The Grass Is Green Enough

What does it really mean to live in the moment?  To be fully present, experiencing each minute of life and all that it has to offer?  Well, I know what it doesn’t mean.  Going through robotic motions each day without any thought.  Work.  Eat.  Run errands.  Pay bills.  Clean, do laundry, and perform chores around the house.  Talk to others while spinning a continual to-do list through my mind, rather than carefully listening.  Smile.  Nod my head.  I’m fine.  What did you say?  Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.  Skim through emails and texts without thoroughly reading them.  It’s a wonder I get anything done at all.  Talk about squirrels and distractions.  Yikes!   I know I’m being hard on myself.  During some life seasons, we’re lucky to just get through the day.  This past year has definitely been like that.   But today.  Today, I lived in the moment.  Surprisingly, it was cloudy and rainy, but absolutely gorgeous!  From the minute I woke up, I took it all in.  I woke up on our sailb

When I opened the pantry door, my heart sank.  There they were, millions of them it seemed, crawling all over a box of Raisin Bran.  They were having an absolute hay day!  Ugh!  As if the year of COVID weren’t bad enough, for some unknown reason, our house has been infested with ants this year.  In the bathroom.  In the kitchen.  The spice cupboard.  The pantry.  Every time I opened a door, it seemed I found more.  I grabbed some spray and annihilated the group that had found the cereal.  I hoped that would be the end of it.   Until it wasn’t.   A few weeks later, I opened up the china hutch to grab a wine glass.  More ants!  They had found a crystal sugar bowl that apparently was put away with sugar in it!  It was a party for sure.     This time, I decided to tackle the problem in a different way.  Instead of spraying, I put out zillions of ant traps.  I followed their trail and placed them all along their path.  For several days, I just watched them carry away the “food” to their nes

It’s been 14 months since we tragically lost our son to suicide. Actually, 447 days to be exact. In the beginning, there was a tsunami of love and support poured out on our family, for which we are forever grateful. But as time goes on, a blanket of silence has slowly crept in. I recently read that the second year of grief can sometimes be harder than the first. I think one of the reasons may be that the initial shock has passed, most of the affairs have been attended to, and the dust has settled, so to speak. People think we’ve moved on, and they certainly don’t want to bring up our lost one’s name for fear that it will stir up more grief. Truth is, it’s just the opposite. The silence is deafening. Even within my own family, we talk less and less about our lost son, sometimes not at all. It’s not that we aren’t thinking about him; it’s just that we avoid the subject because we don’t want to invite sadness into our gatherings. We’re just trying to move forward and enjoy each m

"We Can Make Our Best Plans, but the Lord Guides Our Path" (Proverbs 16:9, NLT) We embarked on our 15-day cruise to Hawaii, which was scheduled to leave San Francisco on Monday, January 27 th and return on Tuesday, February 11 th . The ship’s route included ports of call in Hilo, Honolulu, Kauai, and Maui, followed by a quick stop in Ensenada, Mexico. Why Mexico? Well, apparently, the Jones Act, a federal law that regulates maritime commerce in the United States, required the ship to pass through international waters before returning to San Francisco. Everything was going along smoothly – until it wasn’t. Things happened. Someone on board became critically ill and needed to go to a hospital. The ship’s captain, JP, made the decision to turn the ship around so that the passenger could be disembarked and given medical care in Hawaii. Never mind that we had left Maui the day before and had already traveled 400 miles. He made a U-turn right there in the middle of t

I gazed out the window of our cruise ship cabin. Grey-blue waves seemed to stretch out infinitely over the horizon. We were 700 miles from San Francisco where we’d departed, headed for Hawaii. Tears welled up in my eyes, fogging up my glasses.  Why am I so sad? I should be enjoying this vacation, not pining away at this window.  But I couldn’t help it. The ocean view was just a visual reminder of the endless grief waves that keep crashing over me. Even though it’s been a little over eight months, they just keep coming.  Will they ever stop?  The grief books assure me they will eventually slow down. I sure hope so! Back in the fall, we planned the late-January vacation knowing that the holidays, followed by Adam’s birthday two weeks after Christmas, would likely leave us drained. We were right. As we packed the Sunday before, I asked Don, “Do you think there will ever be a day when we don’t think about losing him?” “We’ll never stop thinking about him,” Don said. “But

Hi Adam, your birthday is right around the corner – Wednesday, January 8 th . You would have been 29 years young. We miss you so much and think of you every day. I remember that Tuesday morning you entered the world like it was yesterday. You arrived at 11:14 a.m., just in time for lunch. Not too early, not too late. It was a perfect day in every way (except for the labor part, but an epidural helped with that!) You weighted in at 8 lbs., 9 oz., wearing your daddy’s sky blue eyes, with soft wisps of blond hair. Everyone thought you were a beautiful baby, and you were. On your birthday each year, dad and I went out of our way to make your celebration special. I think we just wanted to make sure you didn’t feel slighted since your birthday was two weeks after Christmas. So many fun parties, outings, pizza and paintball, rowdy times with your friends. I think your favorites were the video game all-nighters. Those never seemed to get old. There’s