The other day, I sat at a stoplight and felt a bit of melancholy with a pang of helplessness. A man standing at the corner, about 55-years-old wearing frayed dress pants, was bundled up with a bright red scarf that matched the color of his face (not uncommon, but to be expected in -10 degrees of this brutally cold and purely murderous…
1 more page of empty lines left in my journal. I don’t know about you, but my journal is my lifeblood – to process, pray and simply record. So this nearing-the-end thing is a cause for panic, a race to the nearest Barnes & Noble. But it’s also a time to reminisce.
As I turn back to page 1, memories come alive:
On Jan. 17th, I noticed…