Skip to content 
“People talk from what they’ve known,” he always said. “You answer from what you’ve been given”.
While that advice sounded beautiful within the safety of our home, it proved much more difficult to practice in the middle of a crowded school hallway. There were afternoons when I would come home carrying the weight of their comments like little pebbles hidden in my pockets—small, yet heavy enough to be a constant nuisance. Dad would often be in the kitchen, perhaps chopping onions for a pot of soup or ironing his collar in preparation for the Wednesday service, and he only needed to take a single look at my face to know exactly what had happened.
“Rough day, sweetheart?” he’d ask.
After I gave a silent nod, Dad would pull out a chair for me and instruct, “Tell me the whole thing, Claire”. He never rushed me through my pain. Resting his elbows on the table with his hands gently folded, he would listen intently before offering his wisdom: “Don’t let people turn your heart hard just because theirs is still learning”.
For illustrative purposes only