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        Gratitude

        November 26, 2017

        Kid stuff, but not...

        September 6, 2017

        You gotta

        June 13, 2017

        Sisterhood

        June 5, 2017

        "We have not grieved without hope."

        May 9, 2017

        Bus drivers 'r us

        April 19, 2017

        The lie.

        April 3, 2017

        He had (and we have) one job

        March 1, 2017

        Finding the How

        February 20, 2017

        Comfort zone

        January 31, 2017

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        Recent Posts

        Waiting out the tantrum

        July 26, 2016

        Recovery Cone

        December 8, 2015

        The good lie

        October 13, 2016

        1/4
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        Featured Posts

        The rest of the story

        January 19, 2016

         

        The steeple of a tiny church across the canal from my temporary digs in southern Florida pushes its tiny cross toward the sky.  I’ve been asked to travel to Orlando for a radio interview and then elsewhere for tv, and have to prepare for that, as well as to write almost daily for a variety of media interested in “Hey, God? 

        Yes, Charles.”  But I work really hard to be “home” every day I can, at 9, noon, and 5, so that I can sit on a bench beside the water.  

         

        In a moment, sweet bells from that church will begin to ring.  They will toll their way through two hymns, the bells a gift from a widow in loving memory of her husband.  That would be wonderful enough.  But there’s more.  

         

        We’re on an island, and it’s pretty isolated, a fishing village.  The story is that she was in the bait shop down the way here, sharing her idea with the owner 

        but, she said, I don’t have any idea how to find someone who does bells.  A man, who just happened to be standing within earshot, spoke up and said…"I do."  He directed her to the right person - a bell person - on another island.  Really??!!

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