A little over two weeks ago I sat at my parents' kitchen island and shared in their breakfast rituals. First mom and dad took turns with the Bible reading and the Daily Bread. Then they dug into their raisin bran and homemade yogurt as only an 88 and 92 year old can. Dad struggling to make the spoon meet his mouth and mom pouring milk from the same rose pitcher we used when I was a child.
Later that day, my brother and I drove our dad to the hospital. He'd had a rough week, and we suspected an infection. He wasn't moving well, he wasn't remembering well, and nobody was sleeping well at all.
Now dad lives in room One-Ten.
On Sunday mornings I take the foil off his plastic carton of milk.
And together, we read the Daily Bread.