Here she is — Bev!
She was off and running late Sunday morning but I can look forward to another visit in about two months when she comes again to see her mom.
I get most of my news online these days, because I can choose the stories that interest me and there aren’t three million commercials in between to put me off.
One of the stories this morning is of the Yazidi boy, 12 years old, reunited with his mother in Manitoba after the family had been captured by Isis morons and she had managed to escape to a refugee camp. She knew he was alive only when she saw pictures of him posted on Facebook, which is good for something, then … .
Anyway, there is footage of their reunion at the airport in Winnipeg, and her tears of joy sound like sad wailing, but nevertheless I can imagine how she feels at seeing her boy again and holding him in her arms.
When’s the last time you wept tears of joy?
I’ve occasionally done so when walking down the country road here, because of the plain beauty of the sky and the fields and the scent of the air. But other than that it was 12 years ago, when I learned about a dream Mom had had in the weeks before her death. Her cousin Bev had written it into the eulogy, which I looked over the day before the funeral we held in Margo.
Mom had dreamed she met God and he’d asked her what she’d like to do when she got to heaven. She told him she’d always wanted to be a dancer. He said, “Well, Mrs. Johnson, your legs are too short.” Something like that. Anyway, I laughed and cried at the same time.
Other times I’ve wept tears of joy are in dreams when I find my child who was lost, or once again see my grandfather who has been gone for many years now.
There are a lot of young birds on the sloughs these days. The other evening I counted 45 blue-winged teal in the water north of our driveway.