|When I was in respiratory therapy school years ago while trying to mother five children, I was pinched for time
and patience. One afternoon when I came home from a taxing day at school, I spied my youngest child, then 6, scooting out
of the yard and slipping around the corner toward the small stores on Main Street. She not only was not allowed to go
there by herself but she was likely going for candy, also not allowed, and she probably had lifted the money from a sibling.|
“I’m going to catch her red-handed,” I thought angrily. I stood there at the window, waiting until I saw her head over
the top of the bushes. I ambushed her at the back door with my hand held out in front of me. “Give it to me,” I demanded.
She had whipped a small brown bag behind her when she saw me and now she slowly brought the bag around to give me. She
I ripped open the bag and saw...a small painted figurine of a young woman sitting on a log, sweetly holding flowers. My
daughter stammered, “It’s for you, Mom. I got it for you ‘cause you’re having a bad time.” What could I say, especially
with the lump in my throat?