This is intended to be a thank-you letter. Let's see how far off the path I wander before I actually get there.
I had surgery last Friday. It was a combo surgery wherein two surgeons agreed to tag team and allow me to only go under anesthesia once and incur facility expenses once and only require leave from work once. Very, very nice of them considering it took some adjusting of schedules and one no longer even offices in the Medical Center.
I developed two umbilical hernias while pregnant with Sunny. They only recently started to bother me so it was time to have them fixed. But motivating that was a visit with my OB/GYN. I finally wanted to talk about permanent birth control and her recommendation was to remove the fallopian tubes...a procedure that is "1000 million percent NOT reversible." She suggested that, if I wanted, it could be done in conjunction with the hernia repair I told her I knew I needed.
Pre-op appointments were scheduled and calendars were coordinated. Easy enough. Except for my heart that stumbled along sorely behind the process in my head. Yes, it's for the best. But it's also a quiet defeat. A dream laid to rest.
I had always wanted three kids. Sunny was only minutes old when Jason declared that we were done. Considering my difficult pregnancy with her, he said he was not willing to trade me for the possibility of having another child. I am emotional while he is the pragmatist. It's taken me four years to catch up with his thinking on the matter.
Last Friday morning I sat in the waiting room waiting to be called back to prep for my procedures. My name was called and I walked to the door and had my first encounter with peace for the morning. The sweet nurse who took care of me and who I remember so well resting her hand on my shoulder and whispering in my ear "I'm sorry for your loss today" almost twelve years ago was the very same nurse who stood before me calling my name on Friday morning. I've never forgotten her. She doesn't know that she serves as a bookend for my child bearing years. There at the start and there at the finish. I didn't have the words to tell her at that moment. I'll figure out a way. But in that moment I knew I would be alright. (I haven't even been able to speak about this part to anyone yet...even Jason. I lose my words every time I try.)
I busied myself with reading news, chatting with Jason, and texting with friends. The very last text I read was the sweetest prayer from my dear friend with whom I had shared my sadness over this surgery. She prayed healing for my body and my heart and I went into surgery with complete peace.
I came home to my daddy and mama waiting for me. They took care of my kids and fed my family. Gretchen brought me a pot of the most savory and healing chicken soup, always the first to jump in and help. Cassy brought lasagna and Caesar salad. (Jason's last meal, should he ever request one, will be Cassy Young's lasagna). Gen showed up at my door with a little gift of jams just to help me feel better. Carisa has texted several times to see how I'm doing. Shelby brought the most amazing spread my family has seen in quite some time (Wes had about four helpings of her chicken and rice...and that skinny kid hardly eats anything) and then I find Anna Clark standing in my kitchen with the most wonderful homemade potato leek soup (with bacon!) that I have ever tasted. And pasta salad. It was at that point that I just got overwhelmed. And I know that more is still coming.
I don't know how to thank you all except to just be open and share with you why this has meant so much to me. You all did this without even knowing how much I needed it. I have been a Christian for the great majority of my life, but I still have occasional crises of faith. Every once in a while I have to ask God to show Himself to me because I've lost my bearings and the lights are out and I just need to know He's still there. You all have been the hands and feet of Jesus to me this week, whether or not that was your intent.
Thank you all so much. You know how to love people well.
Friday, March 4, 2016
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Buttercup Yellow
Buttercup yellow. That was it. The color of my Daddy's 1970-something Volkswagen Beetle. Black vinyl seats with square stitch texture where gray dust would settle and I'd try to dig it out with my fingernail. Hot and sticky and sweet and sour in the Texas sun.
I always think of it when the subject comes up.
I was riding in the backseat, Daddy was driving and my little brother was riding shotgun though I'm certain he couldn't see over the high, flat metal dash....seat belt stretched across his neck, threatening beheading in the event of a crash. We were taking the turn from 410 eastbound onto I-35.
Daddy asked me the color of a passing car.
"Daddy! Don't be silly, you know what color that is."
"No, baby....I don't."
It was the first time he ever told me he was color blind. And I cried for him.
He told me my Grandma Garcia would send him to the store for thread when he was little and he would come back with the wrong color and she'd tell him he was stupid.
She didn't know then, either.
*******
2 year old Sunshine is learning her colors. We gather up the plastic Easter eggs on the floor of Grandma's living room and I ask her to show me the pink one. 8 year old Wes points and says "There it is!"
"No, baby....that one's blue."
And I see the buttercup yellow Volkswagen Beetle rounding the curve onto I-35.
Sweet and sour in the Texas sun.
I always think of it when the subject comes up.
I was riding in the backseat, Daddy was driving and my little brother was riding shotgun though I'm certain he couldn't see over the high, flat metal dash....seat belt stretched across his neck, threatening beheading in the event of a crash. We were taking the turn from 410 eastbound onto I-35.
Daddy asked me the color of a passing car.
"Daddy! Don't be silly, you know what color that is."
"No, baby....I don't."
It was the first time he ever told me he was color blind. And I cried for him.
He told me my Grandma Garcia would send him to the store for thread when he was little and he would come back with the wrong color and she'd tell him he was stupid.
She didn't know then, either.
*******
2 year old Sunshine is learning her colors. We gather up the plastic Easter eggs on the floor of Grandma's living room and I ask her to show me the pink one. 8 year old Wes points and says "There it is!"
"No, baby....that one's blue."
And I see the buttercup yellow Volkswagen Beetle rounding the curve onto I-35.
Sweet and sour in the Texas sun.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Call, not Wilson
We picked him up on a cold and dreary Thursday morning from a small farm in Temple, Texas. He slept in my arms all the way home, all soft and squishy and perfect shades of cream and yellow and smelling like new puppy. Beautiful with his perfectly rounded little body and black rimmed brown eyes. The successor to a dog we loved more than we knew was possible.
Like any successor, he's taken some getting used to. He's not better or worse or anything like the former, he's just different. His own dog. And full of confidence in being so. Full of confidence in being Woodrow.
No hesitation. From the moment he walked in our door for the first time, he knew he was home. He was ours and we were his and I fully expected that cold ache to melt and move away.
But it didn't.
It grew.
And I pat this boy's soft head with the wrinkles etched in four distinct lines and I climb in the shower and weep for the comfort of the familiar. The one who quietly lived his life alongside us and who I can't stop thinking of now that he is quieter still.
I remind myself that grief is not quick and not clear and moves in peaks and valleys and shadows and whispers. And memories. It moves in memories long forgotten and can make me laugh right on out loud when I'm by myself.
Jason doesn't say much about him. Hasn't since he's been gone. But Wes and Sunny still march right up to the throne of grace every morning and ask God and Jesus to say hello to Gunther and they hope he has a great day.
It wasn't wrong for us to get another puppy yet. I know this. It was right and he was right and we're all learning the steps to this new dance in our family together. This new dance that includes potty training. And so much floor space.
Time heals all wounds. Most of them anyway. And laughter....laughter goes a long way, too.
And the innocent joy of a puppy.....there's just not enough to be said for that. The way he greets us with unbounded enthusiasm. Wiggles his whole body. Proudly sits on command and so gratefully accepts a scratch behind the ear. Confidently places two huge paws on the counter across from the kitchen sink and looks up at me, right in the eye. He almost smiles. Just a "Hey! Whatcha doin?".....Lord help, I need to raise my counters.
I bought him for Jason. But his heart so obviously belongs to Sunshine. He revels in rough play with Wes....but his girl. For his girl he will sit still. For his girl he will be gentle. For his girl he will share a popsicle and wait his turn for a lick.
He jumps up on the couch and snuggles in close to her. They sit together, for this moment the same size. She holds his face in her chubby still-a-baby hands and he slips his tongue through and laps a kiss on her nose. It is my fervent prayer that they will have many, many years together. That he will protect her and she will tell him her hopes and dreams, secrets and fears. And that when he dies of a ripe old age, she will know the joy of that heartbreak. Because she has loved. And she was loved. Because it's in that breaking that we feel the fullness of life. Sometimes it's the hurt that reminds us that we can feel at all.
And it's that hurt that tells me that I can love him. Not because he's the same. But because he's different.
Meet Woodrow Call. Labrador Extraordinaire.
Like any successor, he's taken some getting used to. He's not better or worse or anything like the former, he's just different. His own dog. And full of confidence in being so. Full of confidence in being Woodrow.
No hesitation. From the moment he walked in our door for the first time, he knew he was home. He was ours and we were his and I fully expected that cold ache to melt and move away.
But it didn't.
It grew.
And I pat this boy's soft head with the wrinkles etched in four distinct lines and I climb in the shower and weep for the comfort of the familiar. The one who quietly lived his life alongside us and who I can't stop thinking of now that he is quieter still.
I remind myself that grief is not quick and not clear and moves in peaks and valleys and shadows and whispers. And memories. It moves in memories long forgotten and can make me laugh right on out loud when I'm by myself.
Jason doesn't say much about him. Hasn't since he's been gone. But Wes and Sunny still march right up to the throne of grace every morning and ask God and Jesus to say hello to Gunther and they hope he has a great day.
It wasn't wrong for us to get another puppy yet. I know this. It was right and he was right and we're all learning the steps to this new dance in our family together. This new dance that includes potty training. And so much floor space.
Time heals all wounds. Most of them anyway. And laughter....laughter goes a long way, too.
And the innocent joy of a puppy.....there's just not enough to be said for that. The way he greets us with unbounded enthusiasm. Wiggles his whole body. Proudly sits on command and so gratefully accepts a scratch behind the ear. Confidently places two huge paws on the counter across from the kitchen sink and looks up at me, right in the eye. He almost smiles. Just a "Hey! Whatcha doin?".....Lord help, I need to raise my counters.
I bought him for Jason. But his heart so obviously belongs to Sunshine. He revels in rough play with Wes....but his girl. For his girl he will sit still. For his girl he will be gentle. For his girl he will share a popsicle and wait his turn for a lick.
He jumps up on the couch and snuggles in close to her. They sit together, for this moment the same size. She holds his face in her chubby still-a-baby hands and he slips his tongue through and laps a kiss on her nose. It is my fervent prayer that they will have many, many years together. That he will protect her and she will tell him her hopes and dreams, secrets and fears. And that when he dies of a ripe old age, she will know the joy of that heartbreak. Because she has loved. And she was loved. Because it's in that breaking that we feel the fullness of life. Sometimes it's the hurt that reminds us that we can feel at all.
And it's that hurt that tells me that I can love him. Not because he's the same. But because he's different.
Meet Woodrow Call. Labrador Extraordinaire.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Gone Gone
I hear the familiar jingle in the hallway and it sends chills right through me. She's found his collar in the bottom of my purse where I stuffed it the day before.
"Guh Guh?" she asks. Over and over and over again. And each time she does we gently tell her "Gunther's gone gone."
"Oh," she says. Every time.
Five days and a handful of hours. It's taken me this long to write it down.
We sat together, Jason, Wes and me....huddled on the slick and freshly mopped floor of the vet's office. He knew it was time. He'd known for a while....much sooner than we were ready to admit. We all sat in sorrowful silence until Wes couldn't muffle his sobs anymore and threw himself over Gunther's body until his tears had run dry.
Gunther passed away on November 26, 2013. I hate that term...."passed away." But that's exactly what it is. He's gone away.
I chose him the night he was born. A surprise litter from my parents' Labs. The only black male in the mix of blacks, yellows, and chocolates. He was mine before he even knew it.
"'Gunther'? Really?" Jason thought that was the stupidest name for a dog he'd ever heard. But I didn't know any other dogs named Gunther. He agreed to let me call him that if I came up with a better registered name. "Gentlemen, Start Your Engines" won him over.
We'd been married not even a year. Our tiny apartment complex would not allow large dogs and this one was going to be large. So we moved. For Gunther.
He graduated Puppy Kindergarten (don't laugh) and saved me from the loneliness of early marriage when Jason worked nights and I was afraid to be by myself. We would walk for hours every evening and he was my best little buddy. He loved apartment living and was rather miffed when we moved to a house with a yard he didn't want.
But then came Wes and later on Sunny. He watched over them in their cribs and through the house and followed them into the cul de sac to play. We never had to tell him to be gentle with them. He just was. They rode on his back, pulled on his ears, tugged at his lips and held on to his tail. Never once did he snap. If things got a little too wild for him, he'd just walk away. But never did I worry about him hurting my children. He didn't have it in him. He genuinely loved them.
But Jason....Jason was his person. The one he longed to sit with, the one who's bedside he lay down by each night. The only one who would still let him sit in his lap. The one who never spoke to him with unkindness. The bond between them was visible. Gunther even slept on top of Jason's laundry piles. On more than one occasion I found him asleep with one of Jason's dirty socks held between his paws. That is true love.
I seem to have forgotten most of why he could also make me so angry. He was a food thief and a counter surfer until old age and bad joints stole the joy of it away. So he'd knock over the trash can instead and go hard on remnants of Wes' sack lunch or whatever leftovers had been thrown out the night before. Or he'd follow his girl around until she sat down with him and shared her Pringles one by one.
We had decided that would be our cue. When he stopped stealing food. Or when he stopped coming up the stairs. But we slowly realized he never would. He would find a way as long as he was breathing, no matter how labored it became.
His last night at home was a cold one. Wes opted to sleep in the twin bed next to Sunny's crib and Gunther quietly slipped in and slept next to them. His charges. Every time I got up to check on them he was awake. Keeping watch. And now I keep walking through the house looking for evidence of his life with us. His food bowl and water bucket are gone....Jason couldn't stand to leave them out. I'm still cleaning carpet stains and vacuuming corners, but the house has a quiet stillness over it. Not that he was loud....far from it. He was a quiet and gentle giant.
The doorbell rang yesterday and for just a second I waited to hear the deep and defining bark that always followed. It never came.
12 years and 4 months. That's a long time, and yet it's really not. Not when it's time to say goodbye.
Goodnight, sweet Gunther. You were unconditional love with an enthusiastic tail. And we were so very blessed to be yours.
"Guh Guh?" she asks. Over and over and over again. And each time she does we gently tell her "Gunther's gone gone."
"Oh," she says. Every time.
Five days and a handful of hours. It's taken me this long to write it down.
We sat together, Jason, Wes and me....huddled on the slick and freshly mopped floor of the vet's office. He knew it was time. He'd known for a while....much sooner than we were ready to admit. We all sat in sorrowful silence until Wes couldn't muffle his sobs anymore and threw himself over Gunther's body until his tears had run dry.
Gunther passed away on November 26, 2013. I hate that term...."passed away." But that's exactly what it is. He's gone away.
I chose him the night he was born. A surprise litter from my parents' Labs. The only black male in the mix of blacks, yellows, and chocolates. He was mine before he even knew it.
"'Gunther'? Really?" Jason thought that was the stupidest name for a dog he'd ever heard. But I didn't know any other dogs named Gunther. He agreed to let me call him that if I came up with a better registered name. "Gentlemen, Start Your Engines" won him over.
We'd been married not even a year. Our tiny apartment complex would not allow large dogs and this one was going to be large. So we moved. For Gunther.
He graduated Puppy Kindergarten (don't laugh) and saved me from the loneliness of early marriage when Jason worked nights and I was afraid to be by myself. We would walk for hours every evening and he was my best little buddy. He loved apartment living and was rather miffed when we moved to a house with a yard he didn't want.
But then came Wes and later on Sunny. He watched over them in their cribs and through the house and followed them into the cul de sac to play. We never had to tell him to be gentle with them. He just was. They rode on his back, pulled on his ears, tugged at his lips and held on to his tail. Never once did he snap. If things got a little too wild for him, he'd just walk away. But never did I worry about him hurting my children. He didn't have it in him. He genuinely loved them.
But Jason....Jason was his person. The one he longed to sit with, the one who's bedside he lay down by each night. The only one who would still let him sit in his lap. The one who never spoke to him with unkindness. The bond between them was visible. Gunther even slept on top of Jason's laundry piles. On more than one occasion I found him asleep with one of Jason's dirty socks held between his paws. That is true love.
I seem to have forgotten most of why he could also make me so angry. He was a food thief and a counter surfer until old age and bad joints stole the joy of it away. So he'd knock over the trash can instead and go hard on remnants of Wes' sack lunch or whatever leftovers had been thrown out the night before. Or he'd follow his girl around until she sat down with him and shared her Pringles one by one.
We had decided that would be our cue. When he stopped stealing food. Or when he stopped coming up the stairs. But we slowly realized he never would. He would find a way as long as he was breathing, no matter how labored it became.
His last night at home was a cold one. Wes opted to sleep in the twin bed next to Sunny's crib and Gunther quietly slipped in and slept next to them. His charges. Every time I got up to check on them he was awake. Keeping watch. And now I keep walking through the house looking for evidence of his life with us. His food bowl and water bucket are gone....Jason couldn't stand to leave them out. I'm still cleaning carpet stains and vacuuming corners, but the house has a quiet stillness over it. Not that he was loud....far from it. He was a quiet and gentle giant.
The doorbell rang yesterday and for just a second I waited to hear the deep and defining bark that always followed. It never came.
12 years and 4 months. That's a long time, and yet it's really not. Not when it's time to say goodbye.
Goodnight, sweet Gunther. You were unconditional love with an enthusiastic tail. And we were so very blessed to be yours.
Monday, August 26, 2013
First Day's Here Again
She says his name in her baby voice but without the "s" on the end. She always remember the two t-shirts that she sometimes sleeps in once belonged to him and her pink shirt with the bumble bee that he picked out, she remembers that too. She says his name with a question mark each time I slip one of them over her head and she smiles.
He's still my baby, too. No matter that just this morning I realized he's less than a foot shorter than me. My guess is we'll make up that difference before he's out of elementary school. I don't have to bend my head quite so low to kiss the top of his. For now we'll take on 2nd Grade. A new teacher, a new room in a different hallway and different faces left and right.
He brushes his teeth and combs his hair and without a beat missed he combs her's, too. She laughs and smiles wide at him and feels important and he does, too.
I watched him walk in line down that different hallway this morning, following closely behind his teacher. Sometimes he gets distracted and I just prayed that he would stay focused long enough to make it to his new room amid the swirl of first day of school morning mess.
Yesterday as he sat next to me in church, near death from boredom, I measured his sun browned wrist with my finger and thumb just to see if I could still wrap them all the way around. I was suddenly reminded that he's still little in some ways, but inching ever closer to independence. Ever closer to eye level.
"I'm kind of excited about school today," he whispers over breakfast. It's okay to be excited, I tell him. "Is it okay if I don't miss you?" he asks with a good measure of hesitation in his voice. Of course. But I hug his neck when time comes to leave and I feel his heart beating wild and strong. He's nervous and brave and he goes forth to conquer because bravery doesn't mean you're not scared. It means you go anyway.
Watch him, baby girl, and follow his lead. You'll be there soon enough.
He's still my baby, too. No matter that just this morning I realized he's less than a foot shorter than me. My guess is we'll make up that difference before he's out of elementary school. I don't have to bend my head quite so low to kiss the top of his. For now we'll take on 2nd Grade. A new teacher, a new room in a different hallway and different faces left and right.
He brushes his teeth and combs his hair and without a beat missed he combs her's, too. She laughs and smiles wide at him and feels important and he does, too.
I watched him walk in line down that different hallway this morning, following closely behind his teacher. Sometimes he gets distracted and I just prayed that he would stay focused long enough to make it to his new room amid the swirl of first day of school morning mess.
Yesterday as he sat next to me in church, near death from boredom, I measured his sun browned wrist with my finger and thumb just to see if I could still wrap them all the way around. I was suddenly reminded that he's still little in some ways, but inching ever closer to independence. Ever closer to eye level.
"I'm kind of excited about school today," he whispers over breakfast. It's okay to be excited, I tell him. "Is it okay if I don't miss you?" he asks with a good measure of hesitation in his voice. Of course. But I hug his neck when time comes to leave and I feel his heart beating wild and strong. He's nervous and brave and he goes forth to conquer because bravery doesn't mean you're not scared. It means you go anyway.
Watch him, baby girl, and follow his lead. You'll be there soon enough.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Sweet Brown Girl
The earliest memory I have of you is seeing your uncoordinated self galloping toward us, ears flapping, tongue hanging out just off to one side. You slipped out through the back fence and went for a walk. On your own. In the early morning hours of a Saturday.
That was 14 years ago. It can't be time to say goodbye.
You gave us more joy than we could possibly have imagined. A large girl with an awkward stare and an uncoordinated gait. Sweet hazel eyes. And the puppies.
Oh, the puppies.
You birthed them with grace and guarded them with silent authority. One look from you and your mate would make for the corner of the yard, sitting obediently for hours (literally HOURS) until you would permit him to draw near, but not too near to your brand new babies.
One of those little puppies is mine. Soft and warm and black as ink.
He's old now, too.
He'll soon follow you through the gates of heaven. Wait for him there....please. He's never been comfortable doing anything alone.
I'll never forget that morning that you ran away. Only weeks old. I took Anna to walk the surrounding streets and cul de sacs, hoping we would find you hiding under a bush or held in someone's arms, waiting for your girl who searched for you anxiously and with quiet fear. I could have punched the old guy who told us he lost a dog, too, and never saw him again. I asked him to please not say that in front of my little sister.
A jogger found you, running along the big circle. We'd never seen her before. We never saw her again.
That's how you got your name. An angel found you and kept you safe. A miracle. Mira.
There are no words to thank you. For your quiet presence, except for the barks in threes. Always in threes. For the countless birds you caught, open mouthed and with deadly accuracy, that you would bring to your girl even though she shrieked for you not to. For finding your way home to tattle on Ben for digging out again. For loving the girl who needed a friend.
You loved your girl. And she loved you.
Goodbye, sweet Mira.
Fourteen years wasn't that long at all.
That was 14 years ago. It can't be time to say goodbye.
You gave us more joy than we could possibly have imagined. A large girl with an awkward stare and an uncoordinated gait. Sweet hazel eyes. And the puppies.
Oh, the puppies.
You birthed them with grace and guarded them with silent authority. One look from you and your mate would make for the corner of the yard, sitting obediently for hours (literally HOURS) until you would permit him to draw near, but not too near to your brand new babies.
One of those little puppies is mine. Soft and warm and black as ink.
He's old now, too.
He'll soon follow you through the gates of heaven. Wait for him there....please. He's never been comfortable doing anything alone.
I'll never forget that morning that you ran away. Only weeks old. I took Anna to walk the surrounding streets and cul de sacs, hoping we would find you hiding under a bush or held in someone's arms, waiting for your girl who searched for you anxiously and with quiet fear. I could have punched the old guy who told us he lost a dog, too, and never saw him again. I asked him to please not say that in front of my little sister.
A jogger found you, running along the big circle. We'd never seen her before. We never saw her again.
That's how you got your name. An angel found you and kept you safe. A miracle. Mira.
There are no words to thank you. For your quiet presence, except for the barks in threes. Always in threes. For the countless birds you caught, open mouthed and with deadly accuracy, that you would bring to your girl even though she shrieked for you not to. For finding your way home to tattle on Ben for digging out again. For loving the girl who needed a friend.
You loved your girl. And she loved you.
Goodbye, sweet Mira.
Fourteen years wasn't that long at all.
Friday, May 24, 2013
five minute friday | "view"
Today I'm participating in Lisa-Jo Baker's "Five Minute Friday" series. It's a great little weekly series on a one word topic that I love seeing pop up in my email on Friday mornings. The rules are simple: set a timer for five minutes, write on the day's topic without editing or backtracking, stop when five minutes are up.
"View"
I put the car in drive and then stop next to the curb where she stands with my mama waving me goodbye. It's the same routine I had with my boy that broke my heart and filled it with joy and gratefulness every day for five years. She waves her chubby hand, arm moving with her own unique coordination. "Buh-bye" she calls, quiet enough for me to almost not hear. And then I watch her in my rearview all the way down the street. And around the corner until I have to look forward to the day ahead.
I haven't written much about her since she changed my life seventeen months ago. She was a surprise. Not planned. And that she was a "she"....I just never saw it coming. But then she came and my life looked different all at once and now I have to learn how to do girl hair.
I spend a lot of time looking in the rearview of life. How did I mess that up? How could I have done differently? But at some point we have to turn our eyes forward.
She asks me to carry her a lot. She likes the view from up high (as high as a relatively short person can carry her, anyway). It must be like when I ask the Father to carry me. My world from His perspective is just always better.
STOP.
"View"
I put the car in drive and then stop next to the curb where she stands with my mama waving me goodbye. It's the same routine I had with my boy that broke my heart and filled it with joy and gratefulness every day for five years. She waves her chubby hand, arm moving with her own unique coordination. "Buh-bye" she calls, quiet enough for me to almost not hear. And then I watch her in my rearview all the way down the street. And around the corner until I have to look forward to the day ahead.
I haven't written much about her since she changed my life seventeen months ago. She was a surprise. Not planned. And that she was a "she"....I just never saw it coming. But then she came and my life looked different all at once and now I have to learn how to do girl hair.
I spend a lot of time looking in the rearview of life. How did I mess that up? How could I have done differently? But at some point we have to turn our eyes forward.
She asks me to carry her a lot. She likes the view from up high (as high as a relatively short person can carry her, anyway). It must be like when I ask the Father to carry me. My world from His perspective is just always better.
STOP.
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