I Have a Beard

I have a beard. I have a beard in my hand and I am walking around the house trying to find the square wooden jaw it belongs to. My authentic, red solider, a gift from my German exchange student 20 years earlier, has been pillaged by my children. I can’t find him and I’ll be . . . → Read More: I Have a Beard

Touching Dirty Hands

“His hands are dirty.”

“It’s okay to touch people with dirty hands,” my husband calmly replied as we walked away.

We just gave a hot meal and a blanket to a kind man and he shook our hands with gratitude. But my four year old recoiled with wide eyes, afraid to touch this quiet man . . . → Read More: Touching Dirty Hands

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