Nine. Already???

Happy Birthday, sweet boy! This has been an exciting year--You received first Holy Communion and we love watching your faith grow because of it, you moved to a new place (a Tropical Island, no less!) and you've mastered boogie boarding in record time, and you embraced a new school and then a new homeschool both with thoughtful enthusiasm. We are blessed by your deep thinking and sense of humor. But, if you don't mind, I'd appreciate it greatly if you'd stop growing up quite this quickly!!! :)

Pondering

"In the final analysis, the truth of Christ is the full and authentic response to that human desire for relationship, communion and meaning which is reflected in the immense popularity of social networks. Believers who bear witness to their most profound convictions greatly help prevent the web from becoming an instrument which depersonalizes people, attempts to manipulate them emotionally or allows those who are powerful to monopolize the opinions of others. On the contrary, believers encourage everyone to keep alive the eternal human questions which testify to our desire for transcendence and our longing for authentic forms of life, truly worthy of being lived. It is precisely this uniquely human spiritual yearning which inspires our quest for truth and for communion and which impels us to communicate with integrity and honesty." Pope Benedict XVI Read the whole message here

"The Summons"

The last time we sang this in Church it brought me to my knees as I choked out an answer of yes. We sang it in a Catholic parish in Gloucester, MA in our first weeks out of the hospital after our son's Leukemia diagnosis. I wept through the whole hymn. But, I did feel God's call. I knew he was calling us to be closer to Him, even though I couldn't (can't) fathom the reason it had to be so hard.

God calls us. He loves us. He just wants us to follow and trust in his goodness. Wherever that may lead. However "not good" it may seem to us in this lifetime. Slowly, I'm learning to say "Yes" to the whole of the life God gives me.

As a fledgling homeschooler (again), on the eve of our first day of "staying home", I realized that God is summoning me to be the best mother I can be no matter what the circumstances. He prods me to answer yes and see his loving hand in the education of my children. He reassures me it is ok to follow him even when I cannot see the whole path ahead. He summons me to a life of faith, love and service. He calls my name...and I hope to follow faithfully.

Take Two-Change Scenery

I wrote the following post below in 2008 to share with friends and family our decision to Homeschool. After a year and a half, we did send the kids back to public school. Now that we are settled in Hawaii, and after much thought, discussion, and prayer, we are returning to a lifestyle we all love next week. I thought I would share this old post because not much has changed in how I feel about homeschooling. 

I can't wait to see what it looks like to homeschool here in paradise.

For over two years we shared K's journey through Leukemia. We wrote from our hearts, instructing you about his condition, imploring you for your prayers, and occasionally inspiring you to help us fight the bigger battle of childhood cancer. And then, one day we stopped. We stopped writing because K's treatment ended. School started. Life, in its wonderful and wacky way took over! Although our family has charged onward with the usual colds and playdates, medical school tests and indoor tent fests there has still been left for us (especially for me!) a gaping hole where once we wrote things down as they happened. Sometimes, it was in the very writing of these things that they became more real for us. More poignant. Less paralyzing.

So, as we have found ourselves on a new kind of journey it seems time to start bringing it to reality on the page. This time it is a journey that is a choice, a new way of life we have decided to embrace. It is, however, not an entirely new experience to me.

Two months ago K stopped going to school. We filed paperwork. We joined groups. We stayed up late excited and nervous. We read. We read. We read. Then, one morning, we started calling ourselves "homeschoolers". And, strangely enough, the world didn't end. :) In fact, it was very much the same: long days stretching into nights with 3 young children hungry for endless activities and snacks. But, there was one major difference: we were taking charge of our little family's educational journey. Instead of dreading rotations away from home, we decided to embrace them. Changing schools every 3 years is no longer something that will keep us awake at night (Mike did this is a child and, like so many military children, did just fine). Now, we aren't preparing ourselves for how to deal with life's changes constantly thrust upon us, we are deciding instead to follow our own path, our children's own paths, of learning, discovering, philosophizing and postulating amid the sometimes unpredictable life we live--both because of profession and health.

Our days have been full. K is learning to read. M is right behind him. We practice letters and numbers at the table in our "learning room" (or on the bedroom floor, or the dining room table or the backseat of the car). The rhythm of our days have slowed down and look something like this:
We all wake up sometime between 7:30 and 8:30. We eat breakfast together (oatmeal with craisins and maple syrup, or eggless banana-raisin-cinnamon french toast and strawberries). We can take our time with breakfast because there is no rush! Then we either head outdoors (last week we spent time watching the osprey's and studying the pond for 3 mornings in a row) or we head to the couch and read as many books as L, the dog and mommy's voice box will allow (about 4 story books seems to be average). This usually leads into some creative endeavor by the kids (they've "published" their own books illustrated by them and narrated to me, made puppets and robots--among other things, acted out stories with our puppets--our favorite being a rousing rendition of Snip Snap What's That). We have lunch together and then quiet time all by ourselves. After about 45 minutes quiet time continues in the living room where we all work quietly on something (drawing or reading). Then I usually read aloud from our current chapter book (We've read Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Henry Huggins--with daddy, and now we are working on The Secret Garden--a nice springtime story that has been sidetracked by K's interest in exactly what the bacteria Cholera *looks* like). The afternoon is for playing outside or meeting up with friends--which we are really fortunate to have many of, including homeschooling families in the area!

I really will never be able to do justice here to what K, M and L come up with all on their own. We have lively discussions about matters I thought were well beyond their years. We also giggle raucously over toots and dog poop. Still, even if I can't paint a 4 dimensional picture for you, I hope you'll let me share what I can. Sharing this new journey means as much to me as sharing the first. Writing down our little life experiences makes them more real. More poignant. And, makes permanent memories to carry with us wherever life (and the military) leads us.

Happy Anniversary

10 years ago today I married my best friend.
A tummy bug in our youngest has derailed our date...
But, the funny thing is, we really don't mind.
TV and Takeout works for us.

Happy Anniversary, Mike. Hurry home!

Happy Anniversary

A guest post

One wonderful thing about siblings is that we often share experiences but experience them in our very unique ways. My little sister is twelve years younger than me. She was six when my Grandfather moved in, I was 18 and in college. The following year I moved out of my parent's home. For good. She was raised in a house post-divorce and during new marriage. I left the house at the same time my parents left the marriage. It is precious to me, though, that age difference aside my Grandfather made the same impression on us with his particular expression of love. My sister wrote this piece last year and I asked her permission to post it here. You can read more by Emily at her blog http://emilyinthephilippines.wordpress.com/.

“Don’t Forget”

He always rose with the sun. While the rest of the house was sleeping, Grandpa began his morning routine. He shuffled down the hallway, through the kitchen, and to the bathroom then return to his large room above the garage to start getting dressed.

I was five years old when my grandma passed away. She and Grandpa lived in California and I would talk to them on the phone every weekend. It was a Sunday and I had been the first one to get to the ringing phone. Usually I talked to Grandma first, but Grandpa was on the other line, stern, asking to talk to my mother. My dad brought me to church while my brother stayed home to comfort my mother. Grandpa moved across the country to live with us soon after.

He wore a white undershirt with thick flannel button ups in the winter, plaid short sleeve button ups in the summer, and khaki slacks. Everything in his walk-in closet was organized and folded immaculately. He would then make his bed with unique precision, pulled so tightly, I always wondered how he got in. These routines reflected signs of his OCD mixed with habit of strict Navy routines. He would then go to his soft, green arm chair placed next to his bed, stare out the window and pray. Prayer would turn into thought, and as the day got lighter he would sit in that chair with his hand folded under his neck as a resting place for his chin, watching the birds fly by and the light prisms project dancing rainbows on the walls.

His hearing got continually worse throughout the years, but he always knew what time I would arrive in the kitchen. Only in times when I woke up unexpectedly to get a glass of water would I catch him in his morning routine before he would shuffle in and turn on the stove to heat water for my daily hot chocolate. When I was six, he always put an ice cube in my mug since it was too hot to drink and I was too impatient to wait for it to cool down. I ate peanut butter toast with my hot chocolate, dipping each piece in for a delicious combination Grandpa had come up with years before. He sat on the opposite side of the dark wood table and I would play with the frayed edges of the dark green place mat. We made small talk about the day but as I turned into a teenager jaded from my parent’s divorce and my mother’s new husband, I became more annoyed with his cheery manner when all I wanted to do was go back to bed. I often would divert my eyes to the collection of trinkets collected by Grandma held in the wood framed cabinet with glass doors, memorizing their placement, the porcelain dove closest to Grandpa. He sat with me on my grumpy days in silence until I was done, then took my dishes and I got up and finished getting ready for school.  
One of his many joys during the day was doing the dishes. No one was ever allowed to do them themselves for two reasons. One, we didn’t do them “the right way”, and two; he didn’t have much else to do with his days while my brother and I went off to school and my mom went off to work. The dishes became his one main duty, so he learned just how many cups we had, how many bowls, dishes, even spoons. God forbid one went missing, and the whole house heard about it.

“Does anyone have a spoon in their room? One is missing,” he would ask politely. We all made sure to check our rooms for the spoon we had used for ice cream the night before, but if we forgot to check in the morning it was as though that was all he could think about all day. Once I arrived back from school he was waiting at the door, ready to ask about that damn spoon again.  I guess I couldn’t blame him though. After living a life of routine for over forty years with Grandma to living in a big house that was empty half the day must have gotten lonely.

He kept up with certain routines he would have done with her, like sorting the bills, keeping years of receipts and records. He watched certain movies over and over again such as Sleepless in Seattle, and E.T. because those were movies he always watched with her. When I was ten, we always watched the 1998 version of The Parent Trap with Lindsay Lohan, when she was innocent and cute. He had hundreds of Laser Discs that he kept in alphabetical order and for about a year, The Parent Trap was our favorite. We had the special handshake between the butler and the twins down pat. Sometimes I did homework while I watched, or sparked up random conversation with Grandpa. The movie was hardly ever my main focus, but having it on while I sat near Grandpa was comforting to both of us.

In the afternoon, I curled up on his soft green couch adjacent to his loyal chair and across from Grandma’s old, floral rocking chair. I didn’t remember her well, but she lived on in his room in several ways. Winnie the Pooh paraphernalia was everywhere because she loved Pooh, not because Grandpa did. A painting Grandpa composed of her as a young woman hung above the T.V. stand. Her brown curly hair and blue eyes stared over her shoulder in a blue dress with bright red lipstick on her lips. I sat on the couch watching movies, or listening to all the stories stored neatly inside Grandpa’s pristine memory.

Living with Grandpa was different compared to my friends’ relationships with their grandparents. He was always there, even when I didn’t want him to be. Telling me that I could write a better story or draw a better drawing no matter how hard I tried. Teasing me if I had an overly dramatic fight with a friend when I felt it was the end of the world. Like a parent-daughter relationship, I got angry and annoyed with him just as my mother got angry and annoyed with him. My friend’s visits with their grandparents were temporary and short so it was hard for me to justify my behavior or explain our relationship to them. More importantly however, I also could be completely myself. I sat in his dark green, squeaky, leather, computer chair that I felt would tip over at any moment but never did. I sat on his computer writing pages upon pages of fictional stories about girls growing up to be successful or happy families and as I got older chat online with friends and listen to music he probably didn’t enjoy.

When we put him into a hospice, I was seventeen years old. He was eighty-four, and due to his religion of Christian Science he didn’t believe in medicine. Some disease had slowly taken over his face. His ear had started to deteriorate when I was younger but he hid it with a bandage. Eventually whatever it was moved to his right eye, cheek, and lip making it hard for him to see, eat and speak correctly. With his questionable health, over the years I often imagined what it would be like when he finally passed, but the reality hit harder than I expected. I was a senior in high school wondering where my life was headed while the one of the only people who had been a constant was leaving. Since he couldn’t hear or see, when I decided to travel to Thailand after graduation, I wrote him a letter in type twenty font because I knew my decision would make him proud. He smiled and tried to talk about it with me but the effort was too great. When he found out my sister was pregnant with her third child in six years he managed to mumble “What do we gotta do, beat them away from each other with a broom?” I was so grateful for that memory, so that I could remember him for his unwavering witty attitude instead of whatever it was that took his life.

I often wished that I had taken more time to write down his stories, to have more patience with him, or to tell him more often that I loved him. Yet somehow I knew he knew how much he meant to me. No matter what the circumstances of my attitude, he always smiled at me while I sat in that green, leather, computer chair, and tell me he loved me in his own unique way by saying “Don’t forget.” And I never did.

Don't Forget--His Dad just left

As long as my Grandfather was on earth he reminded us all "Don't Forget".  It was quite easy to remember he loved us. He told us all of the time. Usually he was laughing hard at one of our antics (I'm talking about when I was 30 years old) when he'd gasp out  "I love youuuu, honey" through peals of red-faced laughter. A few minutes later when he'd recovered he'd say "Don't forget" with a twinkle in his eye. I haven't. I won't. Not ever.

My grandfather retired from the Navy as a Master Sergeant, having climbed all the ranks of the enlisted Navy. He was hardworking and dedicated. He did his job (and everything in his life) with the utmost integrity and love. He had three beautiful girls and a doting wife and he routinely said goodbye to them to "ship out". My mother, now in her 50's, talks about saying goodbye to her "Daddy" with as much emotion as if it happened yesterday. She hated it. She missed him every single second he was gone. She noticed her mother's grief--intensified after the tragic loss of their oldest daughter. She hated those big Navy ships in the yard. She hated the Navy. It was what took her beloved Daddy away again and again. Her Dad who read to her endlessly. Her Dad who invented Hot Chocolate and Peanut Butter Toast as a viable breakfast option. Her Daddy who laughed at her almost constant antics and reminder never, ever, to "forget".

Maybe it is because I grew up with these stories that I pretty much promised myself I wanted nothing to do with that kind of life (HA! so funny). Even though I deeply admired my Grandfather, I loved my mother even more. And, the Navy had hurt her. That was all I could really see.

Someday I'll write a post about how I became a patriot. I really wasn't always one. In fact, I stepped all over the toes of some of my friends in the military (actually, perhaps more like kicking them in the shins). I probably still do, at times of insensitivity. But, I'm much, much better. But, today, I'm not feeling like much of a Patriot. To be honest, I'm feeling like a soldier side-by-side with wounded wives (and parents, and husbands, and children) all over our country. I want to find a chair and cry tears with pouring rain that is flooding the creeks and streams around us. I am a military wife.

You see, there is a little boy at my son's preschool who is perpetually happy. We'll call him V. V greets me each day with a high five and a "hey what's up, L__'s mom?!" and his soprano voice lilts with the joyfulness he exudes. Almost every day he has organized some great imaginary game for his friends, including my son, and he's eager to make me, and the other parents, a part of it.

One day, he gave me tickets to his rockband show. "Um. It is at my house. At 7 o'clock. Your son is doing a great job! A greaaaat job! Don't be late. We'll see you there!".

Another time, he assured me that he was planning a way to treat the whole school to an entire WEEKEND at Chuckee-Cheeses. When his family was leaving on vacation, he created an entire story about how he was moving away and had long dramatic goodbyes with all of his friends (thankfully his teacher reassured us this "move" was only temporary and he'd back in a week). V is easy to love. He's a "little man" and I really, really, like this kid.

This morning I struggled to get my son out the door. He screamed. He kicked his shorts off. He told me there was no-way, no-how, he wanted to go to school today. I reminded him V would be waiting for him, but even that couldn't pierce his frustration this morning. We've had a week like that. Suddenly, he's testing the limits on this school thing. Does he have to go? Does he have to stay for the full day? What if he doesn't want to take a nap? You get the idea. Although he has gladly kissed me goodbye and sent me on my way in the past, the last 2 weeks have been different. I've left him in tears (that last only as long as it takes me to climb the stairs). I've been trying to get to the root of it, but I'm not there yet. My mother's instincts tell me he is really just testing. He wants to make sure this isn't an area he has a choice.

Anyway, as I was extricating myself from the grip of my little boy this morning, I looked over and saw V. He was in a death-grip hug-lock with his mother. I overheard her reassurances. He wasn't having any of it. There were no tears (yet), but it was clear he did not want his mom to leave him today. I gave a knowing smile to his mother and said "You know, we've been having a tough time too". She smiled at me. We are friendly, but not friends. "His Dad just left. Last night." and it was if she had punched me in the gut. I knelt down to talk to V. I suggested playdates and park excursions. But, who was I kidding? This was like trying to fill a canyon with a child's bucket full of sand. I touched his head. I smiled at his mom. And I retreated to my car.

You see, even though my husband has not been deployed since the very beginning of our marriage, I never, ever forget. Maybe it is because of the real memory of hurt in my mother's eyes as she talks of her childhood. Maybe it is because I have a very active imagination. Maybe it is because I would have never chosen this particular way to serve, but I fell in love with someone who is deeply committed to serving his country (first on the bomb squad, now as a physician). My husband will be deployable again in 3.5 years. Even though I know we are long past due, I am not at all happy to be staring that kind of sacrifice in the face. This cross seems to be one to choose me perhaps because I dislike it so much?

I'm not sure how long V's dad is gone. And, perhaps, he's only TDY. But, I do know he is a dedicated Marine. And he serves with the same jovial spirit I see in his son (I've never encountered V's dad without a smile on his face or warmth in his interactions). About half of the kids at my son's school have parents who are active duty military. "His Dad (or Mom) just left" is overheard more often than "we can't decide where to go on vacation". This is the reality for these children. For my children.

When 9/11 happened we vowed never, ever, to forget. And, I guess most people haven't. But, I do want to plead with you all not to forget the military families who continue to serve. They say goodbye again and again and again to their loved ones. They may appear to make it look easy or routine, but it is anything but. Their children cry over the missed parents. They act out.  Kids get sick and need visits to the ER--with all the other kids in tow. Birthdays take planning and broad shows of strength and smiles when one parent is in a far away land. And the spouse left behind may not speak her fears, but I assure you she has them.

When we say "Don't Forget" it has to be more than a mental exercise. It has to be a catalyst for the action of love. Can we babysit? Can we invite a family over for Sunday dinner? Or holidays? Can we stop what we are doing to "be there" for our military friends? Your day is long and you are stressed and your husband was traveling all last week...I get it. I am the queen of all excuses. But, let's make a renewed commitment not to forget our friends who selflessly serve. Let's go out of our way to support organizations that support families through all stages of deployment. Let's remember how safe we feel knowing there are those who are trained to protect us. And let's never forget the price our service members, and their families, pay to do this for us.

My grandfather never complained about serving. I doubt my grandmother did to anyone outside of our immediate family. They shouldered far more than there fair share of grief. And they didn't ask anything of anyone. Still, I can't help to wonder at a much deeper meaning behind my Grandpa's words. And, I echo his admonition: "Don't forget".

(p.s. No editing has been done, but I'm publishing anyway. If I have time, I will go back and edit later)

A mid January Daybook

I am wearing...
An orange shirt and blue sarong.

I am listening to...
The quiet. One little one happily engaged in a game. And the daugther's of St. Paul singing

On the MP3 Player...
The Daughter's of St. Paul Favorite Marian Hymns

I am reading...

On my Kindle

leslie McCaddon's favorite books »

I'm also working my way through the Bible and the Catholic Catechism. There is a good schedule here

I am pondering...
My word for the year. I had thought it was going to be something different, but it turns out the word is Comfort. More on that later, I think.

Around the house...

I'm trying to create home that is comfortable and comforting. 

I am praying for...
Patience and generosity. And for all the families hurt by the recent shootings in Arizona. And my little sister.

A Sense of Faith--Communion of Saints

A few weeks ago I mentioned a series I want to do here. I had intended to begin with the parts of the Mass, but this is what came out of my heart instead. When I was finished, I realized it is difficult to explain how I experience the Mass now, if you don't know how I began experiencing it in the beginning. So, beginning here, is exactly right.

The first few months into my introduction to Catholicism were primarily intellectual. I felt inexplicably drawn to keep going back to visit to the Church after visiting with a friend and her family one Sunday. I had peppered her patient husband with questions at brunch. I had been “church shopping” for quite some time. I had left other churches in various stages of the giggles, tears and panic attacks. I was beginning to feel pretty repulsed at the very notion of religion. And, this saddened me. But, never, NEVER in a million years did I ever consider the Catholic Church. I saw some very big hurdles to being able to even take the Church very seriously. Some of the immediate pre-conceptions I remember coming to mind about Catholicism and Catholics were:

Unspiritual ( or VERY material, which was very “other” to me considering I came from a metaphysical background)
Old fashioned


Ignorant (I know really strong words…but stick with me)

Attached to suffering

Only Blind Faith


Superstitious

I remember my first encounter with the Mass (other than a wedding or funeral where I wasn’t necessarily paying as much attention) I was struck by how very normal it was. I was expecting strange and mysterious. Instead, I noticed how very normal the people were. How very respectful and worshipful and intellectual it all seemed. And how I wasn’t, not in the least bit, repulsed. Huh.

So, I kept going. And I kept asking questions. And I kept reading the Catechism. And, it was really weird…that book was the most deeply spiritual, intellectual, light-filled, and grounded in reality document I had ever read. Hmm. Huh.

Months passed. As time went on I found myself participating more and more. When everyone kneeled, so did I. When everyone gave the sign of peace to their neighbors, I participated. And when they went down to receive the Eucharist, I went down to receive a blessing. I tried just sitting still in my seat, but, something kept calling me down there. I won’t say that I was one of those people immediately drawn to the real presence of Our Lord in the Eucharist (that is a beautiful dawning I will share some other time). I wasn’t sure about that. But, I was sure about…something. I just couldn’t put my finger on what quite yet.

Several months into these “visits” (and I would go with my friend, or without her; with my husband—who was not Catholic—or without him) I started to wonder if maybe I should consider starting the RCIA classes. I wasn’t sure. I was enjoying my own slow discovery, research and quiet-time at Mass. Did I really need or want more? I wasn’t sure.

Then, one Sunday night I had a vision. No, it wasn’t a hallucination nor was it bright and clear and heart-stopping…ok, well maybe a little heart-stopping. During the Consecration I was kneeling. And I closed my eyes. And, suddenly, I could faintly see in my mind the altar down below me (I was on the 2nd floor of the Church). All around the altar were extremely joyful, happy people. I mean, these faces , they were beaming with joy. I opened my eyes. No beaming people. Just checking. But…but, I had to close them again. And again all those joyful faces. And I scanned the crowd of people around the altar in my mind I realized that many of them were people I had loved that had died. My Grandpa John. My Grandma Betty. Aunt Martha. Great-Grandma Dee Dee. My husband’s grandparents. And everyone else seemed so..familiar. I didn’t realize I was crying until my husband touched my shoulder. “Are you Ok?” He whispered. I nodded. But, I really wasn’t sure.

What did this mean? Was I crazy? Did I think I was some sort of medium or psychic? How would I admit this experience to anyone and ask them about it?

I did share the experience with my husband. He was dutifully sweet and understanding, but I sensed his skepticism. “Crazy, right?” I half laughed, half cried. We both laughed. And, I tucked the experience safely into my heart.

It was a while before I worked up the courage to ask anyone about it. In fact, it was after I had started RCIA. I timidly shared the story with my instructor. He smiled and nodded the whole time, as if what I was saying happened to him every day. “You experienced a sense..a glimpse, I guess, of the Communion of Saints”.

The what? I knew about Saints, but what did that have to do with the price of bread?

He explained to me that the veil between heaven and earth is lifted during the Eucharist and we are present with all the angels and saints in heaven. And, he explained further, everyone in heaven is a saint.
I went home and skipped a few chapters ahead in the Catechism. I found:

962 "We believe in the communion of all the faithful of Christ, those who are pilgrims on earth, the dead who are being purified, and the blessed in heaven, all together forming one Church; and we believe that in this communion, the merciful love of God and his saints is always [attentive] to our prayers" (Paul VI, CPG § 30).

and

1370 To the offering of Christ are united not only the members still here on earth, but also those already in the glory of heaven. In communion with and commemorating the Blessed Virgin Mary and all the saints, the Church offers the Eucharistic sacrifice. In the Eucharist the Church is as it were at the foot of the cross with Mary, united with the offering and intercession of Christ.

No wonder they looked so happy.

Something started to come over me. A peace. A quiet. A real knowing. They were smiling at God…but they were also smiling at me! My family. Could it be? My family was watching? And cared? And wanted me to keep walking this path that was bringing me into the bosom of Mother Church?

Whenever I doubted the Truth of this, I was flooded with the memory of beaming faces.

And a quiet, and certain, and completely unexpected whisper of “Yes” filled me to the brim.

My first Multitude on Mondays

I recently said on twitter, mostly to cheer myself up after staring at various piles "Books are friends; not clutter". And they are. There are books that help us escape. There are books that touch our hearts, make us laugh, and make us think a little differently. There are books that encourage, inspire and delight.

Then there are those books which transform us. Change us. Awaken us. These are the books that you happily buy for friends, but never loan out. The books that have notes...and highlights...and coffee stains. These are the books that make me believe that the Holy Spirit is the very muse behind them.

I'm reading a book like that right now. Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts.
You can follow the link to read reviews. They do not lie. It is exquisite. It will transform you. It is pure poetry.

I have started to practice the hunt for gratitude. I am participating in a weekly challenge to share our gratitude lists that Ann Voskamp hosts at her blog. I started my list on the 31st of December, and today I just wrote down #50. Below, I will share a few.

1. Tradewinds
2. Rustle of palms
3. Red bursts of Hibiscus amid green. In December.
4. Little boys without shirts
6. Lizards scattering ahead of feet
14. Marriages that last and thrive
22. Little boy with "little-boy-talk" teaching Dad his new DS game.
24. Anticipation of sweet friends
25. And sweet toast.
32. The hunt for gratitude
41. Dogs lapping water from their dish

43. Lava rock touching seas
45. New friends with whom to talk theology, and conversion and orthodoxy
47. Pudgy hands squeezing my cheeks
50. How little-boy calls pajamas "2 Jammas" and the name seems just right.