My first time memory of my mother as a hero started with cinnamon candy. I’m not sure where I found this piece of candy, but like most children, I was oblivious to the dangers of running around the living room with a hard-cinnamon ball in my mouth. Until a piece went down the wrong way.
But my favorite holiday song continues to blare on overhead as shoppers make their way through crowded aisles, searching for the perfect gift for their loved ones. Kids in shopping carts stare bright-eyed at the toys on the shelves. Checkout lines continue to grow along with my irritation and frustration. And if one more person asks the cashier about a ten percent off coupon, I vow to put this item back and walk out.
Now I’m aware that this makes me sound extra greedy even as a “foodie,” so let me clarify. I ran for hot chocolate alongside thousands of other people on an early and windy morning in downtown Chicago. And it was so much fun!
It’s been a few years since we took our annual family summer vacation. By the time August 19th rolled around, our getaway was long overdue. We all felt it. My husband started the official countdown one week before. We both needed a break from work and just day-to-day activities.
I never expected for my life to change last summer. Last year on the fourth of July, my husband and I packed our bags, hopped on the first morning flight available and rushed down to North Carolina to be with my mother. Although the doctors sent her home on hospice just a couple days before our arrival, we went down there with every intention to pray, stand in faith as a family and watch God work a miracle.