Aug 6, 2023-- "My father was 67 when he died, and that's too young, but lately, as I stare at some hard realities of aging and mortality, I begin to appreciate the fact that he didn't have to endure a long period of frailty, pain, and dependence. My father was himself to very the end, brilliant and good and a force of nature, the most important person in my world, and I miss him terribly even now. Maybe especially now. I find solace in these words from a poem my friend Naomi Shihab Nye wrote after the death of her own beloved father: 'There's a way not to be broken that takes brokenness to find it.'" This short post by Cynthia Carbone Ward touches on grief, gratitude and love. She shines a spotlight on, "Those Winter Sundays," Robert Hayden's unforgettable poem and poignant tribute to his own father. (3360 reads)
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I would say love is focused attention with benevolent intent.
J. Drew Lanham
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