One of the games we used to play at recess was called Hot Potato. The idea was to get your hands on the ball, but only long enough to pass it to someone else. Hanging on to it was risky, because whoever was left holding it was out. I can't exactly remember how the round stopped. Maybe it was the end of the song like in musical chairs. 

This week I made two baby quilts for a friend to give to her twin grandbabies. She lives in cattle country so the fabrics are vintage scenes of cowboys and girls, and boots. The backs are a brown flannel print of horses. I am pretty pleased with the labels. One is a pointy toed boot and the other is a mare with her mane blowing. 

It is great to have my hands on the cloth, and to decide how many borders. But if I hung on to them, the babies would lose. So would their grandma. So would I. 

I have a friend who is savvy with homeopathy. Two weeks ago I stopped by for a remedy to give to Benjamin. It is a long term plan, with tiny white pills morning and evening from now until Easter. The part I like is that this man enjoys using his knowledge for others. He researches symptoms like clues to a hunt, and hands me plastic vials to take home. 

"Let me know how it goes," he calls as I drive away. 

The remedies live in a closet. A big one, or so he tells me. The expertise resides in his brain and in thick books, and on the internet. But if that wisdom stayed put, and the pills never left his closet, I would lose. Lots of his friends would too. Maybe even him. 

It is my belief that angels do not get the flu. Or anxiety, or autism. I asked him what he sees himself doing in the afterlife with all his experience. 

"I think most people arrive at the pearly gates with some hurts that need healing. Maybe that is where I fit in."

Having seen his smiling face at the door more than once I can get behind that idea. Plus I am extraordinarily grateful that he is determined to keep the ball moving.