Love, even that love which is imagined, is sometimes all we have to get us through.

Raw pain alarms. us. It reminds us that life isn't as orderly as we'd hoped. We demand that pain settle down before we shuffle it off to the quiet table. We want pain to stay in its own little section, want to keep it from spilling over into the other parts of life. Just like . lunch trays. Keep pain in its own little compartment.

Love, even that love which is imagined, is sometimes all we have to get us through.

Write letters to your grandmother. She will love it. And leave you money in her will.

There are things we see with our eyes, sitting high and looking out. And there are things we see with our hearts, sitting still and looking in.

We just never know. We think we do. We think we have life figured out, and in our arrogance we become hard. But life has a way of humbling us, of softening us.

In the end . . . . . . . Stand where we feel led. Stand straight, stand tall, and try to remember that other folks might be led to stand elsewhere.