One day in the fall, I was having dinner with my Auntie Jane, in the hospice. We weren’t sitting where we normally did, and she didn’t like the new spot – she could see bare-branched trees out the window, and didn’t want to think about winter.
I told her that I don’t believe that when we die, we are erased – that something continues. That the trees would have leaves in the spring, and we didn’t know what her spring would look like.
Spring comes in fits and starts in southern
In God, all things are made new.