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I’ve added a few links on the sidebar. Some are bloggers who have been around for a long time, some are new. All are worth a read. If you have a blog you would like add, use the contact form. I understand some bloggers do not want to be linked to because the blogs are intended to be for family and friends. I do not want to link to you if you want to keep your blog more private, so if you don’t see your blog’s name on the sidebar and you are a regular reader it is because I don’t want to assume its okay. I think you know who you are. Or maybe you don’t. Either way, contact me and I will add your blog as a link if I don’t find your blog completely worthless and repulsive. What is worthless and repulsive? Blogging how your mustache gets really soggy when you drink Coors Light from a Solo cup at the demolition derby. And how you remedy the situation. And how you are a woman. An 85 year old woman. I reserve the right to say no. I only want to add blogs that are regularly updated and share in my same basic values—wanting to become a better spouse, parent, friend, person and writing about the funny, poignant, and eye-opening things we encounter along the way. If you are mortified I linked to you, also feel free to kindly ask me to remove the link. No hard feelings. Today was my due date for the baby I lost in February. Instead, I spent my weekend at a mountain cabin preparing for my role as Discussion Group Leader at MOPS. It’s a job I would have never taken, had I been expecting a new little one. I am not much of a nature girl. In fact, I sat around the campfire on Friday night wearing my ubiquitous pink sequined flip-flops. But it was wonderful to get away from the city to a place where the Milky Way is more than a stale candy bar at the corner convenience store. The stars looked like the top of God’s star shaker had popped off mid-sprinkle. The smell of pine, the snap of its sap, the campfire’s ebb and flow of energy smoking toward the beautiful…all pointed heavenward and made me look up, up, and up.
So I did. I walked on a trail in my flip-flops. It was Saturday morning. I noticed our campfire wasn’t completely extinguished, so I grabbed my iPod and my Bible out of the cabin and sat near the fire to catch the last of the smoke, knowing my time in the mountains was nearing its end. “Quiet You With My Love” by Rebecca St. James whispered in my ear. I opened my Bible and played a little roulette. What was I looking for? I fingered the smooth pages in the front of the book and turned them one by one. I came to the pages where births, marriages, and deaths are entered. I read my handwriting. I recorded our marriage time and place. The births of our five babies. But nothing on the losses. I hadn’t included them, not purposely. I wrote their names and the dates of my procedures, when I felt they were taken from me with finality. There. I closed it. It wasn’t until this morning, as I opened my eyes and knew the day had arrived, that I realized I wrote their names on the “Births” page. Not the “Deaths” page. I will keep it that way, though. It’s the way it was supposed to be, according to me. But instead. |
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