Priscilla

At first glance you might not think Priscilla is miracle, but she was for me. Priscilla, 86, lives in a house just outside of State College. She's a writer, the sisters told me as we knocked on the door of a house taken over by nondescript vines. We went to visit her, because our last appointment fell through. Priscilla is writing her life story, and as she let us in, and we weaved through boxes of books, papers and other stacks she explained that she'd been sorting . . . for ten years really. After chatting for a few minutes, she wanted to read us something that she'd been working on, her life story. And then despite all the clutter she pulled out neatly handwritten and rewritten pages that had been tucked away on a pile next to her. She read us her preface and excerpt about her mother. It was good, really good. I wanted her to keep reading.

It was then I had the thought that I could help her - offer to type up her life story, and selfishly I could keep reading. I had the feeling there was something I could learn from her. And there is.
Exchanging phone numbers, she looked down at my name LUND. "I knew a Lund once," she said, I smiled, most people have, but usually I don't know them, "Grant Lund." That's my father!

I was thrilled, so was she. She had taken an art class from my Dad and remembered one day how he stood up for her "mediocre art" told her not to sell herself short. She knew my mom as a young mother and primary president, and was my oldest brother's primary teacher and told me stories about him being Superman. She knew my family in ways that I didn't - and because she did, she could also help me see them in a way I've never seen them before. A gift, a miracle for me. Priscilla.