My memories of being a little girl are definitely hazy. I don't remember a lot and what I do remember makes me really sad. Anyway. I'm sitting at work (shh!) with a can of " Pasito " on my desk. For you UK readers, it's a fizzy drink. Supposedly tastes of passion fruit. Drinking it takes me back to being about 8 years old. Dad, Mom, Jay and I were living in a sort of trailer park thing - in a structure called a "Donga" which was like a house made out of a sort of shipping container. It felt a lot like a huge caravan, to be honest. We had a close-knit community - loads of white European guys married to Filipino women (go figure) each in our own little "dongas", so I think we were all pretty happy. A few Donga's down from ours lived an old guy. In my blurry memory, he was about 100 years old. In reality he was probably younger than I am right now typing this but bear with me, ok? He had an accent and at a guess it was maybe Polish? or Swed...
Father God, Thank you. Thank you for every blessing in my life. Please help me to see the small blessings and to always hope for the big ones. My life is in your hands. Amen xx