The tomatoes are shriveled red orbs that roll and bounce against their green plastic cage when I pull them from the back corner of the refrigerator. I'd had high hopes for those tomatoes back when they were fat and wrinkle-free.
Those are tossed. But the yogurt and butter, cranberry juice, cream cheese and milk go in a bag for Lindsey and Tyson. I remember being married only a month and still in college. Sometimes a handful of items makes the difference. I'll add the recyclable bottles, which they can trade for a few euros.
We've said our good-byes and hugged everyone we could snag. The rugs have been shaken out, the floor swept, the last of the dishes returned to the cupboards. Our suitcases are packed. There's nothing left to do but sleep, and rise, and walk across the street to the train station. One adventure gives way to another. Tomorrow night at this time we'll be sleeping in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower ... more or less.
A woman I know is dying of inoperable cancer. She's beautiful and young and filled with a bright love for Jesus. In this last week she's been on the phone with her friends--preparing them for what's to come, speaking her love, and asking for prayer for her husband and still unsaved mother. She's been planning her funeral, and visiting my dreams.
We eventually leave these places where we sojourn but a moment. We leave a mess behind us, or we sweep the dust of our tracks before closing the door.
And no one makes that choice for us.