My mom who is 80 years old is visiting us this week which is a blessing and an interruption. It has also made me think about storytelling because my mom has a hard time telling stories in a straight line. Instead her stories seem to twist like a ribbon getting into knots or sometimes a coil with a story inside a story somewhat like how the story about the women with a flow of blood is wrapped inside the story about the little girl who Jesus raised from the dead. Is it the story inside, the pearl, the one that is precious or is it the shell or is it both, somehow? Is the story about the hiding cat and how funny it was, later, when things are funny, because she had to call my Dad (that was when my Dad was able and healthy, that was long before that great decline and the vast silence) who at the time was a 1000 miles away to ask what to do, how to find the cat, how to prevent the horror and sadness if it wasn’t found or if it had been injured but it was fine and he just showed up when he was ready at the bottom of the stairs and that happened during the time that she came down to help us unpack into our house when the baby was just over one years old and not yet walking, and so maybe that is the story, but then he learned to walk proudly that day or a few days later about the 4th of July just stood up and walked like what was the big deal and everything was so joyful, the meat we grilled and got to eat on the holiday, the missing cat found, the baby walking with pride. Which one is the story? Are they all the miracle? And is now then all these years later that in a second seems yesterday really the miracle? We’re blessed indeed, all the down, into each coil of story, into each ribbon of thought and love.