There are few places more dear than home after a long battle. We seek the excitement of the outer reaches and lands that have not been explored. We have been to Oz and back and agree with Dorothy that there is no place like home. In early days, I considered that home was a place to lay my head. Now it is a place to understand the thoughts in my head.

‘I am happy to be back from the hospital,’ Billy B said with a wide smile. ‘The ambulance driver told his partner that this kid is not going to make it,’ Billy B recounted. ‘Neva J told him not to say that, and Billy B was going to make it,’ Billy B assured. ‘I saw home in a new light when I returned,’ Billy B said quietly. ‘Chicken Soup tasted good with a glass of 7Up,’ Billy B laughed. ‘The nurses stuck me with so many needles that I felt like a pin cushion,’ Billy B laughed. ‘There were so many shots to give me that they stuck them in my hips,’ Billy B winked. ‘At first I was embarrassed, but there were so many over several days that I got used to it and the nurses did as well,’ Billy B noted. ‘A kind lady visited me one night and told me that I was going to be alright…I think it was my Guardian Angel,’ Billy B said with feeling.

We have a Story…we are a Story. The narrative of our life is known in Heaven. God reads it and smiles. There is work and bills to pay, and there is Life. Life is sweeter than honey from the rock. Summer is winding down, even though it has over a month to completion. There is an urgency in our steps. Something is coming. The Winds are blowing in something new. As we walk up the mountain, we can not see the summit. When we arrive, perhaps we will all be surprised. We begin our Story each morning with a clean sheet of paper. We write it as we go. Politic is a thin veneer. It covers what is real. Leaders have little to do with our Story. We own our Story. We are the authors and the final editors. What our grandchildren read is what we wrote. We must speak of home. Let us speak of a sense of place.

Those with troubled souls rage against the night. It is dark in their heart, and they assume it is dark in ours. There is a better life than acquiring wealth and power. There is the Story of the Journey. Why are we here, and where are we going? It is time for our part in the Theatrical Performance. The packed house awaits. The spotlight is on us. It is time to add a page to our Story.

We men are proficient in rhetoric. Women deal with reality. Men mimic the tropes of courage and power while women live them daily. Courage is seldom broadcast. Power comes from the quiet. Purpose comes from those amid the battle. ‘The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong…’