Draft / memory + gratitude

One thing I can say without doubt: I was raised inside a village.

My mom took us everywhere — hospitals, nursing homes, neighbors’ houses, prayer meetings, casseroles delivered in Pyrex, errands for elderly relatives, hair-fixing for great aunts, check-ins on the lonely or sick.

People were always around. Always visiting. Always needing help. Always offering help.

Our home was porous — a place where someone recovering from surgery might stay for weeks, where an elderly man might live through the winters, where cousins stayed over, where friends dropped in without calling, where card games erupted around the kitchen table, where laughter and grief shared the same air.

I used to think every family lived this way. Now I know it was rare.

If I carry anything forward from my childhood, let it be this:

A home is not a fortress. It is a hearth.