By Christmas of 1958 we were old enough to know that trees and decorations were not the reason we celebrated Christmas. We also understood we couldn’t squander a week’s grocery money on a tree but privately I grieved that the big box marked “Christmas” would spend another year undisturbed in the attic. There would be no lights to go dark when one bulb burned out, no icicles reflected in silvery glass balls. Continue reading
A blog post today reminded me of an old favorite poem. Take a moment and go read “The Touch of the Master’s Hand” on Denise Hisey’s blog. It’s a short poem that’s always touched my heart.
I must be the first of many generations of both sides of my family not to inherit any musical talent. My father played the violin, not professionally, but for his own pleasure and for special music at church from time to time. Mother played the piano, and both sang. Continue reading