Connected
![Image](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2SqmqMzulyRr7PiYjiklZe5Q_nI-Q_lf-BYMFLF2b3BSP21ShXySTHVOeXa3JSMMNJvHq5QESg5JR4mScqpgqxFdbSGVZGFewzqjcuwiyflNyAkSUMrP6R3am6Z_xZKffDA-nGA/s320/black-white-hands-140225.jpg)
Jude and I have a father and son activity that we have enjoyed since he was a toddler - fishing. Part of our fishing tradition is to eat breakfast at an old truck stop cafe on our way to the lake. It is a classic, western, cafe. We sat in the vinyl-backed chairs, ordered coffee, breakfast and talked about the fish we were going to catch. I took a moment to look around the cafe and began to notice the people around me. A young Hispanic woman was cutting the food for her five-year-old daughter. They sat together, and the mother had a tired look in her eyes, yet she looked at her daughter with pure love. Directly behind us was a family of 12 smiling, laughing, and pointing at the menu. One son wore a t-shirt from a local synagogue, and the other wore a Santa's hat. Next to our table a Native American family of 7 was talking. They had that graceful presence found in native people. One of their grandchildren was runn...