I have recently read the journey of suffering of one blogger who had a miscarriage. With eloquence and tremendous sensibility, she describes the sadness, the fear and the sense of loss she felt throughout her ordeal. As I read her story, I cried. I cried for the child she never got to hold. For the thousands of women who, as I write, will not get to soothe a newborn's cry, or stroke their gentle cheeks. I cried for little bellies swollen from hunger, and shoeless feet bleeding from winter. And I cried for myself. When I was very young-we are going back to the prehistoric era now- I believed that, if I loved God with all my heart and lived for Him, my life would be spared from suffering. The reward for my shiny existence would translate in a life free of chronic illness, or "complicated" relationships, or whatever other ailment affects the human race. Ten years into my struggle with digestive issues and beyond,...
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Michal and I have been in our townhouse for over a year now, and our d�cor is still a work in progress. After numerous trips to Home Sense, a hundred purchases and a hundred minus one returns, I am still looking. For what? For that perfect, flawless "thing" that will accentuate the square corners of my dining room table or the reflective surface of my mirrored dresser. That structure that will fill my empty nook underneath the small living room window. That artwork that will dress the airy grey walls in hues of warmth and summer-eternal summer. It is no secret in my circle that I am obsessed with all things sparkling. My eyes light up when light shatters into rainbow as it pierces through a crystal chandelier. I love the way diamonds explode with flames of color as the sun bursts through brilliant facets. My cheeks and my hands tremble at the caress of soft and furry blankets. And the pulse of all t...