“Our job is to love others without stopping to inquire whether or not they’re worthy.”
~ Thomas Merton
A gift card to a local store is one of my favorite gifts to give and to receive. My boss gave me just such a gift for Christmas. Finally, on the first day of March, I used it. Giving me a gift card to a bookstore is, however, like condemning me to one hundred years of debt. Books are an illness for me. I can’t buy just one when there are so many worthy books in need of a good home, my home, where they’ll be loved and cherished, their words consumed like a fine wine. I made a promise to myself going in: other things are more important than the 50 books I’ll want to buy. Wally needs his fence. Wally needs his fence. Wally needs his fence. Repeat. It worked. I bought only two books. House Made of Dawn by N. Scott Momaday. For the life of me, I can’t remember who told me this was their most powerful read. I thank you in advance, whomever you were, and apologize that my menopause brain remembers your words but not your voice. I also picked up Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs. I just heard about it this morning while reading Messy Nessy. The article includes a seven minute film on how the author went to Europe looking for abandon mansions that might look like the children’s home. When I got to the checkout counter, the clerk raved about the book. Now, on this foggy, cold Kentucky night, I think I’ll settle in for a good read, thankful I have a boss that likes me enough to give me such an awesome gift.