Little Mister will be seven on Friday. Seven. It seems unfathomable that the years have passed so quickly since I first stared into his muddy blue eyes, which would soon turn the most beautiful shade of chocolate brown. Seven years since I first held him. Seven years since I first began to love him. At over four feet tall, he’s not so little anymore, but he will always be my baby, the youngest of our three. And he will always be the baby of his birth mom, the youngest of her three as well. He’s loved, well loved.
I think it’s safe to say that social media is good for a lot of things. For celebrations and lamentations. For rejoicing with those who rejoice and weeping with those who weep. For seeing our friend’s and family’s little ones grow up before our eyes. For learning about illnesses, job changes, new homes, vacations, deaths, weddings. For upholding each other in prayer. Life, in all it’s ups and downs and cycles of change. We can witness it all online now and what an amazing and beautiful thing that can be. Social media does so many things well.
I could never be a food blogger. First off, I don’t have the desire to perfect everything I make, at least not well enough to take photographs and lay out a step-by-step guide to making it amazing. I am more than happy to let other, much more talented folk do that for me. Then there is the simple fact that I just can’t picture myself saying things like, “naan is life” and actually meaning it, like I saw on a popular food blog recently. I mean, if naan is life, we have a serious problem, don’t we?! But I do appreciate a good recipe and I most definitely love to create.
The year was 1939 and the Kurc family was happy. The oldest son, Addy, was living in France and the others in Poland, but they were as close as family can be with five adult children, living separate lives. They kept in touch via letters and visits that had grown a little less frequent recently. Addy’s parents, Sol and Nechuma, were quite successful and had always encouraged the children to follow suit, wherever that may lead. But some events had shrouded their carefree enthusiasm in recent months and Nechuma’s letters to Addy had begun to hint at some growing trepidation. It began as nothing, really, at least nothing she could quite put a finger on; more of a feeling that life was not quite as safe as it once was.
I can’t say I’ve ever been comfortable in my own skin. Not because it’s pale and blemished, which it is, but because it’s covering me. My body. And when I look in the mirror I’ve never had a fully healthy view of the body that is staring back at me.