Twin threads ran through her: fear and excitement.

Away from the bright motion of the party, she carried her sadness like a dark stone clenched in her palm.

Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.

But she had felt since childhod that her life would n ot be ordinary. A moment would come- she would know it when she saw it- and everything would change.

She had died at age twelve, and by now she was nothing but the memory of love-- nothing, now, but bones.

The thing is, I used to like that: feeling special because I knew something no one else did. It's a kind of power, isn't it, knowing a secret? But lately I don't like it so much, knowing this. It's not really mine to know, is it?

The challenges in this place are real and sometimes very difficult, but I've learned to slow down and look for beauty in my days, for the mysteries and blessings woven into everything, into the very words we speak.