Markings on the Windowsill: A Book About Grief That's Really About Hope
Eric was not yet two and was all boy. He loved adventure. He liked to try things out. And he had a pen. We had just moved into our new home. The freshly painted woodwork around the dining room windows looked like a great canvas to this budding artist. He let his creative juices flow. I stood there that evening looking at the marks all over the windowsill. They were drawn with authority, etched deeply into the wood. They couldn't be washed off. I was less than pleased. Four months later I was standing in front of that same window, looking at those same markings. This time there was no anger. . . Those same markings had gone from being a blemish to being priceless.