Tag Archives: relationships

ten wishes

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i wished ten times on stars,
whispered your name
into the cloudy, winter sky
and thought how sweet
a sign would be
to let me know
the tether holds fast.

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Grief and Motherhood– Lessons Learned While Grieving as a Mom

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If you’ve been following along over the past months, you may have noticed my once plucky mommy blog has been devoted almost entirely to the death of one of my best friends.

E. died in October.  She died suddenly, or at least it seemed sudden to me.  Had my eyes been open, I might have seen it really was not so sudden.  She’d been ill.  I’d been in denial.  Part of my grief’s rawness these past months is in acknowledging that, had I not been in denial about her age and health, I might have had prioritized more opportunities to see her, to love her, to speak and share with her.

Sometimes I don’t make the time I should.  While juggling the responsibilities of my life as a working mom and wife, I forget to make the call or send the card.  I’m not assertive enough about making plans with people.  It’s a crappy excuse, and an even crappier feeling to realize you missed a chance because you were stupidly blinded by the day to day.

I take comfort in knowing my last interaction with her was loving, sweet, and happy.  And about a week before she died, I left a voice mail for her which ended, as it always ended, in “I love you.”

I’ve also taken comfort in writing about her.

E. was my first major loss.  It doesn’t matter that I’m a therapist with training in grief and trauma.  When you experience this stuff for the first time, it’s like any other new, uncomfortable experience.  I’m bumbling  through the dark tunnel, and channeling my frustration, and sorrow into posts and poems.

Grieving as a mom has also been challenging.

When E. first died, a friend said she hoped I could find space to grieve because it’s hard to do when you are a working mom, already stretched translucently thin.  I’ve thought a lot about this over the past couple months- how as moms it is so hard to find the space we need to integrate all of our parts into one cohesive package.  We can’t sit around and cry in bed when kids need to be brought to school, karate, and dance; need to be fed, washed, and snuggled.  We still have to rise and go to work to keep heat on and food stocked.

In some ways, I wonder if my grief is taking me twice as long to “go through” because I pigeon hole it into these tiny chunks.  As moms, we keep bits of ourselves in little boxes, high up on shelves.  It seems we rarely have time to take them down, open them up and spread the contents all over, let alone pack it all back up in the proper compartments.  I tell myself things like, “If I just hold it together for the next seven hours, I can cry in the car on my commute home.”

It’s exhausting, but it is what it is.

Despite the lack of time and energy, I’ve tried staying emotionally open to lessons this time has to teach me.  I’ll share what I came up with so far:

1. It sounds like a cliche, but if I learned one thing about bereavement, it is that talking and sharing about the lost loved one helps.  A selection of special people have been ready, willing, and able to bear witness to my memories and stories about E., and this blessing has not escaped me as it heals the heart.

2. Part of me knows I will look back on this time and see it as something precious, painful though it has been.  E.’s final gift to me was the realization, that in leaving of this earthly plane, love remains stronger and truer than ever.  There are ways we still connect and touch one another.  It is a time rich in wonder and affection.

The intensity of the emotion paints layers of it’s own complex beauty onto my existence.

I haven’t written much about my kids, family, or life as a working mom.  I’m still doing and feeling all the stuff that goes along with being a mother, but in my writing all of that has taken a back seat to my need to process my friend’s death.  Anyway, there isn’t really anything new or different I can say about all of that right now.  I’ve had mixed feelings about this shift in content, but it has needed to be, so I let it.  Which leads me to my next lesson of sorts. . .

3. It is more helpful to hold our pain, sit with it, cradle it and explore its bizarre face than it would be to cover it up and hide it away.  In my professional training, I learned, years ago, that trying to suppress trauma is like trying to hold a beach ball under water.  It is slippery, unwieldy, and untenable.  When I sit with client’s in the crisis of grief, I often share this analogy with them.  I’ve been granted an opportunity to practice what I preach.

These lessons seem to be gifts from beyond.

Even as I embrace these things, I feel uncertain.  Someone remarked that dealing with grief is almost like having another child to care for.  It’s an apt analogy.  And as though I am holding a newborn child, I am wondering if I am doing it right, if it will like and respond to my touch, if I will be able to handle it.

My uncertainty lies in the fear people won’t like or understand my current poems; that people will get bored with me and stop reading; that people won’t appreciate how fully my blog has shifted from life of a working mother to dealing with death.  I worry people won’t see the connection.

But there’s always a connection, tenuous though it may be.

Being a mom is my most important role in life.  I mean, two living and breathing organisms kind of count on me to keep them alive.  But other parts of me sometimes do not get the time and attention they truly need.  My blog gives me space to process and complete my emotional self so I can tackle the other stuff I need to do.  It helps me integrate and  consolidate the contents of all the little boxes into the whole me.

I have faith in myself and in the process.  Being a mom may have prepared me to patiently nurture and understand grief, even as it has complicated my grieving process.  We are always stronger and more flexible than we think or dream.  Sooner or later, I’ll get back to writing about all of the other stuff.  In the mean time, thank you for bearing with me and for bearing witness.  Every like, comment, and share has meant more to me than I can properly explain.

 

In the Dream. . .

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. . .  Jack is in the back seat and I’m driving.  My car dies at the entrance of the cemetery.  I ram my foot down on the pedal and turn the key over and over, but my car won’t start.  It does however float off to the side of the cemetery gate.

We’re walking among the graves. There is a train, a small one, like in an amusement park. It’s dusk.

E.’s casket is unearthed, or maybe it has never been buried.  It is open and we can see her.  She is on a little hill of green, grassy earth and even though it is shadowy, there is a sort of fairy tale cheer about the place.

Someone approaches her and runs their fingers through her short, gray hair.  This does not seem weird to me, but also it does seem weird to me.  At her wake, I remember, we all remarked how they had not done her hair quite right.  It was too spiky, too piecey.  It looked like they had used too much product.  We all sat and laughed, but it was a loving and fond laugh, about how she used to sit in her office and brush that short hair into a fluffy little puff.  Oh, how we loved her.

Wait, I think.  We’ve already done this.  Why are we doing this again?  

Someone bends down to get a closer look at E.  Someone strokes her cheek.  Someone kisses her forehead.  I like seeing people touch and love on her.  It comforts me.  I want to touch her again too.  I want to kiss her too.

But then we are all sitting in chairs.  E. is sitting there too.  She’s wearing her wedding dress, the royal blue suit in which she was buried.  She’s there.  She’s talking to us.  She’s reading things from a paper in her hand.  That seems right.  That seems normal.  She’s a born orator, even though it makes her nervous.

“I won’t be around forever,” she tells us.  Part of my brain is wondering what this means because she is already gone, but she is also here.  “I’d like to have one more party,” she says.  We start talking about what we are going to wear.  I get excited about the idea of digging up my pink tutu.  We all laugh.  “I might only be here for another ten years.  We will have a party, and then you will have to live with whatever happens.”  She says this and she looks right at me.

I’d love ten more years I think.  

I’ll be good, I think.  I won’t put pressure on you or try to change you.  I’ll let you be. Just stay with me.  I’m thinking all this and she’s looking right at me.  I think maybe she is thinking that I need to let go.

Her face is changed.  It’s her, but it’s not. I’m strangely mute.  I can’t say any of the stuff I want to say.

We walk away to prepare for the party.  I remember that my car is dead and I will have to call for a tow truck.  My friend agrees to give me a ride, but she’s walking far ahead of me and I’m nervous that she will leave without me.

I walk past E.’s grave.  It’s a big hole.  I look down into it and the earth is deep and brown, but it is empty.  I look up, and a little ways off, I see her casket.  I look and it is open.  I look and it is closed.  I look and it is open and she is not in it.  It all makes sense, and I’m more nervous about my car now.

And my kids.

Jack is with me, but Emily has gone off.  We need to board the train.  I yell for Emily to come.  She comes.  There’s not a lot of space on the little, amusement park train, but we cram into it.  I am squished on the seat next to my friend. My kids are with me.

I’m nervous about my car.  I’m excited about the party.  I can’t wait to see E.  I’ll be so happy to see E.  There’s so much I’ve got to tell her.

I’m so excited to see E. . .

. . .  and so sad to wake.

Walking and Waiting for the Answers to Grief

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My friend died.

Over the past week, I have been walking down a shadowy hall.  It is dark and tight.  The walls press on me.  It makes me want to scream in claustrophobic panic.  I believe it is called grief and loss.

Every once in a while lights flash, startle me, and make me nauseous.  My heart races.  I think that’s trauma.

There are doors that open into little waiting rooms with chairs.  Films of memory play on vast, white walls.  But it hurts to go in and watch, so I keep walking down the narrow corridor.

I walk at a really slow pace.  My husband might call it moving at the speed of cheese.

How I’d love to call her up and talk about cheese.  She loved food.

See how that works?  I start to have a thought and then circle back around to her.   My head is so full.  Overloaded.  People are left staring and waiting around me, because my brain can’t move any faster.  It’s a slow computer.  God, that woman could not use a computer to save herself. . .  There.  I did it again.

As a clinical social worker (which by the way my friend also was), I know all about the stages of grief:  Denial, bargaining, anger, depression, acceptance.  It sounds so tidy, laid out like that, and yet it is more of a mangled wreck than anyone could imagine.  On one level, I understand that the so-called stages are more circuitous than linear.

I know it was normal after I kissed her cold forehead to feel a surge of anger well up inside me as I left the funeral parlor.

Anger at her.  Anger at myself.  Anger at the universe.

Why couldn’t she have taken better care of herself?  Why did she have to go and deprive the world of herself?  Why did I not know sooner how truly ill and tired she was?

In addition to knowing it is normal, friends have assured me it is normal.  So a part of me can accept this anger for what it is.

But there is another part of me that is just her friend, a mere mortal who is still alive, and doesn’t know what to do with the thread of anger in this tapestry of pain I clutch at my throat as I walk down this hall.

Her head was so hard under my lips.  Like marble.

I know it is totally understandable to feel rational and accepting one moment, and then to circle back to denial and depression the next.

Bargaining is another “stage,” but it doesn’t seem necessary to bargain. Dead is dead.  But oh god (who by the way I don’t believe in), if I could just get one more minute. . .

And what would I do with that minute?

I’d ask her what to think.  I’d ask her what she would say to me upon learning of her death.  I’d ask her if she loved me as much as I loved her.

I’d ask her if she had given up, if the taste of death she’d had a month ago had made her want the real thing.  I would ask her why she didn’t call me back when I called her a week before she died.  Was it because I had been so adamant about her following the doctor’s instructions, and she didn’t want to?  Did she not want me to harp?  Had she accepted a fate that she knew would be too difficult for me to support?

Was I a bad friend for nagging her, for not being ready to be in the world without her?

At some point, I recognize, my heart will probably tell me the answers to these questions.  That after I get through the dark passageway and back to the land of the living, I’ll be able to see more clearly.

I’d spent so many hours sitting and chatting with that woman.  She listened endlessly to the minutia of my existence.  Birds in my yard. The fox. My children.

She looked at my pictures.

She kept my secrets.

She always took my side. Always.

Her patience and wisdom were never ending.  I’m sure at some point during those many times, she gave me all I needed to know, but until it is clear, I am left waiting, scowling, tapping my toe impatiently, for answers.

One more minute couldn’t scratch the surface. . .  but I’d give some teeth for it anyway.  One more minute to thank her for championing me when I felt like I had no one else.  One more minute to tell her I love her.  One more minute to ask her if she is ready, if she feels okay about this transition, if there is anything she wants me to do for her widow.

My friend had dozens of friends to whom she was close.  She was amazing that way.  She didn’t have casual acquaintances.  If you made it into her circle, you were under her wing of family.

I am sure they would all wish for another minute or three, not to mention her beloved of over 30 years, or her BFF of 54 years. . .  what makes me so special that I should feel hypothetically entitled to be granted one more imaginary minute?

Was I special?

What is it about death that makes me doubt my special-ness.  Does it die with the one who was loved?  Does it disappear behind the veil with their persistence and laughter?

Or is it, perhaps, if I believe I wasn’t special, then it won’t hurt as much because it didn’t mean so much?

I believe in love, and I think I believe that love is a bond that cannot die.  I think I have to believe this about love, because if it is not portable to the great beyond, then I don’t think I could really get out of bed again.

Enduring love is the only “afterlife” in which I believe.

My friend was elderly, and yet, there must have been a rather foolish part of me that thought she would live forever, that believed I’d never have to face a world without her zany humor.

Somehow, her voice continues to fill my head.  I hear her make those noises she’d make when she was amazed or delighted by something, the oooohhhs, and gasps of wonder.  Despite seeing over 75 years of the world, she never ceased to be amazed by the smallest gestures of tenderness, by the beauty of nature, by the majesty of animals.

I did the stuff you’re supposed to do.

I cried.  I brought food to her wife.  I went to the services.  I cried more.  I got piss drunk and fell down.  I collected all the cards and little treasures she had ever given me and looked at her sloppy handwriting and laughed.

I walked in the woods.  I sat at her grave and talked to her.  I patted the freshly rolled out sod, crumpled into a ball, and cried again.

I started to feel better, as though the hallway were lit with skylights.

Then I felt like shit again, and it was dark and I was bumping into stuff.

At the burial, one of the funereal directors plucked roses off of the arrangement on the casket and passed them around.  She said we could place the rose with a prayer on the top of the casket to go down with my friend, or we could keep it in memory of her.  I clutched at mine while everyone else kissed theirs and placed them on the casket.

I thought of the red rose corsage I wore a year ago at her wedding, how I’ve kept it tucked into my mirror in my bedroom.

How could it be?  How could all of this be real?

It’s confusing how my brain is trying to fold around this information and digest it like a carnivorous plant.  I suppose the good news is that I don’t have to completely get over my grief for her today.  It’ll take time.  One minute at a time; one breath at a time.

I’ve never cried such fat, wet tears.

If I were sitting with her, she wouldn’t hug me.  I know that sounds weird and kind of cold, but it isn’t at all.  It’s perfect.

She listens to me with her hands on her thighs, fingers curled in towards her thumbs.  She breathes and nods slightly while I cry.  She gives my space and lets me have my feeling, my dignity, my rage.  

Then she pushes a box of tissues toward me.  She tells me with a wry grin that she has examined the woman before her, and she does not find her lacking.  She hands me a candle.

I dry my face, and plod forward.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/waiting/

Waving Goodbye

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It isn’t every day I leave a job I’ve been at for well over a decade.  I took a lot of time to reflect on stuff, to feel all the feels, and to both celebrate and grieve.  My coworkers gave me a lunch and said a ton of nice stuff that made me cry both happy and sad tears.  

I came up with some thoughts about my experience and I shared them at the lunch.  I’d also like to share them with you.  Whether you are a social worker, or a mom, or just a human riding along on the human struggle bus, maybe they will resonate with you.  If nothing else, I just want to share the sentiment with you, because you are here with me and I am so happy.

Someone once told me I was precious.

Actually, she didn’t say it to me, but she said it to an entire audience as she was receiving an award for being a phenomenal social worker upon her retirement.

But I allowed myself to take it personally, and I eventually became very close and friends with the recipient of that award which in and of itself was pretty freaking precious.

Can you imagine that? You are precious. When you are on a dirty floor trying to play with a kid who is angry and defiant? When you are talking kindly to a parent who you secretly think is the most reprehensible and abusive person on the planet? When you are looking down into live, adult lice crawling around in a child’s scalp. When an overwhelmed mom forgets to change her tampon and menstruates on your office chair and you awkwardly offer her a lysol wipe.

You are precious.

It is not easy to feel precious in this job, which is often dirty, defeating, depressing, and filled with an array of malodorous messes.

It is not easy to feel precious when all you can do is show up and smile because you don’t have the power to change poverty or abuse or severe and persistent mental illness.

It isn’t easy to feel precious when you really feel overwhelmed, frustrated, and helpless. But you are. You my friends are precious. Sometimes the simple act of showing up is enough. Sometimes just being a smiling or compassionate presence in someone’s life fosters changes of which we are not even aware.

Some of you don’t know me all that well and you might be wondering why I am sharing this with you. I’m sharing this with you partly because I see how hard you work in the trenches and I’d like you to know that you are all amazing and doing great things, even when you think you are not.

I thought maybe you might like to know that you are precious too because you show up, even when you don’t want to, or when it is really hard and you feel tired and scared.

I’m also sharing this with you for some selfish reasons. I didn’t go looking for my new job. I wasn’t putting out my resume or job hunting. I had actually gotten to a pretty sweet spot here, right where I was. My program was fully staffed with a new and wonderful clinician and I felt like I had the breathing room to do some good work with my clients.

But sometimes the universe offers something too good to pass up. So, here I go. . .

I didn’t think it would be so hard to leave this city.

This city and I have not always been on the best of terms. It perpetually smells like turtle tank and it tried to crush me under tons of snow. Honestly, I’ve often felt like this city can go fuck itself. There was really nothing I learned in graduate school 15 years ago, that prepared me for some of the shit I have seen go down in this town. I don’t need to go into detail. . . I know you’ve all seen it too.

But over the past weeks, as I have terminated with a few dozen families, I’ve been really surprised at the emotions that have come up– both for myself and for my clients. I’ve been surprised and touched by the kind words of clients and colleagues alike as they have shared with me what our relationships have meant. And it has been really hard to say goodbye.

So, I’m sharing this with you because I know I what I am leaving, and I know you will take care of it in my stead as you always do.

I came here nearly 12 years ago, dewy skinned, wide eyed, and a whole lot skinnier. While I have been here, all of the big stuff that could possibly happen to a person has happened to me. I got engaged, married, and became a mom. I suffered a traumatic miscarriage, then had another baby. I bought a house. My dog of 16 years died.  I also met my best friend here– a relationship for which I will forever be grateful.

Many of you have shared in this journey with me, and have also supported me as I learned so many new roles as wife, mother, working mother, home owner.

I don’t know how to explain what it has meant to see your faces every day for so many years, especially those of you who were here from the very beginning and those of you with whom I share inside jokes about octopus, dog anxiety vests, hanging with bitches, and the healing properties of a lovely plate of eggs.

I’ve laughed, cried, freaked out, and raged with many of you. I can only pray my new colleagues will be as forgiving about my numerous quirks, strong emotions, and obsessive compulsive disorder. It is only just hitting me what it means to say good bye to you all. I’m sorry for all the times I took you for granted, but please know how special you all are to me.

And then of course, there is how this place has shaped me clinically, has taught me and forced me to grow. Growth is not always fun or comfortable. There are many moments I wish I’d met with more dignity, grace, courage, compassion, and energy. But at last I am leaving having seen my own face reflected back at me in the faces of my clients.

I think I have learned what I came here to learn.

So it’s hard to say goodbye. . . but. . .

Life goes on. It always does. It already is.

OK. Final words:

Take care of each other. Be kind. Take care of yourselves. Know you are precious. Show up. Find the joy. Those are the only things that matter, and if you get that all down, the rest will fall into place.

I love you guys.

Thank you.

The Key

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We closed on our new house. IMG_6386

Since I’ve held the same job for the past ten years, and my husband is self-employed, everything was put in my name.  Don’t get me wrong, my husband and I split everything 50/50, but in this instance, it was advantageous for us to go through my financials.

If you think about it, it’s pretty messed up, based on the peanuts I make as a social worker.  Anyhoo, I put on my big girl panties and signed a whole stack of papers, in exchange for a key to my new, humble abode.

(For the record, I have always hated the expression, “put on big girl panties,” however in this situation, that is what it felt like.)

After the signing, I did a lot of pooping.  My intestines were pretty freaked out at the bigness of the purchase.  I mean, it’s a house.  It isn’t just a scarf I bought on impulse at Target because I was feeling a bit down and wanted something to spruce myself up a bit, you know?

Since I never bought a house before, the whole process was new to me.

The closing happened at the lawyer’s office with the sellers, who were from out of state.  They pulled up in a luxury SUV.  They looked very well heeled, well dressed, and well rested.  They looked like people accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and who can afford to take nice care of their skin and hair.  They had bought the house–  our house now–  for their daughter who was in college nearby.  Since she graduated and moved on with her life, they were selling the house.

I felt a bit shabby, parked next to their shiny car in my ten year old Corrolla with the dent in the side from the douche who backed into me in the Dunkin Donuts parking lot then drove off, so I was never able to sue his insurance and afford to get the dent fixed.

We were paying the maximum of what we could afford for this little bungalow, but you could tell it was just chump change for these people.  I’m sad to admit it took a little of my pleasure out of the whole process.  It felt like we were getting their sloppy seconds.

I wondered if they looked at the rusty dent in my car and felt a little bad.  Or maybe they were just happy to get rid of that property.  Either way, it made me uncomfortable.  I don’t know why their opinion of us, if they even had one, would matter to me.  We are good people.  We take good care of our kids.  We live nicely and respect the planet.  We just happen to reside in a part of the country where the standard of living is exponentially high, and where it is really hard to buy a home, even if you are forty, well educated, and employed.

The signing went off without a hitch. The lawyer was an affable fellow who put me at ease.  He rambled off a lot of legal jargon, and might have been speaking a language foreign to me.  At one point he asked me if I had any questions.  I looked at him, smiled, and said, “I have no idea what you just said.  But you are smiling, so I am going to assume everything is okay, and just sign where you tell me.”

After about 30 minutes, the lawyer passed some checks around to the realtors and sellers.  Then the seller’s agent and the sellers left.  I spent another half hour signing, initialling, and generally feeling like I wanted to simultaneously vomit, pass out, and have explosive diarrhea.

Then we were handed a key.  One key.

I sat and posed with the key and my husband while our realtor, a good pal of mine, took our picture.

She and my husband had been chatting about the race for governor while I completed the actual signing which made the property mine.  So, she posed me with a pen and a page that had a shit ton of numbers on it, made my husband and me smile for the camera.  Cheese and snap!  The picture came out okay.  I look “happy” and my husband looks amused.  She emailed me the picture from her phone and I posted it on Facebook.  But it felt kind of fraudulent, like the moon landing photos are supposed to be.

I left the signing and went to work.  I couldn’t even fake happiness for my friends at work.  Some were surprised that I felt so confused, overwhelmed, and let down.   Others said it was normal and they felt the same way when they signed on their home.  Every conversation ended with me feeling awkward and annoyed, smiling and saying, “Nah, it’ll be okay.  It’ll be okay.”

All night I laid awake counting beans, wondering how we would make our mortgage and do all the necessary work in the house.  I obsessed about vacuuming up the spiders in the basement so I can put my kid’s legos down there.

We will go into the house to paint and clean and put in shelf paper.

I have the key.

I can go in there now.

I’ve driven past this house a dozen times over the past few weeks, champing at the bit to get in there with my stuff.

And now it’s mine.  Ours.

It’ll be okay.  It’ll be okay.

Eventually, the house will look and smell like us.  It will have our dead skin cells collecting in the corners, and our hairs clogging the drains.  It will have our sleepy morning smells.  We will fill it with our familiar noises.  We will mark it with spilled juice, errant crayons, and muddy sneakers.

At the moment, it feels kind of like I am jumping off a cliff into the unknown, as I take a breath, slip the key into the lock, and open the door to the next chapter of our life.

 

My Gift To You (via NPR)

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On Friday mornings, I look forward to hearing National Public Radio’s “Storycorps” segment.  This little treat I enjoy during my morning commute is a showcase of stories told by everyday people about their everyday lives, which are touching and extraordinary.  The stories are then archived in the Library of Congress.

They recently did a retrospectives of some of their special episodes, and followed up with the people to see where and how they are today.  I heard the best Storycorps I have ever heard.  It was entitled, “Never Say Goodbye:  A Love and Life Kept Vivid.”  The retrospective took us back to 2004.  An elderly couple, Annie and Danny, told the story of how they met.

Annie read aloud one of the many notes Danny left for her every day, “To my princess, the weather outside is extremely rainy.  I will call you at 11:20 in the morning.  And I love you, I love you, I love you.”

If you do one thing today, go to NPR on Youtube and watch this piece, set to animation.  I promise  your breath will catch in your throat, or you will make an involuntary little moan, or you will just start to cry as though you are witnessing splendor in the universe.  It is four minutes of sweetness that has the potential to change your day, maybe even your life.

It gave me comfort to think there are everyday people out there who live their love in every little thing they do.  Their innocent actions make the world better.  Danny and Annie have a love that permeates the very fabric of space and time.  It sounds corny, I know.  But go listen to it and you will understand.

Storycorps recorded another segment on this couple two years later.  Danny was living with a very lethal cancer.  Annie cared for him.  Selflessly.  Tenderly.  He said, “She lights up my life. . .  just by asking me “wouldn’t you like a little ice cream?”  Or “would you please drink more water”. . .  I mean, those aren’t very romantic things to say, but they stir my heart.”

It made me think.  When was the last time someone lit up my life just by asking me a simple, everyday question.  Or more precisely, when was the last time I allowed my life to be lit and stirred?  Furthermore, when was the last time I did something to stir someone else?

Of course I got to work and immediately texted my husband to tell him I loved him.  It wasn’t as good as something Danny would have written, but I had good intentions.

Some blogs do giveaways and special gifts to their readers.  That’s nice, but I’m not going to do that.  At least not materially.  My gift to you is to encourage you to go and read this piece, listen to or watch their story, and be awed and inspired.

Or maybe you won’t like it and you can quietly exchange my gift for something else.

What did you think of Danny and Annie’s story?  What have you done lately to show your love?