Window Over The Sink

I was thinking this morning--today is Sunday, six days before you're reading this--that I am being silenced. Well, not me, actually, but my writing voice. I remember the early days of essays, when I wrote for the Peru Tribune , it wasn't always easy, but I could usually spill out a column in an hour. I didn't have--although I should have had--a proofreader, and I think sometimes Jeff Ward didn't edit what I sent in--and should have; he may have trusted me too much. Some of it

I was going to take this week off, because I didn't have it in me. Every school shooting, every senseless death of a child or staff member diminishes something in me as a mom and a nana, in who we are as a country. Although I believe in the power of prayer and the importance of hope, it gets harder every time. Every Single Time.