“Mom, what are you doing for supper?”  It is my oldest daughter on the phone.  Abby.


I look at the sweet potato cooking in the microwave.  I’m already in my pajamas.  It’s been a long day.  The air has turned cold.  It’s dark outside.  I want nothing more than to hunker down, eat my potato and go to bed.


“Nothing,” I lie.  We make quick arrangements to meet for dinner. I toss the cooked sweet potato into the fridge, pull my clothes and shoes back on.


Later, over a glass of wine and a slice of pizza, she related the day’s events.  A disgruntled client.  Angry, insulting words in a language she doesn’t understand.  She’s frustrated and disillusioned.  And hurt.


 I look across the table at my daughter.  She looks like me except she has her father’s eyes.  They are huge, green-gray and smoky.  When she was little, she would crunch them closed and her lashes would protrude like straight sticks.  Her soul is revealed through those eyes.


She has my sense of social consciousness.  She is determined to rid the world of injustices.  Demonstrations with Invisible Children.   A trip to India with Faceless International.  I am so proud of her I can burst. 


She purges her heart of its ills and as she talks, the venom is released and healing begins.  By the time dinner is over, she is refreshed. We window shop before leaving the mall, stopping to buy a Christmas candle- a symbol of the upcoming celebration of redemption, and renewal.  Like Abby’s heart.


How wonderful to not be sitting in my pajamas eating sweet potato.  How wonderful to share burdens and joys.  It is the difference between being alive and living.  Thank you, Abby.  My gift of hope.

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