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My Mother’s Bread

By Kate

My mother taught me how to make bread.

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I don’t know how old I was when I began sifting flour and kneading dough, but I do know I was raised in a home where a battered metal bowl of bread dough was always rising near the wood stove, a kitchen where sifted flour motes hung in shafts of light. Coming off the school bus after the long ride from town, up Irish Hill and over the long ridges, looking out over the fields and fighting sleep I was secure in the knowledge that at the end of the journey I would race into the house and there would be bread fresh from the oven. We called them biscuits and we ate them with butter, with honey, with jam.  Over the years I’ve made this bread all over the country, often at Thanksgiving. In the South, in the Blue Ridge Mountains, in the cities of the East Coast, my friends and my in-laws have called them rolls. Regardless of what they are called, every single person who has tasted them has asked for the recipe. Today, I’m sharing the recipe with you.

You will need:

4 cups warm water

3 Tbsp (2 packets) active dry yeast

1/2 c sugar

1/2 cup oil (vegetable oil, olive oil, your choice)

1 Tablespoon salt

Flour, unbleached. A copious quantity.

To begin:

In a large bowl, pour in 4 cups of warm water. It should be very warm, but not hot. Test it on the back of your wrist. Make sure the bowl is in a warm, stable place. Measure in the yeast. 

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Next, sprinkle a little sugar on top of the yeast. I’ve never seen or heard this instruction from anyone but my mother, but it works like a charm. As she explained to me when I was a small child, clambering up on the counter while she worked, the sugar feeds the yeast. After you’ve sprinkled in the sugar, walk away- or stay right there, because it’s surprisingly interesting to watch. When I was little I loved to hang over the bowl and watch the yeast bloom and form colonies. If you have homeschooling children this is a fantastic time for a science experiment. After 10 or 15 minutes, the yeast should look like this:

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The yeast is ready. You can see it. You can smell it! Now, it’s time to add 1/2 cup sugar, 1/2 cup oil, and 1 heaping tablespoon of salt.

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Now, it’s time to add flour. Alternate between adding flour and mixing with a large spoon, until the dough is just solid enough to pour out so you can begin kneading. It will look something like this:

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Pour out the dough onto a large, floured surface:

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It’s time to knead! What a wonderfully satisfying old word and concept kneading is. If you live in a large family, it’s likely that you’ll want to punch something at some point. Bread dough is a wonderful target. There is something very comforting about pushing into the dough with the bottom of your palm, hand over hand over hand, which is what you are doing here. You are also- and this is important- continuing to add flour as you knead. Sprinkle a little flour over the dough, knead, repeat. Keep sifting flour over the top of the bread as you go. You don’t want it to be sticky when you’re done, but you don’t want it to be tough either. Continue kneading slowly and surely for at least five minutes until the dough is uniform in texture and feels resilient to the touch:

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As you can see, the light is shifting. The morning has almost passed and the sun slants in and the shadows are deepening in my kitchen. Making bread demands time. You don’t have to pay attention to the bread all day, but you do have to begin early in the morning and give it ample time to rise and fall throughout the day. This is counter to our culture in so many ways and I would argue that a life that is lived in the rhythm of the rising and the baking of bread is a life of revolutionary freedom.

Dust your bread dough with flour and slide the dough back into the bowl.

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Cover with a clean bright cloth, and walk away. Let the dough rise, which will take a couple hours, depending on the season and the humidity and whether the oven is on and all sorts of other factors which you will discover which are particular to your own home and life. You want it to double in size, and when it does it will look like this:

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Again, pour the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and punch it down. You don’t have to knead it too thoroughly here, just punch out all of the air bubbles and give it a quick going over, continuing to dust very lightly with flour as you do so. Return the kneaded dough back to the bread bowl.

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Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, because it’s time to make your rolls. This recipe will fill a standard cookie sheet or roasting pan, which both work well for these biscuits. Grease the cookie sheet or roasting pan lightly.

Begin making rolls by squeezing a piece of dough and pinching it off. Each roll should be about the size of the fist of the child I was when my mother first let me try making a biscuit. Now, my hands are turning into hers.

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Fill the pan with rolls, cover with a clean cloth, and let rise for 20 minutes while your oven heats the kitchen. When they have risen, prick each roll very lightly with a fork.

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Pop those rolls into the oven and bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. A couple minutes before you pull them out, open the oven and lightly rub a stick of butter over the top of the rolls. Finish baking, and remove from heat. For best results, transfer the rolls onto a cooling rack. Serve with love, while they are still warm.

This is my mother’s table, this the Madonna of my Grandmother. This is the recipe for my mother’s bread. This is the way that I tasted my mother’s love.

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The Elf Child

By Kate

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It is the morning of All Hallow’s Eve and I’ve already bid farewell to a pirate and a rather dapper vampire headed to school. In an hour I will head out to teach a class dressed as a pumpkin patch, vines twining about my leggings, a blaze orange hunting cap upon my head, bearing a pumpkin baby in a plump plush costume that each of my four children has worn, each time bringing great delight to the world at large. My unicorn ballerina, an organized soul for an almost-four-year-old, and is currently playing trick or treat in the pantry, while simultaneously re-organizing it for me.

I do not excel at the organization of pantries, or at the crafting of costumes. The thought of a craft store makes my heart beat faster- in sheer terror. However, I do excel at encouraging creativity in my children. Granted, this can be disconcerting when I walk into their room, which is in a constant state of riotous imaginative play (I think) but is useful when they concoct their own costumes without my assistance.

I am also willing to stop cleaning my house at any time (providing I have started) and to sit down and read out loud to my children. This I learned from my mother. My mother, an English major and a literature teacher, spent a solid 20 years of her life seated on a battered couch draped with several of her 9 children, nursing one and reading out loud to the rest. We read Little House on the Prairie, and Caddie Woodlawn, and a thousand other books which were battered and beaten badly over the years, but a love of literature was instilled deeply into each of her children. One thing that I always noticed while reading, say, the Little House books, was that the children in the one room schoolhouses learned a lot of poetry. Poetry has fallen out of fashion, in conjunction with the lack of rhyme and meter. While there is some wonderful modern work out there, you just don’t hear a whole lot of grade schoolers reciting Allan Ginsberg’s Howl, or the derivative work that followed. This is probably for the best.

I always wanted my children to recite poetry but as I mentioned I’m not very organized. So far my efforts have included scattering hundred year old books of children’s poetry around the house, particularly in the bathrooms, which is working pretty well. However, the one poem that all my children DO have memorized is on that my mother read to us, one that is practically impossible not to memorize, one that James Whitcomb Riley wrote and published in 1885.

Originally titled The Elf Child, this poem is written in the Hoozier dialect of Indiana, which is surprisingly catchy and delightful, and based on a true story. Riley’s father, Captain Rueben Riley, took in a nine year old orphan girl, who helped his wife with housework and her four children in return for her room and board. After the supper dishes were cleared away, she told the children ghost stories, and inspired this poem, which is the perfect fit for Halloween:

Little Orphant Annie
Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,
An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,
An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,
An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep;
An’ all us other children, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun
A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ‘at Annie tells about,
An’ the Gobble-uns ‘at gits you

Ef you

Don’t

Watch

Out!
Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn’t say his prayers,–
An’ when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an’ his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he wuzn’t there at all!
An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,
An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ ever’-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an’ roundabout:–
An’ the Gobble-uns ‘ll git you

Ef you

Don’t

Watch

Out!
An’ one time a little girl ‘ud allus laugh an’ grin,
An’ make fun of ever’ one, an’ all her blood-an’-kin;
An’ wunst, when they was “company,” an’ ole folks wuz there,
She mocked ’em an’ shocked ’em, an’ said she didn’t care!
An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,
An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ‘fore she knowed what she’s about!
An’ the Gobble-uns ‘ll git you

Ef you

Don’t
Watch

Out!
An’ little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An’ the lamp-wick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,
An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away,–
You better mind yer parunts, an’ yer teachurs fond an’ dear,
An’ churish them ‘at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear,
An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ‘at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns ‘ll git you

Ef you

Don’t

Watch

Out!

 

 

In Pittsburgh

On Friday afternoon I sat with my harp in a small second floor chapel in a former orphanage that has become a personal care, skilled nursing, and hospice home. The chapel is serene, scented with a hundred years of beeswax. There are honey colored wooden floors. Light streams through windows that overlook a beautiful courtyard.

I was there to play for a memorial service for the residents who have died at Canterbury Place during the past year. The service was woven together with prayers from the Anglican, Catholic, and Jewish traditions, to reflect the dominant faith traditions of the people who live and die there. Candles were lit. Stones were placed. Lilies were given.

Pittsburgh was once called the City of Churches. In every neighborhood, churches and chapels and synagogues stand. The faith of the men and women who built this city is written in stone and glass, rooted in faith and reaching for the heavens.

Pittsburgh was born out of fire and water. A city of three rivers, where the Allegheny and Monongahela meet to form the Ohio, the site initially offered settlers smooth transport for glass, born in fire and shipped down river. Later, the white hot transformation of iron ore into steel heated the economy to a fever pitch and created a massive demand for men to work the mills. Immigrants from Eastern Europe streamed into the city. Economic migrants, these men and women brought with them their traditions, their faith, and the hope that this new world would offer them a better life. In this new world, they gathered together to celebrate their faith.

The very first Jewish congregation in Pittsburgh was the Tree of Life Synagogue.

On Saturday morning I sat in the cavernous basement of a massive Presbyterian Cathedral while my daughter danced in a studio above. The church is located in the heart of a struggling and rapidly gentrifying neighborhood, and offers a vibrant array of arts programs in music, dance, and theater to the wider community. Slowly the news passed through the large and echoing room, in whispers. An active shooter, a synagogue in Squirrel Hill, a mile away. Four dead, and they haven’t caught him yet. It was like a game of telephone but with nothing lost, every detail distinct. You watched the person at the next table freeze in horror at the whispered truth.

A child at the next table said “Many of my friends are Jewish and they live in Squirrel Hill and go to synagogue there. What will happen to them?”

Later, walking out into the cold rain with my eight year old daughter, I’m searching for the words to answer her questions. Is this really happening? Is this happening here?

When I was young I wanted to save the world. I tried to imagine my role on the world stage, what it would contain. I wondered how I would possibly develop a philosophy brilliant enough to change the whole world. The older I get the more that I realize how much humble my role is. So much of the work I have been given is simply to serve my family, and the people that I encounter in my daily life. To wash diapers and wash the feet of an elderly woman. To visit the lonely. To offer the widow and the orphan a space in my own home. To protect the innocence of my children in the face of the darkness in the world, and to nurture the light of their faith.

I have had the privilege to work with people who are close to death. To teach classes and play music for people facing their final years with dignity and grace. I have sung at a deathbed while holding a newborn child. I have entered a room just as a soul was leaving it. The more time I spend with those who are dying the more confidant I am in the truth that the dead are not gone, but remain in communion with us.

It is not death of the body that we should fear, it is despair. Despair that causes us to live in darkness, to lash out in darkness, to unleash evil into the world.

We are called to believe in the grace of God in the face of suffering. To trust in the grace of God in the face of horror. To preserve the life of grace within the soul, and with that still small light to light the world around us. To root our lives in faith.

On Saturday night the people of Pittsburgh spilled into the streets for a candlelit vigil around the Tree of Life synagogue to gather together and light the darkness.

In Pittsburgh there are candles. There are lilies. There are stones.

In Pittsburgh there is mourning.

In Pittsburgh there is faith.

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Out of Dormancy

Today is the birthday of my sister Mary. Last week, she wove a crown of flowers for me to wear on her farm on Wildflower Ridge.

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My sister is a flower farmer and a shepherdess. She tends the land. She sows beauty. Eight years ago, she planted the idea of this blog. She believed that the story of four sisters who grew up together in a big white farmhouse in the Driftless hills of Southwestern Wisconsin dreaming of a greater world and venturing forth in it was something worth writing about. She believed that people would want to read about life in the big city of Pittsburgh PA, trips to Paris, mud on the farm, running and baking bread and heading off to college and wearing babies in city streets and farmers fields.

She was right but all that living of life was fairly time consuming and for almost four years this blog fell by the wayside while the adventures continued.

In the time since I’ve last written, I released an album with my husband.

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We’ve toured across the East Coast, South, and Midwest, including two tours with a newborn this summer after our fourth child was born. We’re currently recording a Christmas carol which will be released next month.

Mary was married to our sister-in-law Aurora’s brother Austin on a rainy windswept day in May.

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Since then they have had the most beautiful baby AND moved to one of the most beautiful farms on God’s green earth, complete with sheep, goats, horses, wildflowers, and Great Pyrenees.

Colleen continues to love running, and was married to the tall, handsome young accounting major she met in college.

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Their son Finn just turned two years old.

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Clare, youngest of four sisters and nine children, had a spectacular semester abroad in Rome and is a senior in college, and the Student Government President of the University of Dallas. This comes as no surprise to any of her elder siblings who noticed early on her desire to run the whole wide world.

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Our (now double) sister in law Aurora is now the mother of eight gorgeous children, and has simultaneously been breeding extraordinary horses at Devils Hole Ranch.

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If you look closely at that last photo you’ll notice that it was taken by Nicole Elizabeth Photography, which brings me to our second sister in law, Nicole, who in the years since the blog went dormant has become a famous photographer. We’re both very proud to be related to her and grateful for all the photos, which include every single one in this post except for Mary’s wedding picture.

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What with all the weddings and music and world travel and babies we’ve been busy but lately I’ve found myself with many things to say, and I do believe this is the place to say some of them.

So hello again! And happy birthday to my beautiful sister Mary, who plants flowers and blogs and creates beauty in this world. Here’s a link to a birthday post I wrote to her seven years ago today. I’m so happy we made it to the present day, flower crowns and all.

Easter in Paris

By Mary

Last October my friend Havilah called to announce not only that I was to be the godmother of her child, but also that I was to come to Paris to where she and her family live to visit and attend the baptism. In response to her invitation/command (you have to know Havilah to know exactly how direct she is, and how she makes things happen-big time!), I said I would think about it which proceeded in such a manner that I thought about it, got excited about the concept, then completely forgot about all travel plans before revisiting the option and putting it into my prayer intentions and just letting the trip form as it should. Nor only did the trip manifest, but it turned out to be a trip of exceptional blessings that was filled to the brim with good humor, wonderful company, amazing food, and more importantly than amazing food, amazing cheap wonderful wine.There was also beautiful sights especially when seeing the heart of Paris with my friends, and than the sea when my French friend Morgane took me on a ride alongside the English Channel as a special surprise on a rainy spring morning.

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During the few days in Paris I saw many sights.

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Some reminded me of home like the bucket filled with sauerkraut at the farmers market…

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The piles of fresh vegetables…

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And the pasture full of horses that Morgane took me to visit.

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Other sights were totally distinct and bore no resemblance to home.

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After seeing some of Paris and the surrounding countryside, it was time for the baptism of my Godson, baby Gabriel.

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And his big brother Anton.

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The baptism was a long formal affair followed by another long formal affair- a 7 course meal with an abundance of amazing food.

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Despite all the wonders of the day by the end of the night I was starting to think about home and by Tuesday I was happy to depart back to Wisconsin via a long flight back that took us to Helsinki Finland overnight, then to Rome, then Chicago and finally Madison. All in all, it was a wonderful adventure. Upon getting back I had many people ask me about my trip which made me reflect about what stood out to me the most during my eight days away. What I realized was that the very best part of the trip had nothing to do with the majestic atmosphere that France is so elegantly shrouded in. Far more wonderful than any sights I saw or wonderful food I consumed was the time I got to spend with those that I shared the trip with.

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The laughter and the memories shared were epic and for that simple fact I am grateful.

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Resolution

By Kate

Today is New Year’s Eve. Last year on this day, for the first time in a long time, I sat down with a notebook and a pen and wrote out resolutions in longhand script. One of them was to make music with my family. When I met my husband, music was a constant part of our courtship. I played the harp for him in a courtyard with blossoms falling down. He built a guitar and carved my name into it. Then, we got married and had three children and began to build a life and a home together. Our music fell by the wayside. He stopped playing entirely, and I played less and less.

I didn’t know what playing music as a family would mean. Piano lessons for the kids? A Von Trapp scenario of some sort? For a long time, nothing happened. Then, on a Saturday morning in the late summer, in the middle of the kitchen, I asked my husband if he wanted to play music with me. I’d never done that. We’d never done that! In the entire time we knew each other, we’d played for each other occasionally, but never once played together. As a classically trained musician, I’ve always had a horror of jam sessions. But that morning, that is what we did. We were sitting in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by coffee and newspapers and goldfish, with the baby climbing on my instrument and the big kids watching cartoons in the living room. We started to play, and it was amazing.

I didn’t expect our musical instruments and styles to fit together so perfectly. When love is new, everything seems to join and shimmer. Time brings out the rough edges and discord. But the music we made together? Not only did it flow, it was beautiful. It was compelling. It was different than everything either of us had heard before. We realized we had to pursue it. Suddenly, I wasn’t just playing music with my family- I was working on an amazing album with my talented husband.

That morning, we began a journey that has already taken us in unexpected directions. We turned the attic room into a simple studio space. We’ve been swept upon a historical journey, traveling through the centuries in our own neighborhood, which is rich in history dating back to the Civil War. It’s been a great adventure, and not just because we still have a baby at our feet and two other children building forts in the next room.

My New Year’s resolution has turned into a voyage to explore the resolution of so many others. The resolution of a young immigrant mother with her baby in her arms, crossing the stormy sea. The resolution of a farm boy turned Civil War Soldier. And the resolution of married couples who fall in love and then, after the fireworks and the fairytale wedding, grapple with the grit and the pain and the beauty and the grace of building a real life, and all that entails.

This New Years, on the Eve of 2016, we’re working on our first album, Ballads and Battles, featuring songs of civil and marital strife. We hope to release the album this spring. If you’re interested, you can sign up for our mailing list here and see our brand new website here. We believe that the album will be a good one, and we look forward to sharing it with you.

What is your resolution for 2016?

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Re: Letting Go

By: Clare

I never write blog posts. I have sworn off blog posts for the rest of my life. And yet here I am, writing this, and there you are, reading this, and somewhere 3 sisters of mine are sitting behind a screen grinning gleefully because I promised “By: Clare” would never appear on the sweetridgesisters page again. But Kate was right, she has inspired me to do many things, including write a blog post, You got the oldest’s view, now you can have mine, which is valued at a higher price than Donald Trump.

All my life I’ve undergone The Interview. Meaning, I meet a person. Person learns I am the youngest child. Wait, I am the youngest of how many? Eyebrows shoot up. Eyes scrunch together. Then I hear The Question: “Sooo, do you like being the youngest?” My answer is always, “Well, there are pros and cons.” Then I give a soft chuckle and sprint walk away in the politest way possible.

It’s true, there are many, many pros and cons. But by far the biggest con has always been the niggling knowledge in the back of my head that whispered in my ear yearly and told me that I would always be left behind. And I was. The truth unfolded quietly and slyly; I never knew things were changing until it had already happened, like a rug being pulled out from under my feet.Six-year-old Clare discovered her siblings didn’t like playing Blind Man’s Bluff on the trampoline anymore.

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Eight-year-old Clare accepted the fact that her siblings would never agree to play tag again.

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Ten-year-old Clare saw Raph leave for college and knew the indoor games Raph directed would cease. At 14 her best friend/sister left, at 16 her worst enemy/brother. My siblings grew up so fast, and I was so eager to join them. I puffed up my chest and tripped over my feet to get there, but somehow always felt like I was lagging behind.

In a day I leave the cocoon of my home, where I have tracked my siblings’ adventures and dreamed up my own. In a day I will stand at the door and receive a final blessing and cross the threshold into adventure. It seems almost surreal, because I’ve seen it done so many times before, but always with me in the background. I thought I had my whole life planned, but I only just realized that goodbyes can be so hard, and the future can seem so vast, so mysterious, and so lonely.

Yes, there are perks to being the youngest, but there is always a gentle, yet unrelenting burden pressing on my shoulders. There are pages and pages of stories my siblings have written in our Slattery Book of Life, and mine has always and will always come last, just before the “The End.”  Everywhere I go, I leave a wreckage of red stamps that read “Finished.” Everything I do is carried on a wind of nostalgia and is narrated as “the end of an era.” Because of this, in some ways, it feels like I let down the family just by growing up.

My hands hold my childhood tightly tucked inside my heart. There you can find me sailing through the stormy seas of the English Channel on a trusty ship greatly resembling our hammock, or me carrying three antique schoolbooks down our dirt lane to a one-room schoolhouse greatly resembling our chicken shed, or me winning an Olympic gold medal after my killer serve was left unreturned by my Russian opponent, who greatly resembles the side of our white farmhouse.

For me, letting go means giving back. I want every other child to feel the innocence and love I was blessed with as a child. I want to dedicate my life to that cause and follow God blindly and humbly. I just have a lot of work to do on my way.

Like packing. Lots of packing.

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