What is this world coming to?

To the middle-aged man in a business suit who flailed (literally-- arms up in the air) on my flight from Phoenix to Los Angeles (or was it Los Angeles to Phoenix?),

I am sorry that we only had a regular white wine (with a name I can not pronounce) instead of a Chardonnay (a word I can not spell).

I have to wonder how hard your day must have been in order to cause such a melt down.

I'm sorry if your girlfriend broke up with you. I'm sorry if your dog died. I'm sorry about whatever happened in your life to inspire such a statement as "What is this world coming to?" (and actually mean it).

But, secretly I'm really not sorry that we had no Chardonnay. Because your reaction made my day.

Sincerely,

Your flight attendant

p.s. I think I may have seen your lip quiver.

Followers.

When I find out that someone reads my blog, and loves it, I like it. 

My dad reads my blog if I write about him.  My mom tells him to read it.  Maybe he’ll read this.  I have unwritten posts in my head about my dad.  I have to space them out.

My mom is probably my most faithful follower.  She loves it.  I could write a post about my mom every day.  There’s that much to write.  I need to start  in on that.

A few days ago I found out about someone else who reads my blog.  He says it’s one of his favorite blogs to read.  He didn’t have to say that.  But I appreciate it.  He laughed when he read my Dr. Claw post.  You were supposed to laugh.  (and be a little angry with me too)  So, thank you.  

Love.

One thing I love about Brian is that he is letting this be my first time too.  

He doesn't ask too many questions. 

When he asks, my answers are enough.  He believes me.  He loves me.

He knows my soul.  He reads me.  He knows the ins and outs of my face even though we don't see each other's faces nearly enough to know such quirks.  He knows my voice--it's inflections, changes, and stresses better than I do.

When I share the dearest, most fragile pieces of my heart, he takes them and cares about them.  The hardest parts of my life--the things I was most afraid to share with him, those things I needed him to treat with care--he does.  And somehow they make him love me more.  

What do you think about…?

Years ago when my dad was called to be part of a bishopric, my mom was talking to her sister and told her the news.  My dad, being the private man that he is, doesn’t really announce news like that—or really any news at all—and  wasn’t really thrilled about my mom doing it either.  He would rather the topic just come up naturally.  Well, obviously, some things (like being called into a bishopric) just don’t come up naturally.

The next time my mom wanted to announce something that doesn’t come up naturally, she coined the phrase, “What do you think about…?

This phrase has since been used many times in our family to announce important things.

For example, if I were wanting to announce that I was getting married, I might say something like…

“What do you think about weddings in November?”

Well folks, it’s not hypothetical.  It’s true. 

Brian proposed last weekend.

And I said “yes!”

Romantic.

Years ago one of my favorite friends, Jill, told me all about how romantic the Oregon Coast is.  I’d never been.  I really didn’t know what she meant by that.  But I was pretty sure that she didn’t mean romantic like roses and a box of chocolates.  She’s an English major, she’s good with words, and for some reason I think she may have been talking about a different kind of romantic.  The kind of romantic where powerful waves crash high up on the rocks and the skies are a deep gray.  The kind of romantic where you take your shoes off and roll up your jeans to walk in the sand, even though it’s cold and you are wearing sweatshirts.  The kind of romantic where you write your names surrounded by a heart with a stick in the sand.  Is this the kind of romantic you meant, Jill?

Brian and I drove to the coast a few weeks ago after church. 

It was perfectly romantic!

7 Months!

Happy, happy boy!!  

When Clark’s mom first saw him, one of the first things she commented on were his long fingers.  “Piano hands!” she said.  (She’s a piano teacher)  He’s starting young!

Oh, how I love him!