ChirpyQuill

                                                                              Walking along the wet shore, I saw fine lines in the sand— delicate borders, as if a canvas had been stretched, waiting to be painted. A few steps further, footprints emerged—large, small, even seagulls had left their mark, scattered all over wet sand. Further still, I watched the waves arrive and retreat, softly erasing some lines, etching new ones in their place. I paused. "Hats off to the wet sand," I thought. What strength it must take to receive every impression— and still remain soft. My heart filled with gratitude. One moment, I marveled at the beauty of those lines. The next, I searched for them— gone without warning. Life, too, is like wet sand: nothing is permanent. Waves come and go, ...

"Papa, can I have a hug?" The question came from a small, ten-year-old voice. I looked down to see my daughter’s face, a storm cloud of frustration with tears welling in her eyes. I smiled, opened my arms, and pulled her into an embrace. As I held her, I could feel the tension in her small frame melt away. When she pulled back, the storm had passed, replaced by a bright, beaming smile that erased every trace of her anger and sadness. That was my first profound lesson in the power of a simple hug. Now, she is a young woman, and though the reasons for her tears have changed, she still seeks out that same quiet comfort in my arms from time to time. Years later, the roles were reversed, and it was I who was shattered. The day I lost my job, a first in my career, I walked home in a daze of uncertainty and fear. My son, then fifteen, found me. "Dad? You're home early." The simple question broke through my composure. Taking a shaky breath, I told him the truth. "I...