He’s ninety-six now, living in a residential care facility in B.C. I can’t call him on the phone anymore. He hears very little and struggles with dementia. My sister tells me that until she mentions me, he doesn’t speak of me. Then our father remembers the daughter two provinces away. …
“That’s NO serving dish,” the Preacher said. With emphasis. Christmas dinner, 2019. We’d planned to have it at our daughter’s home, a five minute drive from us, but the grandbeans had become quite ill, though well prayed for and taken care of. I tried not to worry much. We’d invited …
When did the lovely art of hospitality start to leave us? It dangles by a fraying thread, it seems. Even among Christ-followers, mandated to share both home and food, the hardened shears of too-much-business, and too-little-love have almost snipped it from among us. The Preacher and I accepted an invitation …
