Like letters which become sentences that grow into paragraphs, likewise our lives are written.
Our table of contents properly sorts the chapters of our lives, and provides them with subtitles. We dedicate our stories to someone for some reason... my family, my children, my third grade teacher Ms. Johnson for believing in me.
Every book begins in a different way... she was born, he died, they lived. Each chapter discloses who we are, why we are. She stood before us in a board room and passionately prodded us, saying, “We are advocates for kids.”
She opened her book and read an excerpt. “When I was a child, I lived with both parents in a suburban neighborhood. Most assumed the outer beauty of our home was a depiction of the beauty within. We knew otherwise. When my father divorced my mother she went into a depression. It was my soccer coach that noticed that everything wasn’t right. I am an advocate for kids who may not be reached because the lawn is mowed, the grass is green, and the house is pretty.”
That’s when I realized we all have stories... the people walking to work in the morning, the elderly woman reading riding the train, the man jogging, the single mother dropping off her children to school. We are all books waiting to be read.
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