In God's Heart, I Am...

When I was a little girl, I thought I would be a poet.

{I also thought I would be the next Mary Lou Retton and the next Olivia Newton John and the next Bionic Woman, but those are stories you can go back and read...}

The first poem I remember showing to Mom, she didn't believe I wrote. I was little and out of nowhere my head came up with this:

God gives Himself to each of us,
To each a special part.
But I am the luckiest one of them all
For unto me He gave a piece of His heart.

After awhile I convinced her I hadn't copied it from one of my children's books so it went on the fridge, which was enough for me to consider myself published.

I was little and wanted to make sure I always had God's heart in me, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I was in His.

It's easy to believe as a child.

But then we grow older.

And we see our flaws.

And we hide more than we show.

And instead of believing we are in His heart we shift our thinking and we start trying to earn our way in. Into a place where He already holds us as a precious gift.

My friend and (in)courage sister, Holley Gerth, saw that in herself and women all around her, and listened to a prompting that caused her to write God's Heart for You: Embracing Your True Worth as a Woman.

And girls, we need this book.

It's a tiny little book, but it is powerful. I've had so many little daily devotionals over the years that have been nice, and I read them and put them away and went about my day. But this one is different.

This one has made me pause.

Each day is only a few pages long, but Holley doesn't mess around. She starts with an idea, tells you her thoughts and then asks you three questions that stop you dead in your tracks.

Not the questions that you do two minutes before faith sharing because you're running late and they are typical ones you don't have to think about. {Not that I ever did that. Ahem.}

These are questions that dive into your heart, so that you can see yourself more clearly in His.

And after you ponder and pray and realize something new, she gives you a few lines of a prayer you think she pulled right out of your own heart, and then she gives you a pep talk that leaves your ready to face your day with a new readiness you didn't know you needed.

Can you tell I like this little treasure?

Would you like a copy, too?

Good. Because I'm giving one away. :)

If you want to be entered in, all you have to do is leave me a comment finishing this statement:

In God's Heart, I am...

Here's a video with some other people's answers if you need help getting started:

Please, only one comment per person, and the contest will go until 11:00 pm Thursday night. I'll announce the winner on Friday.

Good luck!

Flashback Friday: Soul Desire

I have the privilege of "being" at my Uncle Barney's funeral today as he asked that some of my songs be played instead of having a choir sing. I can't tell you how much it means to me that he would want that, and that it's still possible I can give to him in that small way today despite not being able to travel home.

So today, in honor of him, I'm doing a Flashback Friday with a song that speaks to me about the way I want to live out my life.

The same way Barney lived his.

My Soul Desire
{originally posted April 17, 2009}

Tonight I had the girls over for our faith sharing night, and this paragraph from Max Lucado's Traveling Light struck me in a big way:

God hates arrogance. He hates arrogance because we haven't done anything to be arrogant about. Do art critics give awards to the canvas? Is there a Pulitzer for ink? Can you imagine a scalpel growing smug after a successful heart transplant? Of course not. They are only tools, so they get no credit for the accomplishments.

Now, at some point in the discussion I think Susie called me a tool, and didn't mean it in the nicest way, but that's not the point I'm trying to make here. :) In every part of the 23rd Psalm, which this book is based on, it talks about all God does for us:

"He makes me..."

"He leads me..."

"He restores my soul..."

And once again I am reminded that I need to be mindful of having a servant's heart. I have to be intentional in all the actions I take, knowing that all I do needs to point back to Him... the One who gets the praise for writing the story of our lives. The story for which I am blessed enough to be the ink.

And I just happen to have recorded a song back in the day that reminds me of just that.

01 My Soul Desire by gitzengirl

Thought for the Day...

When I first walked through the doors to my new job, I didn't care about anything except that I got that job. The one that made me a writer.

I was at a magazine and I was going to write {eventually}. I started out as low man on the totem pole. I was an administrative assistant to the editor and in the first week I had that man's office reorganized, color coded, and his stack of articles edited and reformatted.

I'm pretty sure he gave me a writing assignment just to get me out of his hair.

So there I was, working for a trade publication about call centers - knowing nothing about the industry -about to do my first official interview for my first official article. And to be honest, I didn't care about the industry at all. Predictive dialers might as well have been calculus for how much I enjoyed reading about them.

But I called my first interviewee and learned something invaluable: It doesn't matter if I know about the subject matter, or if it interests me. I just need to care about the people.

Because that man I interviewed? He was mad about the industry. He was jazzed about predictive dialers. All I had to do was ask him a question and from there on out it was about the conversation. About learning from someone who was thrilled to teach. About adapting my own priorities into caring about his. 

Suddenly it wasn't about trudging through an interview about the most boring subject on earth to me, it was about investing in a man who had a story to tell. And I had the ability to tell it.

In a time when every self help book I read talked about finding groups of like-minded people to further your goals, and being true to who you are over who others may want you to be, I found the opposite to be true. I found that if I went into every situation caring more about what was important to the other person, then who I was grew ten fold.

I learned that it was all about the person, and in order to care about the person I needed to choose to care about what was important to them, and make it important to me.

I was thinking about this because you all saw this photo and said you weren't sure who was more the kid, me or Elias:

And the truth is that I couldn't have cared less about a car zooming off the bed. But I cared that Elias did. His interest became my interest and his excitement became my excitement, and before I knew it I was filled up with contagious joy.

We all do that for children. Imagine if we did that for other adults as well.

Imagine if we cared more about them feeling happy than us feeling right.

Imagine if we cared more about them feeling known than us feeling superior.

Imagine if we cared more about them feeling accepted than us feeling righteous.

Imagine if we cared more about them feeling joy than us feeling envy.

Imagine if we cared more about them feeling abundance than us feeling security.

Maybe sometimes it's not so much about being who we are at all costs. Maybe sometimes it's about letting go of who we are to see who we might become.

Just something to think about.

Flashback Wednesday

Hi, guys. I'm running a bit low this week with being sicker than usual, so I'm dong a Flashback Friday on a Wednesday. :) I was looking through old posts and this one kind of hit me where I am right now. And I figured if it was a good reminder for me, it might be a good one for you, too…

Ask the Answer
{originally posted Oct. 22, 2008}

I used to love watching Touched By An Angel. That doesn't shock you, does it? But when you grow up in a house that didn't allow Three's Company because two girls were living with a guy, it was that or Little House on the Prairie.

Who am I kidding? I loved Little House, too. My sisters and I used to walk around with baby blankets on our heads to mimic their long hair. The only drawback was that, as the youngest, I always had to play the role of Carrie. Let's face it, she was the dull Ingalls sister and they certainly never had an episode revolve around her antics.

Anyway... back to Touched By An Angel. There was an episode where Roma Downey's character was in some sort of trouble {for an angel she was a bit on the scatterbrained side} and, as always, Della Reese's character stepped in to give her guidance. But it was always some sort of riddle with her... she'd want to help Roma's character without coming right out and telling her what to do.

I don't remember what the issue was, but the riddle that Della gave has always stuck with me. She said that when confronting a problem, you should always ask the answer.

I spent the episode as befuddled as Roma's character. Did she mean ask someone what the answer was? Did she mean to start with an answer and see if it fit the question? Hmm? What? Huh?

In the end it turned out she was saying that God is the answer to anything and everything, if we just remember to ask Him the questions. Ask Him into our lives. Ask Him to guide us in the right direction. Ask Him... because He not only has the answers, He is the answer.

Funny how a simple television show with bad acting can make such a difference, but that phrase pops into my head a lot. There are many times I feel like I'm groping around in the dark trying to figure out what I'm supposed to be doing and how I'm supposed to be making a difference with the life I'm given. But I have found that when I'm stumbling around it's usually because I've forgotten to keep it simple.

Instead of simplicity, I find myself stuck in a merry-go-round of thoughts in my head... leaving me not knowing what to pray for or even where to start. And it's usually in those moments when I remember to ask the Answer.

I keep it so simple that my prayer is just, "God, help me to know what it is you want me to say. What you need me to want. Help me to know how to do this." It's good for me to remember that even when life is so crazy and you're not sure what to ask for, all you need to do is tell God you're at a loss. Ask the Answer and then leave it in His hands.

Sometimes it takes awhile, but sooner or later I always find the words I need or a direction to follow. So if you're ever feeling stuck, just remember to ask the Answer. It'll always come to you.

And for the record, I did eventually get to watch Three's Company. There's something to say for being the youngest and having older siblings to loosen up the parents a bit. I guess playing Carrie is the price I had to pay for good television later on...

:)

Instrument of Action

Prayer is not an old woman's idle amusement. Properly understood and applied, it is the most potent instrument of action.
                        ~ Mahatma Gandhi

My Grandma Flo was nothing less than a prayer warrior. I remember going into her spare bedroom and there, on the dresser that now stands in my home, would lay her rosary beads. Worn and weathered from constant use, prayers for her soul and the souls of those she loved.

I use my own beads regularly, and not a bit of wear shows on them. It gives me pause to realize how much dedication and love it took to whittle away the paint on her own.

Grandma died a hard but beautiful death, due in large part, I believe, because she prayed for just that. To be welcomed into the arms of Jesus in a beautiful moment. When I learned that was her prayer I realized something… that there is nothing too large or too small that can be asked. We need to speak to Him about everything, in the midst of everything.

And so I thought we would have a moment today to do just that. To share in that kind of prayer together. If you'd like, as we have done before, just leave your prayer request in the comment section and then take the time to pray for the intention of the commenter before you.

I will get my beads moving today for all of you. Thank you for the ways that you are always praying for me. I know that you do, because I know that without them I wouldn't be living this life as well as I am. :)

Hiding Sunshine

My older nieces and nephews were little ones at the time. Thomas, who just graduated high school this month, was maybe seven. His partner-in-crime, Alex, was about eight. And the third amigo? He was in his 50s. And their grandpa.

It was Memorial Day weekend and we were all in St. Benedict at a cemetery next to the small country church my mom attended as a child. All of us were placing flowers next to the headstones of loved ones who had gone to heaven before us, walking around the cemetery trying to remember who was related to whom and how they were related to us.

And off in the back corner huddled Dad with his two oldest grandsons. You could tell by the way Dad was standing and gesturing with his hands that he was telling a big story and those boys were paying close attention.

Before too long, Thomas came running over to his mom and I, declaring, "Mom! You aren't going to believe it! Grandpa used to hide sunshine in these stones!"

We'd all heard the stories before, so it didn't take long to realize Grandpa had been telling inappropriate stories of his own youth to the youth whose ears were too young to be listening.

The intricate tale Dad wove was of long ago, when alcohol was outlawed and people made their own brews in bathtubs and bottled up liquor on the sly. He told of secret stashes and horse riding and whatever else he could throw in his true story to make it just a little more lively.

Dad explained to these impressionable little lads that some of the headstones were hollow inside. And he showed them the panels on the sides that could be unscrewed, and told of the times they would sneak into the graveyards to hide their stashes of tub-brewed liquor inside the headstones of people who had long since left the earth.

He told them of moonshine.

Thomas told us of sunshine.

And none of us corrected him as we all scolded Dad and knew it would do no good.

I have to admit, thinking of it today, a little part of me wishes there was a panel on the side of Dad's headstone so we could lay down flowers and hide a little moonshine in there just for him.

And I hope those tales that we hushed him from telling back then get told years down the road when those kids come back to visit him on Memorial Day. When they tell their own grandkids about their Grandpa Mike who weaved them stories of moonshine and filled their spirits with sunshine.

I would lay flowers there today if I could.

But I'll spread his sunshine through stories in their stead.

Flashback Friday: Revealing Gold

Do you want to know what's worse than fighting an infection in your lungs? What the month's worth of antibiotics does to your stomach.

Not to be a big baby complainer or anything, but let's just say I'm not going to be sad when I'm done with this round and I stop throwing up everything I eat. Seriously.

Ahhh… Who said venting doesn't make a girl feel better? I feel better already!!!

:)

Truly, though, the best thing that has kept me occupied the last few days has been praying for your requests in Wednesday's comment section. Thank you SO MUCH for trusting me and each other with what you need. Praying for you is an honor I don't take lightly. I'm wondering if that's something we should do here once a month to keep in touch with what we need from each other. What do you think?

Let me know if you want me to do that in the comments and I'll follow up with you on it.

Ok, so on to today's post. The 5 minute Friday topic doesn't get put up until 11pm CST, and there is no way I'm going to make it until then tonight, so I'm pulling an old "Flashback Friday" on us today and hoping by next Friday I'll be back to my 5 minute ramblings.

Hope you enjoy. :)

::

{ORIGINALLY POSTED: SEPTEMBER 3, 2008}
Revealing Gold

I subscribe to an email that provides daily inspirational quotes. In all honesty, most of them aren't that inspirational or are so abstract it takes half a day to figure out what in the world they mean. It reminds me of when I took a course in college about Chaucer where my professor didn't teach us about Chaucer's works as much as he stood up in front of the room and read to us aloud in Old English.

I got a lot of napping done in that class. And it was one of those times when having the ability to write abstractly about nothing and make it sound convincing came in handy.

Today, though, my email quote was one that made me stop before I hit the delete button. I liked it. It's this quote by Tolstoy:

"Truth, like gold, is to be obtained not by its growth, but by washing away from it all that is not gold."

I've spent a lot of time in my life looking at ways to grow, be that in my relationships with other people, in my faith, in my career or in my every day life. There are so many books out there that talk about pursuing dreams, enriching your marriage and growing in your spirituality. There are ways to educate your mind and increase your value both financially and personally. And none of those are bad things.

But sometimes I think the more I read about how to work toward things, the further away I get from the truth of who I already am. It's like the walls in my Grandpa Joe and Grandma Florence's old farm house. When we went back to see it before it was going to be torn down Mom and I stood in the dining room and she talked about all of the different wallpapers she remembered being in that house. We took a corner and peeled back a bit of the paper to reveal another underneath. And another. And another.

I can't imagine how many layers must have been there because instead of taking down the old paper when it got worn, Grandma just added a layer. And I think a lot of us do that with who we are.

Sometimes it's life that adds the layers on us. We have grief that we don't know what to do with so we put it on and wear it until it becomes comfortable. We have jobs that have to be done with work that we can't seem to leave at the office, so we add a layer. We have to make sure our families are fed and happy and cared for, that our kids have every opportunity and make it to every activity. We worry and rush and worry some more. And we add a layer for each.

Sometimes, like those strips of wallpaper on the drafty walls of an old farm house, the layers add a little insulation. There have been many times in my life when I've been scared or overwhelmed or unsure of myself, and the layers came in handy. A new wallpaper over my worn self-esteem kept everyone thinking that I had it all together. I remember starting college and thinking that people would only want to be around me if I was confident and self-assured.

But when I insulated myself from appearing scared or unsure I also could have insulated myself from people who, as it turns out, love me at my weakest as well as my strongest. I'm just lucky that at some point my layers peeled away enough for me to make that discovery.

And that's why I like this quote. Truth is like gold. It is unchanging. The truth is that we are born into this world and we are loved by God before we've done a single thing to earn it. In a lot of our growing and searching, what we are often searching for is a way to be good enough for people to love and accept us. Sometimes I think we'd accomplish that easier if we'd stop searching for ways to be better and peel away the layers first. If we would just stop and wipe away all that isn't gold, we'd see the truth that who we are is already loved. And always has been loved since before we were born.

We just have to stop long enough to make the discovery.

Blog Peep Questions: Round 17

What is your middle name?

Anne. With the "e" … I'm guessing since Mom decided to leave the "h" off of Sara, she decided to get a little more creative with middle name. Mom's name is Jane Ann, and when I was little I added an "e" to her middle name in my baby book because I thought she must have misspelled it by accident. Oops.

I don't really know why she spelled my name different than hers, but it ended up working out well for me. When I was a junior in high school I had the lead in the play The Diary of Anne Frank, and it wasn't until the wrap party that we realized her name was built into the middle of mine: Sara "Anne Frank"l. At the time it felt like destiny. :)

How old are your siblings?

I'm the youngest of six kids. In order, we are:
Jerry: 45
Laura: 44
Jim: 43
Janette: 42
Steve: 40
Me: 37

The first three overlap ages every year… so when my brother Jim was born, my oldest brother Jerry was still one and Laura was in between them.

CRAZY.

Apparently, every year at the baptism my grandpas would say goodbye to each other by saying, "I'll meet you back here this time next year."

Poor Mom. :)

How did your parents meet?

I love this story. My mom was from a small, neighboring farm community called St. Benedict and attended the public school there. But since the Catholic high school was open in Algona, the priest in her town decided to help out enrollment and told my Grandma Flo that he wouldn't give her absolution for her sins unless her kids attended the Catholic school [Garrigan].

Seriously.

So, seeing that her soul was at stake, and she wasn't allowed to take part in communion unless she received absolution, Gram pulled mom out of school and away from all of her friends to send her to Garrigan.

Thank goodness. Because that's where my dad went to school every day. He was "that guy" with the cool van and a boat, and was the one everyone wanted to dance with at The Surf Ballroom on the weekends. He was smooth. :)

Anyway, Mom and a friend of hers were worried that they weren't going to get dates to the prom, and a nun at the school told them if they went into the chapel during lunch and said three Hail Mary's on a Tuesday, they would get dates for the prom.

Mom swears that they went into the chapel that day, walked back out and the first person she saw was Dad. He walked right up to her and asked her to the prom… and the rest was history.

I never tested this theory myself, but all you single girls out there… tomorrow is Tuesday. Find a chapel over your lunch hour and report back if you magically find the loves of your lives.

Maybe that nun was onto something. You never know. :)

Flashback Friday: Sparkly Snow

Listening to the sound of the wind whistling around the building as the windows shook and the snow whipped into tiny volcanoes in and of themselves, I found myself suddenly nostalgic for our farm house back on the acreage.

The blizzard here was just starting to get it's footing. The winds were reaching their 50 miles per hour and the chill of the outside could be felt in my inside bones. And then, for a moment, there was quiet. So I grabbed my camera and looked outside, knowing what I would see.

Sparkly snow. Right outside my window.

It was always my favorite part of the storm, watching from the window with my mom. I can remember the night, being in the family room, watching television with the family and suddenly noticing Mom was gone.

I always noticed when Mom was gone.

I walked into the laundry room, knowing that's where I would find her. But there was no sloshing of a washer or tumbling of a dryer. It was quiet. Dark. And the only sound was that familiar whipping of the wind as she sat on a stool by the window, watching it swirl.

Her moment of silence in the peace of the white sparkly snow.

As an adult, I now recognize the quiet moment she was grabbing. A husband and six kids content in another room. Dishes done. The house vacuumed. No pressing for homework to be done or school clothes to be ready, because she knew the snow was only starting and our rural roads wouldn't be fit for the buses to pass.

She would sit quietly at the window and rest in the sound of the new fallen snow. The peace in the wild whipping of the wind. I, of course, would break her silence, but only by my presence. I liked the quiet, too.

She would show me the light we were trying to see in the distance – the one a quarter mile away that lit up Dad's hog buildings. She was making sure the power was still on so the livestock were warm and fed and safe. But then she would take her eyes away from the light to make sure I saw the diamonds in the snow.

She said they were the little gift that God gives in the middle of a storm.

And I would curl up with her on her stool and think about how she sparkled right along with them, in the quiet of the snow.

There is no doubt that those little lessons then, about sparkly gifts in the middle of storms, help me to see the sparkle in my life now. Quietly content to watch the storms brew outside my windows. But only letting the sparkle rest inside.

Flashback Friday: Living Out Our Human Existence

Ok.

So.

This is going to be the most personal thing I've ever posted here. It's the only thing I've written since 2008 that I haven't shared with you guys immediately. In all honesty, I never really intended to. But the experience was important to me, and this space is where I put my important thoughts so I never lose them.

It's the place where I share my life with people, so I'm sharing this, too.

Two months to the day after Dad's funeral, I had a dream. But it wasn't really a dream at all. It was an experience I had never had before and am sure I'll never have again. As soon as I woke up, I wrote it all down in detail and sent it to all the members of my family.

I think I had the dream because Dad knew I would write it down. As my brother Steve said, "If I would have had the dream, I would have said 'Hey, I saw Dad. He's great.'" I, of course, went into extreme detail, so excuse the length... but it is as vivid now as it was then.

Ok. I'll just let you read it now. The only other thing I have to say is this: I really miss my Dad.

When I have dreams, they are very real, very detailed and very exhausting. They are full blown movies with beginnings and climaxes and resolutions. But they are also very much based in my reality.

Almost every dream I have consists of me being outside and gasping for air... trying to find a way back inside and searching for a place with an air purifier.

Seriously.

At some point in the dream, I am always searching for Riley. Either he has run away or been replaced with another dog or is injured and I am trying to help him. I am constantly trying to get around and do all these things, but never seem to have my crutches or walker with me. I am struggling to get about while finding things lying around and using them as makeshift ambulatory aids.

I never get to escape my circumstances. Not even in my dreams.

But last night was different. Last night wasn’t a normal dream. Most of the dream last night, I was driving in a car, talking with a gentleman I’ve never met. He was kind and was interviewing me. I was driving down back roads, passing fields and farm houses and lakes... seemingly knowing where I was going but not paying much attention to the destination. I was just enjoying the ride and telling my story.

I mostly talked about how we had lost something. In the dream, it seemed more like a financial loss... we had lost our home, our place to gather and be whole as a family. I told him that it had been really hard on all of us, but that we never really panicked. We all had faith enough to know that God had always seen us through every trial and that He would see us through any that were yet to come. We were sad and disappointed, but that Dad had found us a place and that’s where we were all going to meet up. Whatever it was, big or small, we would make it work. We were just going to be faithful on the journey.

I was driving, but it wasn’t like I had any directions... almost like the car was turning itself and knowing where to go. I pulled into this lane, not noticing anything around me, until I parked the car and got out. And there I was. Home. At the farm where we all grew up. The place I thought we had lost was where we were all gathering. And it was the same.

But it was very, very different.

It was better.

All the landmarks were there. Everything was where it was supposed to be, but it felt different. The grass was such a deep green and so thick... soft like a carpet... my feet sunk into it but sprung back up with each step, with no effort of my own. There were the usual line of hedges, but they were different, too. Lining the hedges were small, intricate crystal stakes... so out of place and yet it seemed they belonged.

The barns were there, but the feel of everything was different. They looked the same, but I felt like if I had reached out and grabbed a board off the wall I could have wrapped it around myself like a blanket. Everything felt safe. Soft. Warm. Comforting.

There was a warm yellow glow of autumn around everything... but it felt like a warm summer evening with a soft cool breeze. The orange glow of the sun... whether it was rising or setting, I don’t know... cast a protective blanket over the scene.

I looked at the man who was interviewing me and told him that this was my home. I didn’t understand because I thought we had lost it, that we were finding somewhere else to be, but we were back here in this place. This familiar, warm and welcoming place, only it was better than it was before. More beautiful. More warm. More complete.

And there were a few dogs milling about. Resting under the hedges. And jumping out of my car was my old dog, Mitzi. She ran around like she had been waiting to do that for ages. And when I turned back around I almost tripped over this big yellow lab... it was Jake, my friend Susie’s old dog. He didn’t seem the least bit out of place, and I laughed at both my clumsiness and his need for attention.

I walked around the yard, the familiar landscaping and rocks that were the same... but deeper in color, softer to the touch, gentler somehow. I saw Mom and a couple of my siblings talking to someone and could hear them all asking when the other had gotten there. It seemed as if everyone had just arrived.

And then he turned. And I saw him.

Dad.

He threw his arms wide and exclaimed, “There you are!” And I ran and jumped into his arms like a kid even though I was grown, and threw my legs around his waist. I hugged him so tight as if I hadn’t seen him in ages, but felt like I had just talked to him yesterday. It had been forever and just a moment, all at the same time.

I saw the others, but I just kept hugging him so tightly. He kept saying that we could stay. That all was put back right again.

All was put back right again.

I woke up from the dream with my eyes still closed and I could still see myself hugging him. I could still feel his head pressed against me and I realized I was pushing my hands hard into my chest. Physically making the feeling that my chest had in my dream. I woke up, my eyes still closed, the picture still solidly perfect in my mind, thinking what a perfect dream I just had.

And it was then that reality hit me. That Dad was gone. That I just had him back for a moment. A simple, perfect moment.

It was just a dream. And I laid there with my eyes closed, trying to hold onto him. Onto the feeling. Onto the picture I could still see. Until it slowly evaporated and all I could see behind the lids of my eyes was the reality that he was still gone. And I was still here in this condo. And we weren’t back together on the farm.

Yet.

It was the first morning I’ve woken up not realizing already that Dad is gone. It’s the first dream when I didn’t gasp for air. When I didn’t need my crutches or have to learn how to walk or search for something that was lost. It’s the first dream I’ve had when none of those things even crossed my mind.

I honestly feel like I just saw Dad’s version of heaven for a moment. And when I opened my eyes I felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. I wanted to call everyone and say, “You were there, and you were there. And you, too!”

There is no place like home, this is true. But I feel like my home got put back together while I was in Oz. I feel like Dad is there putting everything right again.

When I opened my eyes, and everything I dreamed stayed as vivid as it was during the night, and I felt the loss of Dad so strongly again that I grieved as hard as I ever had... the words that kept running through my head were the ones that Dad so often said:

We are just spiritual beings living out our human existence.

I think he was right. And I think someday, in our heaven, all will be put back right again.

I can’t wait.

Flashback Friday... on a Monday

Many of you have asked me how I decide what to write about. In all honesty, I don't think a lot about it; I just write whatever is in me in that moment. This blog, other than being a place to connect with people, has primarily been a source for me to figure things out. To write things down. To have a place where I can go back and remind myself of things I need to remember.

I was hoping that I'd be feeling better by now [I am the most unrealistic human on the planet, apparently], but since I'm not yet feeling stellar, I thought I'd improvise and do a Flashback Friday on a Monday. And, ironically, when I went back to look for an old post I found one that was a darn good reminder for me right now. One I needed.

So I'm sharing in case it might be a good reminder for someone else out there, too.

Invincible
[originally published November 2008]

I love words. Not just for the sake of writing and their meaning, but the way they sound when spoken aloud. There are certain phrases that are given a depth that would otherwise go unnoticed. It's just something about the way the words sound together.

The quote pictured below is on my wall of doodles, and it's a perfect example of a message I like for it's meaning, but one I like so much better when said aloud. Try saying it and see if you feel the difference:

"In the midst of winter, I finally learned
there was in me an invincible summer."
                                                              ~Albert Camus

See what I mean? It sounds like poetry to me.

It's also a quote that happens to be true. I put this on my wall not to inspire me, but to remind me of what I've already learned so I don't have to keep re-teaching myself.

When things get harder, when my health is more trying, the thing that keeps me calm and sane is the fact that I know I've done it before. The pain has been bad before, the symptoms are all ones that I've faced in the past, the exhaustion has reared it's ugly head and the headaches have tried to break me. And during those times, those wintry moments when things seem cold and endless and bleak, there is a summer deep within me that is untouchable. Invincible. I know it's there even when it seems far away and unreachable because I've been through it all before... and the summer always rises to the surface.

I have faith that He hasn't left me empty. So in those moments I remind myself of what I've already learned... that in the midst of winter there is in me an invincible summer.

What have you already learned that seems easy for you to forget?

Because I really do believe that once we know better we can't pretend to be ignorant anymore. Try making it a habit to remind yourself now of what you've already learned so that during your next run of trouble... the winter moments that inevitably come... you will remember and believe that He hasn't left you empty.

Remember that He has given you an invincible summer within.

Reading and Writing Novels

I got a typewriter for my 9th birthday.

It was light brown plastic with a dark brown top, and old fashioned keys that had to be pushed down hard to make the metal lever move. There was no whirring, like my mom's electric typewriter that sat on her side of the desk in my dad's office. It was as simple as they come, but it was MINE.

And I decided that made me a writer.

That summer I would try to act grown up and lay out in the afternoon sun with my sisters, trying to get a tan and be fabulous. But in truth, I was far too antsy to lay there and do nothing. So I would haul my typewriter out onto the lawn, set it in front of me on the blanket, and begin my novel.

It was then I decided I would write short stories instead.

Because coming up with a novel at nine was hard. It took more words than I knew and more patience than I had developed. I remember thinking I couldn't wait for the day when I had something to write about.

In the interim, while I was waiting to live more life so I would have something to say, I instead immersed myself in books. Words melted on my tongue like chocolate and shivered my skin like the tart apple off our trees. Words made me feel emotions I hadn't experienced and took me places I would never travel. I had to wait to be a writer until I had something to say, but I never had to wait to be a reader.

Being a reader helped me know how to fully embrace life. Good authors are still teaching me just that.

I've been a behind-the-scenes-girl for a little while with the Bloom Book Club, and they have just announced the big move of combining Bloom into (in)courage. I'm so honored to be a part of both of these amazing groups, and the fact that they are merging into one is pretty incredible.

The first book selection for Bloom (in)courage sums up all the reasons I hauled my little plastic typewriter outside every day that summer. Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts is a book that does for me now what I wanted books to do for me at nine years old.

Her writing melts on my tongue, it provides shivers of recognition and conviction... her words are ones where, after reading a sentence, you go back to read it again just to let it sink into your brain.

Jessica has called Ann anointed. I can't think of a better word for her or her writing. She makes me ready to immerse myself in a book once again.

If you want to join us [you can find the new page here], you can purchase Ann's book through the (in)courage/Dayspring site, and participate in the discussion on the Blog Frog forums. Jessica, Angie and Ann have already made videos discussing the chapters, so you'll be able to hear about the book from the voice of the author herself. It's a pretty incredible experience.

I really can't wait. And I already know her words will spark a post or two here, as she always gets me thinking. Thankfully, technology has created typewriter keys that are a lot easier to type on than the old plastic model, but I'm still sticking with short stories.

Because, apparently, novels don't get any easier to write as you get older. ;)

Smarty Party

Every year of high school, I got an invitation to the smarty party. Otherwise known as the National Honor Society. I don't even remember what the criteria was to be a part of it every year, but every year my grades were good enough to get invited to the party.

We'd all go into the gymnasium that was decorated and set up for a dinner, and we'd get our certificates and photos taken. The best part for me, to be honest, is that I got a new outfit every year to attend "in style." [I say that lightly considering it was the late 80s early 90s.] We wore strict uniforms at my school so having an excuse to go shopping was the highlight.

Yep. I was the girl who loved the smarty party for the clothes.

Later in life, that attitude shone brightest when I took a trip to visit an old boyfriend of mine who was attending Notre Dame. My friends Nicole, Heidi and I had a great adventure getting very lost on our way home, which you can read about and laugh at us by clicking here. But there was a very big lesson I learned about myself that weekend.

I learned that I am not smart enough to attend one of their beer parties let alone their university.

Seriously, people. We had gone to the Penn State/Notre Dame football game earlier in the day, and it seemed like a normal college. We drank, we cheered, we won in the final moments, rushed the field and tore down the goal posts. It was exciting. It was nuts. It was fun. It was college.

And then we went to what appeared to be a normal house party. There was used, beat up furniture, there were kegs in the corners, there was fun and laughter. I was great until people started talking.

About engineering.

And physics.

And the ramifications of political decisions.

Needless to say, I drank a lot and kept my mouth shut so as not to shame the good name of the University of Northern Iowa by admitting I was lost as soon as we handed over our money to get in the door.

But I'm glad I had that experience because now I know I'm not a dumb girl, but I also know what being smart is really all about. And because I know that, I have absolutely no shame in taking this moment to brag as any proud Auntie should by telling you all that

MY NIECE ANNA GOT HER LETTER OF
EARLY ACCEPTANCE INTO THE UNIVERSITY OF NOTRE DAME.

And while I can take no credit for her academic achievement, I can tell you all that she was invited to the ultimate smarty party and when she shows up well dressed in a new outfit, that part will totally be my influence.

I'm a smidge proud.

Dear Mom,

Today is your birthday, and I love you dearly. You are managing to walk through what life has given us and I need you to know that we are all so proud of you. Nothing about this year has been simple or easy. But it has been filled with love and gratitude, and I promise more of that from all of us in this next year of your life. And every year to come.

I looked back to see what I had written about in past years on your birthday, and I was struck by how much this message describes our journey right now. It's all about taking courageous steps when we have no idea what we are getting ourselves into. We'll keep taking them together. You and me.

Now picture me behind you.

Meow.

[Only you'll get that, but I hope it made you smile.]

See that cute little girl?

It's her birthday today.

My mom is a woman who has taken so many courageous steps in her life. When she was in high school my Grandma Flo had gone to confession as she did every week, and the priest one afternoon refused to give her absolution for her sins unless she started sending her children to the Catholic school. My mom had good friends at her old school, played on a basketball team that won the state championship and had no desire to transfer anywhere... but her junior year she took the plunge and enrolled in the new school so Grandma could get absolution and save her soul.

Thank God.

Because that's where she met my dad. The cool guy who had a van and a boat and loved to dance... he fell in love with my mom and that's where the story gets started. I can't even imagine, with the pace my life exists, the pace my mom was living at my age. She married my dad in 1964 and had her first baby 9 months later... and had her sixth baby 8 years later at the age of 29.

She learned how to help out on a hog farm (clipping pigs' tails and teeth... a job I could never bring myself to do) not to mention taking care of six little kids, doing laundry, making meals and everything else that a household entails. And often, in the middle of it, a couple of dad's younger brothers would be living with them while they worked on the farm.

Does your head hurt yet?

And when I say something like "making meals" I mean full-out meals with meat, potatoes, side salads and dessert... and in the summer time that was how we had lunch and supper. The table was always set properly and while we had fun, we learned manners and how to be respectful.

When we were little and would come in off the bus, mom would sometimes have snacks ready for us... doing the little things that make a difference like putting our pudding in separate little fancy dishes so we would feel special... because sometimes love is in the smallest of details.

Now, truth be told, as we got older and my siblings started leaving the house, mealtime changed and the snacks became different, but that's because mom was taking courageous new steps in her life. She had gone to work for the first time in her married life and she eventually found herself employed at Merle Norman Cosmetics (where her favorite phrase was that natural beauty takes time). :) She started working there, eventually bought the business, and through trial and error made it a success.

I definitely get my creative side from mom and loved going to her store during my junior high and high school years... helping out, doing makeovers, even piercing ears. She taught me about not being afraid to try, assuming you can do anything with enough effort and believing that new challenges are a good thing. She eventually sold that business, but couldn't stay idle for long.

She has had a recurring dream for years about being in an old house and redecorating it, and she woke up one night and told dad she wanted to start an interior design business. Courageous steps. So they took our attached garage and converted it into a show room... and she was in business! At a time when most people would be slowing down my mom was just getting started. Her business eventually moved to a space in town where she got to be creative every day, helping people make their houses into the homes they want for their families.

There are a million things I could tell you about my mom... about how I was attached to her hip through most of my childhood, how she would show off being able to turn a cartwheel with the best of them, or how she would take the Izod lizard off an old shirt and sew it onto a new one so we felt a little cooler at school...

But today, on her birthday, I want to say that most importantly she helped teach me by her example to not be afraid to try when you have no idea what you're getting yourself into. Because that's the kind of lesson that brought me here to all of you.

Happy Birthday, Mom... I'm very proud of you, and love you oodles and caboodles all around the world and back.

YOU:create ... week 19

When I was in high school, Dad would drive us home from church and I would sit in the back seat singing the songs we had just heard, while Mom sat in the front seat singing the harmony. Dad was convinced [seriously] that Mom and I could be Naomi and Wynonna. He thought if the Judd's could make it big there was no reason we couldn't do it, too.

Bless his heart.

I loved those moments because Dad really enjoyed listening to us. I didn't grow up in a family that just couldn't wait to hear me sing. It was probably more that most of them couldn't wait for me to stop singing :), which is why it was always so shocking to me once I got to college that people would ask me to sing at the most random of times.

Freshman year I had friends on my dorm floor who would call down to my room after they had gotten all ready for bed so I could come sing them to sleep. Later, when I was off campus, I would have friends over and make them big dinners... and it became habit that after they were all full and dishes were sitting empty on the table, they would lay on the floor and have me sing to them while they relaxed and digested.

I thought they were crazy. But I also loved being able to do something so simple that made someone so happy.

So that one year, when I had the opportunity to record a few songs, I jumped at the chance knowing there were some friends who would enjoy it. My nieces and nephews were little, and I loved being able to give them a cassette tape of Aunt Sara so they could hear me sing to them whenever they wanted. My niece Anna used to sit in their basement with her little plastic tape player and sing along with me. I loved it.

But the one who clearly loved it most was Dad. How do I know this? Because every single time the family was home and one of the grandkids rode with him in his truck, they came back in the house saying, "Hey Aunt Sara, we just listened to you sing." I'd hop in the truck to ride with Dad to get a movie, he'd turn the key in the ignition and there I would be... singing from the cd player... and he'd start humming along.

He listened to me all the time.

I'm not sure I've ever been more proud than to see that he was proud of me.

All those years ago, I never imagined that creating a quick cd of music would have such a lasting impact for me. I never imagined that Breath of Heaven would play at my Aunt Judy's funeral when I couldn't travel home. I never dreamed the only presence I would have at Dad's funeral would be my voice that I recorded so many years prior. I had no idea how much it would mean to me to have something to offer when it was no longer physically possible to give.

Some of you guys have asked over the past few years if you could order a cd, but rather than go through the bother of all of that, I thought I'd offer it up as a YOU:create. Admittedly, I feel as silly about offering it now as I did singing to my friends after a good meal, but if it's a small way I can make you happy then I am all for it. I created it years ago... I sang one song after another without the opportunity to fix bad notes or lost breath, so there are many flaws and many mistakes... but I put my heart in it and I hope it blesses yours.

To download the songs, all you have to do is click on that download button and it will take you to the download page.

Hope you enjoy... Merry Christmas!

I can’t wait to see what you guys came up with this week! Just click below and follow the instructions to link to your project. When it asks you to choose the web or a file for your thumbnail, choose web. Then it will take you to a list of the images on the page you are linking to and you’ll be able to choose a photo to represent your project.

Flashback Friday: A Song for You

Hello, my sweet blog people. After a very un-fun week I'm here to tell you I'm still alive and kicking. :) Ok, I'm not doing the Rockette kind of kicks, but I'm working on the the much shorter, joint restricted, spondylitis version.

I thought this week would be a good time for our annual Flashback Friday to the days of Advent when I used to sing this song at St. Stephen's. There are a great many things in this life I miss doing, but looking into people's eyes when I sing this song is way up there on the list. I'm awfully grateful I can at least do it for you in this small, imperfect, but heartfelt form...

Breath of Heaven
[originally posted 12.8.08]

Since my first day at college, I was involved at St. Stephen the Witness Catholic Student Center. I loved that place and the ever-evolving community. As a freshman I had upperclassmen who took me under their wing. I had friends my age who were going through the same ups and downs of college life. And as I made my way through the years, I eventually mentored others and took them under my wing. While the community changed, the environment didn't. It was a place of love and support and acceptance and learning.

All of those things are still in that building for me. I haven't been able to be there to celebrate Mass or join in activities for a long time, but I can close my eyes and see the details, smell the essence, hear the trickle of the baptismal font and feel the closeness of the air that hugs you into a sense of serenity. I loved worshipping there.

Mostly, I loved singing there.

I'm not the best singer in the world, but it is, hands down, the thing I loved to do the most. I don't read music so I would meet the pianist for our practice session carrying a mini-recorder to tape the songs. Then I would take it home and play it over and over to have the music ingrained in me until I could sing without thinking.

I would stand up to the microphone on Sunday morning and see a sea of faces who were there for something so much bigger than us. And I would do the same thing each time... silently pray the Memorare and ask for Mary to send one of the angels in the choir to sing for me that day. I would ask that whatever message was supposed to be given would be heard, and then I would concentrate on the words and the meaning and trust that the notes would come out right. Sometimes they did and sometimes they didn't, but regardless I always felt a connection with the community.

One year around Christmas time I had recorded a radio jingle for our local airport... it was the corniest jingle ever, but the studio I was at gave me a deal on some recording time. I had enough money from the jingle to be in the studio for one hour, and I recorded eight songs back-to-back. Each song had one take... no going back to fix it if I hit a wrong note or ran out of breath. I took the opportunity to record the songs I had done most often at St. Stephen's to share with the people it meant something to.

The song I still have people tell me they miss at this time of year was a song I would have sang today on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception... Breath of Heaven. So, for all of you from St. Stephen's that read the blog, and for all of you new friends of mine, I'm going to share my recording of it today. I know others have sang it better, but I hope you get as much out of hearing it as I got out of singing it for so many years. Just click the play button on the player below and wait a second for it to start. And remember I'm not a professional... just a person who loved the experience of sharing the moment.

07 Breath of Heaven by gitzengirl

Blog Peep Questions: Round 13

What's the most rebellious thing you've ever done?

Oh, people.

I was not what you'd call a rebellious child. We've had this conversation before, and Mother has confirmed that whatever word describes the polar opposite of mischievous is the word that would best describe me. Catholic guilt was my most consistent emotion.

But as I was on Facebook tonight chatting back and forth with Goi, one of my dearest friends from high school, I remembered a time when we tried really hard to be rebellious.

Tried being the operative word here.

We were sophomores in high school and the guys in our class were rebellious enough for all of us. If they could find a way to get into trouble, they jumped in with both feet.

One day, a bunch of us were sitting in the cafeteria during study hall when the boys started bragging about stealing some random road sign. And some of us girls [Goi and I included] were trying to tell them it wasn't that big of a deal. That it wasn't the amazing feat they were claiming it to be.

And then we decided to put our money where our mouth was.

[Dear Mother: you may want to stop reading now...]

Of course, we were girls and that meant that we were more logical than our male counterparts. So we decided we would only steal a stop sign from a country road where there was little traffic and less chance anyone would get hurt from our actions. [Thoughtful, weren't we?] We also decided to focus our efforts out by the acreage where I lived because it was fairly secluded so there was less chance of getting caught – and if anyone happened upon us out there we could get in the car quick and say we were just headed to my house.

We were totally thinking ahead.

We were so prepared with tools and cover stories and oodles of logic.

What we weren't prepared for were the bolts on the sign being so dang tight.

Seriously, people. I have a hard time believing the wimpy 15 year old boys in the sophomore class had enough muscle on their own to get those bolts loosened. I'm convinced to this day that they took some sort of power tool out there with them.

Although, showing my age here, I'm not entirely sure battery powered tools were as readily available 20 years ago.

Regardless, it was insane. At one point, Goi and I were both holding onto the wrench [totally not even sure it was a wrench... I'm not tool savvy] and pulling on that sucker with all of our might when the wrench flew out of our hands and into the overgrown ditch. Goi jumped in to retrieve it, only to start yelling about getting bit and her face burning and swearing she jumped right into a mad swarm of something.

Turns out she did.

We gave up on the sign entirely [and probably lost the wrench-like tool in the process] and when I showed up in study hall the next day, Goi was there with one eye almost swollen shut and red bites on her face.

Seriously. Poor girl. I don't remember how she explained that one to her parents, but I'm sure it was a doozy.

All this to say... I have succeeded at a great many things in my life.

Being rebellious was not one of them.

Blog Peep Questions: Grandparents, part 4

What is your favorite memory of a grandparent?

I know it's hard to believe when looking at this face:

but the best word to sum up my Grandpa Gerald is ORNERY. I think that's why Riley adored him so much when Gramps was here visiting. Those two are cut from the exact same cloth. Ornery as all get out, but so cute they can get away with it. :)

It's so hard to pick just one or two things to tell you all about my grandpa, because what's fun about him is everything about him all wrapped up into one package. The way he goes about every undertaking with a whistle on his lips. The way he starts a story and somehow ends up telling it in an Irish accent because it sounds more entertaining. The way he concentrates when working on something intricate and bites his tongue out the side of his mouth. And the way he has, despite all that concentration, cut off almost all his fingers at one point or another.

Grandpa Gerald is simply never boring.

He and Grandma Rita would come to our house when I was little and Grandpa would place his fingers on the piano and pluck out a rousing Redwing for all of us to pair up and dance to. And he'd do this, despite the fact that he could never read a lick of music. I was shocked when he was at my house a few years ago and, despite him losing some of his mental abilities due to Lewy Body Dementia, he placed those hands [with a few missing fingertips] on my piano keys and played that familiar old tune from my youth. And I smiled, knowing Grandpa would always be Grandpa when it came right down to it.

I'm sure he made all of his granddaughters feel special, but when he'd give me a hug and say, "So how's my little sweetheart?" it was hard to believe he felt that much love for everyone. He'd show love in the little things, like teaching me that vanilla ice cream just needed a little bit of warmed applesauce and cinnamon to make the perfect dessert. He'd make filling bird feeders or cleaning up the pontoon boat less a chore and more of a special outing. And he loooooved to stun you with grand gestures. Like the time we went to visit and renting VCRs at the video store was the big new thing... but the store we went to had them all rented out already. So he simply drove to the store and bought a VCR instead.

We thought he'd lost his mind. Or was magical. We were never sure which.

As much as my dad had my Grandma Rita's personality, he had almost all of my Grandpa Gerald's mannerisms. They had the same hands, the same way of talking to themselves as they worked on a project, the same way of giving their attention to their grandchildren and making every task a learning adventure.

It's hard for me knowing that Grandpa won't ever be well enough to travel again, and that it's impossible for me to get to him. I miss walking into a room to give him a kiss on the lips and blowing a raspberry instead just to get him to laugh and say, "You little shit" through his chuckles. I miss playing cribbage with him and having him tell me to "Drop my voice" when I'm still trying to find a combination of 15 and he knows I have none left. I miss the twinkle in his eye when he's telling a tall tale and the sweetness of just sitting and holding his hand.

But now, there's a part of me that is ok knowing Dad will see him before I will again. That when Grandpa's time comes, he and Dad will be able to sit together and talk about all of us, about their lives and the stories that had been left untold between them. Heaven doesn't seem like such a faraway place to me anymore. It just seems like a place where loved ones are waiting. And when Grandpa's time comes, I know Dad will be the first face he sees.

And I kind of hope Dad tells Grandpa to "drop his voice." Just for fun. :)

Back in the Olden Days...

My niece Avery bounded into her parents' bedroom the other morning with an exclamation of, "I had the most wonderful dream last night!"

If you know Avery, you know that she definitely did bound. Or prance. Or sashay. Steve says it's like living with me as a child all over again.

Lucky him. :)

Anyway, she had a dream that we were all together again at a Log Splitting Festival. Bits of the dream were classic Avery... like the fact that she and her mom had spiffy new matching outfits. Because seriously, people, who would go to a Log Splitting Festival without a new outfit?

But the great part was that we were all together. The cousins, the aunts and uncles, and most importantly – Grandma and Grandpa. She said Dad was there, talking to everyone and giving them instructions as to how a person can best split a log.

Which would so be my Dad. The social part and the instructional part.

I grinned when Patience said she had no idea how Avery came up with a Log Splitting Festival for us all to meet up, but I knew without a moment's hesitation. Splitting wood as a family is exactly what Dad would have had us all doing when I was her age.

Growing up on the farm, we heated our home solely with a wood burning furnace. Which means every fall around this time, we would head out to Gib and Bev Buscher's homestead and trek out into their woods to split logs.

[I know you guys think I make this stuff up, but we were eerily similar to the Walton's. Only better dressed. Sometimes.]

I really think my memories of being at the Buscher's is one of the reasons I love autumn so much to this day. We would bundle up, and dad would haul a gas log splitter out into the middle of the trees. After using a chainsaw to cut large portions of the trunk down to size, the older kids would load them onto the splitter ... and the CRACK! of the wood when it split would pop and echo into those quiet woods – making me jump every. single. time.

And Dad, every year, would go out into the woods with the idea that the kids were big enough to do a lot of the work themselves. And then he would begin showing everyone how to do it. And he'd never stop showing us long enough to let anyone take over.

That was Dad's way of doing everything. When I first started taking care of the lawn with our riding lawn mower, it took two weekends before Dad actually let me get on and drive the thing by myself. He'd get on the mower to "show me how." And then he'd do a couple of swings around the outer edge of the lawn to "get me started." And then, of course, he'd need to show me how to go diagonally to get the best look.

Eventually, he'd let me "finish up" when there was maybe a row or two left to mow. He was very thorough in his instruction, and log splitting was no different.

I never really cared if I helped split logs anyway, to be honest with you. I wasn't in it for the manual labor. I was in it for the festivities. We'd head up to the house when everything was finished and Bev would be there with our spread for dinner. There would be hot chocolate with marshmallows, apple cider or Russian tea [which I think is some kind of cider with Tang in it?]. We would sit by a fire and roast hot dogs and s'mores and take in the cool [sometimes downright cold] air of autumn.

I love that Avery had that dream. I love that she got to see Dad and get her spiffy new matching outfit. And I like to think Dad planted that seed in her head just so I could drift back into my memories and recall a time when life was chaotic, yet peaceful. And innocent. And blissfully simple.

And, above all, full of love and happy.

Sense of Wonder

We were laying on the berber carpet in our formal living room on the farm. It wasn't a room we used a lot... mostly for the overflow on holidays or the card parties my parents had when we were younger. There was no television or entertainment in that room – it was for reading and talking and much needed quiet in an always bustling house.

But now we had a stereo system. I was in high school, and Mom and Dad had just gotten a real sound system. We had tiny Bose speakers in the corners of our rooms on the main level and could even pipe music out into our screened in porch. I was in heaven.

And so was Dad. It was shortly before Christmas, Mom had already gone to bed and Dad and I were laying on the floor letting Mannheim Steamroller engulf the room.

Dad loved Mannheim Steamroller.

"Just listen to that. Doesn't it sound like they're right in the room? Don't you wonder how they put this music together? How do you suppose they manage to fill your whole chest up with sound and meaning when they don't say a word?"

Dad, as I'm sure you can tell, never lost his sense of wonder. And I was right there with him. I hadn't heard anything so pure before either, and we talked for a long time that night... debating how they created their sound. Did they start with the idea of the full sound and piece smaller sounds together to make it a reality, or did they start with one, single sound and build around it until it became what we heard?

Either way, we loved the music and the stereo system with the tiny speakers that amazed us with a new sound in our home.

Just five days before Dad died, he and Mom were laying in bed with me discussing the look of my bedroom. I'm pretty much in bed all day every day now, and this didn't really look like a room one would want to spend all day in. We were used to long Sunday afternoons of lazily watching movies, but instead on that Sunday we lazily dreamed up ways to make the bedroom better.

Mom and I had already talked about maybe painting my room the same blue they have in their bedroom. It's soft and cozy, but lighter and happier than the color of my room now. We thought it would give it a boost. And Dad, being the husband of an interior decorator, had started having pretty good opinions of his own as we discussed maybe painting the trim white and other things that would provide a face lift.

One of their suggestions was to get rid of my bulky television and put a flat screen on the wall. Needless to say, it was a great suggestion... but me being me, I told them they shouldn't do that. What I had was fine and I didn't want them spending money if they didn't have to. Of course I would have loved it, but I didn't need it. They both told me to hush up and that a TV needed to be a part of the makeover.

And then, five days later, my bedroom seemed like the most insignificant thing in my world that had just turned upside down and backward.

God bless Mom, one of the first things we talked about after Dad was gone was that she was getting that television he talked about. She has done such a beautiful job, as she walks through every day, looking not only through her eyes but through Dad's as well. She is living her life, and at the same time making sure she honors his. I am so proud of her.

So, she enlisted the help of my brother in law, who knows more about televisions than Mother or I, and this was delivered the week before last:

Mark and Susie came over that Saturday to install it for me, and as every word came out of my mouth I realized how much of what I was saying, Dad would have been echoing.

I've never seen a 3-D movie before, but I kept saying this is what I imagined it to look like. If Dad was here he'd say, "It looks like a guy could just reach in and pick one of those players out of the screen! That's crazy!"

And the colors... holy wow. I'm finding that, as I watch a show, I'm paying more attention to the detail of the screen than I am the detail of the storyline. I watched HD channels before, but now I'm actually watching HD.

I'm like a kid in a candy store.

Riley tries to be enthusiastic with me as I cuddle up with him, watching the Netflix instant queue that now magically pops up on my television screen, and I am constantly thinking about how much Dad would love this. How much he would be in awe of what technology can do these days. I can't wait for Mom to come for a lazy Sunday afternoon of movies and see a piece of Dad's heart right up there on the wall.

And as I watch, I'll hear the wonder in his voice and see the smile on his face. And I'll realize that every new thing that comes into my life now that he's gone will be made special by the memories he provided when he was here.

We are all so lucky to be loved so well.