She calls me Mary. My paternal grandmother’s name was Mary. She died young. Isn’t that always the case? Life seems to end before we’re done living it; but not with the ninety-something little angel that I’ve been taking care of. She can’t always remember me, but she calls me Mary just the same. Today she asked me what my name was. I told her my name, but she kept on repeating it incorrectly. I finally told her, “You call me Mary.” She looked up at me and smiled. She liked that. Her name is Martha, but I’ll call her Mary, because I’ve always been the Martha. How many times has the Lord told ... Read the Post