The Grass Is Green Enough

A couple weeks ago, Facebook was overflowing with adorable shots of kiddos about to embark on the first day of a new school year. Each face held such a sense of hope and anticipation as these young ones prepared to step into a brand new classroom, meet new teachers, and experience new possibilities. Oh, the joy! I just love the idea of new beginnings.  Speaking of new beginnings, our son, Chris, and his fiance are planning a wedding sometime next year. I’m absolutely thrilled to welcome Kayla into the family. I’m excited that our tribe will be expanding. Life just keeps moving ahead, day by day. Meanwhile, I’m trying to adjust to my "new normal" - whatever that is. I still don’t like it. Not one bit. After all, there’s a gaping hole in our family now. Someone is missing. But we keep waking up each morning, heading out the door to work or other activities, doing chores, taking care of our day-to-day life. But it doesn’t feel normal. The other day, I was chatting wi

It was the darnedest  thing. For the first several weeks after Adam died, my eyes leaked every time I was around my 2 1/2-year old grandson. There was just something about Connor that caused the faucet to run. My counselor said it was totally understandable. "He probably just reminds you of the little boy you lost." I'm sure she's right. In many ways, Connor does remind me of Adam. He's super smart, inquisitive, energetic, funny, and cute as a button with his blonde hair and sweet smile. There are, however, some major differences. Adam was an introvert, through and through. I was always amazed at how he could have so many buddies to hang out with when he barely said a word. In fact, his Grandpa Gordon nicknamed him Silent Sam. Connor, on the other hand, chatters non-stop. But there's something about that little boy that does make my heart ache for the young son still lingering in my memory. Of course, my little boy, Adam, grew up and became a man. One who

Hi Adam. I took an early-morning walk yesterday and thought of you.   Not that I don’t think about you every single day, every hour, sometimes every minute, because I do.   But when I’m out in nature, I think about you the most.   I know you would have loved watching the sun climbing up into the sky yesterday. It was so peaceful and beautiful.    It’s been three months today since you left us.   I miss you so much.   I wonder what you are doing right now.   The Bible says, “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love him.” (1 Corinthians 2:9).   I’m sure the nature scenes you’re seeing are much more amazing than anything I could ever imagine.   I can’t wait to enjoy them with you some day. I still remember the first time you ventured out into the Desolation Wilderness by yourself for a week.   We were so worried!   You came home so happy (and stinky!).   You were all scratched up, but filled with joy over having spent t