I have a friend that I spend time with almost every day. We drink coffee and talk about life. The big issues of life, like our identity, our spirituality, our families. We talk about the small issues, too.

Last night I learned that she and I have both invented sparkling, shimmering planets, the stories of which we have told to our children. Hers was made of glass while mine was made of gemstones. Is this a common thing? Do people imagine faceted planets?


She recounted the feeling she had more than 65 years ago, telling her stories to her little boy and girl.

She cried when she told me, and I understood.

Every night, I read to my children at bedtime. We would read the same books over and over and over so that I still have them memorized to this day.

I made up a story about an elephant that wanted to go to daycare, and my daughter begged me to tell it to her every single night… in the characters’ voices, of course.


Telling stories is important. Not for the information they contain. But for the sound of a voice. A voice that is speaking to you, unhurried, as you drift off to the realm of your dreams.

My mother read to me. She prayed with me, and those bedtimes taught me how to be calm and present for my kids. Once in a while, she would fall asleep in my room, her back against my bed. Those were good nights. My cat, Minnie on my bed… my brother in the bed next to mine, and my mom… present.

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