I am a maker of soup.  My daughter has been sick and steamy broth has flowed steadily by the cupful from my stovetop to her eucalyptus-infused room.  She has sipped it with her dry lips and it has warmed her chest, chasing the virus from her tight lungs.

The blessing of soup-making is in soul-warming. I hope that when my children are grown, they will also be soup-makers, the sorts of people who care for one another.  I also hope that when I am only a memory (hopefully a relatively good one), that they will have the love of other good soup-makers.



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