On being blessed

The snotty funk is making the rounds among my children, and I am at home yet again today from work–this time missing out on a delicious church-lady-cooked turkey lunch. I miss my class; I miss their little hands and their go-gurt covered faces.

But this:

(She’s showing me the proper way to blow a nose, which is essentially snorting into one’s own hand while the Kleenex remains safely intact in the other hand.)

I’m so fortunate to have been working for people who allow me these times to take care of my kiddos over the years. I can’t explain the gratitude I have for, um, everyone I know–you’ve all held me up this year in ways you might never understand.

It’s close to Thanksgiving so I thought I’d share something about the coolest Thanksiving I ever had. When I was thirteen, my parents took us on a church retreat to Assissi–the little town where St. Francis lived.

Imagine: cobblestone everything plus the most picturesque countryside you ever did see. Even I–at the most surliest of ages–was able to appreciate just how special a place it was; and a sense of gratefulness, and of generosity, and love for Jesus and family, washed over me for the whole trip…

Except when those humble Italian monks, who were hosting us American travelers, brought out the turkey that they had so thoughtfully and lovingly prepared for our holiday feast…


Gag me with a cobblestone spoon!

Pretty sure my mother threatened me within an inch of my life not to say anything, but irreparable damage was already being done by my second-grade sister.

Anyhoo, we ate the turkey that stared us in the face, did some hiking in the city itself and in the woods around it, had some soul-searching biblical lessons, and quality time with each other and with other believers.

It was the first time I ever felt close to and loved by God, thus securing a top spot among the  most fantastic family vacations ever in memories of my childhood.

So thanks, Mom and Dad. Here’s one gorgeous photograph of the view from our room, which you let me snap on the little black contraption we had called a camera that contained what ancient circles knew as a roll of film.

And then you picked a bunch of disgusting persimmons from a tree and forced me try one. Gaaaah what? Am I supposed to be thankful for parents who made me eat food all over Italy?


About Toni

Mom. Wife. Artist. I take care of the kids and pretend to clean sometimes. I can cook spagetti and I have never been arrested. View all posts by Toni

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