Author: Sharron Burnett

The Letter

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

aid1022005-728px-mail-a-letter-step-1Many years ago I wrote a letter to the pastor of my church to lodge a complaint. There is nothing unusual about doing such a thing. I suspect that parishioners do so all of the time. Still I felt a bit uncomfortable about what I had done on the spur of the moment after attending services one Sunday. If I’d been able to climb into the mailbox to retrieve the note I would have. With the damage already done I stewed for days over how the kind priest would take my comments and worried that I would never again be able to face him without a strong tinge of embarrassment. When my phone rang one afternoon and the good Father greeted me on the other end of the line I was breathless. I thought that he had surely telephoned to upbraid me for my audacious remarks.

The content of my letter derived from many weeks of listening to one of the church deacons harangue those of us in attendance at the Sunday gathering for being sinners. I realize that such tongue lashings are actually commonplace in many Christian sects but I am a Catholic and had grown up hearing kinder, gentler sermons that were positive and up-lifting. I had explained that I often came to church weary from the challenges of daily living and expected to feel renewed at the end of the experience, not beaten down even more. I complained that the constant guilt trips coming from the deacon were disheartening and that if they continued I would be forced to seek another church. I had recorded my thoughts after a bruising account of just how sin-filled we humans are. Somehow when I heard the kind and soothing voice of the priest asking if he might come to my home to talk with me I was certain that I wouldn’t have to take the initiative of finding another place of worship. I began to mentally anticipate the excommunication from the parish which he was sure to deliver to me.

I was a nervous wreck by the time that my doorbell rang at the time that Father and I had agreed upon. I had made a pot of coffee and baked some cookies hoping to dispel some of the anger that I believed was about to descend upon my house. I did my best to cover my nervousness with a weak smile as I let the pastor inside.

We sat in my living room chatting about the weather and other such trivial things for a time and then the priest took the paper with my handwriting on it from inside his coat pocket. My heart was beating so quickly that I was certain that I was going to have a heart attack and he would to have to administer the last rites before I died right then and there. Instead he rather quietly smiled at me and said that he had been taken by the courage that writing such a thoughtful piece must have taken. He noted that he had felt and understood the honesty of my critique and actually agreed with the majority of my thoughts. He congratulated me for alerting him to my feelings rather than silently stewing in anger. He even noted that he had prayed over how to respond and realized that my concerns deserved a personal response.

I felt completely disarmed and relaxed as the pastor insisted that he was proud of me rather than being angry at my audacity. Then he told me how much he also loved and admired the deacon about whom I had complained. He laughed and explained that a great majority of the parishioners actually enjoyed the fire and brimstone sermons that the feisty speaker delivered and that he had letters from them to prove his contention. He told me that just as Jesus had loved everyone so unconditionally, so too should the church make room for all points of view. He had spoken with the deacon who was the subject of my ire and they had already agreed that perhaps he needed to balance his focus on sin with an equal note of the goodness that surely resides in our human hearts. He told me that I should expect to see a bit of a change in the homilies but that the essence of who the deacon was as a Christian would still be there. After all, he noted St. Paul was a firebrand and his letters to the people are still read today.

Somehow the explanation coming so wisely from our church community’s leader made sense to me. My fears evaporated and we spent the next many minutes just talking about my viewpoints and his. To my surprise the priest suggested that I become more involved in the life of our parish. He point out that the best way for me to bring about some of the changes that I sought was to counterbalance what I did not like by accepting a leadership role. He gave me a list of the organizations that he thought I might enjoy hinting that becoming a teacher of religious education seemed to fit me perfectly. He noted he liked the idea of having me influence the children with my more positive approach to religion. Then he walked from room to room in my home blessing the place where I lived.

I soon joined the teaching corps at my church and within a couple of years I was tapped to be one of the directors of religious education. I had learned a valuable lesson from the pastor that I have followed in all of my endeavors through the years. Namely, I realized that each of us has different ways of seeing the same situation and most of the time both points of view are valuable. I also came to understand that expressing our differences in a constructive way actually leads to the growth of an organization, not its destruction. I learned that staying inside a group that seemed quite different from myself was actually the very best way to begin the change process that I desired. The pastor had shown me how to lead effectively, how to maintain my personal code of ethics, how to be flexible, and how to make my own voice heard.

The deacon whom I had once disliked intensely became one of my dearest friends. I found him to be an remarkably sincere soul who actually believed much as I did but had a very different way of approaching the realization of our mutual goals. He was one of the kindest people I have ever known and it didn’t take long for me to understand why our pastor allowed him to do his sermonizing thing. There was great wisdom tucked inside his seeming madness. We worked together for years and tended to laugh whenever we reached a point of contention. We somehow managed to compromise just enough to both feel comfortable.

The election of Donald Trump to the presidency has reminded me of my own story and the priest who so beautifully included me and my way of thinking into the parish family. He might have ignored my soulful plea or even been angered by the thoughts that were so heavy handed and written in a heated moment. Instead he took the time to assure me that he served all of his parishioners and loved them as well. I still prefer pleasantries at church and in my diversions. I don’t like to be lectured in places where I expect to find comfort and escape from the stresses of my life but I understand the we each have a right to the ways that we feel. The priest taught me to open my mind and have just enough empathy to understand what prompts alternative ways of thinking. I can track the leadership style that I developed all the way back to that meeting. I would recommend that all of us, including our new POTUS elect, take a moment amid all of the sound and fury to at least attempt to work with one another.

Like Trump I would have been upset by being singled out for a critique by the cast of Hamilton but I also admire Pence for being more like the priest of my story in suggesting that democracy is enhanced, not threatened, by such moments. Now it is time for those of us whose platforms differ from Mr. Trump’s to find the areas of agreement and work from there. When he makes a move that worries us it is valid to voice our concern but we must also applaud him when he does something positive. If our only approach to his presidency is a continual barrage of negativity he will soon quit listening to our pleas. We have an opportunity to impact the trajectory of our nation. Will we leave? Will we incessantly complain? Will we search for common ground and move forward from there? The choice is ours. How we respond will either keep us at arms length or lead to compromises that will positively impact all of us. 

Until We Meet Again

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

3792202I come from a great big crazy immigrant family. My cousins and I may as well have been brothers and sisters. We literally grew up together. Every Friday night we were at my grandmother’s house without fail. We played all night long while our parents visited and competed with one another in card games and dominoes. In between we went to movies together, watched westerns on television and invented games. Our lives were almost idyllic, or so it appeared.

My first memories are of my cousins. They seemed to always have been in my life. One of my earliest recollections is playing on the seesaw with my cousin Jack at St. Peter’s Catholic Church while my brother was being baptized. I was about five and Jack was just barely five as well. He suddenly grew weary of going up and down and jumped off without warning. Without his weight to balance me I went flying into the air. I was angry with him because the fall took the breath out of my lungs. He was kind and came to my rescue. Even back then he was so very good.

My cousins became my lifeline when my father died. I was devastated and they rallied around to help our family through our tragedy. It seemed as though we spent ever more time with them after that. I particularly loved visiting Jack and his brother Andy. Their house was custom made for adventure. Their backyard overlooked a drainage ditch that became the site of untold hours of make believe. We were only allowed back there when it was bone dry but since that was most of the time it was our private playground.

Jack and Andy’s home had a floored in attic with stairs leading to a playroom unlike any other that I have ever seen. We played hide and seek up there and once Jack created an altar and we pretended to attend Mass with him as the priest of course. We frolicked for hours and I rarely wanted to leave when it became late. The best times were those when my mother agreed to spend the night. It meant that we had a few more precious hours to spend together.

My Aunt Polly worked for the Trail Drive In and she often invited us to come to work with her. That meant that we got to watch all of the entertainment with our cousins while she was busy at the box office. I remember one occasion when we were in the snack bar and one of the patrons spilled boiling hot coffee on Jack’s legs. He was in so much pain that I was in tears. The employees did their best to comfort him but he was badly burned.

When hurricane Carla came to Houston we spent several days at Jack and Andy’s house. My mother was afraid to stay alone and so we turned the event into a kind of hurricane party. My cousin Ingrid and her mother joined us as well. I suppose that we drove the adults insane playing chopsticks on the piano over and over. They finally warned us that we were not to touch those keys again. We went upstairs and found plenty to do. When the winds began to pick up Jack went outside and climbed a tree in the backyard. He squealed with delight as the branches rocked him back and forth. I was just about to try the ride when we all got in trouble for being outside in the middle of the storm.

The years went by and we continued doing so many things together. Once several of us took ballroom dance lessons together. I had a crush on a particular boy in the class and when it came time to partner up I hoped that he would choose me. When I was left standing alone cousin Jack gallantly came to my rescue and asked me to dance with him. I wasn’t as polite as he had been and noted that being with him was better than nothing. He teased me about that for the rest of our lives.

Many of us ended up attending the University of Houston at the same time. We began meeting together on weekends to play cards and just converse. We celebrated New Year’s Eve with each other and took turns hosting that event. We gave each other wedding and baby showers as we one by one married and had children. Our lives were intertwined for so long but as we became busy with our children and our jobs we saw less and less of each other. We usually met up on special occasions or at funerals. Still the love that we had for one another was always there never to be broken.

When my mother lay dying in the hospital my brothers and I tried desperately to contact her sisters and get them to come say their goodbyes to her. We called and called and finally contacted them late in the afternoon. They indicated that they would have to come the next day because they were unable to drive at night. I knew that my mom would not hold on that long and I was greatly saddened. Out of the blue they arrived. My cousin Jack had driven from Westbury to FM 1960 to the Medical Center, a considerable distance in heavy Houston traffic. My aunts and my mother were able to be together one final time. Mama died later that night. I often wondered if Jack knew how much she had appreciated his efforts to get his mother and her twin sister to the hospital.

Jack suffered from heart disease for sixteen years. This past June his doctors told him that there was nothing more that they might do for him. His heart was worn out. He had congestive heart failure. Through it all he kept his faith in God and his trademark sense of humor. He had a way of making people laugh. It was difficult not to feel good around him even when he knew that his time on this earth was becoming more and more limited. It was as though he was determined to help us through the grief that we were feeling.

Jack belonged to the Knights of Columbus, a group of Catholic men who do charitable works of mercy. It was so fitting for him to want to do such things. That is the way he lived his life. He worked for the United Postal Service and even became a Postmaster. He was brilliant and beautiful with his blonde hair and blue eyes. He was the father of three gorgeous and sweet daughters who seemed to be made in his image. He had grandchildren who were as precious as he had always been. He faithfully attended family events and made all of us smile with his presence.

Jack’s ninety five year old mother is still alive. She is needless to say devastated. Losing a child is the ultimate blow regardless of age. His wife and children are left to remember his almost childlike spirit and the love that he showered on them. Their grief cannot be measured. Those of us who are his cousins feel as though we have lost a part of our very souls. He was our brother, someone who knew us just as we are and still loved every inch of us. We will miss him terribly.

We imagine Jack having a large welcoming committee in heaven. His father was there for sure. All of my uncles were not far behind. My grandmother must surely have been holding a cup of coffee for him. He finally gets to meet our grandfather who died before we were born. Of course my mother, his godmother is there. She loved him so. Surely they are planning a big card party for this weekend. They’ve welcomed him to their corps of angels. Now he will watch over us until we meet again. 

A Reason, A Season, A Lifetime

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

people-come-into-your-life-for-a-reason-a-season-or-a-lifetimeToday is a day for counting blessings. I have many reasons to be thankful and all of them involve the people that I have known. From the moment of my first memories I have been surrounded by good loving souls who cared for me and made me feel safe and secure. I have to admit that I have only rarely felt the pain of abuse from another human and in each of those cases I enjoyed the freedom to walk away. I have observed hate in this world but have not been the victim of it. Instead my life has witnessed kindness, loyalty, understanding and genuinely unconditional love over and over again.

When my baby brain awoke my parents were there doting on me, along with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors and friends. I recall riding in my grandfather’s Plymouth coupe with the earthy aromas of pipe tobacco and leather engulfing my senses as I watched him steer the car so confidently with his big laborer’s hands. I remember watching my grandmother rolling dough and allowing me to cut little round circles that would become big fluffy biscuits that melted in my mouth along with the homemade butter and jam that she slathered on them. I can still see my other grandma padding across the room in her bare feet carrying enamel cups of sugary coffee for her guests.

When I think of my aunts and uncles they are still young and beautiful in my mind. They sit around a big table playing poker and squabbling like loving siblings from a large family are wont to do. Then I think of my cousins, the ones who are more like brothers and sisters, who always seem to have been stalwarts in my world. We are filled with wonder and imagination, inventing games and entertaining ourselves for hours without any adult supervision. How we loved each other as children and how we still do as adults!

I enjoyed the times that we spent with my parents’ friends, especially Mr. and Mrs. Krebs. Sitting in a circle listening to Texas Aggie football games on the radio was a regular fall weekend event. We munched on cinnamon toast and popcorn while a lone voice narrated the action. I wouldn’t give up those times for anything. They were wonderful.

Eventually Daddy was gone. I would miss listening to his voice as he read fairytales to me or chuckled at the Sunday funny papers. Me and my brothers and mother would have to move on without him. Mama became our everything all rolled up into one beautiful package. She kept the faith with Texas A&M and there was never a Thanksgiving Day that we missed tuning in to the gridiron clash between the Aggies and the Longhorns. She would time our dinner so that we would be able to pay careful attention to the game. It was a tradition that we cherished and followed until the game was scheduled for another day and then the two teams played no more.

We found so many genuine friends in our neighborhood after our father died, people who literally watched over us and made sure that we always had whatever we needed. They made me feel quite special with their frequent displays of kindness. As a young child they provided me with multiple examples of how to be a good and upright adult. Mrs. Janot shared her afternoon programs with me in air conditioned splendor. Mrs. Bush demonstrated a rare courage that I greatly admired. Mrs. Frey took me and my brothers under her wing along with her own five children. The Limbs were models of hard work and moderation in all things. The Cervenkas were fun. The Sessums quietly did small favors that were actually huge in my mind.

School was like heaven for me. With one exception my teachers were always angels. I loved them so. Many of the friends that I made have followed me into adulthood and of late I have become reacquainted with others whom I had lost along the way. I find that we are very much alike for having shared the same experiences when we were growing into adults. We have good values. We were taught by our parents and teachers to always be ethical and fair minded. As far as I can tell most of us ended up being model citizens, employees, spouses, parents. We learned from the best.

Eventually I met my husband and we fell madly in love. Ours has been a grand romance from the beginning mostly because we cherish each other as unique individuals. We are both independent and do not always think exactly alike. The differences that we have  make our lives more interesting. My Mike has always treated me with unquestioning respect. He encourages me to be the person that I want to be. He is loyal and undoubtedly my very best friend. I have loved him every single day for almost fifty years. In turn, I received a second set of parents on the day that we wed. My in-laws have helped me in some of the most difficult times of my life.

At work I met the most amazing and giving people who were dedicated to helping the youth of our nation to become educated. They worked hard to bring excellence into the classroom. I admired them as much as the teachers that I had as a child. I saw them devoting themselves totally to their vocations. They might have become wealthy in other careers but they chose to serve the countless children and families that came to them year after exhausting year. Some only speak of being champions for our youth but my teacher friends have actually done the heavy lifting, often with little gratitude or compensation. They are my heroes, the people that I most admire. If life were totally fair they would all meet with the President of the United States and be given Medals of Freedom for their good deeds.

The pleasant memories of my friendships are ongoing. I think of all the fun that I have had shopping at thrift stores with Cappy, exchanging Christmas cheer with Linda and Bill, sitting at a table discussing the world with Pat and Bill, camping with Monica and Franz, playing bridge with Susan, watching our children play with the Turners and the Halls, being myself with Nancy, enjoying dinners with the KIPP gang, being with my adult former students and seeing how remarkable they have become, continuing to admire Judy as my icon, finding my first grade pal Virginia. I might go on for hours with beautiful stories of individuals who gave me their hearts.

I have been blessed with two daughters who are brilliant and beautiful and best of all, loving. They in turn married good men and together they built families that gave me the gift of seven grandchildren. All of them are the joy and the center of my universe. I revel in being with them and watching them grow. Their laughter warms my heart. I pray each day that they will know the same level of affection that I have so enjoyed.

I have been surrounded by the most incredible people at every turn of my existence. I have been blessed beyond measure in knowing them. I sometimes wonder why I have been chosen to be so fortunate. There have been times when my family was financially challenged. I have dealt with extremely difficult situations. I have not been sheltered from sadness and tragedy. Still I have only known love and kindness. At each turn someone has stepped forward to fill me with joy sometimes for a reason, sometimes for a season, sometimes for a lifetime. For that I am profoundly thankful on this day. 

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

An Exceptional Man

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

15171229_10154721230488550_2543187410716779275_nAn exceptional man has died. You will not hear about this on television for he was not a celebrity to anyone but those who who knew him well. I was only briefly acquainted with him. He “friended” me on Facebook last June. I accepted his invitation immediately because I was had worked with his son for years. I suspected that I already had a very good idea of what kind of man he was from the many interactions I that I had with his child. I believed that I would like this man very much, and I did.

Donny Wilkins has died. I did not realize that he was waging a battle with cancer during the brief time that he was my friend. He was an optimist and a faith-filled man who spread a message of love and tolerance every single day. I began to look forward to his inspirational posts because they were uplifting in the midst of a world filled with so much anger and hate. I found that I felt a bit better each time one of his entries found its way to my wall. It was as though he was ministering to all of us who were lucky enough to be among those he had chosen to be part of his world. I felt deeply honored to get to peer inside his heart.

I was lucky enough to meet Donny Wilkins because his son, Shaun, attended the high school where I was a Dean. I was the Grade Level Chairperson for Shaun’s Class of 2010 and I tried to become acquainted with each of the students in that group. They were known for possessing an independent spirit and a special sense of justice and Shaun was unafraid to be a warrior for all that is right. He was loved by his peers as well as his teachers. I noticed immediately that he was a brilliant student and a deep thinker. He had a smile that was both innocent and charming. I now know that he inherited that dazzling countenance from his father. He was open and caring, also traits from his dad. I immediately liked Shaun very much. As most teenagers are apt to be he sometimes faltered here and there but mostly he was continuously driven forward by a goal of truly making a difference. This past May he graduated from Wiley College with a degree and high hopes of demonstrating his excellence. I was quite proud of his achievement but understood that he is only at the beginning of what will surely be a remarkable lifetime. Not long after I wrote a blog about Shaun his father asked to be my Facebook friend. That is when I truly understood how Shaun had become the wonderful person that he is.

Shaun is the physical image of his dad. Like his father he works hard and strives to always bring a high level of morality and ethics to any situation. He loves God in much the same way that his father did. I have little doubt that he will continue to make his dad a very proud man as he looks down from his heavenly home. Sadly Shaun will know the deep sadness that the loss of a man of such great influence leaves on the heart. He will also have memories of the lessons that his father taught all of us that will sustain him forevermore. His father wisely demonstrated with his every example what it means to be a man of God, a person of honor.

Donny Wilkins was by all standards a great husband, father, grandfather, brother, uncle, friend. The tributes to his character have filled my wall and I love reading them even though it pains me to know that he is gone. If a line from The Wizard of Oz is to be believed then the measure of his love is inestimable because so many loved him. I know that in the very short time that I had the pleasure of being listed among his friends I grew to admire and respect him more and more each day. He possessed a wisdom that is all too rare. His was a selfless way of viewing the world. He worked hard to care for his family and seemed to always place others before himself.

I am going to miss Donny Wilkins. He was one of those rare individuals who bring sunshine wherever they go. I know that the members of his family are grief stricken, especially his son Shaun. There are no healing words other than those that Donny himself recently used. “Dear God, I bring my burdens to you and you know my situation. You know I can’t make it without you. Comfort my heart, give me strength, and help me carry on. Amen.”

Donny has more than earned his wings. He is already watching over those who loved him. I am the better for having known this man as are all of us who had the privilege of “walking” beside him. May he rest in peace and may his family take heart in knowing just how special it has been to have such a man in their circle of love. 

My Glass

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

half-full-glassLast week amid new comments of angst from some of my grieving progressive friends one of my cousins noted that I tend to roll with the world’s punches because I am a “glass half full” kind of woman. That is certainly true. I cling to my optimism even in the face of daunting odds but my outward calm is not always as easy to come by as it may appear. In fact, I often vent privately before I am able to emerge publicly as a paragon of reason and good cheer. The members of my nuclear family can attest to this little known aspect of my character with countless examples of times when I actually behaved badly at home and then pulled myself together for the outside world. Ultimately I always come to the same conclusion that everything is going to be alright but it often takes time for me to get there.

I suppose that my generally rosy outlook on life came early in my development. My father’s death did more to direct the evolution of my character and my thinking than any other event in my life. At the age of eight I was hardly able to deal with tragedy like an adult and yet I somehow did. I felt a responsibility to my mother who was broken and unrecognizable and to my brothers who were far too young to understand exactly what was happening. I suppose it was then that I first realized that our world was not going to end even though that certainly appeared to be the case.

Family and friends came to our aid just as if a clarion call had resounded over the land. We were not alone, not for one minute. I have never forgotten the kindnesses that were showered on us. Even though the first days and weeks and months without my father were some of the most difficult and horrific of my life, we eventually gelled as a different kind of family. My mother regained her spirit and strength. We took baby steps together and before long we were sprinting with the confidence that we were going to make it. I knew then that looking forward and believing that there is a bright future becomes a self fulfilling prophecy. We found the security that we needed because we were convinced that we would do so. Had we simply pulled back into a cocoon of hopelessness the results might have been tragically different. Holding on to dreams of better days was our route out of the sadness that initially consumed us.

Because the cadence of life is rarely routine I have encountered countless moments that overwhelmed me. I allowed myself the luxury of fretting and railing at the heavens when I was with the people whom I had learned to trust implicitly. I knew that they would never turn on me no matter how ridiculously I behaved. They saw me at my lowest points when my behavior was akin to that of a petulant toddler. They gazed at the cracks and flaws that I carry in my soul. They allowed me to free the poisons that were attempting to overtake me. They heard me crying in the bathroom or throwing objects at a wall. They endured my tantrums out of love and sometimes laughed with me when I finally realized the ridiculousness of my outbursts. Once I had faced down the emotions that were clouding my ability to reason I always found the answers that I needed. The storms passed and the sun rose again.

I’ve had some minor irritations of late, issues with things either lost or broken. So many disappointments piled one on top of another that I finally lost my cool. I wanted to clean my carpet for the Thanksgiving festivities and so I brought my handy dandy Bissell carpet cleaner in from the garage, filled it with shampoo and merrily began the process of freshening my floors only to realize that the machine was not working properly. I made a few adjustments with no success. My husband came to the rescue but after several attempts to get the mechanisms actually doing their jobs we came to the conclusion that the carpet cleaner was broken. I was appalled because I had only used it a few times. My daughter had warned me not to purchase it. Hers had similarly died long before it should have. I became infuriated. I wanted to smash the offending appliance to pieces. I thought of taking it to the garage and beating it with a hammer. The idea of using it for target practice was enticing. I imagined it filled with holes that I had made. By the time that I had described all of my evil thoughts to my husband I was cackling with impish glee and resigned to the reality that I had made a bad purchase in spite of being counseled not to do so by my daughter. I placed the offending carpet cleaner on the curb and made somebody’s day because it disappeared in the dark of night. I truly hope that they have better results with it than I did.

I’ve chased my mother down the street when she was in a full blown state of mania. I’ve sat beside family members while they breathed their last breaths. I’ve lost the best of friends and missed them so much that my heart felt as though it would burst and I would surely join them. I’ve felt pain so terrible that I wanted to stop the world and get off for a time. My trials have been no different from those of anyone else. They are simply part and parcel of the human experience. They come and they go as inevitably as sunrises and sunsets. Never once have they overtaken me to the point of hopelessness. I certainly don’t intend to allow the tragedies that I experience to deny me the triumphs that I believe will always follow. I cling to my optimism because it has never failed me even when I have been the most hurt. It is centered on the love that is ever present around us. I find it over and over again even in the darkest hours.

I have a friend who lives in a small town in Georgia. Shortly after arriving there to begin a new phase of life her husband had a stroke and has been bed ridden ever since. What was to be a happy time has become an endurance test for her. She spends her days caring for him and worrying over the business of keeping the two of them safe and secure. She has found great kindness from strangers over and over again. People have learned of her plight and done the most remarkable things.

Someone brought her a turkey for Thanksgiving which she quickly decided to share with the people who live in her apartment complex who have no place to go on the holiday. Her idea quickly evolved into the making of a party and generated excitement where there had once been gloom. A couple that she barely knows will travel almost two hours to Atlanta early on Thanksgiving morning to meet her husband’s son who is flying in to visit with his ailing father. She marvels at the unexpected gifts that the townspeople have bestowed upon her little realizing that they have seen her courage and devotion and want to help. Somehow she has managed over and over again to wipe away her tears and her anger with her situation. She finds little snatches of happiness and goodness that keep her moving slowly forward.

The way of the world is often difficult and rocky but it rarely stays that way permanently. Just when we think that we are all alone someone almost always emerges to give us the comfort we need. We pick ourselves up over and over again and find hope in places that surprise us. Our hurts and disappointments go with us but we don’t have to allow them to dictate how we will view the world. I have found that the glass is rarely empty. I believe that I will always somehow find that tiny drop of promise that will lead me out of any misery that plagues me. I may not be able to control the situations that affect me but I do have mastery over how I will react. I choose optimism. In sixty eight years it has never failed me.