“Ben, I want to be a gardener.”
“A what?”
“A gardener. And I want you to teach me.”
“Oh,” said Ben, and chuckled.
And so it was.

At first I shadowed Ben, stood behind him and solemnly observed. The first thing I noticed was how little he spoke, how deliberately he moved, and how cumbersome he found it to communicate his thoughts to me. Giving me a task was a sacrifice to him. How could he forsake cradling each and every seed, nestling each one beneath the soil with his own wise fingers, fingers he trusted, fingers in accord with his thoughts.

     She sang softly as she cradled the small boy. Her voice could not be called beautiful by any stretch of the imagination. It broke on the high notes and all but disappeared on the low ones. Yet it had that quality of love, which cannot be artificially produced. She sang to the child, feeling his warm body against hers, and felt she was beautiful.

On June 10th, we are celebrating the first birthday of my little brother, James Theophilus Andrews. I am writing this to tell the story of his first year of life, and I hope no one will find it dull :) 

James was the fourth of my siblings to be delivered at home by my dad. It started with Matthew. The midwife couldn't get to our house in time, so Pa really had no choice. That was in Jacksonville, Florida. 

The sea is sad and gray, my friends,
It greets me with a tear;
Its mournful company it lends,
For nearly half a year.

Aboard this ship I stay, my friends,
Save for the days at dock;
How many hours on land depends:
I have to watch the clock.

The waves do sadly roll, my friends,
Each laps a lonely tongue;
The misty air – its raining wrends
A thousand songs, unsung.

Away from sea, below, my friends,
I learn about the ship,
And trace the power the engine sends;
I know which switch to flip.