These last few days my Instagram feed has been filled with pictures of pumpkins.
It is that time of year I suppose.
Tonight we caught up with the rest of the world, and the knives and candles came out at our house.
The barstools are empty now—and beds are filled—the front porch has more personality, and I just finished cleaning up the newspaper. Wiping the counter one last time stretched the edges of my lingering grin.
My fingers are still sticking slightly to the keyboard—remnants from the slop we scraped out.
And already the memories are finding their place on the shelves of my heart.
“Remember how scary mine was last year, dad?”
“I want mine to be a bunny…”
“Don’t we love the pumpkin seeds dad?”
“Should we throw them in the field again this year?”
What is it about these simple traditions that have such a loud echo through time?
This week I saw someone tweet a link to the most touching news story.
Perhaps you read it as well.
It was about a darling, balding little boy, who fought valiantly for life, but is expected to leave this temporary home in the next few weeks.
Over the last couple of days, the entire neighborhood rallied together to create magic in his last days.
Halloween, his birthday, and Christmas morning all came early on his street.
Neighbors, friends, and family celebrated each of the holidays—with all of their potent traditions–to ensure the boy and his family could hold on to these special memories together.
There is something about these simple traditions.
Something that has the power to draw people together, to draw them closer, to do much good.