Christmas

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas from my family and the big creepy snowman we built together (last year, haha!)

(Also, last years picture, but who cares! It’s the whole family by a Christmas tree what more can you ask for?!? 😜)

Some moments just have to be enjoyed in real time, not with phone in hand and today held many of those moments. My kid’s reactions to the simple gifts we gave them this year blew me away. They were genuinely ecstatic for new blankets, books and a cheap writing tablet. It made my heart so happy. I am so very blessed to have a family that is so naturally grateful for the small things in life. I hope they never change. 💗

Wishing you love, peace and the fullness of God’s joy this coming year! We are blessed to have you in our lives.

Love,

the Bergen’s

Faith · Running

I’m so Glad I Ran

I didn’t want to run.

It was the first day in three weeks that I had a morning free. There was nothing on my schedule: Just me and my laptop, working on a book that has taken me far too long to edit.

But there it was… my reminder that rings three times a week, encouraging me to run.

So I did. I ran even though I would’ve rather done almost anything else. Give me five baskets full of laundry and I would’ve rather washed and neatly folded them today. I will scrub toilets. I will wipe snotty noses. Just don’t make me run.

Now before you wonder what is wrong with me, you must understand that I usually look forward to running, especially in summer when I can leave the confines of my treadmill and breathe the fresh air. I love to race down our gravel roads and see the world around me. Often, I see birds, deer or squirrels. I once saw a coyote from a distance in the field. I see sunsets and sunrises. I see golden fields and tall stalks of corn in perfectly straight rows. On those days, I love my home. I love my country. I love running.

But this time, I hated it.

I hated the way my knees hurt when I started moving. The stale basement air. The loud motor of the treadmill and the boring white wall that I stare at for minute after long minute.

But I need to run. I know all to well the depression that awaits when I begin to skip days. Running is a discipline and although it’s good for my body, it’s so much more than that. It reminds me of the other things that we often neglect because it’s just “too hard”. Devotions. Marriage. Parenting. Health. Church. Housework. Friendships.

So, I ran. But instead of focusing on the drywall in front of me, I put on music and I ended up weeping as I ran to these precious words by Hillsong Young & Free:

FIRST LOVE

VERSE 1
This is all I want
That the love I have for You
Doesn’t fade along with youth
Can You help with that

The reason that I ask
I’ve seen far too many friends
Walk away and not come back
I want more than that

PRE-CHORUS 1
I won’t wash away
Like branches in rain
I’d rather be kindling in the light

CHORUS 1
Set me on fire like I’ve never known
I want to love You more as life goes on
So all of my days I’ll place
My first love first again

VERSE 2
This is all I pray
Over everything I ask
That my friends one day come back
Can You help with that

God I know You can
‘Cause the fire won’t mean a thing
If it ends right here with me
You want more than that

PRE-CHORUS 2
The river runs fast
But You wait at the banks
And pull us like driftwood from the wild

CHORUS 2
So set me on fire like I’ve never known
I want to love You more as life goes on
So all of my days I’ll place
My first love first again

Amen Jesus. “I want to love you more as life goes on.” Father, this is my hearts desire for your people.

I’m so glad I ran. But what’s more, I’m so glad it turned into worship.

Faith

Symbols of a Dying Faith

Sit with me a bit and mourn, will you? Dying doesn’t come easy.

I’m not, by default, a religious person. In fact, I would go so far to say that I hate meaningless rituals and religious services. They nauseate me. Yet much of my life, this is what I have perceived in the church and many of its followers.

Forgive me for being blunt. It’s one of my best and worst traits.

But just as I was ready to give up on it all – on religion – in my youth… there was Jesus. Out of the box, come as you are, a very real and uncontainable, Jesus.

Then there was church. Church felt shallow. Never quite fed the soul. Never quite understood what everyone was meeting for. To worship? Hmmm. If one hour a week does that. To fellowship? I guess. But why then, does everyone take off in such a hurry once the sermon is over? To feel righteous? Does a meeting take away sin?

But then, there was Jesus. Magnificent, wonderful Jesus. I met him, you know. Really met him. Not a voice in my head. Not words on a page. Real Jesus. I met him.

He was there that night, under the stars. He saw what those men did to me, though the alcohol made me forget.

He was there when I whispered the three words that would change my life: Jesus help me.

He was there as my son lay dying. Swollen. Glazed over eyes. Mouth as dry as the desert. He simply touched him and the doctors could not explain how the sick baby boy was restored. But I knew. Because I had already met the Healer.

He was there as the very people who brought me to him slandered me and rejected me, over and over without reason. He sat with me, not above me watching, but with me. Emmanuel, God with us, sat in the dust with me.

He’s been there as I’ve become invisible to everyone around me. Forgotten in the busyness of life. Every morning he was there. Speaking to me: “You are not alone.”

He was there when I lost my mind, over and over. When the panic took over and all reason was lost. Sheer panic and terror overtook me. Unexplainable. Yet, He was there all along, a constant peace: “Its okay. I’ve got this.”

But Jesus, where are you now?

The verse of the day doesn’t cut it. A short prayer before bed. Rhymes chanted before each meal. These aren’t you. These are symbols. Symbols of a dying faith.

Where are your people? They seem to have gone into hiding. I miss being with them.

Where are you? I’m searching everywhere, but you’re nowhere to be found.

Yet, because I’ve met you, I will not doubt. I will not be shaken. Those who haven’t, well, I can see why they leave the faith.

But as for me, I will remember you and wait.

Christmas · Creative Writing · Published

Another Published Piece

Two years back, I entered in a short story competition in our local city paper. I won the $75 prize (staggering amount, I know…)

So this year I thought, “Hey, why not try again!”

I wrote a short story, which ended up becoming a medium length story… a tad longer than I had anticipated but I couldn’t bear to shorten it. It was a fictional piece, which a first for me I might add. Today once again, I found my piece published in the paper. This year I didn’t win, but I was runner up. Nothing huge, I know, but it does put a smile on my face.

Here’s the story, for those of you interested:

Tobias’ Letter

It was mid-November and the first snowflakes of the season were falling in graceful swirls, melting as quickly as they hit the ground. Tobias Williams shivered as he walked past Mardee’s Marvelous Toy Shop on his way to school. Glancing through the window, he saw exactly what he had begun to dread every single year. There, through the glass, he could see the extravagant holiday display of toys and decorations that were being set up along the shelves and a familiar knot began to form in his stomach. Tobias turned and began to run as fast as he could toward the school, willing his legs to carry him far away from the innocent display that would torment him for the next few weeks.

Having just turned ten, Tobias enjoyed many things that the other boys his age did. He loved candy, model cars, video games and Lego building sets. He enjoyed new baseball gloves and ice skates. He even liked comic strips and hockey cards. But there was one thing, which every ten-year-old boy loves, that he simply dreaded each year.

Tobias hated Christmas.

Not that he had always hated it. Although now a distant memory, Tobias could recall a time when he too had written long wish lists and awoken early on Christmas Day to open up a stack of brightly wrapped presents. He remembered trekking out into the wilderness with his family to find that perfect tree and kneeling together in the snow as they all took turns with the saw until the evergreen finally fell to the ground with a soft thud.

He still smiled when he remembered his parents despair upon bringing it into the living room, discovering that their perfect tree was leaning slightly to the left and had needles missing in patches all over. The tree had caused quite a disaster in his house that year when it had tipped over as they were decorating. Ornaments came crashing down around them and his father had had to turn the tree so that it leaned against the wall for support. His mother had been so embarrassed about that tree, lamenting about it to all her friends that they should’ve just bought an artificial one.

But to Tobias it had been perfect.

When the evergreen had finally been re-decorated, with its stunning tinsel, lights, and candy canes; magnificently topped with a glittering angel, he had been sure that a more beautiful tree could not possibly be found. On those days, early in the morning before anyone else in the house was awake, Tobias had snuck ever so quietly into the living room to plug in its lights. There he sat, gazing at the tree, in awe of the magic of Christmas. Little had he known that the crooked Christmas tree would be his last.

The following year Tobias’s life changed forever. That first week of January, Tobias had been staying at a friend’s place for night while his parents were out of town. Around midnight the call had come: There had been a devastating accident.  His beloved mother had been killed instantly. His father was critically injured. The doctor had been clear: Mr. Williams desperately needed surgery if he ever wanted the ability to walk again. However, with the funeral costs and the care he had already received, the bills had mounted. Though many of their friends had reached out to help, without insurance coverage or family around, the boy and his father were forced to go on government assistance and try to survive without the much-needed surgery. At the tender age of seven, Tobias had been left motherless and felt in many ways responsible to care for his crippled father. He tried his best to help out with the daily household chores but, alas, there was only so much a small boy could do.

For two years in a row, he had poured out his heart in his annual letters to Santa, explaining about how since his Mama had died and his Dad was hurt, they just couldn’t afford the things they used to. He had explained that toys didn’t matter much to him anymore, but how he missed having a Christmas tree with its sparkling lights. He had told Santa that it didn’t need to be much, even a new pair of boots would be nice, as his had holes, leaving his feet cold and wet at the end of every recess.

And each Christmas, as the holidays had come and gone, all his friends returned to school with their lists answered. Some had brand new video games and iPads. Others had received large building sets and expensive RC cars. In fact, they had received every single item on their wish lists. And for the second year in a row, he had received nothing but a hand-me-down sweater and a pair of socks.

The truth had been painfully clear: Santa Claus simply didn’t care about poor children like Tobias. This year he wasn’t going to waste his time. He would NOT be writing a letter to Santa.

The next few weeks flew by. When Ms. Hannah Patterson announced the Christmas writing assignment to her classroom, the children got right to work making their elaborate letters to Santa. She had just settled into her seat and began to mark the ever-growing pile of papers on her desk, when, turning around she looked into the eyes of a young boy who was speaking so quietly she couldn’t make out his question.

“Can you repeat that please, Tobias?”

“Ms. Patterson,” the boy repeated a little louder, but still softly enough that she had to lean in to hear, “Would you mind if I would write to someone other than Santa?”

“What do you mean Tobias?”

“I mean, I don’t mind writing out my wishes, but can it be to someone else?”

Ms. Patterson smiled knowingly. Of course, the boy had probably found out the truth about old Saint Nicolas and felt foolish writing a note to a fairytale man.

She shrugged. “Sure, write a different name at the top if you like, but please make sure you still do the assignment.”

“Thank you, Ms. Patterson,” said the boy, the relief on his face evident. The teacher stared at the unkept boy for a moment thoughtfully, then shook her head and chuckled to herself before going back to her marking.

Later, long after the students had been dismissed, Hannah sat at her desk looking through the stack of letters her students had written. She had always loved giving the “Note to Santa” assignment. It was one that few kids complained about. What was not to love about listing off all your favorite toys and wishes to a lovable, gift-giving, old man?

Today, however, she scanned for a different letter. Tobias Williams was a quiet child and though she had heard a bit about his mother’s death a few years prior, she knew very little about the boy who rarely said a word in class. But his strange request earlier that day had caught her off guard and now, as she searched for his letter she found herself feeling rather sorry for the young lad.

Ah, yes. There it is. Hannah thought to herself as she began to read the carefully written child-like print:

Dear Jesus,

I don’t know if this letter will do any good, because my ones to Santa didn’t, but I thought I’d try anyways because I heard someone say that you were also poor so I figured that maybe you’d care. Also, I have to do this for school. And I’m NOT writing to Santa. My Mama died three years ago, but then, I suppose you already know that because she lives with you, right? Or is heaven made up too? I hope it’s real, because I miss her a lot. I even miss that tree she hated. Could you get me another tree like that? I’d even like it if it were crooked, with candy canes, and that sparkly angel. Also, could you help my Daddy? I sometimes hear him crying at night. I think he’d be happy if we had a special dinner, like Mama used to make. I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you could also make a way for my Daddy to get that surgery he’s been needing, that would mean more to me than anything else I could get. I just want things to be the way they were, when my mom was around and he could walk. I think that’s enough things to ask for. Thanks.

Sincerely, Tobias Williams

Hannah’s vision blurred as she finished the letter and thoughts began swirling in her mind. The tears kept coming as she gathered her things to go home for the evening, as she locked up her classroom and on her drive home. When she lay in bed that night, her mind could think of nothing else but Tobias’s letter.

By the next morning, Hannah had made up her mind and, reaching for her phone, she made three important calls. The first, to Tobias’ father, who tearfully listened to his son’s words, reluctantly giving his consent for her to share them. The second was to the local pastor, who after hearing the note, agreed wholeheartedly to help with her plan. As Hannah dialed the last number on her list, she breathed a silent prayer as the phone rang on the other end.”

“Hello, TCC News, how may I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Hannah Patterson. I’m an elementary teacher at the Stoneville Academy and I have I story that I think your station is going to want to hear…”

 

Tobias stirred and opened his eyes a crack as the morning light shone into his window. It was Christmas day. He exhaled slowly, painfully. Though he had waited all week, his letter had proven as useless as the ones to Santa. There was just no reason to hope anymore. Life would never be the same. He sadly turned over, pulling the blanket over his head and had just started drifting back to sleep when he thought he heard a funny sound. He lifted the blankets and listened. Muffled voices. A soft chuckle. A loud scraping noise.

What in the world was going on?

Slowly, cautiously, Tobias crept out of his bed and down the hall. He heard a voice hushing the others. More giggles. Coming around the corner, Tobias could hardly believe his eyes. There, in the middle of a living room full of smiling people and reporters with cameras, was the most beautiful – and slightly crooked Christmas tree he had ever seen. His gaze drifted to the base of the tree. Presents! He turned around, scanning the kitchen countertop which was usually bare. Now it was overflowing with Christmas food, homemade baking and delicious store-bought treats, enough to last for the rest of the month! Maybe even the month after. Finally, his gaze rested on his father’s smiling face in the middle of the room.

“Whaa..what’s all this for?” Tobias stammered in astonishment.

His father wheeled across the room and took Tobias into his arms. “Merry Christmas son! Wasn’t this your Christmas wish?”

The young boy stepped back and once again looked around at everything in disbelief.

“That’s not all,” his dad gently motioned to the large crowd of people who filled the small room, “The community has heard about your Christmas wish…” Mr. Williams swallowed hard and his eyes grew moist. “Tobias, they’re paying for the surgery.” Overcome with emotion, the man put his hand over his face and his shoulders shook with sobs. Tobias rushed into his father’s arms and a hush fell over the room as the pair wept together.

Finally pulling back, Tobias searched his father’s face for answers, “How could this be? I mean, how did they…” His voice faded out as Hannah Patterson stepped forward, and suddenly Tobias knew.

“You read my letter?” Tobias murmured, looking up at her through his tears.

Hannah’s eyes grew moist and she nodded, adding with a whisper, “But more importantly Tobias, Jesus heard your prayers.”

 

Authenticity · Blogging

Blogging Popularity

I was naive when I started blogging.

Early on, when I still was in the Facebook world, I got a lot of views. In fact, sometimes hundreds of views a day. I figured that starting off with such popularity was a sure ticket to my success. After all, my writing was still pretty rocky at first. I had a long way to go and a lot of improvements to make. Nevertheless, deep down, I truly believed one of my posts would one day go viral and I would have an easy path to becoming a famous writer.

Call me a quitter.

Call me a pessimist.

Call me impatient.

But I’m loosing all desire to blog for numbers.

In fact, new followers mean very little to me. Unless, of course, I get to know them through their blogs and comments. In that case, there’s nothing that delights me more than a person who actually reads and responds thoughtfully to my posts. I love reading the posts of these authors as they seem to have a depth that much of the blogging world is missing.

So the question is why, in a mostly positive community of writers, would I feel a lack of passion and drive to keep growing my readers?

I guess you can say I’m realizing a lot about WordPress. Somethings are good. Some are not so good.

Good, like for instance, I have never once had a negative comment on one of my posts. In fact, I believe every single comment on WordPress has been encouraging, uplifting and positive. It’s as if this world of blogging still believes in the magical words we used to all try to live by: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”

I definitely can’t say the same for the comments I got on Facebook.

But there are still some things that are frustrating to me. Am I wrong in noticing that the people with the most followers on WordPress aren’t the best writers? They are merely the writers with the most quantity? Multiple, mindless posts a day, just to gain more, more, and more followers.

As a lover of good writing, this saddens me.

There also seem to be far too many people who scroll down and follow everyone, just to gain more followers themselves. Who click “like” on every post without reading a single one. It makes me feel as if all my readers have hidden motivates, only reading and commenting to boost their own popularity.

It’s kind of a depressing thought. I don’t really want a part in that side of blogging. So the question is why am I still posting on WordPress?

Because I love writing.

I want to grow in my abilities.

I want to make connections through my writing.

I wish to receive feedback.

And I long to encourage others as well.

I’m not here to become famous. I’m just here to write.

Today, I needed to remind myself of this again. And I wonder if possibly, someone else out there needed the reminder too.

Faith · Forgiveness

Believers Need to Love the Church

There is a disturbing trend I’ve been noticing in those who claim to be Christians. It goes something like this:

I don’t go to church. Oh I love God. I especially love Jesus. But the church? It’s full of greedy hypocrites. They’re judgemental, they’re selfish, they do not follow what they preach. No, I can serve God better without them.

I’m not going to refute the statements above with my own thoughts. I think we sometimes get far too caught up in our own arguments.

Rather, I’m going to let the word of God speak into these lies…

“Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar. For whoever does not love their brother or sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen.” 1 John 4:20

You cannot hate Christians and claim to love God. You are fooling yourself. These aren’t my words, they’re God’s!

“Live as free people, but do not use your freedom as a cover-up for evil; live as God’s slaves. Show proper respect to everyone, love the family of believers, fear God, honor your leaders.” 1 Peter 2:17

Interesting that Peter addresses four behaviours that servants of Christ should follow. And the second one is to love the family of believers. Is this not enough proof that God is calling us to love the church?

Want to hear it from Jesus himself?

“A new commandment I give you, that you love one another, even as I have loved you, that you also love one another.” John 13:34

“This is my commandment, that you love one another just as I have loved you.” John 15:12

“This I command you, that you love one another.” John 15:17

You don’t think Jesus was serious? He repeated it over three times in one speech!! It wasn’t a suggestion. He didn’t say, “Oh, it would be rather nice if you could learn to love each other.”

He commanded it!

If we hate the church but claim to love God, we are fooling ourselves. We are liars.

These are some harsh words for those who can’t stand Christians, yet have the audacity to bear the name themselves.

Now you may be upset at me, for speaking this way. You may think that I just don’t understand the pain you have faced at the hands of believers.

That may be true.

I may not know the pain you faced.

But I most definitely know the pain I faced at their hands. I am not a stranger to the pain people in the church can cause.

A few years ago I was sent away from a church after being brutally wounded by many untrue words. Spoken by people who thought they knew how God saw me, people who claimed to have God’s sight into my heart. In reality, I was misunderstood when asking for help with my children while my husband led worship. I was called bitter, merely for expressing my complete loneliness in the church. I hadn’t accused anyone, rather asked. But I was first harassed, then eventually sent away.

To make matters worse, the pastor himself called up my best friends and told them not to meet with me. Instead of standing up for me, they obeyed.

If this wouldn’t crush one’s faith in the church, I don’t know what would.

But I think that’s our problem, isn’t it? We have placed too much faith in the church, expecting the church to be perfect, that we have completely forgotten who the church is: We are merely sinners in the process of being saved.

This calls for a lot of grace. It is in Christ alone that we are supposed to have faith.

I have never stepped foot back into the church that sent me away. But I would, if they welcomed me. For I have forgiven them. Because the funny thing about forgiveness is that I need a whole lot of it. If I’m not willing to give it out, who will be willing to give it out to me?

Yet, even though I haven’t been welcomed back into the church that sent me away, many other churches have opened their arms to my family. This has brought me so much love for the body of Christ. Yes there are some hurtful people in the church… But there’s also people who have brought so much healing into my life.

There are really amazing people in the church. They are not all hypocrites! Some would give their last crust of bread to feed someone else in need. I have met people who truly open up their homes to the homeless. I’ve met people who pray for strangers as they would for their own children. I have met people who would give their entire savings to help a brother in need, without blinking an eye.

This is the church!!

I’m glad I gave her another chance. I would not have healed from my experience if I have not tried again to meet with a body of believers.

Have you been hurt by a church? Forgive and don’t write off an entire group of people based on the actions of a few. In the world we would call that prejudice. Why do we think any differently in the church?

Christmas

Broken Angels

There were nine. Nine golden angels made of glass.

It all started when they caught Mother’s eye. A rare, impulse buy. All at once in that tiny moment, in that unknowing act, a progression of events was started that would eventually end in a yearly disaster.

The act of buying glass anything was foolish, she knew, for a household with not only one, but two babies. However it wasn’t that first year, nor the second, but the third when the tradition began. That third year, when there were three children.

Nevertheless a tradition was born – thee tradition was born – for every tradition must make its debut.

It was an innocent mistake, that first broken angel. A boy, a girl and a ball. One quick game of indoor catch was all it took. Of course, Mother saw it all before it actually happened, as most mother’s do. Wisdom. Foresight. Experience. Whatever it was, she called out her warning a second too late.

The inevitable crash of shattering glass. Immediate chaos, if only for a second. An overreaction of sorts. Yelling. Tiny stricken faces with regretful tears.

Finally, understanding dawns: it’s not that big a deal.

Voices soften, the room calms and Mother warns gently now: “Be careful, step away, that glass is sharp.”

Year four. Fast baby. Moving baby. Soft chubby hands grab for a sparkling figure, carelessly placed two branches too low. A single snap. A piercing scream. Mother holds baby close as little drops of red appear on the cherub’s hands. She cleans them carefully, silently. Kissing them, bandaging the wounds. Angel number two is momentarily forgotten.

When, and only when baby is safe in his crib, Mother cleans up the mess. She looks at the angel, broken in pieces and shakes her head. What a stupid move, such a thoughtless notion, to buy glass.

The fifth year, another child joins the picture. Four little children. But they can’t be blamed for broken angel number three. This one was on Daddy. Goofy Daddy. Careless Daddy. Daddy with his smiling eyes.

Mother yells again, “You careless bunch of hooligans! I only have six left!” but as she turns to get the vacuum, a smile tugs at her lips.

Three years, three angels.

Year six was quite different, for the angel broke itself. At least, that is what Mother claimed as she carefully and gently lifted the angelic piece to the tree. The halo, which held the string simply snapped and down, down, down fell the ornament as Mother gasped. The room is silent, except for the breaking angel. The shattering of glass now sounds like the chiming of a familiar childhood memory. Each piece holds its own pitch, and rings out its broken song: The sound of Christmas.

A snicker. A snort. The room hold no more tension. The family bursts into laughter. Four years in a row. One broken angel a year. No more, no less.

By the time year seven rolls around, the family of seven opens up the decoration box to find a fifth wingless angel. Had the box dropped? Had it been carelessly packed away? No one knows. But by now it’s a game. A silly little game. How will next year’s angel break?

Year eight doesn’t disappoint. Mom’s once again growing tired of the negligence. But still, she allows the laughter, pulling out the vacuum, the expression she wears is one resigned to the destiny of her fragile figures.

“I only have three left.”

The oldest child just giggles, “But Mooom, it has to break. It’s tradition!”

Year nine and ten fly by in a similar manner. There’s now eight broken angels. Never once was one shattered on purpose. But each year it happens just the same.

Finally, year eleven approaches. The Christmas tree is up. The five children are all older. Less careless.

Mama stares at that last glass angel. Something in her hopes it will break. Another part wishes it will last forever. But either way, she knows, the tradition will soon end. All traditions must have a finale. Either that or they slowly die out, forgotten forever.

A finale sounded much better.

But what? A slow smile spreads across her face.

A plan.

Christmas Day comes and the angel still holds tightly to the tree. Gently swaying there, beautifully. The family seems to momentarily forget their ridiculous ritual. Angel breaking.

They forget as they rip open boxes of paper; brightly colored paper that carpets the floor. Suddenly it happens. Mother brings out a box; a clear box with a string. To protect. To safeguard. A monument to last forever. This last angel will not break. It will be preserved.

Ooohs and Awws fill the room. The perfect finale. Mother takes the last angel and carefully places it within its cage, sticking it with care to the bottom. Savouring this precious moment, she turns to place the memory box on the tree.

A piece of discarded wrapping paper was all it took. Her foot slips, she stumbles, as if in slow motion. Her eyes grow wide as the treasure slips from her grasp. The angel and the box hang in the air. Mother hits the ground first, then all at once, it happens. As if the tradition has a mind of its own, the box hits the ground. The last angel shatters within its own shield.

First shock. And stunned silence. Impossible!

Then that magical moment. The outburst of howling, almost delirious laughter. Floor pounding, snorting and roaring type laughter. Tears rolling down each face, unable to breathe sort of laughter. Wave after wave it continues. The kind that erupts from deep inside and goes on until all sides are aching.

Finally, as all good times do, the moment ends. For the very last time, Mother cleans up. It is all as it was meant to be.

There were nine. Nine golden angels made of glass.

Now, there are memories.