I must have been eleven when my father left on his desk a booklet called, Five Minutes With Jesus. Before walking to school with my brothers, I’d read the allocated page for the day, then prayed as was suggested.

And there it lay on the Frankfurt airport floor.

“It’s so beautiful!” Shouted my daughter looking at the wall of our living room.

Baptists keep traditions well. I grew up as one. So, every Thanksgiving for the last few years we kept these three: have turkey, celebrate my father’s birthday, and regret my husband didn’t have a flu shot.

Thanksgiving day, our home was two-cookies-and-a-glass-of-milk away from Christmas: nativity scenes dusted; fake fir tree tucked in its corner; yuletides playing; and pretend fireplace youtube-ing.

A sparkling conversation arose one morning due to a white-wool cardigan. Perfect in shape, size and cleanliness, yet undesired on this fall morning by this little girl.

When the crowds shouted their hosanna’s lifting Jesus up to the title of king, or emperor, Jesus finds a young donkey and sits on it to fulfil what was engraved in the prophesy of Zechariah 9:9 “… See, your king comes to you, righteous and victorious, lowly and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”

I’m not a cat person. Not even a dog one, to my kids’ disappointment. But I grew up on a farm where we had at least half a dozen of kitties at a time. These tailed ‘fluffies’ would often come and parade their ‘catch’ in front of us. On purpose, I know. They relished seeing me scream at the sight of an upside-down rodent.

I was only allowed to gently dust them, and then return each to its yellow ring imprinted on the white spot they belonged to for many years. I’d line them up with perfection, as if at a beauty pageant. Some took pride in their intricacy, while others in their simplicity.

My mom lost her mom when she was a teenager. On her birthday.