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Miracles, by Nancy Chek

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Today I got that the only thing preventing miracles from flooding into my life at every moment is my commitment to being right—right about how sales is hard, or publishing has obstacles, or how this, that or the other thing is impossible. It takes my breath away to realize how much of a controlling interest I have in the corporation “This Can’t Happen.” I also own 51% of the company “That’s Nice for You,” which recently merged with the famous “Never Mind. I’m Fine.” I also got the inextricable link between miracles and integrity, meaning no integrity = no miracles.  I had been trying to get in touch with this woman, Tonya, for two weeks. I sent emails, I phoned (“This party’s voice-message system has not been activated”) —nothing. Today at a break during a meeting, the assignment on the break was to have a miracle. Called Tonya again—again, nothing. And I was committed to doing the assignment and having a miracle anyway, so I didn’t give up and just go have a cup of coffee...
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Hidden Worlds, Hidden Words by Jane Smith

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The island world of Haiti reeks of its culture, drips with sharing and community, at least to the casual observer riding in a van on the narrow, hilly streets.  On every corner, beside every wall, there are red, green, yellow umbrellas that shade the men and women who sell clothes, cooking utensils, hardware, shoes, art, drugs and whatever a group, a family, might need. Large numbers of dress shirts, golf shirts, women's blouses hang from the fences, along side flip flops and athletic shoes attached to boards. They barter among themselves, cook together, sit together, carry water together. From my window in the air conditioned van, community seems palpable. And yet. That group may not associate with the group right beside it, I'm told. There's an unwritten code of how business is done on the streets, in plain view. There is no electricity, no running water, so they carry ice to the group, chip it on the street and use it quickly in the heat...
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Guns, by Jane Smith

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My father killed himself with a perfectly legal handgun left over from his law enforcement days.  He kept it long after he retired, in the top drawer of a mahogany chest of drawers in our big hall, unloaded but right beside the ammunition. My brother and I knew not to touch it…not ever. Dad was troubled about his health, and the gun was handy and available that December morning. I don’t know if he would have used another method. I just know he didn’t.
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