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Stories. Novels. Books. I love them; I love how every one is unique unto itself, and yet every one of them is simply a different arrangement of the same 26 letters. Sometimes I think people are like that, too. There may be nothing new under the sun and every separate thing that happens to you has happened to someone else, but we’re all put together differently. In the end, no one is quite like you, or me, or that girl wearing pajamas in Walmart.

You and I, we are stories; separately, but also interwoven with everyone whose life touches ours, from the person you kiss goodnight to the stranger whose words move your soul.

I hope that at the end of my life I will be able to read my story; look back, connect the dots, and understand my part in the Author’s storyline. Until then, I do what I can. I watch for little stories in my days, I record, I look for meaning, and I love.

Here I speak of three things, permanent corners of my life: God, words, love; and often one more thing that may change and change again as the years go; my job. Here I try to find my voice and tune it to touch others. Here I look at my days and find in them, story.

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