The doctor took a deep breath before sharing the unwelcome news. “I’m afraid that if you want to save her vision in the one eye, she will have to have surgery.” I looked at my sweet little daughter, Trissa, sitting so bravely on the big white bed, and my heart ached. We had tried everything to avoid this, but to no avail.
More Personal Voice Features
My wife, Donna, had a women’s conference, and I was going to be watching the children. We had been busy with springtime, trying to get the garden planted, so she hadn’t had a chance to make bread. “That’s okay,” I said. “If there’s one thing I’m an expert at, it’s making bread.”
Our scoutmaster had dropped us off, leaving us alone for the five mile hike and campout at Buhla Lake. Butch, the senior patrol leader, had packed the food into our packs and told us not to look so we could be surprised at the marvelous meals he had planned. (Here is the second half of the story from last week entitled, Hiking Packs, Unevenly Distributed).