Good morning, friend. I hope your weekend was swell. Today I thought I would tell you about my friend Norma. She lived across the street from me on that wide street that we both grew up on, a place filled with countless memories. I think she was about seventy-two years older than me. Norma was an interesting lady. She was a spinster with a picture of her beau on her mantle, a testament to a love that might have been, or perhaps just a cherished memory. She lived in the house she grew up in, buying it later from her parents. Norma is the one that told me about the fountain that used to be in the middle of the street—how grand that must have been—before the city bus and at the same time as the trolley. She came to the area with her family, her dad, the minister of Trinity Lutheran. When I knew her, I thought of her as old. I guess she was. She was always determined to ensure you did not park in front of her house. She wanted to leave room for her big boat of a car. Even if there was room for two, she would leave a note saying to be kind and not park there, leaving an ending with something like, “Jesus loves you,” which added a unique touch to her stern requests. Every year, she would knock on our door with eagerness for us to come over and see a flower that bloomed only on that particular night, a rare and beautiful sight she wanted to share with us. I can’t remember what the name of the flower was, but it was special to her, imbued with meaning and memories, and she took joy in sharing that moment with her neighbors. One time, she took my sister and me to something at her church, which felt both exciting and new. I remember that her friends were excited to meet us and praised her for sharing Jesus with us. It seemed to me that she didn’t think our mom was teaching us about Jesus the way they went on and on. Maybe that was just a child’s mind not understanding everything, but what I knew is that my mom did teach us about Jesus, whatever they were saying.

As always I’m glad you’re here.

Best,

Amy