thanks, i think.
there's a hip old-ish man at church who talks very frequently about "my daughter lisa," with much fondness and nostalgia. he brings her up constantly. i feel bad for his other daughter, frankly. if there is another daughter. but regardless, lisa gets all the father-pride time.

yesterday, richard said to me, "you know, julia, you remind me a lot of my daughter lisa--"

i was momentarily overwhelmed by how highly he must think of me. anecdotes i'd heard over and over again flashed through my mind... "you know my daughter lisa, when she was your age back in the seventies..." "my daugher lisa was really involved with this young adult ministry stuff back in the seventies," "my daughter lisa..."

maybe i have the same kind of laugh. maybe i have the same spirit. maybe i keep eye contact during the course of a conversation like lisa. maybe she's always hopeful and wistful too. maybe we're both devastatingly witty.

maybe i make people happy the same way she does.

but then richard finished his sentence: "--you know, she's stopped buying leather completely."

so much for making people happy.