I’ve climbed staircases in my life, literal ones.  The one in my childhood home that stopped on a landing at the front door of our bi-level and then up to the living room.  The one in our farmhouse apartment, curved and with gaps in the wooden steps where crickets would get stuck in the summertime and “serenade” us at night.  Our first house which had 2.  One set was short with carpet, the other without risers, so Colin could hang his feet through.  Our house in Landisville which had crazy steep steps that we carried and soothed all 3 of our children up and down.  The one we carried countless pieces of drywall up as we flipped that house.  And finally our staircase here at our current home- the one that echoes with kids and teenagers running and rushing up and down.  The one with a weird crick that you avoid if everyone’s finally asleep.  

As I consider the literal staircases I’ve traveled, I can’t help but consider the figurative ones as well.  I’ve climbed a few and reached the top.  I’ve started many realizing halfway up that on my own isn’t going to work, I’m going to need to use the handrail.  Sometimes crawled to the top using both handrails.  I’ve slipped down a few.  Gotten tired of climbing and taken a seat.  Run up and back down a few.  

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