A glider chair sits in our house, mostly unused now. It’s just fabric and wood, but it holds midnight feedings, whispered promises, and the version of me who learned how to be a father through grief. Some objects are more than objects. They are witnesses.
My grandmother turned 101 this week. Still sharp, still kind, still driving herself to McDonald’s for her daily sandwich and coffee. She laughs that she doesn’t know why she’s still here, as if the universe misplaced her. Sitting with her, I wonder: what do we celebrate in longevity? The number, the endurance, or the quiet miracle of still being here?
A solo dad’s nighttime run and a rescued rabbit remind him that kindness is the real curriculum.
An unexpected funeral on a summer sidewalk leads to sacred grief, soft hearts, and a visit from something beyond.