To lay my life down. To remove my image.” I know it. Here.

I sink into the leaves and let this sink into my soul. The sun presses light. Warm on my back. A breeze stirs a few leaves and they walk. They do! All pointy toed on leaf tips. In the light. And Holy breath stirs me, “Walk as children of light.”

There is a leaf in my hair. I set it before me and think to God and myself, “Nothing reaches further faster than light.”
Because He said, “Let there be light.” And time was measured.
And I’m thinking that light redeems time.

I don’t know how. But I don’t need to know how. Just need to make it important to do it. To redeem time. Because it seems tomorrow is half gone before its come.

Time is flying. Fast. Because the days are evil. Because Satan knows his time is short and getting shorter.

But my time isn’t getting shorter. My days are forever and ever. And while Satan whirls dervish and spins the world dizzy til hands on clock and human soul are tight spring about to boing crazy angle and off handle beneath the stress, my God is the Ancient of Days Everlasting God. Still and unmoved.

And while Satan wraps time in warp and ties it in chain til it can’t be unwrapped and til time is strangled and we are breathless and both are consumed, me thinks it’s not so great to live fast blur. To speed through light too fast to see it.

“Redeem time,” says the Father of time. “Because the days are evil.”

I have made decision. And I’m not going to form the words, “Where has the time gone?” Or, “My, how this week has flown by.” I have bit them back a few times in the practice. Hard not to speak what I hear. But, keep saying this and one day it’ll be, “I can’t believe my life is already over. Where’d the time go?” No. No. No. That’s all shadow.

And speaking of shadow. Death is shadow. But speaking of redeeming time in evil days. Light is redemptive. And it reaches further faster…than shadow.

This morning God is more talkative than usual. He knows what shadow lies long and heavy this hour. A-cross. Heart.

“Be still, and know that I am God. Though she walks in the shadow of death, fear no evil. I lead beside still waters.”

I google the word “redeem.”

“Defray… Settle.”

When I’m in the fray and life is frayed, “defray” is the word.

“How?” I ask.


“How?” I’m slow.

“You are light in Me. Stand up in Me. Walk as a child of light,” says God and not Wikipedia.

I stand up and there is me-shaped shadow, of course. But whatever comes today, may my soul cast light. The only way I know is the way I’m told.

“Speak as song. Psalm words. Hymn language. Spiritual song melody. To others who need and to myself. And give thanks always for all things to God.”
(see Ephesians 5:16-21)

This is how. I don’t understand it, really. But I don’t have to know how it works to do it.

I felt the answer to “How.” Felt it warm on face and back when I settled down on leafy ground. Settled and defrayed. And isn’t that, “Be still and know that I am God” language?

Ahh! The everlasting arms that hold me have hands that hold time.

This is my reference for time. “Be Still and Know.” It’s spiritual song to sing. It’s a hymn in my hymnal. And could the rhythm of “Be Still and Know” be how His heart beats?

If my soul has a heart, and it does, then I want it to beat in time with God’s heart. And isn’t time measured in heart beats in the chest of the Light of the world?

Light changes everything.

written by: Carolyn Roehrig

Saturday, December 21, 2013

Emmanuel, God Is With Us (A song for Christmas)

vs. 1
Choirs of angels, salvation's song
Heaven would miss Him while He was gone
Love so high could only belong
'Neath the heart in Virgin womb

vs. 2
Eternal God, Ancient of Days
Swaddled in cloth, sleeps in the hay
Bethlehem star, the Father's way
To reach from Heav'n and hold the Babe

The Lord has done great things for us
Oh, my soul, I will lift Him up
The Lord has done great things for us
Emmanuel, God is with us

Infinite God became infant
He who gave all became gift
Enlarge my heart, make my soul inn
Emmanuel, God is with us

vs. 3
Jesus' first steps, holy toddle
He learned to walk so I'd follow
Take me to the end of humble
Holy, holy Emmanuel


written by: Carolyn Roehrig

*I am trying to set it up so that you can listen to this song by clicking on the facebook link...

I hope this works! :-)

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Mary’s Song

Fog drapes silver veil. Opaque folds. Glory train. And I wonder to God, “Is this hint of what the train of Your robe looks like?”

And now ice is falling right out of the sky. I hear it tick-ticking polished finger nails on sky light.

And outside window crow caws hard. Another bird calls “Sue” all twangy and “hee-hee-hee”  laughs right out from some glad beak. I hear it all.

And isn’t electricity so loud? Demanding, really. Oh, I appreciate it. I’m no pioneer woman. But just now it’s nice to be rid of it. No humming heater, or ceiling fan whip-click, and the fridge has nothing to say. Power fell somewhere in ice fall.

Every branch, twig, remaining leaf and thorn and cane and remaining rose bow heavy ‘neath glory glaze. My own very breath falls crystal and drops low in air. And I think, “Who can stand before Your cold?”

I know I can’t. Not for long. I am right now, though. Amazed. Worshipping and puzzling. It’s beautiful glory. Hard glory. Heavy glory. Dangerous glory.

And just now the sun is searching it out right before my eyes. Splits light in two. I see it first in the icicles hanging from the eves. Sunlight itself breaks open over ice and awe breathes silver thanksgiving from my lungs.
And I am seeing holy. Seeing the inside of light. Shattered shards wink brilliant green here, blue there, yellow and red.

I look deeper. Eye searches upward. And there it is. Light shatters explosive all glory prism on high in branched arms and twigged hands and my neck cranes back to see it. Ice droplets all rainbow promise so holy and so all glory. And I wonder to myself again, “Is this hint of what the rainbow bowing over Your throne looks like?”
Splitting “whoosh” like wind gust and breaking glass. Massive branch has fallen. And who can stand before His cold? Who can stand before His glory? And how can His glory be so beautiful and so dangerous? So whole and so shattering? So entombing and so much very womb?

I think of Christ.

And why does my heart break a little at seeing that powerful limb lie dying on the frozen ground? It hurts that it should be broken under the weight of glory. It’s so heavy, this glory.

I think of Christ.

I long for glory. I search for it even now. I fear it, too.

I would read later from C.S. Lewis about glory,”…a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken….”

And I think of Christ.

Only humility can carry the weight of glory. He did. And the back of sin was broken. The back of my own pride breaks and falls hard splitting whoosh.
And I realize, even the breaking. The hard fall. It’s not about this. It’s not about the tree being misshaped. It’s not about the marks it bears. Not about my own misshapenness or the marks I bear, except, I wonder. It must be somewhat about those marks when I stretched to bring forth another generation.

I broke doing that. And I break daily and fall down and search out more glory doing this.

I think of Christ now, yes.
And Mary.

“Behold, I am the handmaiden of the Lord; let it be done to me according to what You have said” (Luke 1:38). And I make Mary’s song my own.

“May my soul enlarge and draw attention to Your glory."

I am learning to say this. And to mean it. To mean it when the journey jostles mule steps over loose rocks on the path. When sand shifts donkey beneath plod. To mean it when the walk is more than I meant when I first said it.

And I’m learning to say it right. Not like Zacharias'," “How will I know?” But, “How can this be?” The question is confirmation. It’s, “This will be. But how?” It’s, “It is what it is. But how do I do this?”

I say it when what it is threatens all I value most and I say it when too many little “Do’s” become too much. I say it. And the saying is reminder. I am the handmaiden of the Lord.”

I hear now the clamor at door. It’s “Do.” And my nerves are rattled by all expected December doings. “Do, do, do” pounds bam-bam-bam.

"How?” I frustrate out.

“Listen to Me. I am with you.” Soul womb enlarges.

I try to listen past “Do.” And breakfast needs making for my German. Must be done now because he has a meeting to do. And before I’m in kitchen “Do” slams fist on soul door.

“How?!” This maiden hand wants to slap “Do” hard.

“Listen to Me. And make breakfast. And listen.” I hear.


take out eggs.

“Let what I say revolve in your mind.” And I remember this is what Mary did.

I heat cast iron pan. And listen.

“I am with you.”

I slice bread.

“I am with you.”

I grate cheese.

"I am with you.”

I sandwich cheesy egg scramble between bread. And “Ah…,” I breathe. “I’m getting it. You are with me!”

I see it right here in pan. “I am scrambled. But You are Bread. And doesn’t Bethlehem mean ‘House of Bread?’” I listen more. Because Bread of Life was housed in Bethlehem scramble. And I am all scramble housed in this Bread.

I place breakfast on plate. And listen more.  “I am in you and You are in Me,” I hear.

I sing praise awe. My soul is impregnated by the Holy Spirit. I have been subdued. Humbled beneath the power of the Highest. He has overshadowed my soul and I am carrying Son of God. This is the answer to all my “How’s?”

Jesus in me.

May I remember my life is not about me. There are generations.

May the womb of my soul be inn.

May my soul expand with Son of God life.

May I eat and drink for the sake of Christ’s strength growing in me.

May I walk differently, remembering the humble walk of a pregnant woman,
so that others may not ask, “How far along are you,” but “When are you due.”

I have waddled so four times. And I am awed heavy when the generation of my womb and their spouses gather together. And will there be children of my children? The question is prism light reach.

May I remember the hard glory.

May I live to leave a legacy of broken pride. It is messy. It hurts. It’s like hard labor, broken water and life blood and womb membrane slippery cling to life born.

I want to deliver The Son of God and I am due right now. My due date is now. And it was yesterday. And it is tomorrow.


I shiver cold and tremble awe and my breath falls over the fallen branch at my feet. Where soul connects real.  Because, “The Lord is mighty. He has done great things for me. And holy is His name. And His mercy is on those who fear Him from generation to generation.”

And because, “Remember Your mercy spoken to Abraham and to his seed forever.”

And I tremble out, “Behold this Gentile maid-servant, in remembrance of Your mercy.”

It’s Mary’s song…

And mine.


written by: Carolyn Roehrig

Saturday, December 14, 2013

Where Jesus Enters My World

Green bell peppers. Fire roasted tomatoes burnt red. Ground beef all mesquite sputters against wooden spatula. Spaghetti splatter spots apron bib. And I’m crying onion.

Sleeve swipes at tears and eye make-up smears. I lean toward the candle burning on cutting board. Chop. I hold a chunk of bread between my teeth and try not to drool. Chop. I squint glare at the vegetable and I’ve tried every wives-tale trick to keep from crying onion but they don’t work.

It’s all flavor color blur in skillet. Onion tears run all green into red and mesquite at spatula and stinging eyes. I grope for jar of spaghetti sauce.

My kitchen smells like mesquite and cutting board onion strong. Oh and how!

Empty plates, full compliments and dishes stack at sink. And that ox of an onion! Powerful. I scrub board hard and sudsy. Give up, and find stable. Dishwasher. Close door. Press “start.”
And l lean back against warm dishwasher gathering steam energy to be driving instructor.


Driving permit and peppermint milkshakes with chocolate shavings that are worth waiting a year for. We’ve waited since last December. Daughter stands expectant with permit in hand and by now I ought to be a seasoned instructor. This is my fourth time. My fourth driver. I have a hundred and twenty hours under my belt. In the passenger seat.

I hand her the keys. Ask her if she sees well at night because I don’t. Blind as an onion. I put driving glasses on and wish I had lens for jumpy nerve blur. I stable it behind seatbelt click.

"Curb.” I keep voice low and professional.

“Gooood,” I purr steady.

“Now, when you are able, change lanes.” She’s more able than I am.

We pull up to drive-through. We are a long arms reach from the window. Server and daughter half-body lean across window to window distance and exchange peppermint milkshakes and payment.

The lid comes off mine and peppermint shake overflows sticky down Styrofoam cup and fingers. Sticky drips onto console and soaks drive-time record sheet. It’s all sticky mess that can’t be helped because we’re leaving the lot and entering lane.

“Now, change over three lanes. All the way over to the left turn lane. See it? Now.” I fumble for paper towel in door pocket. Eyes on road.

Now. Now. Now! Curb!!” And I wish I could stick my nerves in that cup holder. Peppermint stable. Stick.

“Let’s just breath. Now!…I mean, now-w…bre-e-athe…,” I sound like my yoga instructor.

We leave the tension in the turn lane. And I can’t help it. Laughter starts in belly. Rises to shoulder. Valiant effort to keep it stabled behind twitching lips. But it is ox, too. Laughter. And it kicks harder that I can hold.

Permit girl keeps one eye on road and other quizzical on me.

“It’s a good thing…,” Laughter kicks out,  “…I’m not an instructor…,” Laughter breaks stable. “…at your driving schooool…!” Ox is out and tears stream laughter.

Permit girl laughs polite.

“I don’t know who’d be more frazzled….” I’m doubled over seat belt and sticky. “Me or the students….” Sticky fingers wipe laughter tears peppermint.

And permit girl laughs real.
"They’d request me, though….” Our laughter in unbelted. “Just for the entertainment!”

Unseated laughter gets us home.

Permit girl clicks headlights off. Pulls peppermint shake cautious from cup holder. Opens door.
“Um-m…you may want to turn the car off,” I say all instructor voice.

“Oh-h…Yeah…” She gets out.

Alone in passenger seat I yank Lysol sheets from canister. I keep one in my car because…well…. I clean the sticky away and the cup holders and consol haven’t been this clean in months.

“Where no oxen are, the trough is clean.” I think to myself. It’s a Proverb. Chapter fourteen and verse four.

It’s true. And the oxen in my stable today smelled like onion, peppermint, anxiety, and laughter.

My stable is not empty. And it’s not clean. Not without disorder and surprise. But today laughter cleaned anxiety. Lysol wipes cleaned peppermint stick. Dishwasher cleaned onion board. And at two-o’clock in the morning big German arms cleaned panic attack away and stabled me til I slept.

Today was mess. It was laughter run all onion and it was spaghetti spatter on apron bib and eye make-up smear and peppermint sticky. And it was the disordered beat of panic mess. It was ox and stable.

And it seems to me that God is partial to oxen and stable mess. Wasn’t this where He chose for Jesus to enter this world? Isn’t this still where Jesus enters my world?

It is.

written by: Carolyn Roehrig

Sunday, December 8, 2013

Four Glass Doors

Paper towels sheet off roll as fast as autumn leaves sheet the air in wind storm. I face them. The four glass doors that are the back wall of my house. A new spray bottle of “All-Purpose Cleaning Solution with Vinegar” is in hand. No more spitting on empty. I spray and wipe.

And the same thing is happening outside. Rain and wind. Spray and wipe. Wet weighted leaves sheet off in wind swipe and tree is clear shape. True seen. Old pecan posture and knotted joints. Angled limbs dangle.

And spray bottle dangles from my crooked index finger.

Something holy here. Spitting rain; wiping wind. May I say, holy saliva spits down from heaven’s holy mouth and wind is sheet in God hand and He wipes and wipes til every damp smudge is gone? It’s what I’m thinking.

And it’s happening to me as I watch it.
My eyes are wet again. Tears? Holy saliva? Whatever. Wet leaves are smudgy. Opaque. Dry leaves are scale. The scales fall first. Autumn was crunchy at first. And God hand is wiping and again wiping smudge from my sight.

And I think it fitting that I am barefoot on wood floor hearing God speak to me, "What do you see?" 
I look up and say what the blind man said, “I see men like trees, walking’” (Mark 8:24).
It’s happening. My vision is clearing. It is. I close my eyes, soul windows, and see true for a moment.



Pecan Tree

Then He wipes again and makes me look up. And dare I say I am seeing things, people, situations, life seasons, more clearly? That I am seeing truer even as the eyes in my head are becoming both near and far-sighted? I nod, “Yes,” full of holy.

I don’t have bread in the oven, but I can smell it even over the cleaning solution and saturated paper towels.

It’s what God breath smells like as He speaks Bread of Life word to me. It’s what peace smells like when sorrow is Eucharist. It’s what pisteuo smells like when trust has been broken but so has the Bread. It’s what damp leaves smell like when the bread is mixed with the cup.

When life is swallowed red and water seeps flow out of this side of “Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”
It’s what Christ’s hand smells like right now covering my eyes and it’s what seeing smells like. And restoration.

I am being restored. I have waited. Waited for more trust. For less anxiety. Because the Truth and my trust are kin.  And I have waited to see true. Because it’s been a long dry autumn and the leaves have held tenacious dry clench.

I have waited for this moment. This spray-bottle-cleaning-solution-and-paper- towels-wadded-around-barefoot holy moment.

And Christ has made me look up a second time. I have to be made to. Because I have trust issues. Because I’m afraid to look up. Because I have preferred blindness and then settled for opaque smudge.

I look up and see my strong German. My Christ-loving man who loves me so much like He does. And I’m seeing him more clear now than I did with young eyes.


I look up and see pecan tree, because he is all pecan tree to me. He is hardwood hero who stood strong even when damaged and when it was too much to want to see.

Hardwood hero whose limbs have trembled. Who has wept holy saliva, too. And God hand is wiping smudge away.

It’s believe, trust and at the same time hope pisteuo. It’s Bread of Life at table of life.

It’s hard and beautiful and dense and transparent and bold and fragile and it hurts and heals and at the same time hopes. It’s wind swipe and wet leaves and changes and faith and the Truth and the Bread.

And it’s Christ making me look up again and again. All the way up this hardwood German. All the way eye to eye. It’s been awhile, this eye to eye. I’m still pisteuo trust shy. But Eucharist filled.

Eye to eye is still tentative, for me. Not for him. No. He cups my face in his hands and, like Christ, makes me look up. I’m looking up from beneath lashes. Eye is lashed. But I am curious about him. This German. Still curious even in our twenty-fifth year of marriage. That’s holy ground, too.


Paper towels litter the floor. I’ll gather them later. I look through window doors. I’m not the best window cleaner.
I turn knobs. All four knobs. And open. Open. Open. Open the doors. Go out just like the blind man went out with Jesus.

And Jesus said, “Don’t go back into the town” (Mark 8:26-paraphrase). To me that means, “Don’t go back to seeing things the way you used to.”

I feel the rain and wind on patio. I feel urge to take my bare feet to stand like that in damp leaves before pecan tree. But I don’t. I don’t need to, because I have come to table.

I’m trying not to go back to seeing things the way I used to. I don’t prefer blindness and am less and less content with opaqueness. And of course. Because Christ’s hand has wiped and I’m seeing truer. It’s happened. And is happening.

I go inside. Toss the paper towels. And wait for my German to come home from work. I want to look up on my own. Eye to eye. Not a lashed look. Not in the cup of his hand.

But because I have washed window doors and wind has swiped and Christ hand has touched eyes.
written by: Carolyn Roehrig

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Thanks Giving

Washing machine scraped out final words. Men came to wheel it away and I miss it. Moody as it was. I miss the swish dance while it hummed loud. Happy. And the bam, slam tantrums while it flung clothes around. Unbalanced. And the weekly shimmy-shake thud walk across the linoleum floor. I kept the door open not to invite a walk down the hall, but to block it in. Too many times it stomped cantankerous behind the door and locked me out!

It didn’t want to go. I know by the rusty grip it had at spigot. Two men, a wrench, and WD-40 before it relinquished. Oh. And prayer. Because it threatened to dare involving a plumber. It had cleaned out enough pockets. No plumber.

I watched the burly men pry its rusty fingers wringed around spigot. And I related. Hose is artery. Hose is pump to heart. No hose, no life. Even when the power cord is plugged in. And as my soul has fingers, and it does, I relate to the frozen grip on spigot. Source of life water. The Living Water.

I will not release grip. No more than David’s mighty men could release their swords. I hear it said that their hands were frozen to their swords.

Fiercely held. So long. In battle.

And when the ground was soaked with the drunken blood of enemy armies and with the wine of the wrath of God poured out full strength; and when all were slain at their feet and strewn across battlefield; still they stood. Grip on sword.

I have taken the Sword in hand. Wrapped soul fingers at hilt because there is no other way. Years clamped, morning knees hours cramped, and Sword at ready. Hand frozen to Sword.

I don’t imagine David’s men ever let go. Just learned a new hold once the field was cleared.  A victory hold. A “Be-hold! Glory to God!” hold. A hold on thanks giving and beholden to God worship.

Did they look long and even down length of sword? Red. From tip down blade to hilt?
Glory Sword
I know I have. Even study down lengthy Sword. Sharp Word. Pointed scriptures. Meant to pierce and divide soul and spirit, joints and marrow, thoughts and intents of the heart.
The soul can bleed red. And I find myself braver in battle than in trusting the battle is over. And it’s hard to learn a new hold. Hard to give thanks when I’m still half expecting to thrust the Sword again on this field. It takes time and God is in no hurry.

He is proving His Word true.

“Is it true?” My knees are cramping in warrior stance and the Sword is before me. Ready.

“I promise rest. Enter My rest.” He loosens my grip.

“I can’t!” Pause…. “But how?” Soul fingers release a wee bit.

“Come to the throne of grace and find grace.”

“Grace?” Fingers are tingling blood flow. Soul is feeling…what? Trust?

“Grace. I will do what you can’t. I know how.”
(A Hebrews 4:1,11,16 conversation)

Salt water seeps out ‘neath lashes. Warrior shout and victory call cries from trembling lips. Salt water washes over lashes. Soul wounds. And heals. Salt water weeps over Sword. His hand is over my hand. Our hands are wet together and His hand turns mine.

I’m holding Sword at new angle. Broad face blade to God face bright. I look at our hands together.

"Thank You. Thank You!” And trust starts breathing.

The Sword in hand is long. Very long. It reaches beyond all the over six-foot tall years. And to look at it is like looking straight into the sun. Eyes tear and everywhere is sun spot. Son light. Glory.

And what is glory, really? It’s more than I can wholly grasp. But let the holy grasp me.

“Adoring praise or worshipful thanksgiving,” is one definition.
(World English Dictionary)
God must have a can of WD-40. He’s turned my soul at wrist just so broad side of Sword blade blazes thanksgiving. I hold it, True-Word-of-God Sword raised over my head. And for me this Sword in hand blazing praise; blazing worship; blazing thanksgiving to God is also my “Amen.” Because I know that “Amen” finds its root in “aman,” Hebrew verb for truth. And truth, I read, is a compound word in Greek, “a-lethei,” meaning not-forgotten.

Thanksgiving is my “not forgotten.” My “remember truth.”  My active “Amen.”

I know no other way toward “believe and trust and at the same time hope” pisteuo.

I’m a bit like that old washing machine. Happy, unbalanced, and gripping hard at spigot with trust issues.

But this morning I am filled with thanksgiving.
I hear my morning girl in the kitchen. No doubt pouring a cup of the coffee I brewed. And sitting at my place at table. And, yes, there she is. I hug good mornings. She sips and I pour out “Happy Thanksgiving!”

She looks at me odd. My German looks at me knowingly. He knows me. I’m not good at dates. No good with the calendar.

Oh, I know today is Thanksgiving Day...
but that was yesterday!
written by: Carolyn Roehrig