I was reading the memoir, A Stolen Life. I kept putting it down and then picking it up and saying how hard it was to read, and my husband asked, “Why do you then? Why do you read such sad stories?”

I didn’t know the answer until I was standing on the moonlit floor of the bathroom, sleepless again, and I saw myself as a little girl standing and watching people–this little homeschooled girl in her second-hand clothes and bowl-cut hair, watching the world–trying to understand how it keeps going. Keeps spinning. Trying to discover the secret to its endurance and faith….

(My dear friend, Shelly Miller, is hosting me today over at her beautiful place; join me HERE?)