I recall a conversation when I was thirty, in which the other woman referred to sixty as being old. We laughed. Such numbers felt far away as we dashed across the park after our runaways. Sixty was twice the longevity I had at the time, and the comment gives me pause now. Am I two fold as wise? Has my compassion doubled? 

 

My daughter pointed out to me that I am approaching a quarter of the age of this country. I was speechless. You could stack four of me on top of each other to reach back to the Revolution? Sixty has shrunk considerably since 1990, and the assertion that our national sagacity is but two square of my own meager storehouse is alarming. As if one can measure acumen. 

 

On Mother's Day my twins and I watched a video about the only set of identical quadruplets in England. We howled, and cried at the abundance of tenderness. The four girls were dangerously small when they were born, and yet in spite of all that.... they lived. Their mother said she needs to make their meals look the same on the plates or there will be discontent. She has the same curly hair, and tries to both protect them and yet give them room to grow. The girls are being studied to better understand their subtle differences. Researchers adore multiples. 

 

What travesties does God withhold us from, this oh so young nation? We claimed allegiance to Him back in Independence Hall in Philadelphia, fully believing He would shelter us from a tyrant king. 

 

In some respects we are all identical... in our hunger for liberty, desire for relationships. We stamp our feet in protest when life dishes out inequity.

 

Which it does.