Ready?

I've always secretly envied people who seem to be calm, cool and collected no matter what life brings their way. Wait ... I guess my secret envy isn't secret anymore now that I've told all of you who read this blog ... oh, well ... I've revealed way bigger secrets and you guys keep reading, so I'm probably safe for tonight anyway. I'm willing to bet that almost all of you know someone who fits the calm, cool and collected description ... the person who never seems to get their feathers ruffled or lose their temper when someone irritates them ... the person who is sweet and kind and patient while waiting in the super long line at Old Navy on Black Friday ... the person who keeps smiling even when everyone around them is having a meltdown ... the person who doesn't freak out and bungee their dogs to the water pipes when it's storming (what kind of crazy person would do that???). But it's more than those things ... it's more than being calm, cool and collected ... those people seem to somehow live their lives in a constant state of readiness. Not only do they look forward to and anticipate each new day, each new challenge and each new adventure, they are ready ... ready and willing and chomping at the bit to participate in every single part of life's journey.

Perhaps it's because so many big things have happened in my life over the last couple of years that I find myself saying or thinking the words, "I'm not ready ... I'm not ready ... I'm not ready" over and over again. The crazy thing to me is that the more I chant the words "I'm not ready," the more it seems I'm challenged to step outside of my comfort zone and do something I've never done before or go somewhere I've never gone before or write something I've never written before or meet people I've never met before or speak to groups I've never spoken to before. The people closest to me would quickly tell you that, more often than not, I have to be pushed, pulled, dragged, chided and persuaded to do those undone things or go to those unvisited places or write those unwritten words or meet those unmet people or speak to those unspoken to groups.

When my son Brad called me a little over a year ago to tell me about his idea to make a feature documentary about a man he had never met ... when he asked me to help him find a way to reach the gentleman, I did what my son asked but I never thought the man would reply. Though I wanted it to happen for Brad, I didn't think we stood a chance of meeting the man, much less getting him to agree to let us document his life on film. But we did meet him. And he did agree to let us tell his story. And in a couple of days, we will begin sharing his incredibly powerful story with the world. 

Ready? 

But Then I Saw the Rainbow

It must have been around 1:45 this morning when I finally fell asleep ... at least the last time I recall looking at the clock was 1:32, so I'm assuming I fell asleep soon after that. It's unusual for me not to have trouble falling asleep ... my problem is being able to stay asleep or get back to sleep after I wake up a dozen times through the night. But last night, I was so totally worked up about a presentation I was involved in at work today that no matter what I did, I simply could not get my brain to calm down enough to allow me to doze off. Turns out all my worrying and fretting and tossing and turning about having to stand in front of all my co-workers and talk was for naught ... though I could feel my legs trembling and my stomach churning, I didn't cry or faint or throw up. Okay ... okay ... maybe I did tear up a little as my son Brad answered questions about the project we're working on together ... yep, maybe I teared up just a little.

For as much as I enjoy my evening walks with my wiener dog, Oliver, Fridays are the one day each week when I have to force ... and I do mean force ... myself to get off the couch and go for a walk. While I'd like to tell you the reason I don't want to walk on Friday evenings has to do with being tired after a week of work, that would really be the truth. While there are some Fridays when I am genuinely just worn out, most Fridays my not wanting to walk is because it's the beginning of the weekend ... and you all know how I feel about weekends. My lack of desire to go for a walk tonight was definitely a combination of the two ... being physically and emotionally exhausted together with the weekend blues made me want to crawl into my cave and hibernate when I got home from work. It wasn't until around 8 p.m. that I finally convinced myself to rise from the couch and head outside with my happy and excited little Ollie in tow.

We hadn't walked very far when I noticed some rather ominous looking clouds rolling from the east, but I thought they looked far enough away for Ollie and I to keep walking. We had walked for maybe 15 or 20 minutes ... me with my head down and eyes glued to the trail beneath my feet and Ollie with his chest puffed out and his little legs dancing along the path. It wasn't until the wind picked up and I felt a raindrop hit my arm that I looked up ... I looked up and saw one of the most beautiful rainbows I've ever seen. Vibrant against the gray and cloudy backdrop behind it, every color so distinct and separate as they came together to form the majestic banner in the sky.

By the time Ollie and I got home, we were soaking wet from the by then pouring rain. Obviously I was wrong in my judgment as to how far away the clouds were. Wow ... there's a profound truth contained within those words, "I was wrong in my judgment as to how far away the clouds were." I wonder just how many times in my life I've thought the clouds were farther away ... how many times the clouds overtook me and let loose a downpour in my heart. I wonder how many times I see nothing but the clouds and feel nothing but the rain. I wonder how many times I don't look up ... how many times I've been so obviously wrong in my judgment of the clouds and the rain.

I stopped long enough to snap a couple of pictures with my phone of the rainbow before Ollie and I gave up walking and instead dashed toward home as the rain began to soak my t-shirt and imbed itself in Ollie's fur. I realized something as we turned onto our street ... the only reason I looked up this evening is because I was looking for clouds ... for the sign of storms or the threat of rain. Be sure you caught that ... I was looking for clouds, but then I saw the rainbow.

But then I saw the rainbow ... but then I saw the rainbow ... but then I saw the rainbow.

Just Hold Me

First things first ... yes, I know I haven't posted in a few days, and no, I'm not dead. It always strikes me as odd when people write me to ask if I'm dead (way more people than you would imagine actually write and ask me that question when I skip a few days in blogging). I mean, come on ... if I were dead, I'm relatively sure I couldn't reply to an email asking me if I'm dead. While I appreciate the concern as to whether or not I'm still alive and kicking, it sort of messes with my head a little to open an email and read the words, "Hi, Terrie ... missing your posts and wondering if you're dead." Again ... pretty sure if I were dead, I couldn't reply. Unless, of course, there are computers with Internet access in heaven and assuming, of course, that God would actually let me through the pearly gates when I kicked the bucket. My brain really must be on overload tonight because I'm writing about having Internet access in heaven ... sheesh. At any rate, I'm alive and I'm fine ... and yes, I do mean I'm fine. Nuff said.

Near the end of the day at work yesterday, one of my young co-workers called to ask if I could do a favor for her today and watch her 1-year-old son for an hour or so while she went to a meeting. Her little guy was under the weather and couldn't go to daycare, and she really needed to be at the meeting. I immediately said I would be more than glad to look after him, and by the time the afternoon rolled around, I was more than ready to soak up some quality baby time. As I mentioned, the poor little guy wasn't feeling well so all he wanted me to do was hold him while he rested his head on my shoulder. After drinking about half of his bottle, he promptly fell asleep with his little baby head cuddled against my neck and his little baby arms wrapped around mine. There's just something extra special about holding little ones when they aren't feeling well ... rubbing their backs, humming to them, whispering words of comfort in their ears.

I've been thinking all evening about my time with precious little Max today ... about how all the little guy wanted and needed was to be held. He didn't want to play or walk around ... all he wanted and needed was to be cradled in my arms ... he just wanted and needed to be held and rocked and told that everything would be okay. All evening I've thought about how good it felt to know I was not only taking care of Max this afternoon, I was helping his mom do what she needed to do and not worry about her little boy in the process. But there was something else that felt even more awesome ... the feeling of knowing my young friend trusted me to watch over her son ... that, friends, brings tears to my eyes even as I type those words. 

Sometimes people ask me what the hardest part of the last couple of years has been, and I never have to think twice about the answer, though it's rare that I share it with anyone. As I sat in my chair at my desk and rocked little Max as he dozed on my shoulder, tears filled my eyes ... all that precious baby boy wanted and needed was for someone to hold him. That's all ... he just needed someone to hold him and tell him everything was going to be okay. I know how you feel, little guy ... I surely do know how you feel.

Thank you, my friend, for trusting me today with the little person who means the world to you ... thank you so very much. And to you, sweet Max ... sweet dreams ... the very sweetest of dreams to you, little one.

Through the Dirt

Those of you who've been reading along with me for a while know I generally don't much care for weekends anymore. I didn't always dread weekends, you know ... my weekends used to bring with them a flurry of activity. When my kids were living at home, most of that activity revolved around them ... sporting events, sleepovers with their friends, church functions and too many more to list. Even after Matt, Brad and Meg moved out, though, my weekends used to be filled with my own activities ... speaking for women's groups, outings with friends, volunteering at a retirement center, being deeply involved in my church. Most of my weekends now bring with them a lot of time alone with my couch and my dogs Julie and Ollie ... but once in a while ... once in a while, I have a weekend that reminds me ... a weekend that beckons me ... a weekend that warms me ... a weekend that fills my heart with the knowledge that though I may be lonely, I am not alone. 

From doctor's appointments to running errands to spending time with dear friends in from out of town to an extra-long Skype session with my favorite little Canadian, Saturday proved to keep me abundantly busy and far from lonely. Yesterday, I drove to Brad's and spent the afternoon cheesing it up for the camera with Brad and Jason. You may recall me mentioning a secret project Brad, Jason and I have been working together on for the past year or so ... yesterday's photo shoot was for PR pics for the project. By the way, this week I'll fill in some details about the project in preparation for a special announcement on June 1st. Following the lengthy smile session, I drove to meet Meghann and Barrett for dinner at our favorite sushi restaurant. We ate a ton of food ... a great big old gigantic ton of food ... as we sat at the table and talked and talked and talked. As I hugged and kissed them goodbye, I was suddenly keenly aware of just how much I love my kids ... all six of them ... of how deeply I treasure my little C.J. ... of how excited I am to meet her new baby sister.

I'm sure you're wondering by now what tonight's title has to do with my wonderfully busy weekend ... you know there's a reason I chose that particular title ... there's always a reason, right? A few posts ago I mentioned the construction that's going on across the street from my house ... construction that has turned my two normal walking routes into piles of dirt and gravel. Even though Ollie and I have been navigating our way through the dirt for the last couple of weeks, it wasn't until this morning that I was struck with the enormous lesson that has ... well ... that has been right under my feet and Ollie's paws all along. See, here's the thing ... I can't jump on the path like I could before ... now I have to walk through the dirt and navigate around the rocks in order to find my way to the trail. I was bawling by the time Ollie and I got back home this morning ... the big lessons often come with lots and lots of tears.

It will be several months before the construction on the trail is completed which means that Ollie and I will be walking through the dirt and around the rocks for quite some time. It's kind of a pain right now, but after a while, it will be a better, smoother, safer path for us to walk. It's a lot like life, you know ... sometimes I have to walk through the dirt and find my way around the rocks if I want to stay on the trail. Sometimes it's hard to imagine a day when the dirt and rocks will go away ... sometimes it seems like they'll be there forever. But ... but ... but ... walking through the dirt to get to the trail is making my legs stronger ... walking around the rocks is causing me to contemplate and measure each step I take ... reaching the path means more to me than it ever has before.

Through the dirt ... through the dirt ... through the dirt. Think about it.

Helping Hands

The old adage "You don't know how much you appreciate something until it's gone" has proven to be among one of the truest statements I've ever heard. I'm way too tired and in way too much pain tonight to list all the times it's been true for me ... in regard to things but even more so in regard to people. I do, however, want to tell you one thing I far under-appreciated until a month or so ago ... my left index finger. More specifically, I've realized in a big, humongous, gigantic way over the last two days how much I didn't appreciate what it meant to be able to bend my fingers ... all ten of them. 

Yesterday morning I had an appointment with the hand therapist at the surgeon's office, and it was not fun ... it was not fun at all. Everything was going well ... the therapist unwrapped my finger and removed the splint, examined the incision and said I was healing nicely. Just as I was thinking how kind and gentle she was being with my wounded finger, she said something about me needing to massage the incision area three times each day for 3-4 minutes. "What do you mean by massage?" I asked tentatively. Note to self: Never ask a person who is holding your recently sliced and diced finger what she means by massage because she will reach around with her thumb and clamp down on your still very tender incision and say, "Massage the incision area ... like this." I swear that lady must be the Incredible Hulk's sister because the pressure she applied to my finger caused me to immediately tear up and begin to cry as I stood up out of my chair and said, "You need to stop, please." I'm sure her muscles were threatening to burst the seams of her lab coat as she held my finger in her Hulkish grip and said, "Oh, so we don't like that, do we?" I won't tell you what my reply was, but I will tell you that she didn't stop until a full four minutes had passed ... the longest four minutes of my entire life, I assure you.

I'll spare you the details of the torture she inflicted upon me during the next hour and a half ... suffice it to say that I've taken more than a few hefty doses of Advil yesterday and today. When the exercises finally ended, she carefully wrapped and tightly taped my finger in a lovely powder blue bandage. I left carrying a small brown paper bag containing additional tape and my splint (in case my finger begins to do what she described as "drooping" ... if that happens, I'm to put the splint back on and call the doctor immediately). Also in the bag were what I decided today should be labeled "the three pages from hell" ... three sheets of paper with a total of nine finger exercises I'm supposed to do five times per day, 10 reps per exercise every day until I go back for my appointment one week from today. I teared up again when she told me that I would need another person to help me with one of the exercises ... I'm pretty sure I don't want Julie or Ollie anywhere near my finger, and truth is they are my sole housemates. Neither my tears nor my shameless begging for her to choose a different exercise would sway her ... she insisted the exercise is critically important and that I would simply have to find someone who's willing to bend my finger for me five times each day.

I've written a lot about the folks I work with and about how we are like a family, so it shouldn't have surprised me when I got to the office yesterday and was immediately peppered with questions about my appointment. After a couple of my friends had great fun reading "the three pages from hell" outlining my exercises, one of them decided she would enlist a team of people not only to bend my finger for the one exercise but to encourage me and cheer me on as I completed the other exercises as well. When she emailed me the "Terrie workout schedule," I cried again ... not because I dreaded the pain that I knew would accompany the exercises but because I was overwhelmed at the love and commitment the email contained. And today when one of the folks on the schedule was stuck on a phone call, another person stepped up and said, "I'll do it, Terrie ... I'd love to help you."

Those of you who know me know how much I detest having to ask for help ... I detest it because it makes me feel weak or needy or like I'm imposing on someone else. But here's the thing ... there are times when every single one of us needs help. Whether that help involves bending a finger or wiping away someone's tears or fixing a flat tire or listening to a friend whose heart has been wounded or holding someone accountable ... there are times when every single one of us needs help. I am so blessed to have so many helping hands ... helping hands that are willing not only to bend my finger but to bend my heart as well. It's humbling for me to sit across from someone and allow them to come so close to such a painful wound ... to have them see the pain on my face and the tears in my eyes ... to let them push me to do what I know I must do in order for me to heal. 

Helping hands ... I'm thankful for all the hands who have helped me not only through the last couple of days but through the last couple of years as well. I wouldn't have made it through without all of you, and I'm so very, very thankful. Now that I think about it, it's about way more than helping hands, friends ... it's about helping hearts.

A Very Special Guest

Tonight's guest post is written by a dear, dear friend ... a friend whom I've written about many times in this blog. In fact, because her words tonight are some of the most touching and poignant words I've ever read, and because those of you who know her already know what an amazing woman she is, I'm going to forego a lengthy introduction of her this evening and suggest that after you read her guest post you click here to read what I wrote about her last fall. And when you finish reading tonight, tell someone you love how very, very, very much you love them ... hug them tightly and tell them what a difference they make in your life.

Thank you, sweet friend, for sharing your heart and your wisdom and your soul with my readers this evening. I'm a better person because you're my friend ... love you dearly.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this. Retirement, that is. When the day came at the end of August, 2013, I was so looking forward to a trip to Bryce Canyon, the birth of our first great-granddaughter and lots of lazy mornings sitting on the deck having early morning coffee and reading the newspaper or a good book. But then, the new year rolled in and with it came lots of life's challenges and tears. 

Most of my family and friends know that in spite of the fact that I'm a tough old bird, I cry at the drop of a hat – a sad movie, a happy movie and every Hallmark commercial on television. But never have I shed as many tears as I have in these early months of 2014. First, there was a cardiac stress test for my husband of 45 years. Blocked stents led to double bypass surgery and four days in the hospital. Those were tears of fear. Tears of fear from not knowing whether or not everything would turn out okay that turned into tears of gratitude when he was pronounced healthy and ready to go back out and continue all the plans we had made for retirement. 

But then came the 2:30 a.m. pounding on the front door and ringing of the doorbell by the police that led to the news that our adult son had lost his life in a fiery crash of his SUV that also took the lives of three other people. The tears of the shock of knowing that when I saw him earlier in the day and told him I loved him as he was leaving was going to be the last time I would ever see him as a whole person. Tears of grief took over for days and weeks as we went through the process of giving him back to God - and still there are tears at unexpected moments when a memory floats across my mind about him as a little child, on the day he was married, the day his beautiful baby girl came into the world, at the heartbreak he felt when he got divorced. Memories keep coming ... and so do the tears.

It has been said that tears can be cleansing. And they can free us to go on living and loving. I hope it's true ... I believe it's true. So for the rest of 2014 when I feel the tears starting, I will give in to them and let them do what they are meant to do ... cleanse my heart to keep going and to keep loving. I have always heard that things happen in threes. And the third for me is coming up in June when I have a knee replacement surgery. First will be tears of pain and then, hopefully, tears of relief and joy when I finally regain the ability to walk pain-free and chase my great-grandbaby who lives with us. She is my joy, and she brings back the beauty of each new day."

My Southern Coming Out

There are times when I totally miss living in the South ... times when I miss the sight of the Smoky Mountains surrounding my hometown, the sweet aroma of honeysuckle blossoms in the spring, the slow and meandering parade of the Tennessee River as it winds gently through the valley. I miss sweet tea and front porch rocking chairs and the all-evening-long conversations that go hand-in-hand with that tea and those chairs. I miss the easygoing nature of folks in the South ... folks who never seem to be in a hurry ... folks who chat with total strangers in the grocery store ... folks who spend hours and hours sitting around a table talking and listening ... folks who know how to slow down and not rush from one task to another ... folks who understand that nothing's more important than being there for each other. I miss all of those things about living in the South, but you know what I miss the most? I miss my family ... I miss my sister and brother, my nephews and nieces, my greats and my great-greats ... I miss my family most of all.

Yesterday afternoon, I spent several hours at Shelby's graduation party at a bar and grill in Kansas City. There were a bunch of folks from Shelby's family there, as well as a large group of her friends. I spent my time alternating between chatting with Shelby's two sisters (whom I adore, by the way) and sitting at the end of a long table filled with Brad and Shelby's friends. I've known some of those kids for many years ... like Roy ... and some I met for the first time yesterday ... like Heather. I love that Brad and Shelby's friends like me ... or if they don't, they do a heck of a job pretending they do anyway. I love how easy the conversation is with them (and that they include me in their discussions) and how they go out of their way to let me know they accept me just the way I am. I love that I can let my guard down with them ... that I never have to worry about being judged or ridiculed or treated unkindly by them ... I can completely let my guard down and feel beyond safe while doing so.

I don't drink much anymore, but every once in a while I'll have a low-carb beer or two. Part of the reason I don't drink very often is because it doesn't take much to make me tipsy due to the meds I take each day. And when I'm tipsy, my Southern comes out in a big, big, big way. My accent gets stronger, I crave sweet tea and I have to force myself not to drive to Cracker Barrel so I can sit in a rocking chair on the porch. But my biggest Southern that comes out after a beer or two? I hug people and kiss them on the cheek when I greet them or say goodbye ... yep, get one or two beers in me and I turn into my sister and kiss the cheeks of everyone I know. Lord have mercy on my soul ... I turn into a cheek-kissing fool when I drink. Hopefully, I haven't offended anyone when my Southern comes out, and if so, I apologize ... you can take the girl out of the South, but when she drinks beer, you simply can't take the South out of the girl.

Oh, and for those of you who clicked on this post when you saw the title thinking it was going to be some spicy revelation about me being gay, you should never judge a book by its cover ... or a blog post by its title. It's what's inside the book or the blog post that matters ... just like what's inside a person's heart.

Atta Girl

Friday night when I went to bed, I did something I rarely do on a Friday night ... I set my alarm to rouse me from sleep at 6:00 a.m. Most Saturdays, I'm doing well to have eaten breakfast and made myself a cup of coffee by 7:30 in the morning, but yesterday, I was showered, fed, dressed and out the door at 7:29. I must say I was pretty darned impressed with myself ... one whole minute ahead of schedule is a pretty big flipping deal for me. Following my 8 a.m. haircut appointment, I hopped back in my car and headed to Brad's so we could ride together to his girlfriend Shelby's college graduation ceremony. I was so proud of myself for arriving at Brad's a few minutes early ... early enough that I spent some time rubbing Max the dog's tummy while Brad finished shaving. Wait a minute ... Brad was shaving ... that boy of mine is in love for sure ... he shaved, combed his hair and put on a button-down dress shirt to go to Shelby's graduation ... yep, my boy is head-over-heels in love in a big, gigantic way.

One of my good friends often says, "Atta girl" to me ... usually when I somehow manage to will myself at least partially out of a funk when I'm having a not so great day. The phrase has actually been used since the 1920s, and it's derived from "That's a good girl" which became "That's a girl" and eventually "Atta girl." It's meant as a form of encouragement, congratulations or praise for a woman or girl, sort of along the lines of "Go get 'em" or "You go, girl." But "Atta girl" ... at least for me, anyway ... carries with it a deeper meaning and a more significant standard for its use. To me, "Atta girl" means triumphing, overcoming, fighting back, trying again and again and again when everything within me is screaming at me to give up. "Atta girl" to me means doing the work that's necessary ... the tortuous and painstaking work that's necessary to overcome my doubts or questions or fears in order to accomplish those goals that seem so very often to be completely unreachable. 

Over the course of the last three years, I've seen Shelby mature and grow into a strong and confident young woman ... a young woman whom I consider to be one of the greatest blessings in my life. I've seen her overcome some pretty big obstacles on the journey toward accomplishing her education and career goals. I've seen her courage and determination ... her strength and commitment ... her hardworking, never give up attitude carry her through some really difficult times. I've seen her love my son in a way that makes him a better man ... her love challenges him and encourages him and believes in him and makes him a better man. There really are no words to tell you how deeply Shelby has touched my own heart ... her unconditional love and acceptance, and her concern for my happiness and well-being ... there really are no words to convey what she means to me.

This afternoon I'll be celebrating with Shelby and her family and friends ... her family and friends ... her family and friends. As I drove home after the ceremony yesterday, I couldn't help but think once again about how my little family of four has grown over the last several years ... Becca and her family and friends, Barrett and his family and friends, Shelby and her family and friends ... and of course my wonderful little C.J. and her soon-to-arrive baby sister. It's easy to get sucked into thinking about the family and friends I've lost over the last couple of years ... relationships that ended after I told the truth about who I am. I realize more and more every day how much deeper, how much truer, how much realer my life is now ... the people in my life now are the ones who matter so very, very much ... the people who make such a gigantically huge difference ... the people whom I love with all my heart ... the people who honestly love me just the way I am.

I'm proud of you, Shelby, for so many, many, many more reasons than graduating yesterday (Rock Chalk, Jayhawk for all you KU peeps out there, by the way) ... I'm proud of you for being the wonderful, amazing, kind, caring, talented, loving you. I'm so thankful you're part of our family ... I'm so beyond grateful you're part of my life.

Atta girl, Shelby Rose ... atta girl!!!

All Things Pink

When my son Matt was a little guy, his favorite color was purple ... funny that the school colors at the university he chose to attend for both his master's and Ph.D. degrees are purple and white. Yep, my Mattie loved purple ... not blue or red or green like most of his little boy friends ... my boy was a purple lover through and through. I think at one time during his childhood years, he talked me into buying him a purple comforter with matching sheets for his bed. Hmmm ... now that I think about it ... perhaps the lavender shirt and socks I dressed him in for Easter when he was a year old had something to do with Matt declaring purple to be his favorite color. It seems that he's passed along his affinity for purple to my granddaughter ... when I ask C.J. what her favorite color is, she always says, "Purple, Ghee ... I wub purple!" 

Sometimes I wonder who decided that the color pink would be associated with females and blue with males ... you know, like when a baby is born and nurses put pink caps on little girls and blue ones on little boys. If you go to any store in the country and check out the children's clothing department, you'll see tons of pink girl clothes and oodles of blue boy clothes. From the moment they are born, we begin to teach our kids that girls like pink and boys like blue. If a boy happens to like pink or a girl prefers blue, we make that child feel as if there is something "wrong" with them ... that he or she is different from all the other children. And that, in my opinion, is simply and utterly ridiculous.

My granddaughter likes to wear girly clothes ... skirts and dresses, frilly shirts and lacy socks ... and she loves, loves, loves to have her nails painted. But ... she also likes cars and trucks and airplanes, and she loves to wrestle and roughhouse. She plays with baby dolls and strollers, and she plays with trains and fire engines. And you know what's the most awesome thing about the diversity of her my granddaughter's interests? Matt and Becca do an absolutely amazing job of cultivating and encouraging C.J. to be C.J. ... they allow my sweet little C.J. to be C.J. From the top of her pretty little blonde-haired head to the tip of her adorable little painted purple toes ... my son and daughter-in-law let C.J. be C.J. I'm beyond proud of the two of them as parents ... they are raising their daughter to be secure and confident in who she is as a person ... nothing more, nothing less ... just the incredibly perfect person she is just exactly as she is.

Little girl number two is due in late July ... yep, Matt called it from the very beginning that C.J. will soon have a little sister. By the way, he was correct on C.J. as well ... even before they knew for sure, he said their fist baby was a girl. I can't help but wonder what this new little one will be like ... will she look like C.J. or be as busy as her big sister? One thing I know for sure ... the most important thing of all ... is that she will be loved greatly by every single member of her family. 

All things pink? Maybe, maybe not. All things unconditional love? You can bet your life on it ... you can indeed, friends ... you surely can indeed.

The Legend of the Arrow

When I was around 6 or 7 years old, my sister gave me and my niece (who was only a year a half younger than me) bows and arrows. The arrows weren't real arrows of course ... they were plastic with little rubber suction cups on the tips. Each bow and arrow set came with a white plastic target ... my niece and I decided pretty quickly that it was way more fun to shoot the arrows at each other than some dull piece of plastic with numbers painted on it. The arrows didn't hurt and the suction cups didn't stick to us ... unless ... we licked them and then aimed for each other's foreheads. But then we upped the game ... we figured out how to remove the little suction cups drom the tips of the arrows. Yep, that's right ... my niece and I turned those harmless little plastic arrows into some pretty decent weapons ... it's a wonder one of us didn't lose an eye.

When I was 11 years old, I went to a summer camp sponsored by the YMCA ... without question one of the most fun summers I ever had. Besides having an enormous crush on one of the counselors (who actually kissed me goodbye when camp ended), I learned how to shoot a real arrow from a real bow and hit a real target. It didn't take long for me to become enamored with the sport of archery ... so much so that I practiced every day and ended up winning first place in the archery contest at the end of the summer. While I'd like to tell you that I won first place because I was such an excellent archer, that wasn't the case at all ... I was actually a pretty lousy shot and missed the target way more than I hit it, and I never once hit the bulls-eye. I only won the contest because the other kids were worse shots than I was ... it wasn't my skill that won me the 1st-place trophy, it was sheer dumb luck and nothing more.

A gal in my office wears a necklace with an arrow on it, and today another gal asked her if there was a special meaning behind the gold chain and arrow. Her answer has been swirling around in my mind all evening ... "Before an arrow can fly forward, it has to be pulled back." I was instantly struck by the profound truth in her words ... truth that goes way beyond an arrow ... truth that I need to tuck deep within my soul and never forget it. So many times I grumble and complain about taking one step forward and then what feels like a million steps back ... I grumble and complain when I should be doing just the opposite. If I want to fly forward ... if I want to soar toward the target ... if I want to grow and learn and become who God desires for me to be ... I have to be willing to be stretched, tested and pulled back before I can fly forward.

Here's the thing ... an arrow can't fly unless the bow propels it forward ... I'll leave you to ponder on that for a while ... trust me, it's worth a few ponders. Maybe, just maybe, the legend of the arrow pales in comparison to the legend of the bow.