Twilight walk

I was going to walk towards the north tonight as I usually do, but saw a raccoon family scampering off to the south and decided to follow them. I should have known better. Our dog, G.T., saw them too and tore off, dust kicking up at his heels. They scattered in two different directions and he lost them in the deep ditches of the road.

I was glad that we went this way. The sunset looked different on the tips of tall grass and wispy, cotton candy clouds floated low to the ground. It is a path that draws the eyes upward at the beauty above us...and it was indeed a night for loveliness.

Everything looks pretty in the light just before dusk. Like candlelight, it casts a glow over the most ordinary objects, giving them a rose-tinged elegance. The sky itself turns the most exquisite blue before succumbing to hues of pinks and oranges.

We reached the creek where cat tails grew wild and were taller than any crops purposely planted in surrounding fields. The hot, August wind blew through their dry leaves and bowed their fuzzy brown tops as I walked amongst them.

G.T. took a bath in the water, standing patiently as I took everything in. I could hear the traffic on the highway a mile away and saw the big, full moon beginning to peek out from the eastern horizon. A small stream of water from recent rains wound through the creekbed, offering a respite for the dry fields and pastures.

We turned back, heading towards home. The moon rose higher, glowing brighter across the milo and hanging like a lantern to usher in the evening. The sounds of night stirred in the twilight and as we passed a small locust tree, I spied one of the tiny raccoons hanging in terror on the uppermost branches. As if it could understand, I spoke softly, assuring the bright-eyed little creature that we were moving on and its mother would soon be back to retrieve it. I wished for my good camera, but took a picture in my mind to share with the children once I got back.

Like a childhood slideshow upon the living room screen, the night had pulled its shade behind the shadows of home, the yard light just flickering on. I saw my daughter's room light glowing and pictured everyone inside, winding down for the day. Before long, the days will start getting shorter and I will miss my twilight walks.

I'm closing the curtain on this day and looking forward, towards tomorrow. Goodnight everyone...

Hmm...

Fifteen years ago with her great grandfather. I've always wondered what each was thinking...

The Inevitable

The one thing that stays constant in this life is that things are always changing. Including us.

I never had to worry about my weight when I was younger. I was an active, energetic little girl who rode bikes, played in the creek and unknowingly burnt off calories like a wildfire sweeping across the prairie. As I grew into a teenager and young adult, though I was aware that I could put on weight and feigned caution, I really had no inkling of what it was like to truly "watch" what I ate. Dress patterns were bought in small sizes and jeans slipped on easily over slim hips.
Counting calories and fat grams never entered my mind. I was free to eat what I wanted and did so, never dreaming that there would be a time when I couldn't consume as much pizza, bread and ice cream that I desired. Baggy pants and loose tops were worn, not to conceal, but because they were stylish and the "in" during my college years.

When I became pregnant with my daughter, I put on 35 lbs (much to my doctor's dismay). My face was full, my legs....swollen. And I remember thinking to myself, "I will NEVER be fat." Though there was a reason for my weight gain, I vowed I would never allow myself to reach that size again without the help of a baby inside of me! Within two months after my daughter's birth, I was back to my "normal" weight.

After my son was born, it was a little more difficult (and I was a little bit older). After seeing myself in a vacation photograph, I decided I needed to lose that last 10 pounds and got back to a comfortable, though slightly different-looking, body weight.

And then I turned 40.

I had heard the stories about how a woman's metabolism changes and slows down during her 40's but felt I had a handle on the whole weight thing. And then I got sick. After having a radical, total hysterectomy I initially lost weight. Six months later I had a partial thyroidectomy and since then, everything has run amuck! Though tests indicate my thyroid is functioning normally, in 6 months I went up two dress sizes....and my self-image plummeted.

Once I didn't mind having my picture taken and though a "head shot" is still acceptable, I shy away when a camera is aimed in my direction. I don't recognize the woman in the photograph and though change is inevitable, this is one I really don't like to accept.

The point of this post is not to mourn the former "me". I'm writing it in a sisterhood with all of the women out there who battle with the same thing: my own sisters who are struggling as I am; my friend who once took diet pills and now has a damaged heart; a woman I know who is beautiful to me, but feels she has to lose weight to please another....all the women who wage this war everyday, trying to look the way we are presented to the world on glossy magazine covers and big screen movies.

I read something a long time ago that is now so pertinent. It was written by a gentleman who had shared it with his young daughter when she was feeling a little over confident in her looks:

"When you are 16, you cannot take credit when someone says you are beautiful. Your beauty is the product of youth and good genes. But when you are 60...and someone tells you you are beautiful, then you will know that it is truly of your own doing. They see what is on the inside...the beauty that you have made".

When I look at other women, I don't judge them by their size. I look at the capacity of their heart. I trust that others are doing the same for me. Since I have now crossed the threshold into middle age, the health ramifications of extra weight come into play and it is on this I have chosen to focus. But I will no longer beat myself up because my body has changed along with the rest of me. My concentration will lie on continuing my "inside" journey; working towards my best potential as a wife, mother, woman. Put away the airbrush. Keep your collagen. In 2005...this is me. And I like who that is...

Slowing Down

I rarely drive the speed limit. The orange finger of my speedometer usually rests a good 5 mph below the limit. In a fast-paced world, I refuse to rush.

We were driving down our gravel road, headed south and towards home. Meg was in the passenger seat with treats we had bought at the convenience store three miles away. We were nearly there and my mind was occupied with other thoughts besides the road. As I approached the intersection, a car went zooming by, racing east without so much as a glance....a pause. I slammed on my brakes, heart racing as I realized how close we had come to colliding; 3 more seconds and we would have been in the midst of disaster.

I sat there a moment, heart pounding and looked at my daughter. How could I have been so careless, so absent-minded? Here beside me was one of the most precious things in my life...and I could have lost her in an instant of thoughtlessness. Even though I had the right of way, I should have slowed down, should have looked. Because in traffic, even rural traffic, people don't always do what they're supposed to do.

Since that day, if I find myself speeding up, I slow things down. I remember that moment and let my vehicle find that comfortable place below the limit. There is nothing that is so important that it requires me to rush, to speed...to put myself and others in jeopardy.

Yesterday at the rainy intersection of two Kansas highways, a car hydro-planed and hit another, killing two people: a teacher from Oklahoma, and a husband and father of two babies. I was on that very highway, in that very place, just 30 minutes earlier. I don't know if that accident could have been prevented, but as I pray for those families and give thanks for our own safety, I'm reminded of the importance of paying heed on the roadway...and slowing things down.

So go ahead. Pass me if you wish. I'll bide my time driving below the limit. I'm taking the scenic route.......and I'll see you when I get there.

The Melody of My Life

The other evening when we were gathered at my sister's house, the subject turned to a certain cassette tape made by my mother. On it she had recorded some of the songs she had sung to us as children as well as melodies written long before we were born: "Over There", "Pennies from Heaven" and her favorite, "Beyond the Blue Horizon". We found the tape and listened to it on the way back to my parents' house, the car filling with the soft, sweet voice of Mother. I found myself singing along quietly as I remembered both hearing them and sharing them with my own children.

My favorite part is when Mom is singing "When You Wore a Tulip" and my dad begins humming in the background. He then chimes in with the melody while Mother harmonizes and their voices blend well as the tune is carried. At one point they get tickled and you can hear the laughter rising in their voices. It made me laugh along, a joy bubbling up inside of me at the thought of them sitting at the kitchen table, singing into a tape recorder and enjoying the moment.

Twenty-three years have passed since that tape was made; a typical day back in 1982 when I was a young woman in college, my whole life before me. I think about all the years that have passed, seemingly in the blink of an eye. Much has been gained, some has been lost. But I'm thankful that along with the sweet blessings of that fragile cassette tape, I can still hear first hand, the beauty of their song...

A sign....literally!

I saw this sign while I was in Sedan, KS today. Couldn't resist...

Happy Birthday, Dad

My Dad was born on August 14, 1927. Today is his 78th birthday. Amongst those who will help him celebrate are six of us "children" and twelve grandchildren.

Sometimes one can write volumes, yet say very little. So I will keep this simple:

You are an amazing man, Dad. To know you is to be acquainted with a man of great integrity and strength, a man who finds humor in life but never at the expense of another. A man of faith and wisdom and loyalty...who has stood beside our mother and all of us through 56 years of change and wonder, struggle and joy. It is an honor to be your daughter, with a heritage and history that makes me proud. Thank you for all the intangible gifts that have made my life sing. I Love You, Dad....

Moon Girl

"Oh look at the moon;
A shining up there ,
Oh darlin' it looks like a lamp in the air...
Last week it was small;
And shaped like a bow,
But now it is big
And it's round like an "O"..."


When my daughter was very tiny she fell in love with the moon. She would sit beside me in the porch swing at night, fresh from her bath in her nightgown, hair in damp ringlets against her cheek and we would sing the "Moon" song as well as others: "Harvest Moon", and "By the Light of the Silvery Moon". We would take her out into the yard so she could see it; sometimes merely a sliver of white, easily jumped by the famous cow and other times a perfect ball of orange, glowing like a Jack-O-Lantern on a crisp October night.

When her fascination for this illuminating wonder continued, I went to the store and purchased some yellow cotton material. From it I fashioned a crescent moon with bright eyes and a crooked smile. "Mooney" went everywhere - from her crib to the swings, vacations and restaurants. No matter where we went, Mooney went too. She would take him outside on clear moonlit nights and show him to his counterpart, nestled just above the trees. It was an enchanting and precious love affair.

Over the years we added Mama and Baby moon, and the trio went from crib to twin bed with the arrival of our own new baby. Eventually, her love for the moon was replaced by the adventures shared with her little brother and the similarly colored orange cat named Oliver. Story books such as "Goodnight Moon" and "Moon Boy" were shelved and the brilliant orb seemed to shut out his light and fade from her heart.

Several months ago we were going through some boxes in storage when she came across her moon family. "Look!" she cried, holding them up and wiping the dust from the worn fabric. "I've been wondering about these." She laid them gently in the seat of the car and when we got home, took them to her room where they once again shine. A bit faded now, stuffing pushing through little tears in the material and embroidery thread missing in places, they hold residence in a stranger's room; a teenage girl with different things and new dreams. Looking at them brings back so many memories, and those nights on the front porch resonate through my mind as I remember the little girl who had not only the world, but also......the moon.

Trying to catch up...

I've been away for a couple of days, visiting family and just returned home. Instead of taking an hour to get here, several detours stretched it out into five: Stopping to pick a tape up from my niece, being trapped in the middle of a heavy downpour, meeting up with my husband and going with him as we traveled to pull his co-worker out of the mud (he was on back country roads surveying storm damage), finding the owner for a lost black lab named "Fred", stopping by Mac Don's for cookies and shakes and finding the cattle that had gotten out - in the midst of rain and darkness - along the highway heading home.

Tapping my ruby red slippers together, breathing a tired sigh and turning in. Goodnight, everyone.

No Words Needed

Dedicated to the one I Love...

Sometimes one is so close to us that we have to be reminded to see them; to remember the things that drew them to our heart in the first place.
I met my husband, James, while I was a single mother. He had lost his first wife in an automobile accident and was parenting on his own as well. I felt at home with him from the start: a friendship that quickly caught fire and lit my world with its constant flame. Sometimes in the whirlwind that is often our life, we forget to stop and remember those early days and the love that brought us to where we now stand.
Astrologically speaking, we are probably ill-suited. I am the harmony-loving Libra who is creative and sensitive, romantic and tuned into the emotional. He is the analytical Capricorn who speaks his mind, is incredibly intelligent and devoted to his work. And sometimes when our opposing personas chafe and frustrate…when I long for flowers and candlelight, I stop myself and think about all the wonderful things that make him the man who captures - and holds - my heart.

How could I forget how he sat with me during my first MRI….how he accompanied me to Mayo Clinic after only knowing one another a month. That late night flight to Minnesota, the hours sitting in the waiting room, the emotions, the unknown.
And when my truck broke down on the interstate….how he drove 100 miles to come rescue me; the relief on his face when he saw me safe…the relief on mine to know he made me so…
How he accepted my children as part of who I was, loving and laughing with them…being our rock.
How he keeps his cool when I lose mine….and his patience with me when most would blow their top. How he takes it in stride when I goof up, back the car into a pole, bounce a check or mess up the mower. How he listens when I read him things I know he has no interest in…and how he surprises me with chocolate and vanilla Diet Coke! How he lets me be independent, yet, lets me lean. How he never falters when my body goes up or down a size, loving me, regardless. How he helps with the Math that perplexes me and fixes everything we lay before him. How he’s stayed beside me through an ice storm, flooding in the basement, two surgeries, loss of work, 20+ cats, 2 dogs, an old Chevy car and all the changes that life has thrown our way.

So in the craziness of our days, when I feel distant...because I am too close…..may I step back. And in doing so, see the truth of the blessing I have...and I hold.

Ode to "Back to School" for the Teacher/Mom

Six thirty alarm...radio playing. Drag to the shower....helps wake me up.
Hair dryer and make-up, toast and juice. Darn! These pants are much too tight...
Packing lunches. "Have your homework?" Book bags, notebooks, signed slips, coat.
"Have a good day, Honey." Kiss at the door... Out we dash, no flats? Let's go!
Six miles, slow down. In the school, 8:00 a.m.

Ringing bells, morning greetings. Cheery faces.... a new day.
Little hands inside of mine. Goofy smiles, melt my heart.
Modes and means, what's the average? Time tables. Try again.
Cross your t's and dot your i's. Recess time...hands to yourself.
After lunchtime sticky shirts, stories read to, pencils, pens....
I think your library book is due, don't forget your P.E. shoes.
What a lovely picture, sweetheart. You like Art? Yeah, me too.
Final bell...out you go. Here's your homework, see you soon.

Home to laundry. Make some cookies...what's for supper? Almost done...
Geometry homework, let me see it. Been awhile, it's Greek to me...
When's your paper due? Better get started... Deadline's coming, don't be late.
Sweep the floor, tomorrow's trashday, Wash the dishes...feed the cats.
All sports meeting, I'll be there.... Is my uniform clean? Game's at seven...
Twirling flags, I forgot that part. No one noticed, don't worry, dear...
Sign-up sheet. A new commitment. Help me, watch me, listen, look.....
I need five dollars, Mom. What for? FFA dues? In my purse...
Help with costumes? Of course I will...
Can you bring a cake? Mark me down...
Birthdays next week, I'll make cards...
The fair is coming, you're down for Bingo,
Church supper first, please bring two pies...
Dance on Friday, mind your curfew. Thanks for being such great kids...
I'm sorry your friend wasn't so nice... I'm proud, though, of your good, kind heart...
Check my email...write some more.
Your day went well, dear? Glad to hear it...mine was fine, too. Nice you asked.

Done with homework? Time for bed now...
Fold the clothes, hugs all around.
It's late now, darling..... School tomorrow.
Goodnight, Sweet Dreams, Love You, God Bless.......

Missing Bev...

One of the best gifts we can be given in life is a true friend. I have been fortunate and blessed through the years to have many, but one of the dearest and most wonderful is my friend, Bev.

We met while working at the same university. She was in the Advancement Office and I was across campus, in the library. We hit it off immediately, though different backgrounds, personalities and 12 years separated us. Luckily for us both, none of these things have anything to do with a friendship.

I once read a verse that said: "A true friend is one who comes in when the whole world has gone out", and that definitely describes some of the moments when she has been beside me; sitting by my hospital bed and talking me through the hours following an arteriogram, listening to me vent and cry....checking on me when she knew I was alone. Her love and loyalty has brought me through some difficult times and carried me when I couldn't walk on my own.

And the joy.....! We have sat in our favorite restaurant many times, talking late into the night, not realizing that everyone around us was leaving. With Bev, things are brighter, more in "technicolor". She brings out a part of me that I love and miss when she's not around. No one else has ever made me laugh so much, so often or so hard about the silliest things. With the twinkle in her eye and her sharp wit, she can get me to smile in a moment- and keep it there - regardless of where we are or what we're doing. We have spent so much time together that it is nothing unusual to open my door and find my outfit mirrored in hers or thoughts expressed in same words at the same time. Everyone should have a friend like that. Everyone needs a "Bev".

Four years ago she sang at my wedding...and stood beside me as I nervously began a new journey in my life. And a few months ago she, too, remarried and started another chapter in hers. The mile that once stood between our two houses has stretched into nearly 200....and I miss her terribly. We write letters and talk on the phone, but it isn't the same as spending "person" time together; talking, sharing, laughing.

God knew all those years ago I needed a true friend. He placed Bev in my pathway as a compass to guide me over the brambles of life, back into the sunshine. I'm so thankful to walk beside her still and thank Him for this wonderful treasure. Miss you, Ethel.....

The Signal

"Don't forget to signal!" We'd call to my mother as she left our room and headed downstairs each night.

Outside of the low south window of our bedroom we could see the yard light, glowing in the darkness and illuminating the farm. It was a constant beacon of comfort in the midst of a shadowed country night. After baths and stories, my mother would kiss us softly on the cheek and leave our room as we called after her to "signal".

As she descended the stairway she would say, "I'll see you in my dreams". Many times we would ask her what she would be wearing and she would describe a favorite dress from her limited wardrobe. And then, leaning up in our beds we would watch and wait until the yard light flickered on and off: once, twice...three times. And snuggling deep beneath the covers we would contently drift off to sleep in the comfort of Mother's goodnight message: "I - Love - You".

Closed on Sunday

Sundays used to mean freshly pressed dresses with matching purses....white, buckled shoes and Sunday School. We'd come home to a large dinner, all eight of us around the round, oak table, then to Wichita to visit my grandma and grandpa. We'd all line up on their couch and sit quietly...not speaking unless spoken to, until we were given permission to "run and play". We'd creep up attic stairs, sit on front porch steps to watch the traffic on Harry Street or play with toys now considered precious antiques.

We'd drive home along deserted city streets where families frolicked together or worked in their yards. Closed garage doors kept everyone home and quiet evenings were filled with "Walt Disney" and "Bonanza" while having popcorn and Grape Crush.

There were no Quik Trips, no Wal-Marts. Like a twenty-first century Christmas Day, Sundays were closed. We planned around it, not even thinking twice. It was a day for worship, a day for family. It was the seventh day of rest to recharge, reflect, relax.

Unfortunately there are times when I get caught up in the Sunday madness and make a trip into town. But how I long for the days when the sidewalks rolled up on a Saturday night and were kept in quiet seclusion until the dawn of Monday.

My Hands

We were at the mall today, shopping for various items when a young gentleman in one of the shops called out to me. He was holding a bottle of hand lotion, "from Israel", he said; lotion that would make my hands soft, my nails strong. He asked to see them, and it was then that I politely declined and turned away.

I was embarrassed to show him. I do not have pretty hands. I may have once, but what I see now would hardly grace the glossy-paged ads for hand care items. I have never had a manicure, never sat in plush chairs with trays of lovely, shiny polishes before me. I fear there is little hope for them, these working hands of mine.

They have seen the sun from hours on the mower. A size 6 that once fit loosely is now quite snug as pregnancies and surgeries, hard work and a touch of arthritis have changed them from the delicate hands of my youth to the beginnings of middle age. They have been smashed and cut, jammed and burnt. There have been blisters and calluses for they have dug in the dirt, washed hundreds of dishes, carried heavy loads. They have held hammers and screw drivers, drawn pictures and sewn clothes. Little hands have held them tightly and big hands have kept them warm. Runny noses and tears have been wiped and healed, letters of love and good-bye, written and sealed. They have held books and flowers, taken photographs and steered bicycles. Thrown balls with children and rice at weddings. They have clenched in pain and clapped with joy. They have worn rings and gloves, scrubbed and scraped. They've brushed painted canvases and little girl's hair; molded clay, played the piano, knitted scarves and clasped in prayer.

They will never be pretty, these hands of mine. But how they have served me through these years. There will never be compliments, aesthetically speaking; no lotion will ever change that. So thank you, but no thank you. These are working hands. And I wouldn't have it any other way...

In Memory of a Treasure, Sarah

A Death Has Occurred

by Paul Irion

A death has occurred and everything is changed.

We are painfully aware that life can never be the same again,

that yesterday is over,

that relationships once rich have ended.

But there is another way to look upon this truth.

If life now went on the same,

without the presence of the one who has died,

We could only conclude that the life we remember

made no contribution, filled no space, meant nothing.

The fact that this person left behind a place that cannot be filled

is a high tribute to this individual.

Life can be the same after a trinket has been lost.

But never after the loss of a treasure.

Today I learned that two young lives have been taken from this earth: a six-month-old baby girl who was ill from the moment of her birth....and a beautiful young woman who had just begun living her life. Neither makes any sense to me and I cannot help but wonder "why"? It makes me hold my own children just a little bit closer.....

My message tonight is brief.
Dance.
Laugh.
Say, "I Love you."
Cherish every moment.
Hug often.
Love everyday.
Be kind.
Show compassion.
Make memories.
LIVE.

More of what I love

Wet clothes flapping on a clothesline, old autograph books from my past...
The smell of fresh baked bread, and eating it with lots of butter!
Laughing so hard that you cannot breathe....hot chocolate on a cold winter's day.
Finding something you love on sale,
Hard wood floors...
Home-made pie. What kind? Yes!
Walking barefoot through soft, fine sand.
Old attics full of memories....
Knowing I have made someone's day
Pretty yarn in all kinds of colors and textures...
Writing long, hand-written letters
Receiving long, hand-written letters...
Funky colored pens and notebooks
Finding that perfect parking space...
Escalators...and chance encounters
Flying in an open cock-pit plane.... watching clouds and their beautiful patterns
Singing in the church cantata
Finding money in the pocket of an old coat....... the smell of rain...
The anticipation of waiting for someone at the airport....waiting for that moment of eyes meeting...
Browsing through an antique store with a free afternoon
Rope swings with slotted board seats, hanging from big, old trees
Tomatoes eaten right off the vine, warm from the sunshine...
A fuzzy robe and slippers after a hot bath on a cold night
Finding a good book......... and "just one more chapter..."
Hot tamales and pop at the movies
The craft aisles at Wal-Mart....and all of Hobby Lobby!
Coasting downhill on a bike, the wind in my hair...
Sunflowers in August and good "hair" days!
My dog, G.T. and taking walks together
The smell of hay on a summer day
Folding warm clothes from the dryer in winter time
Indian Summer....and old-fashioned cowboys.....
Laughing at old family slides from a 1960's projector
No-bake cookies....
Caroling on Christmas Eve...and kerosene lamps...
Having - and enjoying - some alone time...
Believing that chivalry is not dead...and watching it in action.
Reconnecting with an old friend.....and the hours of endless talk that follows....
Life!

I've always loved this picture, taken many years ago when my teenagers were babies. Though they are still close, I don't often get to see the hugs and bursts of affection that they showed one another when they were small and unaffected by what was "cool".

A hug is so powerful....and it can say much. "I Love You." "You were missed." "Hello"...and "Goodbye." "I'm so sorry." "I'm here for you...." And sometimes it can say with a gesture, what we cannot articulate.

Who do you need to hug today?

Listening...

We used to live near a small airport where the presence of planes was as common to us as birds, clouds, stars...the sounds from a small engine as familiar as the squeak from the swing set, the traffic on our street. I grew accustomed to the sight and sound of small aircraft; a comforting, calming activity that took place far above me, but seemed as close as my outstretched arms. I would ride my bike by the airport, watching take-offs and landings and sit in the grass on the edge of town, pondering the lives of those aboard and dreaming of my own future flights

When we moved to the country, far from city or airport, I missed the lull of the engines, the reflection of sun on silver against the sky. The constant hum of highway traffic a mile away seemed a poor substitution for the roar of a small plane overhead.

This morning as I came back from my morning walk, I heard an airplane as it headed north towards the city, an hour away. And it struck me as strange because it seems that lately, I've been hearing more air traffic. Medic helicopters travel the path over our house that links two cities, small planes seem more common now and occasionally, I hear a jet far above as it begins its descent. So why was it I rarely heard anything the first two years we lived here? Perhaps there is simply more air traffic, more flights. Perhaps new routes have been established that now take planes in our direction. Or maybe Air Traffic Control sensed my loss and directed aircraft to satisfy my aerial yearnings (um...probably not)!

I'm beginning to suspect that they have been there all along. I was so used to having them close by that it took little effort to see or hear them. Now everything is vast and wide and the sky has opened up more fully. The sounds out here don't command that you hear, but whisper their presence, asking that you listen.

And so it is with life. We get so accustomed to sights and sounds, comforts in life, people that we love, that we take our commonplace for granted. One of my mother's favorite sayings is, "Think how happy you would be if you lost everything that you had.......then got it back again." We do take things for granted. We forget to listen and appreciate and then when we lose it, we want it back again.

Most everything that we want is before us if we just open our eyes and ears. Don't just look, but see. Don't just hear....listen. And appreciate.

The planes are there.....

Change

I'm not good with change. I want things to remain the same, to know what to expect, to chart my course for familiar territory. It's hard going back to the beloved farm of my childhood where the only landmarks I recognize are cedar trees completely out of proportion with my memory. My children's first school is no longer the small, loving place where I held little hands and snapped photographs of first days but has become, instead, an overgrown brick impersonation of what used to be. Quaint country roads have turned into freeways, and my face and body belie the youth that is inside of me.

Last night as I was out walking, I watched as the sun started to set. It began a simple path in its descent but as I watched, it changed with every minute, turning from an orange glow into a beautiful display from both sides of the colorwheel. I was amazed how the sky transformed in steps, each lovelier than the last. And I realized that sometimes, change is good. As much as I enjoyed my children when they were little, they have become intelligent, interesting young people who are wonderful company, keeping me active and focused. New roads can get me to my destination faster.....new technology brings new learning. Though no lines of age found my face in youth, I've gained wisdom and grace through their presence. Life is a cycle, a circle; a constant series of changes that have to take place so we can learn and grow and become.

I'm still not always comfortable with change but I know it is necessary. And sometimes, it is even beautiful.

Laughing out Loud

Yesterday I took my daughter and son into the city to do some shopping. As usual, the car was filled with chatter about various things when I remembered a story that my husband had shared with me about a recent experience at a local restaurant. I'm not sure that in its written telling I could do it justice, but I proceeded to share it with the kids as we drove down the road. I got into the middle of it and got so tickled that I couldn't stop laughing. Eyes welled with tears, chest tight with the feeling of overflowing hysteria, I could very well have been a road hazard. Thankfully, there was little traffic or I would have felt obligated to pull over.

Laughing out loud and hysterically. You know that feeling. When something hits you just right (often at the most embarrassing times) and you are completely and willingly out of control with the most joyous of emotions. Blurred vision, stomach aching, unable to sit upright...and when you have gained composure, that wonderful feeling of release. For that moment, everything is perfect and right and possible and the world is on track.

Tap into your funny bone. Excavate your wit. Laugh out loud.

Country Moment

I went to water the neighbor's horses this evening. Two, a silver mare -large, proud - and a Bay, skittish, cautious, held-back. I work the pump, letting the cool water fill their stock tank on this hot, windy day on the Kansas prairie and walk over to check the plants. Dry as dust, though their pots were overflowing yesterday; moisture no competition for July's furnace blast. I carry the bucket to the pump by the barn, a weathered building I would love to explore more fully. The shingled roof is peeling like a bad sunburn, boards loose and squeaky. A loop of barbed wire hangs on its side, a perfect circle against the parallel of rectangles.

The bucket full, I carry it to the porch. A lone geranium, daylilies, potted cactus and aloe vera....a mum, desperately clinging to life in the midst of shriveled stems. Smoke billows in the distance, an unwise burn on a day too windy.

The mamma cat and her two velvet babies are gone, most likely seeking a cool respite. There is no sound except for the wind that blows across Cottonwood tops and whistles through vacant windows. The cattle are in the pasture on the hill...and in the pond. They have no timetable, no calendar to tell them that there will be another few weeks of this.

It is all so perfect in its imperfection and I savor the stillness before I grind the truck to a start. I switch off the radio, its noise foreign and unwelcome to this moment. Titan and Ellie are down the hill, their colt nearby and I roll down the windows and let the wind carry me down the road. Home is near....and its time to fix supper.

Church of my Childhood

It was the place where I first came to know God, that little country church of my childhood. Located on the north side of a quiet highway outside of Wichita, Park Methodist Church was the beginning of my lifelong spiritual journey. A small, white wooden structure, it sat along a hedgerow and in the middle of a grassy lot filled with wildflowers. The gravel drive wrapped around to the side where familiar vehicles parked once a week. A few concrete steps framed by iron railing led quickly up into a small vestibule where coats hung on winter mornings and smiling faces greeted one another each Sunday. A narrow and winding stairway curved down to the east, turning north on its descent and led to the open basement which housed a small kitchen and partitioned Sunday School rooms.
Outside, several yards to the north, was a rickety outhouse, faded from the sun and always an adventure for us children. On the east beneath the hedgerow was a propane tank, cool to the touch, the church key housed within a black magnetic box and hidden along its silver leg.
Inside, the sanctuary was small, yet open and very light. My family always sat in the same place as was customary for all the members of the church. Our unofficial "reserved" seat was in the second pew from the back along the southeast wall. My parents, four of my siblings and I sat in the same order each week while my oldest brother played the organ at the front of the church. My parents sat with several of us sandwiched in between as my father's sudden switch in octaves during hymns tickled my mother. I felt a benefactress in this situation since I was the one who got to sit beside my dad, singing from the purple hymnal and feeling warm and loved. My mother often passed us little Bible books to read: Noah's Ark, Joseph's Coat of Many Colors and my favorite - Baby Moses. These entertained us on many days when sermons grew long and little legs grew restless.
A large floor register was at the end of our pew, warming us on the cold, frosty mornings of winter and the sun streamed through the east window, dancing across our laps and basking each face in a celestial flow. On dewy summer mornings the birds could be heard outside of each open window; a sound I've always thought was so close to God. There was no air-conditioning or central air so when it turned hot we would use hand-held fans made of heavy paper, depicting colorful pictures of Jesus. Ridged, wooden popsicle-like sticks were attached to the backs, making them easier to grasp.
Back then worship began first with Sunday School following. The adults took turns reading inspirational passages after the sermon so that the transition between the two services flowed smoothly and without digression from the message. My father often read these verses and I admired him and listened carefully as he was not one to relish being in front of people.
Downstairs at Sunday School my mother's quiet voice read us stories as we passed around the small envelope designed to hold our precious dimes of tithing. We sat at small, wooden tables feeling close and safe in the knowledge that as both teacher and mother, she had the inside scoop on the lessons we were to learn. It was here in this little country church that I took my first communion. It seemed forever before my parents felt I was ready and I would sit listlessly and enviously in the pew with my little brother as the other members of my family went to the altar. And when it finally came my time to join my older siblings and parents at the front, I was excited and humbled to have stepped over the threshold from observer to participant in this important and holy part of the service and my life.
Cleaning the church was delegated to a different family each month and when it was our turn, dust rags, mops and the smell of lemon filled the sanctuary as we worked together to make it sparkle. For us younger kids, the highlight was bravely retrieving the front door key from underneath the propane tank. At one time a black spider had woven a web next to the magnetic box and we would half hope, half dread we would find the eight-legged creature scurring across the silver tank.
Various holidays found us wearing paper hats shaped like daisies, reciting poems and singing songs. And once a year at Christmastime the beautiful alto voice of Margaurite Faulk filled the sanctuary as she played her guitar and sang. The most anticipated moment on those Christmas mornings was after church when bags of colorful, ribboned candy were passed out to the small number of children from our congregation; a treat in a time when such sweets were not commonplace.
There were fun-filled Halloween parties on chilly autumn nights, songs about Gabriel resonating from the partitioned school rooms and quiet moments for prayer and reflection. It was always comforting to look around at the small congregation and see the same loving faces in the same places each week, knowing that though few, they were loyal both to God and to one another. We were not only members of the same congregation, but neighbors and friends who helped each other seven days a week. Through their example and living in a loving and giving home, I learned that though it is important to have a church and attend it every Sunday, it's more important to establish a church within our hearts and attend it every day.
What a wonderful and lasting memory, this first little church; an integral part of my life that set the tone for my faith. It was a spot so dear to my childhood, and to the adult that I have become.

Building...

I'm convinced that if you really want to see how compatible you are with a person......build together! My husband and I have FINALLY finished putting up the rest of the sheetrock in the basement - YES. We had to wait until we could build a small storage shed to house the saws and tools we had stored in the basement, and finished THAT project up a couple of weeks ago (I don't get bored easily...but that had to be one of the most boring days of my life)!

I am lucky. We work quite well together on projects, and even when I do something not so intelligent (like dropping a hammer on my head!) he's very patient and rarely loses his cool. We see how the other deals with frustration, teamwork, compromise, compatiblity and communication. And all of those things are carry-overs...in how you treat one another in every day life.

I'm telling you....if you want to get to know someone, forget the romantic dinners.....forget co-habitation. Grab a hammer, some nails and a stack of wood...and go build!

The Cross

"On a Hill Far Away...stood an Old Rugged Cross..."

It stands alone at the edge of a pasture at the bottom of a small hill, tall and proud, its arms holding up a barbed fence with sunflowers growing close by. Most days when I drive by, I look at it: the skyline behind it, the lighting, the bird perched on one arm. But sometimes in my haste to get to where I'm going, I forget it is there.
Sometimes life is like that. We think of God. We see Him in our day. We stop....we pray....we see the beauty He has given us. We remember the thorns that Jesus bore, like the barbed wired upon this cross. But other days we're in a hurry....and we forget.
Today is a new beginning. A new opportunity to fall on your knees in thanksgiving. A new chance to ask for forgiveness. A new day to seek God's help and grace. For even on the days when we are running to meet that next deadline, make that morning meeting, attend an evening ballgame....even on those days, those moments that we forget, God is waiting with arms outstretched to give - and receive - our love.

Ambushed

I love the television show, "Ambush Makeover" on ABC. Usually the word, "ambush" carries a negative connotation: "to lie in wait", "a surprise attack", "to lurk". Lurk? How creepy is that? But in this show, an unsuspecting person is surprised on the street and taken away for the day for a positive change: a new hair style, make-up, clothing. But it's not so much about the physical changes as it is about what takes place within. At the end, when the person is revealed to themselves in a full-length mirror, there is new confidence, a change of expression, a genuine smile. After a day of being cared for there is a bounce in their step, a light in their eyes.....new hopes, renewal.

How nice that out of no where, someone steps in with a new opportunity, disguised as an ambush....and gives you the gift of yourself.

Alphabetically Me

Who I am and what I love.... in 26 letters:

A - Andrea, affectionate, artistic, animated, Autumn
B - books, Bed & Breakfast Inns, barefoot, bicycling, birthdays, Beverly, blessings
C - compassionate, candles, cuddly, camera, caring, castles, content, creative,
communication, country girl, chocolate, children, Christmas
D - Dylan, deep-thinking, different, down-to-earth, determined, direction, day-trips, diverse,
daughter, dreams, devoted, dancing, daisies
E - ethical, earnest, evergreen fragrance
F - family, friends, fireplaces, fair, friend, fun-loving, feminine, feeling, flying, freckles,
forgiving
G - grounded, glorious sunsets, goofy, gardens, gazebos, giving, Galveston, genuine
H - honesty, helping, hugs, Halloween fun, holding hands, hardware stores, hazel eyes,
harvest moons, hopes, harvest, harmony
I - idealistic, imaginative, ice cream, Italian food
J - James, joy-filled, John Deere, jeans, Jim Brickman
K - kind, knitting, kites, kissing
L - Lesly, Libra, laughing, level-headed, loving, lady, library, love notes, loveliness,
letters, Lori
M - Megan, mother, Methodist, musicals, Mexican food, music, memories, myself
N - nature, neighbor, night-owl
O - objective, October, original
P - picnics, patient, photography, partnership, positive, protective, priorities, perceptive,
poetry, planes, pretty dresses, porch swings
Q - quiet, quality
R - romance, responsible, reading, rain showers, rare, rocking chairs, real
S - sensitive, solitude, singing, sentimental, surprises, sweet-tooth, sunshine, serious,
silly, sharing, sweaters, smiles, Salina, simple pleasures, sister
T - Tammy, tea, twilight, touching, tender, Thomas Kinkade, treasured moments, teacher
U - unique, unbeatable, understanding
V - vanilla fragrance, Victorian, vulnerable
W - writing, walks, warm, wife, weddings, wheatfields, witty, will not settle
X - x-tra kind people
Y - youthful, yard work
Z - zany, zero tolerance of the superficial

The blessing of McDonald's

It was Valentine's Day, 1994 and I was on my way home from taking flowers and chocolate out to my great aunt who lived at the Presbyterian Manor across town. It was bitterly cold and snow was flying in the air; not the hard, wind-driven snow that stops a town in its tracks, but flakes that begin as downy feathers and gradually accelerate into a substantial snowfall.
The children, 4 and nearly 2 at the time, were buckled in their car seats in the back, bundled tightly in winter paraphernalia. We were thankful to be just a few blocks away from the warmth and coziness of home.
We passed by a new housing development where several men were working on the frame of a large, two-story home. Faces red inside the unprotected skeleton of the house, they worked deligently at their task, hoping - I'm sure - for a reprieve from the cold and wet environment. I thought of my own husband, out on the road in his delivery truck, and of my father, who spent many years climbing telephone poles and crawling underneath houses to work on phone lines.
Instead of going through the traffic light and driving the last mile home, we turned north and headed towards McDonald's where I purchased several orders of cheeseburgers, fries and coffee. We then returned to the housing development where only two men were left, still working out in the cold.
"Hello!" I called, as I stepped out of the car, bags in hand. I told the gentlemen that we had passed by and thought they could use something to warm them up. There was a look of great surprise on their faces as one of them stepped forward, extended his hand and introduced himself. He came over to the car and helped bring out the coffee, thanking me profusely. As I pulled away, they waved then immediately sat down to enjoy their lunch. It seemed the right thing to do on a snowy Valentine's Day; extending a hand to a stranger...showing concern for a fellow man.
If I could have, I would've packed them up and taken them to the best restaurant in town or brought a large tarp and heaters into the place where they were working. We can't always do exactly what we want to help someone, but we can almost always do something to make a positive impact to their day.
I didn't give my name during the introduction, but merely said how nice it was to meet them. I wanted to be an anonymous name: a face that would gradually fade through the years, but a memory I hoped would linger....and inspire. I wanted to secure their smiles in hopes that they would view others as the possible benefactor and in turn, give to someone else in need.
Sometimes it's inconvenient....sometimes we have to go out of our way, but I feel it is what we were meant to do on this earth: to love our neighbor, not just as ourselves, but sometimes...in spite of ourselves.

Letting Go

Today I watched as my teenage daughter drove out of our driveway and down the road for the first time. It's excruciating, wanting to be beside her, to protect her from the hazards of the world that lay outside of our front yard. She is just six miles away, in town at a school practice...but it feels like a thousand.
You never get over being a parent. There never comes a time when you say, "OK...no worries now." Whether they're taking their first steps, walking in the door of their kindergarten classroom......or driving down the road and away from your sheltering arms. I know I have to let her go; let her spread her wings, make her mistakes, reach for her dreams. But while I'm doing that, I'll still wait anxiously by the window....until I see her safely home again.

No words

As I sit here with much on my mind but unable to articulate, a sing-song verse from an old autograph book keeps playing through my head. I'd say it pretty much describes me at the moment...

Reading with Mother...

I remember reading with my mother. We would lie upstairs in my bed while she shared her love of books with us. My sister and I would listen as Laura and Mary Ingalls came to life and even after we could read ourselves, a treasure still lay in my mother's quiet voice. In 1967 when I was 6 years old, I was given a book called "Little Bits of Wisdom". My mother's beautiful penmanship lines the back of the cover with an inscription to me, as fresh as if she'd written it yesterday. We would sit against the headboard, our backs against the pillow as we read the verses inside. She would help me with the words I didn't know and we'd discuss what we thought each phrase meant. The pictures and words are so familiar to me:

"What you would seem to be, be really."

"He that would live in peace and at ease,
Must not speak all he knows, nor judge all he sees."

"Hide not your talents; for use they were made!
What's a sundial in the shade?"

I didn't know it back then, but I was learning not only to read but to feel and know. I was learning compassion for others, the Golden Rule and love for the written word.

I work in a classroom where we teach children with learning disabilities. One particular group that I work with consists of three little girls, just the age that I was when I received this book. They are beautiful children, but sometimes a 2nd grader's unreined temperament gets the better of her and she isn't as kind as she could be. I brought this book to school and sat out in the hallway with them: three sets of eyes glued to the pages, little hands in mine, bodies leaning in close to see. I was charmed once again as I read the words in my grown-up version, and listened to their thoughtful innocence and pondering. How good to know that after 37 years it is still teaching and that its messages of inspiration and quiet lessons are as pertinent today as they were all those years ago.

"Little drops of water, Little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean and the pleasant land.
Little deeds of kindness, little words of love,
Help to make earth happy Like the Heaven above."

Storm watch

Dark, gray-blue clouds began forming Sunday afternoon just as predicted. They moved slowly across the sky, gathering power as they crept closer...their great mass enveloping the prairie. I have lived in Kansas all my life but have never become comfortable with the awesome force of a summer storm.

It was just the children and me as night time took over and the storm hit. We went to the basement when the wind rose, sweeping around us.....howling....taunting, and the hail began to pummel the rooftop. A flicker of light, then darkness. The illumination from the lightning lit up my daughter's room as we lay there waiting for the worst to subside: Megan in her own bed and Dylan and I with pillows on the floor. I prayed that our home would be spared and that my husband would be safe while he was out in the midst of it.

Usually the power is back on within a few hours, and though daybreak brought a beautiful, clear sky, the illumination of digital clocks was absent; the whirring of ceiling fans stilled. It's funny how loud electricity is and how accustomed we get to its commonplace noise. And even though we know there is no current, we still switch on powerless lights, open dark refrigerators and contemplate hot meals.

We were without power for two days and though its absence led to the frustration of soured milk and uncomfortable temperatures, it was also a time to catch up with one another. We are a close family and spend a great deal of time together under normal circumstances. But this down time allowed us the opportunity to connect on a different level: no television to distract, no teenage chats with friends over the internet, no dishwasher or washing machines swishing in the background. We went on walks, spent time outdoors, read, worked on puzzles, played "Clue", took silly photographs, drank too much Kool-aid, made shadows on the wall at night and laughed a whole lot.

And when the lights came back on this evening and the modern world of technology groaned and whirred its way to life again, we were grateful. But I noticed that the kids didn't immediately jump to the computer as I thought they would, nor did they switch on the T.V. or throw a bag of popcorn into the microwave. They sat with books....close on the arm of my chair, not quite ready to give up the 48-hour moment of quiet that drew us close, and held us still.

Kitty in a Creamer

We have so much fun watching the kittens playing with and pouncing on one another. We call this one "Mouse" because he skirts around the place like a little rodent.

Growing up, my sister and I loved cats and living on a farm, were never without at least 10 or so. We had names for each one and all were considered part of the family. It was always traumatizing to lose one and yet it never prevented us from falling in love all over again as soon as the next litter was born...

Happy Independence!

What fun my family has when we all get together! I am so fortunate to have such loving and charming people in my life. This was just a small group out of the total 24 (children, parents, siblings & spouses, nieces & nephews). Happy July 4th to my fellow Americans.....enjoy your independence!

The Picture Remembers...

Every picture tells a story, but this particular photograph displays only the cover to a tale that will never quite be told.
The year was 1997, the season...Autumn. It was a perfect day from a storybook album: lovely, poetic, its lines synchronized and flowing into an enchanting tale.
We had spent the day at the Kansas City Renaissance Festival near Bonner Springs, the four of us, and it was coming to a close. The evening crowd had dwindled slowly, leaving just a few to witness the last rays of the October sun descending over the tree-lined horizon.
I had made all of our costumes, including the one merely silhouetted here in his shadow as he stands to take our picture. We felt one with the day as if we had stepped back in time 400 years to our own medieval setting where ladies were indeed ladies and knights proved that chivalry not only lived, but thrived.
Looking at this picture brings back a flood of memories. For though in it, my smiles tells a lot, so much remains unspoken.
How can you explain what is in the heart? It was a real fairy tale that rode in on a white horse and vanished when reality stepped in, interrupting the storyline. It is now forever far away and yet, always near as I'm haunting by a list of unanswered questions.
Because the smile doesn't just say, "What a glorious day this very day is"...the smile remembers.
It remembers dancing by candlelight on top of a castle rooftop. It remembers lying across the bed, reading a book to each other and loving the artwork showcased on each page. It remembers a surprise trip to Chicago, arriving at dawn and a prom held in a candlelit garage. It remembers a Bed and Breakfast with a skylight over the tin tub and of the perfect full moon that hung directly above it as if it had been planned just for us. It remembers drinking wassail and singing carols...of dancing in a gazebo during a rainstorm. It remembers carving Jack-O-Lanterns, witnessing the first snowflakes on a post-Thanksgiving night and making snow angels the next morning.. It remembers a warm, August breeze blowing in the low window of an old farmhouse, sitting on the floor in Barnes and Noble with the excitement of children as we shared our passion for the written word. It remembers love notes written in the form of treasure maps, and silver rings we wore. It remembers playing tag in the park, framing houses together, all of the songs that were ours and sitting in Applebee's at our special table, talking - literally - for hours. It remembers skating at the park, playing sock tag, watching "Anne of Green Gables", reading - and crying - over Nicholas Sparks', The Notebook, and never wanting to say "Goodnight". But above all else, it remembers the laughter, the romance, the talks, the friendship.
The smile did not know, when that picture was taken, that it would all come to an end. The woman in that photograph knew...at that moment...KNEW that what they had was real. And the moments they shared, at the very moment they were shared, were cherished. She was her best self with him, and he with her. And that is as love is supposed to be.
Sometimes I miss her, but I'm glad she lived and that she experienced the passion and connection that speaks to two hearts.
They did not live "happily ever after", as the famed storybook conclusion would have it. At least not together. But this photograph from that time in my life will always be a lovely illustration; not of "what might have been", but simply of what was.

The "court" on top of the castle of Coronado 

On top of Coronado Heights 

The Castle

I woke up this morning and saw the daylilies blooming outside my window. Their faces were turned eastward, towards the sun and the brilliant orange of their petals lit the backyard like the glow of a jack-o-lantern on Halloween night.
I thought of the other beautiful things that surround me and the places that I go - both physically and in my mind - that are lovely and stir what lies deep within me.

One of those places is Coronado Heights.

Atop a lone hill 15 miles south of Salina rests a small castle. The history of its knights and ladies is embedded in each stone, each spiraled step... and the tables once seated great kings and queens who ruled the land with scepters of conscience and love for their kingdom. Beyond the castle to the west is a cliff that overlooks a land in peace; lived by a people who were happy in the tranquility of their lives and in those who held them.

Actually, Coronado Heights is a memorial. Built in 1936, it is believed to be the farthest point north that Coronado came on his expedition, almost 500 years ago. But for me, it's fun to imagine it in the time it represents. And it is a place that does hold much peace for me.
I have been there many times before. The first was when I was a college student, since it rests just outside of the little town of Lindsborg where I got my degree. Back then it was mostly a place for kids to party so it was difficult to find moments for private thoughts. Later, after I moved to Salina and the children were small, I took them there to hike and play.

Along the winding, rocky road that leads up to the castle, you will find a marker that reads, "A Place to Share". It is a beautiful place; certainly a place to share and couples often go there to watch the sun set low upon the horizon.

But it is also a place to be alone.

I remember one evening, a few years ago, I went there needing some solace...some quiet time to think about my life and who I was. I walked along the uneven ground so I could sit on the edge of the cliff and ponder all that was revolving through my mind.
It was one of those beautiful days when the wind is but a breeze and the temperature one of shirtsleeves. It was a rare day, a rare moment and I was alone up on the hill. As I walked I watched each step I took, aware of the crunch of sand and gravel beneath my feet and the stillness all around me. Then suddenly I looked up and what I saw literally took my breath away.

I had seen that same view many times before, but that day it was as if I was seeing it for the first time, its beauty heightened. Everything was in technicolor: the lush, green meadows, the rolling bluffs, scattered evergreen trees and a crystal-clear pond with little diamonds lying upon its surface. I don't think I'll ever forget that day as I sat along the edge of the world and gazed out upon Heaven, listening to the sound of angels upon the wings of birds and feeling the peace of God within the deepest parts of me. I may not have been quite at Heaven's gates that day. But I was close.

If you go back and climb the winding steps of the castle you will come out of its damp darkness onto the top of the world. From there you can see something different from every direction. But my favorite view is looking east and down upon the patchwork quilt of my heritage.
There I see the fields, textured in different stages of sowing and reaping. In the spring everything is covered in shades of green; the wheat in its adolescence, the pasture land of waving grasses and the intermittent patches of what is unknown from such a distance. In summertime you can see the golden hues of mature wheat, mixed with the brown soil of tilled ground. The corn and milo are beginning to take hold and their leafy, green stalks stand like thousands of floppy scarecrows protecting the fields. As autumn arrives, everything turns into a Thanksgiving rainbow of oranges, yellows and browns and meets the bright blue skies as a land of harvest comes to rest. And in winter, a restful calm settles over the land as everything sleeps in preparation for another season of growth and renewal. New life awaits...and indeed, it always comes.

And throughout the changing of the seasons, the stitches always run through the quilt, separating each square, bringing it all together. And I think about my own patchwork quilt; the people who have come into my life and placed their squares upon the blanket of my existence. I have carefully included them all, painstakingly stitching them together to make a beautiful tapestry of color that has enriched and enhanced my life. Each is unique....special and adds a joy that can be found nowhere else. Every square is colorful and makes the quilt bigger...that much warmer and richer.

We are all a part the "quilt": putting the finishes on our own, and contributing to the beauty of those we love - and who love us - the most.