Tucked on the very top shelf of the closet in my room is a memory box. It’s filled with old pictures every letter I received while in seminary the small calendar I used when I dated my husband little pieces of my life that I want to preserve forever. Perhaps the most precious paper of all is a poem written in my mother’s magnificent cursive script. She used markers to pen the first and last stanza each line a different color. And in the corner she drew a small flower. She gave me that poem a few days after my little sister was born. That sister was the ninth of what would be a double-digit family. She was born prematurely and was in NICU for several weeks with my mother at her side.