We sit at our well-worn dining room table. In our cozy house with a tin roof. Friends often said it felt like a retreat house. It rang true to my soul; the rhythm of a Seattle rain could lull and calm even the most distracted hearts. This December night, the sounds of the gentle rain seem to magnify as I listen to my husband’s end of the phone conversation.
Words like “What does the doctor say?” and “I can fly out tomorrow”, confirm the emergency on the other end. I look down at the scratches and nicks on the loved table. Slowly running my hands over them. My fingers have their own memory, of tears cried and joys celebrated around that table. Twenty years of its sturdiness absorbing it all.
Today my Christmas story is being shared at Diane Bailey’s. Please head over to read the rest! {Read more}
