December 11

Christmas Finals & Anger Management

Do you know why the marketing departments made a corporate decision to show only the finished product on the cover box of gingerbread making kits?

Because angry faces do not sell holiday cheer.

They sell quarts of eggnog in need of spiking.

Anyone who has ever built a gingerbread house knows they do not produce as much joy as they do frown lines we are afraid will be forever etched on our foreheads.

Four grown women attempted it yesterday….for four hours!

As my daughter heads into finals this week at Texas State, I’ve decided that making and decorating a gingerbread house should be the court-ordered final for all anger management classes.

Just last week I talked with my mentee about the love/hate relationship I have with gingerbread houses. She’s in 5th grade and knew exactly what I was talking about. On a good day, when I’m filled with Jesus, the reason for the season and a double chocolate cocoa, I can tolerate the patience it takes to hold the roof together.

Other days, just no.

I want to pretend I’m the super scary abominable snowman in that one Christmas classic I love so much and stomp the crap out of every single one.

My mom, forever a corporate organizer, micro-managed our group activity and made sure we dusted the crumbs off before decorating. I only felt a little bit bad when her house wouldn’t hold together and fell into a brown frosted heap on the aluminum foil.

But because I am a lot like her in some ways, and grateful for that most days of the year, I also over-corrected the selection of roofing materials as the others worked diligently.

“Are you sure you want to use that?” I questioned as nicely as possible.

“It’s just like Barbies all over again, Tina.”

“I know, I know. You’re not being bossy, your idea is just better,” Maureen said.

Quietly, with only an occasional sarcastic hum of a Christmas Carol, we decorated with all of the artistry we could muster.

“I’d like the door to be open, rather than closed,” I encouraged. “So that when people stand around it they will say things like, ‘What the artists are conveying in this piece is that we must live our lives open and inviting, welcoming and warm.'”

They laughed like I was ridiculous, but I was totally sort of serious.

Eventually, once the royal frosting set up, I noticed that the stability of the structure brought a Bethlehem kind of peace to the table.

We talked as we snacked on stale roofing materials and licked the frosting off our fingers from a blown-out bag of icing. Stability is essential for this season. The word stability comes from the Greek word stable.

I totally just made that up.

But when I think of stables, I think of a manger, Mary and wise men.

And farm animals.

I think about making amends with the people I often anger and remember the Christmas I thought the green sweatpants were a joke. When I was a girl, one of the best presents I could ever receive was more Barbie stuff.

I love, love, loved my Barbies.

In her spare time, my working mother that I sometimes mock, made awesome furniture out of milk cartons and upholstered the couch with scraps of brown corduroy and white for the chairs. A few years later, she had someone build me the most amazing wood furniture with a dining table and a hutch that had little tiny drawers and I was able to display my tiny blue pottery plates that we got at Art in the Park on the tiny open shelves. There were elegant homemade dresses, shirts and skirts, and the most fabulous wool coat.

One day, already on edge, I walked into my girls’ bedroom and saw a spread out mess of all my Barbie stuff and theirs combined. It was strewn about the room in total chaos.

Unbridled mom anger took over in that moment.

I got a giant black Hefty from under the sink and began hastily shoving it all in the bag. I probably said something about other kids appreciating what they have a lot more and other angry words, the kind you can’t take back. I didn’t know that I was the one who would be learning a lesson.

I packed it all up and dropped the bag off in the alley, just behind the thrift store door and drove off. By the time I got back home, I calmed down enough to realize how much I treasured all those happy memories I just gave away. So I raced back to get them.

But it was all gone.

In just a matter of minutes, my own emotional instability made me lose something very important to me. Uncontrollable anger is not a fruit I want to decorate my house with anymore.

I want it covered in sweet layers of love and the pipe-filled frosting of grace. Some days it feels like my house is falling into a broken heap. The best days are the ones where it stands.




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December 8

All Things New

Wreath road kill.

That’s what it was.

When I first drove by it on the way to 1910 last Sunday, I said out loud, “Oh, that looks like mistletoe.”

After leaving service, I slowed just enough to see that it was in fact, a Christmas wreath. I’ve been pining for a solid green one from Wayfair for weeks now, one I could use year round, but it was more like $59 dollars. And free is fabulous.

Certain that the heavenly hallelujah choir of angels above would protect me on RR 474, I pulled the car over, ran out into the street, snatched it up off the highway and skipped joyfully back to the car without getting run over by all the people rushing to the 11:30 service.

A few days later, I was dropping off packages of baking mix for a few people in Alamo Heights and found a wood serving tray and a plant stand on the curb and threw those in too.

Next, I went to drive-by a home Mary Louise might be interested in and struck curb-side street gold. Pilfering through the pile of goodies, I spotted two must-have ceramic salamanders, a shade-less lamp, another serving tray and two incredibly cool wood end tables that would paint-up perfectly. My friend Kathy is an expert furniture restorer. She uses the Annie Sloan milk paint and creates pieces of art for her home and consignment.

She is teaching me, but at this point, I am much more skilled at channeling Fred Sanford while rummaging through other people’s garbage.

I’ve started painting the two tables French linen and learned a knock-down technique that lets a little bit of the original wood peak through. It’s like original sin, but prettier.

And that’s what I think I’m loving so much about this new hobby. Everything I do turns my heart back to God. I lightly sand the top and remember how rough my edges have been. I see the spots that still need a little more attention. Every step, like every paint stroke, makes the masterpiece look a little different than it did before.

We are complicated. There are layers. Many, many layers.

I love the idea of restoration, but I’m not good at the finicky details of sanding, staining, and the patience it takes to pull off endless coats of poly finish. The milk paint technique gives me the freedom to create the way I really am, a little off and imperfect in so many places.

Flawless is an unworthy struggle to strive for, and impossibly hard to obtain anyway.

It feels unauthentic and glossed over like the Christmas party conversations I will likely avoid again this year. Mostly, to me, they feel as fluffy and clean as the snow that fell a few inches onto my Texas yard last night. I want to know what’s really happening, not the mail-out version to family and friends.

Real, unexpected beauty is so spectacular.

The snowfall was incredible, just beautiful, and I am at a loss to describe what I felt when I first looked out the window to see that blanket of white.

Child-like wonder.

And I crave to be around the people who can love and accept the truth of an imperfect story and the messiness of fresh yellow stains after walking the dogs.

Life is not a picture perfect postcard.

But it is a joy. And it is a wonder to watch when God does something amazing, unexpected and shows us so magically what it looks like to be fresh, clean, new…restored.




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December 4

The Scars Unseen

I have a scar on my right knee that’s been there since about 4th grade, a skateboarding stunt gone wrong.

I got it at my favorite house of all the homes we ever lived in. The bungalow on the hill with the huge wide porch and tapered columns. Mom planted a big garden in the backyard and grew sunflowers that stood two feet taller than my best friend.

It’s the home where one brother fell asleep in his plate of spaghetti and the other stuck a metal key in a light socket. I call him Eugene Melvin Belvin Borris because he’s always been a bit of a dork and super curious about things older sisters didn’t care about. That’s not bullying, that’s the normal dynamics of sibling relationships, or so I used to think.

The home on 3rd Ave. South was one of many addresses where I woke up in the middle of the night to shouting and long expletive sentences that were as entertaining as they were worrisome. My mom, always home with us, stayed up late waiting for our dad who sometimes came home too late from the bar smelling like beer, cigarettes and a scent she never wore. His clothes once found their way to the front lawn…via the second story master bedroom window.

I prayed at that home and many others that she would leave him. She was better than that and deserved more. It takes a long time to have a better understanding of someone else’s story.

Jeremy’s skateboard story is different than mine, though that’s not really his name, and he stands about 6 feet tall. We met last week. The first time I saw him he was huddled against the wall in a corner with a hoodie pulled over his short red hair, hiding this whispy 6 inch beard that begs to be cut off.

He is skinny at only about 130 pounds and can’t eat Corn Nuts because his teeth have all been pulled. His bright blue eyes are beautiful but cautious in a way that has seen too much for a young man in his 20’s. They reflect a sort of sadness and sorrow. My heart wanted to hug his guts out.

But then he started a conversation with a few other people and there, in the waiting room, he began to share about this drug and that drug and how you can mix this and do that and how one time he did blah blah blah and it was hilarious.

There was also an 8th-grade boy in the room and two elementary school kids including a girl who had about 17 healed over cut marks hiding just under her sweatshirt. I felt them and my stomach began to feel nauseous, sweat began to seep into my double layered shirt and my blood was starting to warm.

The person I used to be, when I was still an inexperienced little girl with big dreams, interrupted the conversation. With nothing but love in my heart and a lot of backstories to draw from, I could not sit quietly any longer. And I said some things. I don’t remember what exactly.

This was not the place. Children are in the room. And sure, it all seems like fun and games and it’s also so frickin’ hilarious until it’s not. Until something terrible happens and you find yourself broken and alone, beat down, addicted, homeless, and feeling nothing but hopelessness. It’s all funny until you realize that all of this fun has just destroyed decades of your life.

And then we bonded. Jeremy shared with me his own skateboard story. How he tried to ride it for the first time as a little boy, outside, on the sidewalk, all by himself. He mounted with both feet and fell off immediately. He started crying, not just crying, but really wailing because he hurt himself pretty bad.

His dad came running out of the house, yanked him up by one arm and began beating his butt and screaming in his face, “You don’t cry! You do not cry!”

Until years later, when we realize our lives have been lived as one big, loud cry for help.







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December 1

Finding the Wizard Within

We gathered in the family room, sprawled out all over the place to enjoy our post-Thanksgiving food coma. Our unconventional group this year grew to include Max, a black and brown Weiner puppy, and Taylor, an 18-year-old Air Force girl who is the daughter of one of my brother’s life-long friends from the Midwest.

Aunt Maureen, who we call Auntie M, Saydee and I were sitting on the love seat searching for the boomerang, the golf club, and the crown on my Highlights, Hidden Pictures app. Nanny, Chelsea, and Natalie were attempting to organize the Christmas gift exchange and my brother was making inappropriate jokes and movie suggestions.

“You wanna watch It?”

I looked up from my phone screen, “No.”

“Why not? It’s not scary. It’s the old made for t.v. one.”

“No. It’s Thanksgiving.”

This has become a common holiday argument ever since I got mad one year for being forced to sit through Planet of the Apes on Christmas. In a non-sports watching family, the after meal movie is almost as important as how moist the turkey came out.

We finally agreed on a favorite childhood tradition, The Wizard of Oz because Saydee is almost five and has yet to be haunted by the memory of flying monkeys.

The questions I had at that age were different than the ones I thought to ask during this most recent viewing. “How did the ruby slippers get on Dorothy’s feet?” was overshadowed by my determination to understand the pig-tailed girl in the blue and white gingham dress a little better.

Dorothy’s directions were simple. They were just five words.

Follow. The. Yellow. Brick. Road.

But then she meets the scarecrow at this pivotal crossroads moment. I don’t know that I’ve noticed that before, but she actually had three yellow brick roads she could have followed! I’m sorry, but seriously. That’s just wrong. I would have plopped my butt down with the wicker basket, my little dog too, and had a meltdown right then and there.

“Which yellow brick road?”

That is so jacked up. You can’t just tell someone or sing to someone in tiny little people voices to follow the brick road and then follow it until you find three! It’s just not right. You thought the tornado was bad? Dear God. How did she know which way to go?

It makes me crazy. I wanted to start throwing apples at evil, grabby trees.

And then, while shoving my face with two different kinds of pie AND cherry cheesecake, I remembered that bible verse about not moving to the left or the right, but to stay straight on the path and another that talks about not letting yourself be blown all over the place like a reed on the water.

Stay focused. Stay intentional. Stay straight. But you still have to take risks. Dorothy’s adventure to Oz was risky.

A few weeks ago I was listening to Minute with Maxwell. He mentioned something that has stuck with me when I find myself in a jam or out of my comfort zone. The good fruit is out on the limb. You have to stretch yourself to get it.

I stretched myself the last 30 days in making an attempt at a 50,000-word manuscript completion but failed. I failed in committing myself to a structured schedule and solid plan of exactly how much I would have to do in such a short amount of time. Progress was made, but at some point, I just wanted to go to sleep in a poppy field and take a frickin’ nap.

It was much easier for me to gravitate back to the fun, light children’s books I’ve been working on than it was to write about those regretful times when I found myself so far off the path, continuously wrestling with so many monkeys on my back.

I long for the wizard to tell me I’ve had it all along and I want to go home.

At the crossroads, when I’m asking myself which way to go, what direction do I take, or what way do I respond? I’m learning to ask better questions. What is the right thing to do? What answer or solution gives God the most glory? What is the story I want to tell?

I’m learning to lean into my insecurities and get directional strategies from leaders I trust even more than Glenda the Good Witch. I listen to Andy Stanley’s Your Move podcast, John Maxwell or Joyce Meyer and other people I admire and have been through some stuff. We all need help finding the right way to go.

Thankfully, I find God is more accessible than a wizard. My brother always says it’s the wizard, not the wand and I’m pretty sure he’s talking about something totally inappropriate as usual, but still…

In our attempts to follow those yellow brick roads, we need sound advice and people who love and support us, knowing and accepting we are all flawed with imperfections. We still need a scarecrow, a lion, and a tin man.

And we need to know how to use what we already have, within us.

A hot air balloon ride out wouldn’t hurt either.


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November 3

November’s New Plan


This is the month I will complete my book. The one that makes me laugh and cry and sometimes cringe. It’s the book that has been the hardest to write but will be the most rewarding to complete.

I am participating in the Write Non-Fiction in November Challenge.

50,000 words and a completed manuscript in 30 days.

For the month of November, I will not be blogging on Mondays and Fridays.

I will be hunkered down with messy hair and stretchy pants, praying to God that I can find the beauty in the ashes and a little humor along the way.

Thank you for being a reader. I am so sincerely grateful for you.

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October 30

Finding Wisdom in the Woods

“Can I walk Mr. Riley?”

“Of course!”

We leashed the dogs and headed over to the open area just behind the house. The field where the trees and woods cause the imagination to run as wild and free as the two bucks and four fawns that hang out there more than I do.

It’s one of my happy places and we were on a mission for better bark materials so we could make a super cute bark owl like the ones we created last Thursday at the Cibolo Nature Center.

When she tried to pull a piece off one of the towering oak trees I reminded her that was sort of like skinning us alive and we had to use the bark that had already fallen on the ground.

She smiled and made a little snort of a laugh because sometimes I have a way of explaining things that’s just twisted enough for an almost-middle-schooler to enjoy.

The pecan trees down in the valley were holding onto to their pie booty the way a toddler clenches a Tootsie Pop. No matter how I shook the branches, they were just not quite ready. So while my friend looked for the perfect craft bark, I scoured the tall grasses for fallen shells.

Charlie, my shelter dog, loves pecans and gets so impatient waiting for me to palm crack them, he just starts crushing the shell with his teeth.

Pretty soon, we had a pocket of pecans and some good crafty bark wood.

This nature wandering was really just a way to help us through our own impatience as we waited for the Halloween cookies to dry. We were one step away from a Food Network style bake-off and certain our cat eyes were the perfect combination of both blue and creepy.

While we were sidetracked with our scavenger hunt of nature items, the dogs wandered. Just to the edge of the fence.

Of course when you yell at dogs, they don’t always listen, but instead, run the other way. Under the fence they went as we began the chase. Carefully, we lifted the wire, ducking our heads just so and maneuvering our way in between the strands of barbed wire.

My favorite scarf got hung up and tore a tad while my friend took the lead. Thankfully, she is fast, limber and a great dog wrangler.

We each grab a leash and headed back to the house, suddenly noticing that about 10 feet from where we crossed the fence before, there was a giant unfenced opening.

“Oh, I guess we could have just gone through here.”

She laughed again, aware that I’m often ridiculous. Neither of us had seen the way through before. The funny thing is, when you stand far enough back in the meadow, you can clearly see the difference in the two ways to go. A clear and distinct, visual metaphor of my life it seemed, often making things harder than they have to be.

I suddenly felt like a wise old bark owl.

Who? Who?


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October 27

The Best Part of Waking Up

You know it’s going to be a great day when you wake up to make coffee in the dark and overfill the French press so it spills all over the counter, just after the house was cleaned nicer than it has been all year.

I understand this is not a critical issue.

Since the Keurig refill filter thing broke, my new routine is to turn on the tea kettle and go back to bed until the whistle blows. Occasionally, I don’t fall back asleep and remember to remove it from the stove, just before.

Tea connoisseurs know the kettle goes silent just before making the high pitched screech that has the power to wake the dead on a cool October morning.

Here’s the super cool part.

When I groggily shuffled in to make a cup of coffee a little bit later, I noticed the spill fell onto the counter in the perfect shape of a star. I’m hoping by the end of this post, my Gmail will be working again so I can post the picture. It’s so stinking cool. Not exactly an apparition of the mother Mary, but still.

One of the things I’ve always struggled with is walking the fine line between being enthusiastic or becoming the person who sounds like a screeching tea kettle.

Several months ago I helped someone sell their Boerne home and she recently told me her friend was hoping to find one near hers, preferably on the greenbelt. It’s one of my favorite gated neighborhoods on I10, a hidden gem that has a country feel on the back lots but a convenient commute to the city.

So I began knocking.

Because I believe adamantly in the story in Luke about the man with the hungry neighbor at midnight. Knock until the door is opened. I’ve had many discussions with people about this.

As a persistent person, I often wonder how to know when we should keep knocking or when it’s time to walk away. I still don’t know the answer to that because it was the relentless door knocking and hustling of Thin Mints that got me to Camp Lakota all those years ago.

I knocked. And the doors were opened.

So I apply the same principle to my long-time career in real estate and it’s opened many doors.

Now my friend’s friend has her new forever home and I have a new listing at 27630 Dana Creek Drive.  It’s almost as beautiful as the woman who owns it and the love story she has to share.

It’s awesome when life starts to feel like it’s falling into place again. The stars are lined up just so, and you wake up to a countertop reminder that makes you smile so big, you leave it there for a few days more.


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October 23

My Three Pauls

One of the most important and influential people that persuaded me to faith was a man by the name of Paul.

He knocked at my door, the one that was not really a door, but a giant piece of plywood we would slide over to get through because we were renovating, and doors were expensive.

It was more important to be able to pay the heating bill of that massive three-story home we shared with a flock of bats in the attic, not nearly as pretty as a flock of seagulls. I’m not sure they call them a flock, but a herd of bats doesn’t sound right either.

Those winter bills alone kept us sunk, the way the house was, a tad to the right, impossible to play an honest game of marbles on the hardwood floors, a place where I often felt like I was losing mine.

On the darkest days of winter, when the chill of the air crept under the cracks and was nearly as cold as the comments we made to each other, Paul knocked.

He was a black man or man of color and a Jehovah’s Witness without the tie. Somehow he always managed to show up on our doorstep in times of need with divine intervention and encouraging words.

I let him in because I believe the spirit of God knows no color and you can’t deny the power of an invisible light that shines so bright from certain people that you can feel it warm your heart, as well as a living room covered in plastic.

Paul sat on the couch and talked about faith and fruit and Jesus. He shared with me about the things that are undeniably evident in the lives of those who love God.

Love, joy, peace, gentleness, and kindness.

Self-control and patience have been the hardest for me to find, always buried at the bottom of the fruit bowl that sometimes sits on tables, impossible to paint, because it’s hardly ever seen.

I’ve had days and months and weeks like that.

Later that same year, I met another Paul, the homeless man who wore a worn- out olive green army jacket and came to the soup kitchen where I volunteered to bring my family famous baked beans.

Paul, who I bummed a smoke from just before he told me everything I had ever done and promised me that God had plans of good for the unspeakable things I’d done and have experienced in my life.

Listening to great-uncle Vinny and watching the tears well as he told the story of watching men dive to their death off the precipice in Okinawa, it occurred to me why I feel such extreme love for this old man that I’ve only seen maybe a handful of times in my life. Our spirits are connected.

We get each other.

And occasionally, we get God.

In different ways, on different paths, we have both come face to face with what forgiveness and mercy and grace look like. Tormented for years by images we can’t get out of our heads, but then this light enters and shines brighter and hotter than any summer day. A light we may not have fully understood while we were young and standing in stain-glassed cathedrals.

Something so radiant and cleansing and inconceivable that all we can do is celebrate with heartfelt thankfulness.

And that makes me think of the other Paul. The Beatle.

The one who sings one line and soothes my soul. Maybe I’m amazed by the way you love me all the time…

Maybe I’m just amazed by Jesus and the God who loves us all…

the time.

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October 20

Muskrat Love and Lessons from New Hampshire

Even with a slight hunch to his back, at almost 91 years old, he is still about the most dapper guy I know.

I’ve often told myself when I slow down and maybe someday retire, I will get on and learn about the history of my family.

But my great-uncle Vin is here from up east this week and he shared with me a few things last night at dinner that I never knew.

I did not know he worked for the railroad for over 60 years. I didn’t know we were fur traders or that he was a poet with a collection of about 150 pieces including a lengthy one about the death of John F. Kennedy. I’d really like to read that.

I didn’t know there was someone else in my family who prayed to Jesus to find their favorite pencil.

On special occasions, I’m allowed 12-22 seconds to utter a prayer before meals. After one sentence to Dear Lord Jesus, my brother chimes in to zip-it before the food gets cold.

But last night, just as the first spoon of potatoes was about to hit my mouth, my aunt Maureen nudged me on the right. And grabbed my hand.

I looked up to a table of people with bowed heads, holding hands.

Dear father, we thank you… 

My heart soared. Uncle Vin offered the kindest, sweetest, most sincere prayer I have ever heard in that breakfast nook.

I come from prayer.

I was rooted in a love for God.

I remembered this as soon as he began to give thanks, sounding so much like my grandfather it made me nearly cry for how I’ve forgotten.

In-between the occasional cursing and small sips of red wine from the Waterford crystal, he told stories.

He told a story about watching his father haggle with a muskrat dealer over a nickel. They went to the next trader and the man stood there with his two children hiding behind his legs. He looked past them to see their broken-down shack and the lack of beds or even mattresses, but just rags thrown down on the floor for sleeping.

“I messed up this cut right here,” the man apologized.

“Oh, no. These are fine pelts. The fur is black and shiny.”

Before this, the only time I think I’ve ever heard about muskrats was from the Captain and Tennille song.

He paid that man more than he offered the first.

When they got back in the pick-up truck, my great-grandfather spoke kindly, “Tell me what you saw.”

Uncle Vin retold what happened, asking why he paid the second man more money.

“The first trader will always be here and I can go back and get more next week. But that man, the one with the children in front of the run-down shack, he needed that money now. He needed it to feed his family and survive.”

Every story came back to a lesson and back to the bible.

He brought up the rich man from the Bible who couldn’t part with his stuff. Right there, in that moment, I was over-filled with joy.

Muskrat love.

And a love for God.

My family was rooted in faith.



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October 16

When life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be…

Identifying values.

I can identify the things I value all day long. It’s my follow-through that is still lacking.

For example, on my calendar for yesterday, the new one I bought so I could prioritize all that is important, there is a big giant X and a side note that says, day off.

It was going to be a day of reading, relaxing and spending time with family.

But then as I was double-checking and catching up on leads, I noticed a new house pop up in a neighborhood where I have client friends looking and then an agent wanted to preview some land I have listed.

I figured I had time. I thought I could do it all.

And so I made time for all the wrong things.

I happen to love finding the perfect place for people to live out their lives. I’m crazy passionate about homes.

Behind this front door is where the real stuff is happening.

So I raced to the country and then back to the city and then back to my house to read scary stories about Creepy Carrots to a little girl who’d waited too long for her Grammie to get back.

My phone has been off ever since.

We went to the park and she climbed to the top of the green bar even though she was wearing new flip flops instead of her tennis shoes and she proudly proclaimed, “I told you I could do it!”

There was an episode with another little girl named Lala, and an adamant refusal to surrender two tiny words, “I’m sorry.”

The short sentences are the ones often hardest to say for a four-year-old, although they are the ones most often coming out of my mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

Sorry, I don’t have the answer you want to hear.

Sorry, I don’t want to hear about the personal trainer who already has a girlfriend.

Sorry, I should have gotten back sooner.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that.

Sorry, I forgot to call back right away.

It seems I’m always apologizing.

And sometimes to myself.

I messed up my Spanish streak and my 100 uninterrupted days.

Instead, we went for a walk with the dogs and found some pecans. I taught her how to crack them open and she taught me that one side goes in her mouth and one side in the bowl for the pie.

We read more books.

I thought I’d have time after laying down with her to get my other 8 unfinished things done.

But after a week of running and being sick, I fell fast asleep, all squished in, by the most important thing to me in this whole world.

When I woke up this morning to that sweet face, it was okay.

I know today will be a new day to get all those other things done. You only learn how to hunt and crack pecans once.

You only get to watch Moana 136 times. Sometimes we can’t do it. Not all of it anyway.

Life isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. But then sometimes it is. I never get tired of hearing, “Grammie?”

“Yes, baby girl?”

“I love you.”




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