When I turn in at night, I no longer imagine I’ll rest easy for fighting the good fight. In my fitful sleep, I’ll grit my teeth and crack my molars instead.
It was a colonial style house with the staircase in the middle, separating the living room from the kitchen and dining room. I also remember the fist-sized hole in the sheetrock wall going up the stairs.
For the past several years, the annual letter has ended with a phrase that balances emotions borne out of the concluding year's experiences with a gathering of hope and courage for the year to come: “Nothing but love”
