Once Upon a Mom

When my three children were little, I loved to dress them in matching outfits and they were flipping adorable. From navy and red sailor suits for the boys and a navy and green sailor dress for Megs to Christmas sweatshirts to purple and orange striped shirts and purple shorts ... stinking, flipping adorable I tell you. I will admit that every now and again I may possibly have been a tiny bit obsessive about how well my children's clothing was coordinated. There was that one Easter I spent several hours dying shirts and socks for Matt and Brad so they would perfectly match Meghann's lavender dress ... yep, I made my sons wear lavender shirts with white shorts, lavender knee socks and black and white saddle oxford shoes. Gosh ... no wonder my children refuse to forgive me for the matching outfit years ... sorry, kiddos.

It generally starts to hit me on Friday afternoons around 3:00 ... that's when the weekend blues start to sweep over me, and by the time I leave the office and head to my car, I'm often blinking back tears as I anticipate another weekend spent at home alone with Julie and Ollie. Don't get me wrong, I love my faithful canine buddies with all my heart, but let's face it ... they aren't too great when it comes to carrying on a conversation. And before you send me a bunch of messages about my loneliness being a result of the empty-nest syndrome, that's not where it comes from. Oh, I miss my kids from time to time, every parent of grown children does. But I am thrilled that my children all have their own lives and are active, healthy, happy adults. My weekend loneliness comes from losing the social circle I was part of for more than 20 years when I told the truth about who I am. But every once in a while, a weekend comes along like this one ... a weekend that reminds me that the people who matter most in the world to me are always close in my heart.

Yesterday, I drove to my daughter and son-in-law's house, picked up Meghann and she, Oliver the wiener dog and I traveled to Joplin to visit our favorite running/walking shoes store. After we purchased new shoes (mine are completely awesome!), we had lunch in a super cool local burger and hot dog joint, stopped at a couple more stores to pick up some workout clothes and got lost trying to find the interstate to take us back to Meg's (totally my fault). I got home around 7 p.m. ... just in time to get a call from my granddaughter asking me to Skype. We talked for about an hour ... actually, she ran and jumped and squealed and chased the dogs, and Matt, Becca and I kind of just watched her. She was a wound-up little girl last night for sure, but when it came time to say goodbye, she ran to the computer and stuck her little face to the screen to kiss me as she said, "Bye, Ghee ... I love you!" Sweetest words ever ... sweetest words ever. I was tired when I climbed into bed around 10 p.m. last night, so I'm surprised I woke up when my phone rang at 1:30 a.m. Though I couldn't tell you what we talked about, I do remember that it was Brad calling as he drove home from a very long day of filming. In fact, I'm pretty sure I may have gone back to sleep while we were talking because when I woke up this morning, my phone was on my pillow. I love that my boy knows he can call me at any hour of the day, by the way ... I love that he calls me when he's so excited to tell me about his latest adventure that he can't wait until morning. 

This morning, Ollie and I went for a long walk, and as I stepped along in my awesome new shoes, I thought a lot about yesterday. It's always extra special when I'm blessed with a day that I get to interact with all three of my children ... that doesn't happen very often. And as I thought about each one of them ... as I thought about driving and shopping with Meghann, Skyping with Matt and drifting off to sleep as Brad chattered ... I acknowledged the goodness of yesterday and how very lucky I am to have children who love me. Children who love me still ... children who love me still.

Once upon a mom ... a mom named Terrie ... once upon a mom named Terrie who is abundantly blessed to have the greatest children in all the land. 

Really. Seriously. Love Thy Neighbor.

I'm well aware that many of you will laugh out loud as you utter the words "Yeah, right," when you read my next sentence. I don't have a lot to say tonight. My doctor changed the dosage on one of my meds a few days ago, and it always takes my body a while to adjust so I'm feeling a little on the puny side this evening. But I do have something on my heart that I need to write ... puny or not puny ... something I must write or I know my already aching head will simply explode.

Most of you know the significance of my Love Thy Neighbor shirt ... gosh, I never would have thought the words on a shirt could play such a huge part in my life. Most of you also know that over the last couple of weeks I've been reminded in a big way of the fragility and brevity of life with two of my friends losing members of their family. You don't know, however, that one of my friends at work is in intensive care tonight fighting a serious illness. You don't know that one of my close friends is dealing with the heartache of divorce or that another is feeling overwhelmed with the busyness of her life. And just as you don't know the things I or my friends are struggling with, I don't know what you or the ones you love are struggling with either. But I do know this ... we need to love each other, friends ... we need to love each other.

This afternoon I sat in a small circle of friends in my office as one of them gave us an update on the condition of our friend who is in ICU. Several of us blinked back tears as we listened, and all of us discussed how we could best help our friend's family. Poignant moments those were, but it was the silence that descended upon our little group ... it was in the silence that we all acknowledged the need to appreciate one another more, to be kinder to one another, to hug more often ... it was in the silence that we all understood that we need to love each other more. 

Life is so very short, friends, and not one of us is guaranteed a tomorrow. Really. Seriously. Love thy neighbor. Love thy family. Love thy friends. And make sure they know you love them ... really ... seriously ... love thy neighbor.

Holy Hooters!

So I have two friends ... actually, I hope I have more than two friends ... but I have two friends who have been friends with each other since they were in first grade. They are the kind of friends who can finish each other's sentences, who each know the other's favorite food, drink, color ... heck, they even know each other's favorite brand and flavor of toothpaste. These two gals have so much in common, I'd swear they must be twins that were separated at birth. There is, however, one huge difference between them ... one thing they are completely divided on ... owls. Yep, it's true ... my two friends almost come to blows at times over owls.

One friend has an infatuation with owls that borders on insanity. Everything in her house is owl-related, from her kitchen decor to the sheets on her bed to the soap in her shower. She is owl crazy ... like lock her up and throw away the key crazy over owls. The other friend, however, doesn't just not care much for owls, she is totally and completely, over-the-top terrified of owls, both real and pretend ones. She breaks out in a cold sweat and her cheeks turn bright red when she even hears the word "owl." So how is it they've remained friends for all these years? Simple ... their friendship means more to them than their differing views about owls, so they find a way to make it work. Though I don't see them ever sharing a room in the nursing home some day, I do know that their friendship will last as long as they live.

I've got something I need to get off my chest this evening ... I have a problem with hooters. Actually it's two hooters in particular that are causing my anguish ...yep, that's what I said ... two hooters are totally driving me crazy. I think about them when I'm awake, and I dream about them when I'm sleeping. They beckon to me late at night, and they taunt me first thing in the morning. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to get those two hooters out of my head. I don't remember when they first became such a daily distraction for me, but it sure feels like it's been a long, long time. I also don't know how many times I've tried to get a glimpse of the two hooters, but I do know I've tried to see them on multiple occasions. People keep telling me it will happen when I least expect it ... and tonight ... tonight, it happened. Tonight, I saw them in all their glory, and they were more beautiful than I ever dreamed they would be. In fact, I'm pretty sure my mouth dropped open as I stood gazing at the two gorgeous medium-sized hooters ... they were simply amazing.

I can't help but wonder as I sit on my couch typing ... how is it that something as beautiful as the two owls who live in the tree next to my bedroom window can also be so incredibly annoying? Those two owls hoot all night long. No. Really. They start hooting before the sun goes down, they hoot all night and they hoot long after the sun comes up. They hoot all the flipping, stinking time. And they don't hoot quietly either. The two owls hoot a lot, and they hoot loudly ... but they are stunningly beautiful as they perch regally in the tree. And tonight as I stood watching them, it struck me that it was almost as if they were standing guard ... watching over me somehow ... urging me to look past the noise they make and see their beauty instead. As I turned and began to walk away from the tree, tears filled my eyes as I whispered a prayer ... a prayer thanking God for the owls ... a prayer asking for forgiveness for hearing only the noise rather than the song.

There's a big old gigantic lesson in those two beautiful hooters, friends ... look closely and listen wisely. Oh, and to those of you who thought this post was going to be about boobs ... not in a million years!

Know Joe

A couple of months ago, I read something that touched my heart ... so much so that I saved it to read again ... so much so that I saved it because I wanted to be sure I read it again and again ... so much so that I emailed the person who wrote it and asked his permission to reprint it in my post tonight. 

"He was a young man, in his early 20s, I think. He was walking along the beach with a metal detector. 'What are you hoping to find?' I asked the tanned, slender figure with the sun-bleached blonde hair. 'Treasure,' he replied, 'I'm hoping to find buried treasure.' My eyes followed him as he slowly moved along the sand in search of the treasure he was certain lay beneath his feet. Buried treasure, I mused, closing my eyes as emotion tore through my heart like a fire-breathing dragon that threatened to destroy me. Only three weeks prior, I had carried the casket of my friend Michael and placed it atop his final resting place. Three days before, Michael committed suicide. The farewell note he placed on his bedside table was crumpled, worn and folded, causing me to wonder how long it had been in his possession. I went back to Michael's grave a couple of days ago, and I wept as I read the words that were inscribed on the stone that stood guarding over my friend.
 

'A true treasure lies buried here. Treasured son. Treasured friend. Rest in peace, beloved Michael.' 

Buried treasure, I mused once again, tears blurring my vision as I looked into the blue sky above me. 'Michael,' I whispered softly. 'I'm so sorry I never told you what a treasure you were.'" --- Silas W. 

Those words speak to me ... they spoke to me the first time I read them, and they speak to me still. Too many people for whom I care deeply have lost loved ones in recent days ... seeing their grief and feeling their pain has caused me once again to contemplate how fleeting and fragile life can truly be. And in that contemplation, I've decided to begin a new tradition here on The Tree House ... treasure sharing. 

I first met Joe at a quarterly meeting in our office, and I must confess that my first thought was, "Gosh, he's really tall." Granted, probably 90 percent of the people on the planet are taller than me, but Joe is a really tall guy. I must also confess that my next thought was, "His hair is even whiter than mine." Nothing superficial or shallow at all about me, eh? (And by the way, I can promise you that I've completely caught up with Joe in the white hair department.) Before you think me oblivious to anything other than Joe's height or hair color the first time I met him, let me assure you that it was his knowledge and quick wit that made the most lasting impression upon me that day. I had heard stories about how brilliant he was, but it wasn't until I heard him speak at the meeting that I was able to fully comprehend the scope of his wisdom. My interaction with Joe was limited since he was based in the Wichita office, but he was always kind and polite to me whenever I saw him. He retired a few years ago, and he now spends his time traveling the world with his lovely wife and being a grandpa. Well, traveling, being a grandpa and brewing what I've been told is just about the best darned beer on earth.

Joe is one of those "I kind of sort of knew him but not really" people in my life. You know what I mean ... I knew he was a great guy and that he was known in the advertising world as having one of the most creative minds of all time. I didn't know anything about his family or his life away from SHS, other than he liked music and had like a million CDs. I knew stuff about Joe, but I didn't know Joe ... until a little over a year ago. It was the day we released our video Ears Wide Open? ... I still have the message Joe sent me that day. To say that his words touched my soul would be a gigantic understatement ... I cried like a baby when I read them. He apologized for not having seen my sadness and asked me to promise to call him should I ever feel myself returning to the darkness that came so close to devouring me. And then he sent me a friend request on Facebook ... that's when I knew it was official ... that's when I knew we really were friends.

Over the last year, I've learned a lot about Joe that I never knew before. I've learned that he has a fantastic sense of humor and can write limericks that make me laugh like crazy. I've learned that he adores his wife and that his family means everything to him. I've learned that his brilliance goes far beyond the ad biz and that his heart is filled to overflowing with kindness and compassion for others. See, here's the thing ... Joe didn't have to reach out to me after he saw our video, but he did. He doesn't have to continue to encourage and support me, but he does. He doesn't have to read my often rambling writings filled with ellipses galore, but he does. He doesn't even have to like my Facebook statuses, but he does.

I'm so very thankful for your friendship, Joe ... knowing you makes me a better person. You're a true treasure, my friend ... a true treasure indeed.

There Comes a Point

Those of you who've been reading along with me for a while know I'm big on the lessons I learn as I journey through life ... lessons that come along in many different ways at many different times. And you also know that it often takes several times of being presented those lessons for me to really get what it is I'm supposed to learn. But then there are other times when a lesson is so real that I understand immediately just how powerful is the truth contained within it. Today was one of those times ... one of those times when the realness of the lesson was unmistakable.

I've known a lot of families in my lifetime that I would consider to have strong relationships, but today I spent time with a family who gives love and loyalty a whole new meaning. I met them for lunch ... there were 20 or so of them gathered around the two long tables at the restaurant. There were little kids and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and brothers and sisters and parents and husbands and wives, and they welcomed me in as part of their family. The group wasn't gathered for lunch today to celebrate a birthday or a wedding or a graduation, but rather to share a meal before they attended the funeral service for a much-loved member of their family. The young man they were honoring today was the son of two of the most wonderful people I've ever known. He was also a father, a brother, a nephew, an uncle and a cousin ... he was a man of joy and compassion, and he will be deeply missed by all who knew him. As I sat at the table with my dear friend and her family, I sensed the sadness within each of them ... I could see it in their eyes and feel it with every beat of their hearts. But there was something else at that table besides sadness today ... there was a bond of love between them like few I've ever seen.

Sitting on the pew in the chapel waiting for the service to begin, I looked at the large photo of my friends' son standing on a table at the front of the room. I watched as the pews began to fill with people, so many people that chairs were brought in and placed along the walls. I've said many times that we are family at the company I work for ... I blinked back tears as I saw two of the original founders of our company, a retired managing partner, members of the leadership team from our Kansas City office, current and former employees from the Wichita office as they all made their way into the chapel. I saw people I haven't seen for several years and people I see every day. I saw friends and co-workers of the young man who passed away and friends of his family. I listened as the minister spoke words of hope and comfort to those who are grieving, and the tears I had been fighting all day to contain flooded my eyes and coursed down my cheeks as the song "Daddy's Hands" echoed through the room.

Traveling back to Kansas City following the service, I was quiet and deep in thought as the miles rolled by. I was keenly aware of the lesson placed before me today ... the importance, the meaning, the depth, the absolute necessity to never forget it. You see, in the end, it doesn't matter how much money you make or whether or not you wear designer clothes or what kind of car you drive or where you work or how many important people you know. In the end, all that matters is what I saw around the table at lunch today. In the end, all that matters is what I witnessed in the chapel this afternoon. In the end, all that matters is that we love each other. In the end, all that matters is that we are there for each other ... whether the sun is shining brightly or the darkness is deeper than it's ever been.

There comes a point ... there comes a point when the lesson is so undeniably real ... so overwhelmingly powerful ... so incredibly true ... there comes a point when the lesson changes you forever, friends. There comes a point when you are forever changed.

Peas and Potatoes

One of my favorite vegetables is green peas ... yep, I totally love green peas. I don't eat them very often anymore because they are higher in carbs than many other veggies, but when I do I'm in green pea heaven. I'm not sure how old I was when I first heard my mom use the expression, "Just like two peas in a pod," but I do remember her saying it a lot. Mom used the words to describe anything that seemed to her to be the same, but most of the time when she said, "Just like two peas in a pod," Mom was referring to people rather than things. And more often than not, there was a hidden meaning reflected by Mom's tone of voice ... and that meaning wasn't usually a nice or positive one. Her "two peas in a pod" comment generally meant that the two people she was referring to weren't speaking, dressing or behaving in a way that met with Mom's approval. Mom sure was an opinionated gal, and we disagreed way more than we agreed. In fact, now that I think about it, Mom and I were as different as any two people could ever be ... we were never two peas in a pod, that's for sure.

Over the last couple of days, I've been blown away by the incredible response to my post about the passing of Fred Phelps. The number of views and comments and messages has continued to climb higher and higher, with the current number of views being four times that of my most read post of all time, Not One More Mile. As I've read through many of the notes I've received, it's made me think a lot about peas, pods and principles. No, seriously ... it's made me really contemplate and do a ton of deep thinking about the similarities and differences that exist within all of us. Some folks subscribe to certain beliefs or theologies or doctrines, but even within those groups of people, there are varying degrees of interpretation that lead to certain differences. Even among those who don't believe in the existence of God or a higher power or master of the universe, there are some who classify themselves as atheists, some as agnostics and some as secular humanists. And before you pepper me with messages defending your reason for believing whatever you believe or bashing me for believing what I believe ... I'm not debating and if you choose to do so regarding this post, you're completely missing my point this evening.

I remember the day I realized that Mom's statement about certain people being "just like two peas in a pod" had a very distinct flaw ... a flaw that took me years and years to notice. It was a summer afternoon when I was in my mid-20s. Mom and I were sitting on a porch at the back of her house, and we were shelling peas. Mom was talking about someone ... Mom was always talking about someone, by the way ... and she said, "I knew better than to trust that woman ... her and that other one are just like two peas in a pod. Ain't neither one of 'em can be trusted. Two peas in a pod, I tell ya." The moment the words came out of her mouth, I looked at all the peas in the bowl that was perched on my lap and saw that not one of the plethora of peas before me was exactly like any other one ... not a single solitary pea was just like any other single solitary pea. It was in that moment that I understood ... there are no two peas in a pod that are the same. Not one pod has two peas that are exactly alike ... not one.

There were a lot of peas in the bowl that day that looked similar to one another at first glance. It was when I took the time to study them as individual peas rather than a group of peas that I first began to understand the truth ... every single pea in the universe is different from every other pea in the universe. But when you put all those peas together and cook them with a little garlic and butter, it doesn't matter that there are differences between them ... they just taste flipping good. And if you take all those different peas and mix them into a big old bowl of mashed potatoes ... well ... suffice it to say that in my book, there ain't nothing on this earth that tastes any better than mashed potatoes and green peas all mixed in together. And you know something else? Green peas and potatoes are as different as night and day ... different tastes, different textures, different nutritional values ... but when you put them together, they combine to create something pretty darned wonderful.

Here's the thing ... I'm pretty sure the peas don't sit around in the pod and say to each other, "You're not as good of a pea as I am because you aren't perfectly round." And I'm equally as certain the mashed potatoes don't rise up in protest against the peas when they want to join them. And neither should we, friends ... neither should we. It's time we stop throwing stones and shooting fiery arrows at one another. It's time to become peas and potatoes ... each one different in our own way but so very good when we're mixed together. With butter. And garlic. And salt. And pepper. And cheese. And any other different ingredient that makes something good even better. 

Without Fred Phelps

I've lived in Kansas for 25 years, and though the standard Dorothy and Toto and yellow brick road comments still rank number one for those of us who reside here, second on the list of commentary I receive from folks who live in other states is the question, "So do you know Fred Phelps, that crazy preacher in Topeka? You ever met him?" That always struck me as ironic ... the two things Kansas seems to be most well-known for are a children's movie and a self-appointed preacher of a really small church, followed closely by sunflowers, which, in my opinion, are by far the best of those three things. No, seriously ... you haven't seen beauty until you've driven through western Kansas when there are miles and miles of fields displaying sunflowers in full bloom. Seriously. Beautiful. But I digress ... back to the point of my post this evening.

Sometimes it's difficult to believe that Fred Phelps didn't really become a public figure until a little over 15 years ago when he gathered together the members of his small church and staged a protest at the funeral of a young man named Matthew Shepard. For those of you who don't know who Matthew was, he was beaten, tied to a fence post and left to die in rural Wyoming allegedly because he was gay. It was the sign-wielding Fred Phelps and the people from the Westboro Baptist Church who protested at Matthew's funeral that caused old Fred to gain notoriety around the world as the preacher who hated homosexuals. And over the years, Fred somehow found a way to twist his already warped theology even more, directing his unique brand of hate and condemnation toward an ever-growing variety of people and organizations. 

I'm sure most of you have heard by now that Mr. Phelps passed away last night, and I'm sure many of you have also read, as I have, the enormous litany of commentary concerning his ex-communication from the very church he founded, speculative reasons for why he was booted out and calls to protest his funeral. But for all the words I've read over the last few days about Fred Phelps (and I've read a ton, trust me) it was a quote from Judy Shepard, Matthew's mother, republished from an interview she gave several years ago, that pierced the very depths of my soul. When she was asked for her thoughts about Mr. Phelps, she replied, "Oh, we love Freddy. If it wasn't for him, there would be no Matthew Shepard." Interesting insight from a mother about the man who stood holding signs of hate and condemnation on the day she was burying her son ... interesting insight indeed. But stop and think about it ... hundreds of young men and women, both straight and gay, are murdered every day. Fred Phelps and his decision to protest her son's funeral caused Matthew Shepard to never be forgotten. Sometimes I wonder if Fred ever wished he would have done it differently ... Dennis and Judy Shepard went on to create the Matthew Shepard Foundation, an organization that helps millions of people within the LGBT community throughout the world.  

As I've read and thought about the death of Mr. Phelps today, my heart has been with my dear friend Nate. Though he escaped from his father's reign of terror and hate many, many years ago, I know that the news of Fred's passing has stirred up a great deal of emotion for Nate and other members of his family who chose to separate themselves from Westboro Baptist Church and the teachings of Fred Phelps. I can't help but think again about the words of Judy Shepard, and in doing so I'm keenly aware of another truth ... without Fred Phelps, there would also be no Nate. It's easy for me to imagine a world without people who teach and preach and espouse the kind of hate that Mr. Phelps preached, but I can't begin to imagine a world without people like Nate ... people who are loving and kind and compassionate ... people who demonstrate courage and bravery to fight against hate ... people who refuse to give up until justice prevails.

So to you, my dear friend Nate ... my heart is with you tonight as you grieve the loss of your father. And to you, Fred ... I hope that wherever you are, you finally understand that in the end ... in the end, the most important thing is love.

I would do anything for love ...

Tonight's post is one that needs two disclaimers: 1) my apologies to my guy readers, my opening story is about childbirth, and 2) I highly recommend that my gal readers grab some tissues for what you'll see at the end of this post ... no scrolling ahead, by the way. 

Giving birth to a child ... or in my case, children ... is truly one of the most amazing times in a woman's life. Just ask any mom, and she'll tell you that even if she endured a 5-day labor and an incredibly difficult delivery, she'd do it all again in a heartbeat for the joy of being a mom. I was pretty lucky with my own three childbirth experiences ... no horrendously long labors or complicated deliveries and relatively quick recovery times. Well, wait ... there was Brad ... my middle kiddo who quite literally came bursting into the world a short 10 minutes after I arrived at the hospital. Bradley's quick appearance meant that the doctor wasn't even in the room for his birth ... nope, no doctor to ... ummm ... well ... ummm ... no doctor to help a momma out. In the days following my "we don't need a doctor here, Mom" son's grand entrance, I hurt ... I hurt a whole heck of a lot.

Back in those days, new moms and babies actually stayed in the hospital for several days ... it was unheard of to send them home the day following the birth. Which was a good thing for me after Bradley was born, because I was in so much pain. Did I mention how badly I hurt after my second son arrived? Just in case you missed it ... I hurt ... I hurt a whole, whole, whole heck of a lot after Brad's birth. I will never ever forget one night when my friend Karen came to visit me in the hospital, and neither will she, of that I can assure you. The doctor had prescribed this special spray to help ease my pain ... ummm ... well ... ummm ... my pain in a certain area. The problem was that I was in so much pain I couldn't manage to actually spray myself ... so much pain that I asked my poor friend Karen to spray me. And God love her heart ... she actually did it. Yep, after Bradley was born, my awesome friend Karen closed her eyes and sprayed the medicine on my crotch. Now that's a friend ... that's a real, true, devoted friend who will do that for someone ... I'm beyond certain that crotch spraying is way above and beyond the call of duty when it comes to friendship.

Perhaps because I've written about my penchant for late-night YouTube viewing when I can't sleep, lots of people send me links to all kinds of videos. I don't watch them all (sorry!), but I do watch quite a few of them. And every once in a while, one comes along that speaks to me in a deep and meaningful way about who I am as a person ... as a mom ... as a sister ... as a grandmother ... as a friend. And last night I watched one of those ... one of those videos that left me questioning myself as to whether I really would do anything for those I love. Would I really do anything and everything I could to show them how much I love them? Would I really find tangible, meaningful ways to let them know I'm with them through good times and bad? Am I that kind of person? That kind of mom? That kind of sister? That kind of grandmother? That kind of friend? Would I do something drastic ... something radical ... something way, way, way out of my comfort zone? Would I do anything for love?

Would I do for those whom I dearly love what these friends did for a friend they dearly love? Would those who love me do this for me? Would I do anything for love? Would you?

Watch the video. Really. Seriously. Click here and watch it.

Tell Them ... Tell Them ... Tell Them

Those of you who are parents will readily identify with the following statement ... I will never forget the first time I held each of my three children. I remember Matt's scowl and his deeply furrowed brow ... that boy was born thinking. Brad with his round little head and his howling wail ... the whole hospital knew when he arrived. And Meg was simply beautiful ... she stole the hearts of the doctors and nurses right away. Those first few moments as my children began their lives was so very precious ... watching them take their first breaths, feeling their little fingers around mine, holding them close to my heart. Nope ... I will never forget the first time I held each of my three kiddos ... never ever. And tonight, perhaps more than I ever have, I am so very thankful for Matt and Brad and Meghann ... so very, very, very thankful for my children.

My heart is so very heavy tonight ... one of my dearest friends lost her adult son in a tragic car accident on Saturday evening. A son, a brother, a father, an uncle ... a good man gone far too soon. Ever since I read my friend's message yesterday morning telling me of her loss, my heart has been burdened for her and her entire family. The depth of the pain they are feeling is unimaginable to me. Listening to my friend last night as she cried in gut-wrenching sobs, I felt helpless ... I so wanted to reach through the phone and wrap my arms around her and tell her how sorry I am for her loss.

Tonight, my heart aches for my friend and her husband, and for their entire family. Tonight, my prayers are for them to find rest and comfort. Tonight, I am keenly aware of the true brevity of life. Tonight, I understand anew the importance of not leaving things unsaid ... of telling those I love just how very much I love them ... of caring for one another ... of listening to one another ... of loving one another. 

Tonight, friends ... tonight, tell them you love them ... tell the ones you love just how much you love them ... tell them ... tell them ... tell them. 

Love you guys ... love you very much.

Almost Perfect

I'll admit it right up front ... last week was less than stellar for me on several fronts. While I'm not going to elaborate on all the things that contributed to making it not one of my better weeks, I do want to say one thing. It's never easy to apologize and ask for forgiveness when I do or say something I shouldn't ... it's never easy, but it's always the right thing to do. And at the end of the day, doing what's right is way more important than doing what's easy. Though I hate to admit it, I'm far from perfect, and I'm completely certain that yesterday wasn't the last day in my life that I'll be saying, "I'm sorry. Will you please forgive me?" Perhaps because I know that truth ... that I'm far from perfect ... perhaps that's why I was given this afternoon.

This morning, I actually was able to sleep in for a while ... that's something that doesn't happen very often because Julie and Ollie usually wake me up around 6:30. By the time we actually woke up and got out of bed, it was almost 8:30. After breakfast, I went to the doctor and then came home and worked for several hours on a big project I brought home that's due on Monday. I decided after lunch that I needed a break from editing, so I went shopping ... yes, shopping ... for some clothes for my granddaughter and the new little one who's due to arrive in July. Since they live in Canada, they need way more winter apparel than summer so I went straight to the clearance racks and found several adorable items. As much as I detest shopping, I sure do enjoy buying things for my grandbabies ... amazing, simply amazing.

It was a beautiful day today ... it's supposed to snow in the morning, by the way ... so after I got home from shopping, I threw the ball for Julie for a while and then headed out for a walk with Ollie. Though it was windy ... it's always windy in Kansas ... it was warm, and the sun felt good on my face as I walked. Ollie and I walked for a little over an hour ... he was one tired wiener by the time we got home. We had just walked in the door when my phone rang ... it was C.J. wanting to Skype, and I spent the next hour talking and reading and playing with her.

Here's the thing, friends ... last week was lousy, there's no disputing that at all ... but this afternoon was almost perfect. That's the way life is, you know ... sometimes it's cruddy and you find yourself wondering how you're going to make it through another day. But then you get an afternoon like today ... an almost perfect afternoon ... and you know it's worth every step it took to get you there. Almost perfect? Well ... tonight ... tonight, that's more than enough for me.

The Invisible Ones

Let's play a little game this evening. I'll tell you a story about something one of my three children did when he or she was three years old, and you guess which kid it was. And so that I don't have to write he or she every time, I'm going to use a pretend name ... one that works for both genders. Sage ... for the story, my kiddo will be Sage. 

It was a hot summer afternoon, and Sage and the siblings were outside in the front yard in their swim suits running back and forth through the sprinkler. I had gone inside to fix myself a drink and get the kids some popsicles, and was only in the house for just a few minutes. (By the way, those of you who are parents know that three children ages six and under need merely a moment to get into mischief.) When I returned to the front yard, I was surprised to see that Sage and the siblings were still enjoying playing in the water. I was even more surprised, however, to see that Sage was naked ... completely and totally buck naked. When I told Sage it was inappropriate to play outside in the buff, Sage informed me that since Sage was invisible, it was okay ... no one would be able to see Sage's nakedness. And when I tried to explain to Sage that I could see Sage and so could the rest of the neighborhood, Sage calmly said, "Nuh-uh, Mom, I'm invisible. You can hear me but you can't see me. I'm invisible." It took me several minutes to catch the running Sage and drape the little naked form in a towel. Sage was, after all, invisible ... and invisible Sages can run very fast. While you're guessing which of my three kiddos is Sage, let me explain why I've had Sage's invisible sprinkler adventure on my mind today.

Last night, I was trying to read through some of the emails I've received over the last month or so ... don't judge me, I get a ton of emails. I happened to click on an email from someone ... I say someone because I don't know if the person is male or female or young or old. The note was quite lengthy, but one section in particular has haunted me all day.

"I don't know which is worse. It's so hard to not belong or fit in or to be invisible but I think it's worse to be invisible. Because when you're invisible you believe that no one would see you if you weren't there anymore. Like if you didn't show up one day no one would miss you because you were invisible. That's the hardest part. To keep showing up when nobody sees you."

The person said several times in the note that he or she knew I wouldn't reply to the note because I wouldn't understand his or her feelings of not belonging or of being invisible. Well, I did reply to the person ... I replied and asked him or her to read tonight's post. Why? Because I do understand ... I do understand ... I do understand. Let me say that again ... I do understand what it feels like not to belong, not to fit, to be invisible and wonder if anyone would notice if I was gone ... or worse yet ... to believe they would actually be better off without me. I understand that those feelings combined with the tremendous stress of trying to hide who I am for so many years came awfully darn close to killing me. I understand, my friend, and if you don't know anything else today, please know this ... I see you. Just like I could see my little kiddo all those years ago standing naked in our front yard, I see you ... you are not invisible to me, friend ... you are not invisible to me.

Here's the really big thing I'd like you to take away from tonight's post ... there are so many, many people who feel like they don't belong or fit in ... there are so many, many people who feel like they are invisible ... there are so many, many people who wonder if anyone would even notice if they were gone. Open your eyes ... open your eyes and your hearts, and look for them ... look for them, friends ... look for the ones who feel invisible. Open your eyes and your hearts ... tell them you see them ... tell them you need them ... tell them they matter to you. Tell them they are not invisible to you.

  

I Said Yes

When people told me a year ago that I would one day stand again before groups of people as a speaker, I tried to hide the sadness in my eyes and the pain in my heart as I softly said, "That will never happen. I'm finished speaking ... that part of my life is over." What I didn't say to those folks was, "And that's as it should be ... it's my fault, and I'm getting what I deserve." You see, every single event I had booked through 2015 cancelled when I told the truth about who I am ... every single event ... and more than a few of the people who called or emailed to inform me they were cancelling didn't hesitate to tell me it was my fault and that I was getting what I deserved. What they didn't understand was that I didn't need them to tell me those things ... every single beat of my heart and every single pulse of my soul told me how unworthy I was. 

This evening, I spoke for a group of about 100 people, and the minute I walked into the room, that feeling of unworthiness swept over me in a big way. I had been nervous all day about speaking tonight, partly because I knew that some of the folks who would be attending are well-respected professionals. If you've been reading along with me for a while, you know how I freak out about wearing the appropriate attire for special events ... yep, when I walked into that room and saw all the people in their fancy business duds, I thought for sure I was going to throw up right in front of all of them. It didn't matter that I received a ton of compliments at work today about how sharp I looked ... I instantly felt like a fish out of water. And just like a fish out of water, I felt myself gulping for air as I wondered if it's possible to throw up as you faint. Thankfully, the person who had asked me to speak saw my obvious distress, made her way to me with a bottle of water, shoved me into a chair and said, "You need to calm down. You're okay ... just breathe and drink some water. You're going to do great ... breathe in ... breathe out ... take a drink. You can do this."

It wasn't until I stood looking into the eyes of the people tonight and began to speak that my nervousness started easing off. It was when I looked into their eyes that I knew we were the same. It was when I looked into their eyes that I knew why I was there. For those of you who are speakers, you know that there is often one person in a group who catches your attention ... one person who seems to be carrying a heavier burden than the others. Tonight that person was a man who looked to be around 50 ... a man who patiently waited at the end of the line of people who came to talk to me after the meeting was over. He asked if he could hug me, and as he did, he broke down and began to cry. He told me his name and said he is a counselor at a high school. He sobbed as he told me about students who are being bullied at school ... about a student who was bullied several years ago and ended up committing suicide ... about students who live in constant fear ... about students whose parents have rejected them. He asked me if I would be willing to speak to the students and teachers at his school.

Most of the time when I'm asked to speak now, I say I need time to think about it. And I turn down more requests than I accept. I didn't hesitate for even a moment as I said yes to the man this evening ... I said yes to him immediately. I have a friend who reminds me almost every day that not one step of my journey over the last year and a half has been random in any way. I think she's right. I think the high school counselor is why I was invited to speak tonight, and I think perhaps he was there tonight because there's someone at his school I need to meet.

I said yes, friends ... I said yes.

At Leash's End

Though I'm already dreading the arrival of spring storm season, I must say that I'm ready for warmer weather to get here. This winter seems to have been especially long and especially cold for many parts of the country, and I'm sure I'm not alone in being ready to trade in my indoor exercise routine for some nice long walks outside. There's just something about being outside ... it's soothing to me somehow ... the wind across my face, the sound of birds in the trees, the feel of the trail beneath my feet. And of course, walking outside means Ollie the wiener dog ... my loyal, faithful, bridge-running, squirrel and rabbit-chasing, happy-all-the-time, tail-wagging, people-loving wiener dog walking buddy.

Today was a sunny, warm day ... a touch on the windy side, but otherwise perfect for a long afternoon walk. It's been a couple of weeks since Ollie and I walked outside, and he was itching to go this afternoon when I grabbed his harness and the leash from the rack in the garage. As I clicked the lock on the retractable leash to keep Ollie close to my side as we crossed the main street, I thought as I have many times before what a wonderful invention the leash is. I remember the old days when leashes were only one length, and there was no option but to wrap the leash around my hand if I didn't want my dog walking too far ahead of me. Yep, with Ollie being the adventurous little hound that he is, I'm grateful for the retractable leash every single time we go for a walk.

When we reached the trail, it only took a moment for me to realize that every human and dog in every nearby neighborhood had decided to do the same thing Ollie and I were doing ... there were people and dogs everywhere. Ollie's excitement level about going for a walk went up a gazillion-fold when he saw all the other dogs, and he tugged with all his wiener dog strength on the leash, whining as he tried desperately to run ahead and greet each one of them. Knowing that I would have to keep the leash locked if we stayed on the trail, I immediately turned around and told Ollie that we were going to walk the more deserted route we take during the winter months when it gets dark early. He wasn't the happiest wiener in the world as I tugged him off the trail away from the other dogs, but it didn't take long for his jubilation to return once I unlocked the leash so that he could run up ahead of me on the sidewalk.

Ollie and I walked for more than an hour this afternoon, and for pretty much the entire walk, Ollie ran ahead of me ... he ran ahead of me as far as the leash would reach. I smiled as I followed behind him, watching as he did his little hopping and skipping run ... he really is an adorably happy little guy. My mind was racing as fast as Ollie's feet were hopping and skipping ... so fast that I almost missed something ... I almost missed something important ... something meaningful ... something that I should have seen and understood long ago. It wasn't until we were on our way home that I got it, that it struck me, that my mind slowed down enough to take it in ... the truth that walked before me ... the truth at leash's end.

As we approached one of the three streets we had to cross on our way home, I tugged on Ollie's leash to pull him close to me to keep him safe from the cars that were speeding by. The more I tugged on the leash, the harder Ollie pulled against me until I finally picked him up and carried him across the road. The minute his little paws were back on the road, he ran to the end of the leash as hard and as fast as he could ... so hard and so fast that when he reached the end, the jerk of the leash against his harness not only gave my shoulder a jolt, it also lifted my little wiener dog's front feet off the ground. I stopped dead in my tracks and said aloud, "Ollie, you need to slow down, buddy, before you hurt me and you both. Sometimes it's not good to run ahead ... sometimes it's better to walk. Why are you in such a hurry anyway? One step at a time, little guy ... one step at a time."

I guess Ollie understood that the words that came out of my mouth were meant more for me than him, because when my eyes began filling with tears, he turned and trotted back to me and pawed at my legs for me to lift him into my arms. Burying my face in his furry little neck, I whispered, "I'm the one who needs to stop trying to run ahead, Oliver ... I'm the one who needs to walk ... I'm the one who needs to trust the process and stop trying to run ahead. One step at a time, buddy ... one step at a time ... one step at a time." 

Ollie walked the rest of the way home close to me ... I don't know if he knew I needed him to walk by my side ... maybe it was that he needed me to walk by him. I do know that God can use anything He chooses to reveal His truth to me. I know that because today that truth walked before me ... today that truth walked before me at leash's end.

Maybe It's About the Story

Last night, I changed my cover photo on Facebook like I do every week or so. I'm not sure what made me start changing the image so often ... I remember having one certain photo as my Facebook cover for like a year or longer. As those of you who are friends with me on Facebook well know, sometimes the images I choose are somewhat unique ... like the orangutan photos for example (the story behind those pics deserves a post all its own, by the way). Sometimes the images I choose are of my kids or my granddaughter, and there's only one word that defines those photos ... love. Sometimes I use photos of majestic mountains or fiery sunsets or crashing waves ... those images remind me that the world is so much bigger than the tiny part I live in each day. But sometimes ... sometimes I run across an image that reaches out, grabs my soul and screams, "This one is for you, Terrie." 

The image I chose for my Facebook cover photo last night was one of those ... one of those that grabbed me the moment I saw it. In the background is a blurry image of an open book, and in the foreground are the words, "Maybe it's not about the happy ending. Maybe it's about the story." Powerfully intense words for someone like me who is so often driven by the desire to finish ... to be done ... to arrive ... to find the happy ending. Powerfully intense words for someone like me who worries so much about being done that I fail to appreciate how important the journey to that "doneness" truly is. I haven't been able to shake those words from my mind today ... "Maybe it's not about the happy ending. Maybe it's about the story."

If that's true ... if it really is about the story, then what is the story? The story is life ... the story is living ... the story is life and everything that comes with it. The story is the good and the bad and everything in between. There are times when the story is beautiful. There are times when the story is messy. The story is life. The story is honest. The story is deep. The story is family. The story is growing. The story is tears. The story is acceptance. The story is laughter. The story is real. The story is sharing. The story is glorious. The story is helping. The story is painful. The story is friendship. The story is love. The story is life, friends ... the story is life. The story is getting up every morning ... breathing ... living ... the story is life. 

"Maybe it's not about the happy ending. Maybe it's about the story."

Maybe it is about the story ... maybe it is indeed.

Yabba Dabba Do!

Ready for me to confess another deep, dark secret? Of course you are. But ... I'm warning you, you might want to grab a glass of wine or a beer before you continue reading because this confession is a biggie ... huge ... enormous ... gigantic even. Ready? Settled in with your beverage of choice in your nice comfy recliner? Alrighty then ... here it is ... wait ... I'm not sure I can reveal something so personal to the entire world. What if people hate me? What if I get a deluge of emails and messages bashing me? What if some of you stop reading if I admit the truth? Oh, yeah ... been there, done that already and lived to wear the t-shirt and tell the story, too. And we all know that which doesn't kill us makes us stronger, right? I know that some of you will never again view me in the same way ... that my confession may well cause you to question my sanity or doubt my intelligence ... that I am opening myself up to judgment and criticism. But if I haven't learned anything over the last year and a half, I've learned this ... there are times in life when I just have to pull up my big girl panties and be brave and courageous. So here goes ... I totally and completely love the old television animated series The Flintstones. Wow ... I guess confession really is good for the soul because I feel like I've had a weight lifted from my shoulders ... wow, wow, wow.

For many years, I could quite literally quote entire episodes of The Flintstones show ... not so much now, but for way more years than I will ever admit, I had memorized the lines of not one, not two, but every single character in the show. And ... okay, this is really going out on a limb ... I went through a phase when I constantly uttered the words "Yabba Dabba Do!" I said, "Yabba Dabba Do!" with a lilt in my voice when everything was going well or something great happened, and I said, "No Yabba, no Dabba, no Do," when life sucked or something lousy occurred. Yep ... I managed to work the words into almost every conversation I had and to express every emotion you can possible imagine. The words "Yabba Dabba Do!" just spoke to me for some reason, not the least of which is that they sound so stinking cool as they roll off my tongue. I even dressed up as a Flintstones character for Halloween a couple of years ... okay, okay, maybe it was more than just a couple of years. I have nothing to offer up in defense of my deeply rooted affinity for the odd cartoon series ... not one single, solitary piece of legitimate evidence ... except to say that I flipping love all things Flintstone. 

I'm sure you're wondering why I feel the need this evening to fess up about my obviously unrequited love for Fred and Wilma and Barney and Betty, so please allow me to explain. It was a recent conversation with my life-saving head doctor that brought my old pals back to mind ... a conversation about right vs. wrong, good vs. evil, acceptance vs. condemnation, truth vs. falsehood. In answering a question the good doctor posed to me concerning her belief that I have some ... ahem ... unresolved anger toward God, I told her I often feel like Fred Flintstone. Again ... please allow me to explain. Fred was generally a pretty good guy, but sometimes he, like me and quite possibly you as well, had an internal battle going on within his heart and mind. To portray Fred's internal struggle, the writers of the show created scenes in which an angel would appear on one of Fred's shoulders while a devil appeared on the other. And as Fred's heart and mind battle raged within him, both the angel and the devil chattered in his ears as they each tried to convince him they were correct in their assessment of the matter at hand.

The truth is I feel like my old buddy Fred most of the time ... like I've got an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. And maybe the truth is that we all feel that way at certain times in our lives. Times when we are torn between believing or not believing, trusting or not trusting, listening or not listening, accepting or not accepting, speaking or not speaking, loving or not loving ... yep, that list could go on and on and on and on and on and on. If indeed we all feel as though we have an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, it seems to reason that means that we ... in the ways that matter anyway ... are all the same. If we all have an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, we are all equal in our struggles, equal in our triumphs, equal in our attempts to understand who we are and why we are here.

The good doctor left me with something to ponder and try to comprehend ... she told me that perhaps I need to consider that instead of having an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other,  I have only angels. Angels ... to help me on my journey, to encourage me to accomplish the task that has been set before me and to make me a better person through the process. I decided today that If ever a thought deserves a "Yabba Dabba Do!" friends, it's that one ... it is that one indeed.

Come on and say it with me ... you know you want to ..."Yabba flipping Dabba flipping Do!"

So About Last Night ...

A couple of weeks ago, I baked a bunch of cookies and took them to work for my co-workers to enjoy. I sent an email to let them know the cookies were in the kitchen, and in that email I said that they benefit when I miss my kids. It made me chuckle when one of the young men came to my desk and said, "I don't mean this to sound selfish, Terrie, but I sort of like it when you miss your kids. These cookies are awesome!" As I'm sure many of you empty nest parents will agree, there are certain times of the year and certain events that cause me to miss my kids a whole, whole, whole lot. Such was the case yesterday as I readied myself for a certain television event that would be taking place in the evening. Yesterday, I missed my movie-making son in a big way ... so much so that my friends at work got to chow down on homemade butterscotch and chocolate fudge today.

Watching the Academy Awards has always been a big deal for my Bradley, even when he was pretty young. He would stretch out on the floor with his chin in his hands and watch with wide eyes as award after award was given out. I can remember more than a few times when he would fall asleep under the glow of the television and I would carry him upstairs to his room, tuck the covers around his sleeping little body and kiss him good night. I also remember how mad he would be at himself the next morning because he fell asleep. It's funny how the tables turned ... when Brad was a teenager, I was the one who would fall asleep as we watched the Oscars and he would wake me when the show was over and tell me to go to bed. Many, many years Brad and I watched the Academy Awards together, and last night as I sat on my couch watching the show with my canine companions, Julie and Ollie, I missed Brad ... I missed him a whole, whole, whole lot.

I must say that I thought last night's Academy Awards show was one of the best I've seen in several years ... come on ... Ellen as the host will always score big in my book. And if Ellen weren't enough, Pink sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and Bette Midler ... yep, the divine Miss M herself ... sang "Wind Beneath My Wings." Seriously ... Ellen and Pink and Bette ... it just doesn't get any better than that. I was deeply moved by the appearance of Sidney Poitier, just as I also was by the participation of so many older generation actors. Perhaps it's due in part to the loss of two well-loved actors in recent months, Paul Walker and Philip Seymour Hoffman, but the show had a different tone to it this year in my opinion. It was almost as if there was an unstated sense of awareness and respect as to how brief life can be ... death eventually claims each one of us, both the common man and the super famous as well.

It seems fitting to close tonight's post with some words from what I considered to be one of the best acceptance speeches of all time. After winning the award for Best Actor in a Supporting Role, Jerad Leto spoke some words that touched not only my heart, but the hearts of millions around the world as well. Well done, Mr. Leto, well done.

"In 1971, Bossier City, Louisiana, there was a teenage girl who was pregnant with her second child. She was a high school dropout and a single mom, but somehow she managed to make a better life for herself and her children. She encouraged her kids to be creative, to work hard and to do something special. That girl is my mother and she’s here tonight. And I just want to say, I love you, Mom. Thank you for teaching me to dream.

"And this for the 36 million people who have lost the battle to AIDS and to those of you out there who have ever felt injustice because of who you are or who you love, tonight I stand here in front of the world with you and for you. Thank you so much and goodnight."

Dream On

“What hath night to do with sleep?” 
― John Milton, Paradise Lost

Up until roughly seven or eight months ago, I dreamed almost every night while I was sleeping. Not only did I dream a lot, I also remembered most of my dreams ... in fact, I even remember dreams I had years ago (and no, I don't mean the wolf dream I have when I'm running a fever ... everyone knows that my wolf fever dreams belong in a category to themselves). When all of a sudden for no apparent reason I stopped dreaming, it freaked me out just a bit ... okay, okay, it freaked me out a lot. Completely convinced that I must have some sort of rare "no more dreaming for you" type of disease, I did what I always do when I'm completely convinced that I must have some sort of rare disease ... I used the Google. You can only imagine my relief when I determined after many hours of research that my lack of sleepytime dreaming was most likely a side effect resulting from a change in the dosage of one of my medications. I also learned that in most people, the side effect wasn't permanent and in time they began dreaming again. Whew ... talk about putting my mind at ease. Gosh ... what's a life without dreams, eh? Proving that self-diagnosing via the Internet is always a smart idea, about a month ago my dreams did indeed return ... boy, did they ever.

I'm sure you've heard the phrase, "Be careful what you wish for," countless times ... as have I. And after months of wishing I would start dreaming again, I can most definitely, without a shadow of even a tiny bit of doubt, from the depths of my soul tell you to be careful what you wish for ... really ... be careful what you wish for. While I've had my share of weird or frightening dreams down through the years, I can't remember having a stretch of time when every single dream I had was strange ... until now. Please, allow me to explain. Last night I dreamed I lost my car ... not so crazy, right? Except that everyone I asked to help me find it told me I had to climb a marshmallow mountain, walk through hot lava, do 50 push-ups while wearing suspenders and a tie, and appear before the king of Candy Land and persuade him to tell me where my car was. And after I did all that, the knights of the Round Table pulled out their swords and tried to kill me. No, there's nothing at all weird or crazy about that dream ... not at all. Oh, but wait ...

The night before, I dreamed I was on an airplane ... again, not so weird ... frightening maybe, but not off-the-wall weird. Until I realized the plane was about to crash and I grabbed a rope and jumped out the back of the plane and landed safely on the ground ... where I was met by an army of soldiers who told me I was a traitor for leaving my fellow passengers to save my own skin. I woke up when I was crawling to the group of injured people from the plane after one of the soldiers conked me in the head with a giant ceramic teddy bear. And the night before that, I dreamed that some woman I had never met was holding my obviously severely wounded and bleeding Ollie the wiener dog up toward heaven like some sort of sacrifice as I tried desperately to break through the force field that separated me from him ... while I was eating string cheese and trying to buy a bottle of water from a street vendor pushing a silver cart with a live monkey riding on top. Nope, nothing bizarre or terrifying about those dreams ... nothing at all.

I'm sure all you dream interpreters are already hard at word deciphering the deep psychological meaning within my dreams, so here's a touch more info for you as you attempt to analyze the insanity of my mind. Many of my dreams now involve violent behavior of some sort ... violent behavior directed toward me or someone I love. I'm never violent myself in my dreams, by the way ... it's the other people doing all the stabbing, beating and shooting. I dream a ton about losing things or about being lost myself, and I also dream a lot about falling off of tall buildings or mountains. I still dream good, sweet dreams about my granddaughter and my children now and again, but a huge chunk of my dreams these days are dark and haunting ... so much so that if I could figure out a way to not sleep and still function, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

While I don't much care for waking up in the middle of the night, jumping out of bed, turning on the light and searching for Oliver the wiener dog under the covers to make sure he's OK or feeling the overwhelming need to check my garage throughout the day to make sure my car is there, I'm learning that even bad dreams can teach me some pretty important lessons about life. Lessons about valuing the moments I'm given each day ... moments to be kind ... moments to be loving ... moments to be understanding ... moments to be compassionate ... moments to be unafraid ... moments to be brave ... moments to be helpful ... moments to be honest ... moments to be sincere ... moments to be friendly ... moments to be courageous. Lessons about chasing my dreams ... lessons about never giving up ... lessons about dreaming bigger than I ever have before.

I'm tired, cold and yawning ... guess that means it's time to go to sleep and see where the land of dreams takes me tonight. Bring it, Mr. Dreammaker ... I'm ready to learn ... I'm ready to learn all the things you have to teach me. 

Dream on, friends ... dream on.