Guest post by Rebecca Jones The Elephant House When my son Julien was fifteen months old—able to put a puzzle together but not a sentence—we went to a small zoo near the town in France where we lived. His older sisters Eowyn (who was 4) and Stasie (who was 3) ran a little ahead, while I came along behind, carrying Julien in a backpack. “Mommy!” called Eowyn, in deep distress. “The elephant’s gone!” But the zookeeper happened to be standing nearby and explained that it was beginning to rain, so the elephant was back in his house. He offered to take us in! He opened a rusty door with an enormous key and we stepped into the blackest, smelliest hut I have ever seen. In a cage to our right, a screaming monkey was careening around his cage. Before our eyes could become accustomed to the dark, I felt a strange tickle around my ear. Reaching up to brush away a fly, I touched the wrinkled, dry skin of the elephant’s trunk! Concerned with Stasie’s reaction (s
A pessimist's pursuit of joy