MARYHOUSE, SWEET SANCTUARY
I was sorting my pre-Christmas mail over the garbage can.
One to glance and dump,
two current bills to pay,
three catalogs,
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.
Well, it could not have been more surprising than P. in a P.T.
At first I thought it was a donation request. A poignant drawing of homeless women and children finding their way to Maryhouse in North Sacramento, a blighted section of town where I lived until I was nine.
I put the card on my kitchen counter, then was drawn back to look at it again. Over and over again. There it was:
A DONATION HAS BEEN MADE IN YOUR NAME TO MARYHOUSE.
Mark Twain said he could live on one compliment for a month. I am so pleased and grateful that I will keep this gift in a little corner of my heart for the rest of my life.
My cup runneth over.
Emie, our littlest French granddaughter, who has all that she needs: food, comfort, safety, and love. Every child deserves as much. Thank you, Maryhouse, for what you do.
Red Slipper Diary 
So no clue as to who made the donation??? I’ve always heard about Mary House and wasn’t sure where it was, etc. I’d love to do some volunteer work there–it’s a safe house for homeless women and children. Can’t think of a better cause, especially with the weather turning so cold.
Let’s go. If this Prednisone therapy doesn’t leave me just a bleached skull and a pile of blubbering fat that can’t navigate out of Sun City, I want to do that. Take some diapers, like you suggested. Maybe we can see other needs after we visit. We live in such abundance and comfort and some of God’s children are barely surviving.