A white bucket, filled with baseballs. A crack of the bat, rounding of the bases. All of this happening with a bright blue Colorado sky in the background.

It was years ago, yet it seems like yesterday.

Memories came rushing back to my mind yesterday when my friend, Melissa, sent a short film called, “The Bucket,” to me via text. Just five minutes long, it captured a season of my life long since gone, but worth remembering.

When my children were young, they were homeschooled. We spent hours and hours at our local park, honing their hitting, bunting, grounding and base-running skills. My two sons and daughter cherished these outings.

“Just one more bucket,” they would say to their dad, over and over. Until one bucket became two, then three. Even if one more bucket meant practicing bunting, they were all in.

They loathed bunting.

My sons learned how to switch-hit with those buckets of balls. They learned how to pitch. Even my daughter full-on participated, relishing her tough girl exterior. Even I, though never one to be mistaken for an athlete, hit a ball or two and did my best at fielding groundballs and flies. Though I looked a spectacle, deep down I loved it, even the relentless teasing I endured.

As I watched the five-minute film, I wept. I could relate. And it took me back there, when things were simpler, when life still had forever written all over it.

The memories are so thick with potential and joy and hope.

When you are living them, the days seem endlessly long. As my supervisor likes to say, “The days are long, but the years are short.”

So very true.

I was knee-deep in teaching my kids, doing laundry, cleaning the house, cooking meals. I spent some days waiting for them to end, watching the clock until their bedtime which turned into me time. I would curl up with my Bible and my journal, outside on the patio, or in the bathtub with music and a glass of wine.

And I would give myself a pat on the back for making it through another day. Life was so hard.

Or was it?

Little did I know, those were the easy days, days when my three kids could be somewhat controlled and still adored their parents.

Eventually, days at the park ended. Even when the rest of the family would go, I had grown weary of things that were taking place away from the park. My marriage was crumbling and I was exhausted from the fight.

If I go back there, I can cling to regret like my kids clung to a fly ball. It has been a painstaking process to let go of it all and my lack of letting go is costly. It cost Jesus everything to release me from it. And it cost me everything to hold onto it.

“I will restore the years the locusts have eaten” is one of my favorite verses, one that I pray over myself often.

The wasted time, the regret, the sorrow, the grief. I know He can — and is — redeeming and restoring it all, in His time and for His purpose.

I am thankful for “The Bucket” and that I am able, but for a few moments, to bask in the glory that was. Days filled with splashes of sunshine, baseballs and bats, and one wonderful hit after another.

Days I would now give anything to go back and visit just one more time.

How many times have I dropped to my knees, begging Jesus for something. Many. So when I read about the royal official whose son was sick, close to death, I can relate.

What about you? Is there anything you have begged for, but are still waiting on?

Scripture says that the man went to Jesus and begged him to come and heal his son who was close to death. Who wouldn’t beg in this situation? We have probably all pleaded for things that were not so life and death.

I know I have. A job, financial provision, healing of a relationship.

This official obviously knew who Jesus was and what He could do. Yet Jesus says something to him that perplexes me, something I never really caught before.

“Unless you people see signs and wonders,” Jesus said, “you will never believe.”

This statement makes me pause. To me, it seems like the man did believe. He knew Jesus had the ability and the power to heal. So he begged Him.

The man persisted, even after it appears as if Jesus rebuked him. He persisted because of his faith, I think. Jesus then told him to go, that his son would live.

John 4:50 says “the man took Jesus at His word and departed.”

Wow.

Shortly after, the man is met by a servant who informs him that his son is alive. When the official asks as to what time his son got better, he is told the boy’s fever left him at one in the afternoon, the exact time that Jesus told the man his son would live!

The man — and his entire household — believed. I think this is amazing. Not just the man, but his entire family!

I think the official’s demeanor indicated he had faith, belief that Jesus could do a miracle, and knowledge of who Jesus was. I’m no Biblical scholar, but this is how the man appears to me.

A bigger issue for me in this story is the fact that the man begged and Jesus delivered. I have pleaded with God over many things, including the salvation of friends and family, for years. To no avail.

Yet.

Why was this man’s son healed, even after Jesus apparently rebuked him? We know that people needed to see His power when He walked the Earth. But people need to see His power now.

I need to see His power now.

And I have. But not always in the ways I expected. And perhaps not in such a dramatic way.

So I wait.

And I beg.

And I wait some more.

Can you grieve something you never had? Absolutely.

While grieving usually involves a loss, like a death or a relationship, it can also include sadness over something not attained.

One of my friends refers to this as mourning.

A while back, my husband, Ric, found out he didn’t get a job he had spent six grueling weeks preparing for. Five interviews, six long weeks, time he will never get back.

During this time, he applied for other jobs and had interviews with other companies. But when he was told by his would-be boss’s boss that Ric had his “endorsement,” we reasoned, falsely, that his last interview was just a formality — an in-person meeting to make sure Ric didn’t have an extra head or no teeth, one that would end with the shaking of hands and a signature on a dotted line.

Well, not so fast.

The last interview was much more than the shaking of hands, and it was beginning to look like a no such done deal.

We prayed for this job, even thanking God in advance for what He had already done. Being a prayer warrior, I solicited other like-minded friends to pray along with me, and we were off to the races. Why not this job? Why not His will? Why indeed.

What happens when you feel like something is a sure thing, but it doesn’t materialize? After all, by faith you quoted scripture, reminding God of who He is and what He said. Are those promises for everyone else but you?

You plead; you beg.

But the rejection email still lands in your inbox at 8 on a Tuesday night, right around the time your wife is at a prayer and healing night at church.

Me being me, I wanted to talk about it. Can you relate ladies?

The best way out is through, my mantra, echoed in my ears.

The next day I suggested this very thing, and I was met with familiar words: “I want to move on.”

“But I’m affected by this loss as well,” I say, “and want to grieve it as such.”

That’s when I am met with soul-crushing words: “It’s not a loss if you never had it.”

Really?

Then why do I feel a loss? Why do I feel sadness, the loss of hope?

Jesus knows why because He did, too. He felt loss when His friends fell asleep, when Lazarus died, when all but John deserted Him as He died on the cross.

And He knew the ending, He knew all of this would happen. Yet in his humanness, He still had strong emotions regarding these events.

If it’s not a loss, was the sadness I felt a lie? No. We can grieve something we hope for, something we truly believed would happen.

And it’s okay.

“Do you want to get well?”

The invalid man who Jesus asked this question had been in his condition for 38 years. 38 years! Longer than many of us have been alive.

According to John 5, the man was waiting by the pool at Bethesda in hopes of being the first one in when the waters were stirred up. The Bible says there were “a great number of disabled people” there that day.

Just like the woman at the well (She Left Her Jar, my last essay), Jesus saw him, saw right through him, to the heart of the matter. This man was physically ill, yes, but just like the woman, he had a sin issue.

Don’t we all?

I love the direct question and I have to admit, sometimes when I hear Jesus ask me one, I am a bit like the invalid man. The man answers, but not in a direct manner. He says that no one is there to help him into the pool, that someone always reaches it before him.

Did he have any idea who he was talking to? Apparently not. He didn’t even know Jesus’ name.

Clearly, this man thought the healing power was in the pool when the water is stirred. But healing personified stood right in front of him, asking him a question with three possible answers: yes, no, or maybe.

This man needed physical healing, it’s true, but like all of us, he also needed spiritual healing. I think when Jesus asked the question, this is the healing he was referring to because He saw the man like He sees us all.

Jesus commands him to get up, to pick up his mat and walk. Notice that the text does not say the man hemmed and hawed. He obeyed at once and is healed. I wonder how long it took him to take the mat and chuck it in the trash? Just like the woman at the well, that mat represented sin and shame.

Getting back to the command: I wonder, would I, do I, do the same when Jesus tells me to do something. Do I listen when He asks if I want to get well, then do the necessary steps it takes to get there? I have to say sometimes, but not always.

A miracle had just happened, but the Jewish leaders cared nothing about this. It was the Sabbath and they wanted to know why the man was carrying his mat when this was forbidden on the commanded day of rest. He did not know; only that Jesus told him to pick up his mat and walk.

Later on, in John 5:14, we get the rest of the story, and it reads a bit like a tabloid. Jesus had found the man at the temple, which was appropriate, given his healing. Worship was in order. And He said, “See you are well again. Stop sinning or something worse may happen to you.”

Wait, what?

I’m not sure I ever noticed this verse before, maybe for innocent reasons, maybe not. There can be a link between physical illness and sin. Not always, as we see in another story in John about the man born blind (John 9). But in this case, there is a direct correlation.

I think it’s interesting that Jesus says what he says to the man when he is at the temple. He is apparently doing the right thing…just like us when we are at church. Right?

I love that Jesus says again. The man started out well, but his sin caused him to be an invalid for 38 years. I also love that he doesn’t gloss over the man’s sin, but at the same time doesn’t camp there. He knew He would be dying for that man’s sin very soon.

The man doesn’t have any arguments. He was self-aware and knew his iniquity. He simply went and told the Jewish leaders that he now had a name for the man who had set him free, in more than one way: Jesus.

He can set us free, too.

So, the question remains: do you want to get well?

The woman at the well had many secrets.

Just like me.

Maybe just like you.

Little did she know that when she met Jesus, everything would change.

He would not only look at her, but He would also see through her, into her very soul, and He would tell her “everything she ever did.”

John 4 makes a point of saying, twice, that Jesus “told her everything she did,” yet she believed in Him. Not only did she believe, but she went back to her hometown and told others about Him.

But before she went, John 4:28 states that “leaving her water jar, the woman went back to the town…”

She had brought that jar to the well in the middle of the day, when others would not be present, because she was an outcast, looked down on by so many, due to being immoral, having had five husbands and now living with a man who was not her husband.

I can relate. Not because I have had five husbands (I have had two), but because I have lived immorally, both before coming to Christ and after coming to Christ. And I have lived with the shame. I have kept secrets, forgetting that my Lord knows it all, knew it all, before He chose me.

What did that jar represent in her life? Was it simply a vessel that held water? Or was it a reminder of the shame that she carried with her each and every day to that well, not in the morning or the evening when other women were there. But in the heat of the day. Alone.

I never thought of this until today while studying John. I’ve read this passage dozens of times, I’ve heard it preached in many sermons. John was the first book of the Bible I ever read. It has a special place in my heart. But today is the first time I really thought about what the jar represented in her life and how willingly she let it go for something better. Someone better.

Not only did she shed the shame, but the water she had gone to draw was suddenly less important. She had met “the living water,” the long-awaited Messiah. The one who should not even be speaking to a woman, let alone a Samaritan woman. Jesus was — and is — in the business of breaking down barriers and shaking things up.

While he did not sugarcoat her sin, he did not dwell there because He knew her heart. Today as I studied there was a question in the study guide asking how it feels to know that God can see inside me to my innermost being? I answered that I am grateful because he sees it all; he knows my intentions, my motives and my heart. A lot of the time, this is good. It is especially good because I need Him to be my defender. He is the only One who can judge, the only One who is all-knowing.

I am a person who has lived with loads of regret. But God has been freeing me, one pile at a time. His grace is wasted if I refuse to grab hold of it, his death in vain if I am unwilling to accept forgiveness and forgive myself.

What about you? What are you holding onto that Jesus already set you free from?

Maybe you, like me, need to put your jar down. And run to tell others of the One who has told us everything we ever did.

Years ago, when we first moved to our neighborhood, Stapleton Airport existed. We had lived in Boulder previously and when I told people we were moving to Denver, close to the airport, they scoffed, saying I would regret it due to all that airplane noise.

There has never been any of that. And if there has been, I haven’t noticed because I love seeing the planes come and go. In fact, just today my husband said they must be flying a different route because they were louder than normal. I smiled, knowing I was in the process of finishing this essay.

One early evening, when I still worked in Boulder, but we had moved to Denver, I was making my way home on I-70 and felt a little lost, like I was caught in-between two worlds. Then I looked up and saw airplanes, making their way to Stapleton. Something came over me and I felt peace and contentment. These feelings have remained with me ever since, when I see airplanes in the sky.

We didn’t live in Denver long before Denver International Airport was built. If Stapleton had been busy, DIA was an entirely different ballgame and would put Denver on the map, from a travel standpoint. According to Google, it’s the fourth busiest airport in the United States and the tenth busiest in the world. And growing.

Recently we moved a few miles from where we had lived. Our new home is even closer to DIA, a delight to me because I fly at least twice a month. From our front porch, we watch the planes make their way over the Rockies and, from our back, we see our babies returning home.

To me, the airplanes are like birds that leave the nest, then come back, then fly off again. A beautiful, constant revolving door of colors and sounds, artfully decorating the sky.

Not only do I have an attachment to airplanes, but I also have a love for aviation in general, as I worked for, and retired from, Frontier Airlines. My last role at Frontier included training ticket counter and gate agents and my favorite day of the two-week new employee training was on the job at DIA. It was a blast spending the day there, watching the new hires learn the ropes from seasoned peers. Just being there was a rush like nothing else.

Since 1991, the two Denver airports and the airplanes have been a staple in my daily life.

Until September 11, 2001, the day the planes stopped flying.

I remember the day vividly, as almost everyone does. I had three young kids and was a stay-at-home homeschooling mom. For whatever reason, I turned the tv on that morning before we started the day and was shocked to see what was evolving. None of us had any idea what was happening at the time, but after a few hours we had a good idea.

For me, watching two airplanes fly into buildings was traumatizing on a totally different level. Though I hadn’t started my career at Frontier Airlines yet, I took this personally. I think all Americans did.

At the time, I was part of a homeschool group at my church and we went on a field trip to a farm the day after 9/11. I remember gazing at the sky and realizing there were no planes up there. That’s when the impact of the tragedy finally hit me. I mentioned something about this to our group, and we all just stood at the farm, silently looking up. Most of us lived close to DIA so we had all grown accustomed to the busy activity in the sky.

It was devastating and eerie and profoundly sad.

Fast forward a few years…When I began my career at Frontier, I started out as a reservations agent. During our four-week training, Crystal, our trainer, told us a story to calm our fragile nerves when the tests we had to take became too much or we had to get on the phones for the first time and take a test call.

When we started to become unglued, she said, “Look up at sky. Are the planes still flying? Then all is good.”

In other words, we may not ace every test or perfect every phone call, but when mistakes happened, they would not affect the ability of the planes to stay in the sky. Thank goodness! This helped all of us keep perspective and I never forgot what she said.

In fact, when I became a trainer at Frontier, I said the same thing to my students, one in particular. Annie was the sweetest, most caring person and I knew she would make an excellent ticket counter/gate agent. But she struggled on the final test, failing it. I went to bat for her, talked to my manager, and she was allowed to graduate with everyone else.

I had learned that sometimes the people who struggle the most are the ones who care the most. In over fourteen years of training in three different industries, this theory still rings true.

On graduation day, after all the pomp and circumstance, I was sitting at my desk, finishing up on post-graduation tasks. Annie came in and said goodbye to me, then she headed out the door. Before she left, she stood in the doorway, tears in her eyes, and said, “I will look up. I will see the planes are still in the sky. Everything will be okay.”

I lost it. Even now, years later, I remember the look on her face, the resolve, the tears, and I remember exactly how it made me feel.

Back to 9/11. I was scheduled to take a trip of a lifetime to Greece a little over a week afterwards. Part of me was praying it would be canceled, but when it wasn’t, I struggled with whether I should go or not. I decided to go, as did my friend who was traveling with me.

We had a layover in New York for one night before traveling on to Athens. We got as close as we could to ground zero and then we were turned away. The smoke was thick and evil filled the air. Memorials were everywhere, with pictures of those who had died or who were missing. Hundreds of pictures.

It was the most somber of somber scenes. I will never forget it. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the grief, the oppression, I felt. I carried it with me to Greece and back, on flights that were as empty as I have ever seen them.

I will also never, ever forget the day the planes stopped flying.

These verses are some of the most well-known in the Bible, loved by many, loved by me. They demonstrate that the storm the apostles were in, the storms I am in, are louder than His voice, what He has already said will come to pass.

Jesus told them, “Let’s go over to the other side,” so they should have known everything was going to be alright. In the midst of the fear, they forgot what He had just said. They forgot His voice.

It's so easy for me to look at them and feel superior. Like, hello, guys, don't you realize who He is already?

But, there’s been times in my life when I have forgotten the sound of His voice, more often than I would like to admit. He has told me that He is going to do something for me, but when I become anxious, I forget. Like, for instance, when I am on an airplane and horrible turbulence happens, I don’t remember that He said He still has much for me to do in this life and that the plane is not going down today. Just like the apostles, I forget his voice when my terror takes over.

I hate to confess that the first thing I often do is panic, just like they did that day in the boat. But I don’t want to; my desire is to listen to Him. Does that count? I think so.

Honestly, I can relate to the apostles in this passage in every way. I have also said, “God, are you there? Do you care about the lost job or the lost relationship or my wayward children or my marriage woes or, (fill in the blank). Sometimes it seems like He doesn’t, like He is asleep in the boat and asleep at the wheel. He doesn’t care that I am going to drown, I lament.

Notice that Jesus didn’t speak to them. He spoke to the storm. Wow! I have a God who speaks to storms. Jesus knew who to go to, who to rebuke, so he tells the storm to stop, then he addresses his boys, asking them two questions he knows the answers to.

I cannot tell you how many times I have prayed, reminding God, “Even the wind and the waves obey You.” Countless times. Especially when I am on an airplane, or on a mountain road, or while driving in blinding rain or snow. Or when I've suffered loss or am walking alongside someone else who has.

After I've prayed, do I believe it? Do I gain peace? Do I really believe we are going to make it to the other side? Not always.

Just like Peter, when I take my eyes off of Jesus, I sink. I lose my footing. I panic.

I don’t want to respond like this anymore. I would like to be a little less human. Can you relate?

The Master of the waves, the Captain of the seas, is the One who knows my every thought before I think it. He knows the number of hairs on my head. The innermost cares of my heart. The same wind-ending, wave-calming God is still working and moving and willing to take me to the other side if I would allow.

Two days ago, I took a walk for the first time in what felt like ages (it’s probably only been a few days). Walking is my main form of exercise, and I’ve been relatively consistent with it this summer—really, all year because we didn’t get a winter in Denver.

​As I walked, the absence of something was clear: my beloved bright yellow Western Kingbirds. They show up in late spring, peppering the trees and the sky in our neighborhood with their beautiful song. I’ve lived in Colorado my entire life (practically) and never saw these birds until last summer, our first in our new home. Both sexes of the bird are bright yellow, and they have a very unique beak. They are incredible creatures.

​I fell in deep like with them last summer but fell in love with them this year. The feeling was not mutual. My walk took me past at least two nests where, daily, I was dive-bombed by protective parents. I would cower from the attacks, ducking as I went, yet loving the experience all the same. I admired their determination to protect their young, even though little old me posed no threat.

​Even birds that were not guarding their nests were everywhere, it seemed, chirping merrily and keeping me company on my way. I grew to adore this part of my day, as God speaks powerfully to me through His creation.

​One day, weeks ago, I walked by one of the nests where I had been dive-bombed and there were three perfect babies sitting on a branch just outside the nest, the same three who days before eagerly opened their tiny beaks for mom and dad to fill. Now here they were, getting ready to leave the nest, making me feel pride and happiness like I had been part of their story.

​Because I had.

​I prayed for them when the rain and hail and wind came, when the Fourth of July brought a barrage of noise and fire in the sky. I had willed them to survive. This is just what I do—I get very personally involved in His creation as I am one of its stewards. As such, I take my job seriously.

​When I walked by a second time that day, my three babies were gone, in the blink of an eye. And I was sad. Where before there had been much life, now was only an empty nest.

​I wanted to cry.

​I thought of my own three babies. The time had gone by just as fast.

A few work trips and a few short vacations ​took me away from Colorado for three weeks or so. And as I was taken away, so were the birds.

​They head south for the winter, like everything else, leaving their adoptive human parents bereft and devastated.

​​I hadn't had a chance to say good-bye; to tell them how much they'd brightened my days. There was no closure. ​They simply left, without allowing me the chance to bid them farewell.

​The metaphor of my life... so many had left without allowing ​farewells. My brother, my parents, my ex-husband, a best friend.

​I felt cheated, again.

​Until yesterday.

​During my walk two days ago, I had talked to God, asking Him to send me a kingbird, just one more time.

​Yesterday I woke up after a worse than normal night of sleep. ​After making a cup of coffee, I pulled up a barstool, talking to my husband about the day ahead.

​He pointed outside and said, “Isn’t that a kingbird on the hummingbird feeder?”

​I ran over and looked.

​It was. This time there was no holding back the tears.

Thank you, God, I whispered silently. Thank you.

Child of God. That’s who I am.

Sometimes I forget and when I do, I end up doing things I have no business doing.

I’ve been there. I’ve done that.

Like the prodigal son, I have been a prodigal daughter, wandering far from home, wallowing in a pig pen, when I could have been dining at my Father’s table, lavished in mercy, grace and love.

What about you? Can you relate?

I’ve been a Christian for nearly 40 years. I started out strong, then went through years of rebellion, doing things I never dreamed I would do. I walked away from rich blessings, and instead squandered my talent, my body, my treasure.

God was my Father on Sunday, but I lived like an orphan the rest of the week.

But God…

He would not leave me there, in the mire of sin and shame.

No. He provided – and always provides – a way out. Not only does He welcome me back, time after time, the verse says He ran while being filled with compassion, not condemnation.

Like Simba in The Lion King, when we remember who we are, it should cause us to turn tail and run home. Eventually, that’s what I did.

Ahead of time, before the beginning of the World, God thought of you and me. Let that sink in. Before a single sin was committed, He had a plan. A plan of redemption because that is the core of who He is.

My Creator and my Redeemer.

Even though He knew I would be on fire for him in the beginning, he also knew that I would do all I could to douse the fire with my lukewarmness. Every sin I would commit, all the things I would do to bring shame to His name. He chose me anyway. And He chose you.

How this has humbled me. How this has made me grateful.

And it does. Sometimes. When I stop, pause and spend the time needed to worship and praise Him simply for who He is and what He has done for me. Like the prodigal son, I need to return to Him – as a continual habit, as an act of surrender -- over and over again.

I’ve never been worthy, never will be, in and of myself. But because He is, I am!

I am His child, I am redeemed and I have every spiritual blessing in Christ (Ephesians 1:3).

How glorious! How life-changing! I am no longer a slave to sin or fear or anything else. I am a child of God.

And so are you.

If you have walked away, come home. When you do, God will run to you, even when you are far off.

Today I read a devotional about how thoughts can cause a downward spiral. If you are like me, you don't need this explained. You have lived it. I could write a book on this. It would be easy to start.

At some point, as a young child, I began to think. My thoughts gave way to good things, like writing and poetry and sensitivity. But I also had thoughts that caused me to go down, down, down deep into depression and despair. These were the dominating thoughts that controlled my life, the way I saw myself. Thoughts are things, they say, and they are powerful.

Everything begins and ends with the mind, and the mind, if mastered, can bring tremendous freedom. Mind you (see what I did there), I am not advocating for "the power of positive thinking." There is some validity in this, but I am talking about a deeper, lasting approach.

I am also not talking about the reality of mental illness and clinical depression. I am talking about the Biblical definition of thought control. And I realize when I write "Biblical," I may have lost some of you already. But bear with me. Whether you subscribe to Biblical truth or not, I think we can arrive at common ground.

There's a verse, one of my favorites, that says, "Take every thought captive and make it obedient to Christ." In other words, focus on things that Jesus did and, in so doing, obey. Most people focus on gaining control of negative thoughts which makes sense. I read today that we have thousands of thoughts in a day and 80% of them are negative. I can attest to this. My mind rarely turns off, and try as I have, I still get recurring negative thoughts, some about myself and some about others.

My thoughts have led me down a dark path of depression and sleepless nights, moodiness and despair. I can trace it back to my childhood. I'm sure some of this was due to my upbringing. I don't remember much encouragement or demonstrative behavior from my parents. While I wish it would have been different, I know they did the best they could with what they had. I don't blame them and I forgive them.

Back then, I didn't have God, although He had me, and I somehow felt that to languish in a gloom and doom state made me deeper, more alive and a better writer. Now I know that, while there may be some truth in this, focusing on negative, doom-scrolling (in my mind, long before social media existed) is not a positive attribute worth cleaving to. Going back to the verse, which states "take every thought captive," it seems a lofty goal, doesn't it? I'm fortunate if I can take even one captive out of thousands.

But what if I tried that? One thought out of the 60,000 we may have in a day? It could be as easy as, "You are lazy, Erin."

I could take that thought and seize it, put it to death, right then and there. Or, "You will never succeed at writing." Again, death to that thought. "You are a bad wife, friend, mom, grandmother, employee." Death. Death. Death.

Whether you believe in God (and I hope you do) or not, He loves you, created you, and made you for a purpose. And He has a plan for you. And me. Everything starts and ends in the mind. Everything. Experiment with this -- try it out. Christian or Atheist, we all could learn to apply this truth.

Most, if not all, of us have something positive to say or to share about her: a favorite song, an endearing story, a quote she lived by. For me, it was her love of Jesus and the song she wrote that another iconic singer, Whitney Houston, made off-the-charts famous. 

It's funny how a nation and a world can mourn someone that most of us never met. How we can be brought together, no matter how different, and share songs, stories and tears. What an amazing gift grief can be.

A gift? Really?

As we grieve collectively for a legend, in the still of our hearts, many of us are grieving alone: for a mom, a daughter, an unborn baby, the loss of a marriage or a dream. Whatever the "it" is, we don't have the luxury of millions grieving alongside us. If blessed, we have a choice few. 

Even then, we bear our grief alone, in a very individual, sacred way. We alone had the relationship or the place or the thing. 

And now it's gone. It is love with nowhere to go. It is holy, this shattered thing we feel. It is ours and ours alone.

I was texting with a friend today who lost her beloved mom a few days ago. Separated by thousands of miles, her family grieves without her, leaving her to watch it all on a tiny screen. They are together, she is alone. It breaks her heart, it breaks mine.

Another friend is going through deep grief over multiple losses. She is way too young to have suffered so much. She feels others are able to articulate so well what they have gone through, are going through. But she can't. Not yet. Why are the words and the vulnerability not coming?

Why indeed?

Isn't this the ultimate grief question? Why? The unanswered questions, the what ifs?

For those that hope in the Lord the questions still arise, try as we might to stuff them down, down, down. If God works everything for good on my behalf, why is my daughter, my only child, dead? Why did both of my parents die within a year of each other? Why is Dolly, a beloved everything, gone at 80 years old?

If He loves me and desires my good, why did He allow this in my life, we ask, not really wanting to know the answer.

If God cannot fail, why do I feel as if He has failed me?

All valid questions. No easy answers.

As I have walked my journey of grief as well as walked alongside others during theirs, I have asked these questions more than once and I have felt great doubt. The soul-crushing, heartbreaking, body-aching doubt. And it's okay.

We may not hear this in our super-spiritual Christian circles. But that doesn't mean it's not true. What good does pretending do for anyone going through the dark night of the soul? We do ourselves a great disservice when we fail to be honest and authentic with each other.

I think the Creator and Redeemer of the universe is fine with our doubt. The Gospels are full of stories of 12 who walked side-by-side with Jesus yet were full of fear and doubt. And questions. Lots of them. They brought all of themselves to Him, all the brokenness and real-ness, and He made them whole. He can do the same with us.

What a beautiful thing!

Loss is a part of life. Indeed, it is all around us. In our world, in our hearts. 

All of us have lost something that has left us shattered. So, we grieve. In whatever way we can. There are no rules. There are no timetables. 

One of my favorite verses is "Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy" (Psalm 126:5 NIV). What a promise for all who have shed many tears. Joy will come. Maybe not today, or tomorrow or even next year, but eventually it will.

It may take time to find God again, or discover Him for the first time, in the midst of our pain. But He is always there, sitting with us in our sadness, waiting to be invited in.

​Wasn't it just yesterday that we brought him home from the hospital, two babies ourselves? We had no idea what we were doing. Do any of us ever, really, have a clue?

​We are tossed into the parenting thing, not knowing what's ahead. Because if any of us truly knew, would we still take the leap? ​I’m not so sure.

To a degree, I romanticized being a parent, just like everything else in my life, up to that point. Living in a make-believe world helped me survive.

Going into my first pregnancy, ​I remember saying, to anyone who would listen, that I would do the entire thing sans drugs, I would be a champion breast-feeder and would overall knock it out of the park. My labor and post-partum experience would be one for the books, something to aspire to.

​We make our plans and we hear God laughing.

​Not only was I given what seemed like a pharmacy full of drugs, but Joseph was born by C-section after 24 hours of labor due to failure to progress. Breast-feeding was a disaster. And I felt like a sleep-deprived emotional and physical failure.

Of course, I wasn't. But my feelings told me something entirely different.

​Days sped by, then months, and my precious Joseph became the joy of my life. ​By the time he was three months old, he slept through the night. We could take him anywhere and he was mostly well-behaved. He was not perfect, as no human is, but he was darn close. God knew I needed that.

​Since his dad worked nights, he was my snuggle buddy in the evening as we watched foxes and jackrabbits from our deck, then watched baseball on tv and read books before bed. Joseph was happy and responsible and just about as sweet as he could be. He was my little companion, and I loved being his mama. 

​When his brother, James, was born, Joseph would not wake us in the morning, but would go downstairs, get his own breakfast and watch Barney until James woke up.

​I could always trust him not to get into any mischief. Truly, he was a dream child. Again, God knew what I needed.

​When I look back on those early days of motherhood, I have regrets, of course. I wanted to sleep desperately and should have spent less time waiting for him to sleep through the night and more time being in the present.

Wishing the time away wasn't a good thing. It never is.

​Sitting up in the middle of the night, over and over again, with a baby boy that simply wanted to eat and play, wasn't ​much fun, either. There were times I lost my patience while being worn out, hormonal, and still healing from surgery.

If I went back now, knowing what I know, would it be different? I've had a few sleepless nights with my granddaughters, too, and it's even more of a struggle the older I get. So maybe not, but I like to think it would be.

​If you had told me at 28 that I would be a parent for life, not just until the magical age of 18 years, I may have laughed. I am not sure what I thought, but I surely didn't consider the permanence of being a parent.

​I had an idea that you raise them, send them to college, then all would be honky dory, live happily ever after land. Off to their own families and own lives, with rainbows and butterflies and the like.

​I didn't think of the financial or emotional burden of it times three, once James and Alessandra arrived.

​But you know what? I really, honest to goodness, wouldn't trade it! Was there a time when I would have? ​Yes. ​And I would tell everyone I knew to not have children.

Careless words, they were, so, I confessed them as such, my sinful attitude, and moved on.

​​Today, even with the ups and downs that parenting has brought -- and will bring -- I can honestly say I'd do it all over again.

​Happy Birthday, Joseph.

We made it.

​I thought I knew a lot about Douglas Alan Skelton, but it turns out I am wrong. His family and close friends, of course, had more up-front, close and personal experiences with him. But at Frontier Airlines, at least we were blessed to spend our entire work week with him. Indeed, it was not enough.

​Doug's three grown children eulogized him and did a fantastic job painting a picture, stroke by stroke, of just how great a father he was. As they spoke, I felt envious of what it was like growing up with a father like this, but ​also thinking I missed out, over the past 15 years or so, of not having more opportunities to see Doug in action on a personal level.

​His adult kids spoke about Doug telling them each day to go out "and love on somebody." My dad never told me anything like this.

​But it sounds just like my adoptive Daddy who said, "Love your neighbor as yourself." I've heard it said that, as believers, when we arrive in Heaven we will be asked two questions by God: 1) Did you love me? and 2) Did you love them?
​Doug did both, so very well.

At moments today, the grief was palpable, as it should be.

​But there were funny stories, too, about his ​love of disco music and one son "just wanting to go home" when Doug struck up long conversations with a grocery or gas station clerk. And his clear instruction to "get into a bit of trouble" to his kids when they were young. I would – and am – way too terrified to say something like this to my grown kids and granddaughters, but maybe fear didn’t lead in Doug’s life. And maybe he was on to something.

​On a more serious note, one of his best friends told a story about Doug's non-judgment of him when he confessed something very burdensome to Doug -- something he'd never told another soul. And Doug stayed (which sounds just like him).

​Though I had nothing on that grand a scale that I confessed to Doug (though I very well could have and perhaps he may have read between the lines), I confessed to him difficult things, epic ​Erin failures, running back to Customer Relations, tail between legs, feeling like a complete loser. But no one would ever know it by the way he treated me, and no one would ever hear it from his lips, not at work, anyway.

​It surprised me to hear today that Doug questioned if he had been the man he should have been, although it shouldn't have. He was humble and, like I said in my previous tribute to him, he would not want his life played back on the big screen for all to see.

​I have heard grief defined as "love with nowhere to go." Wow. This is so profound, honest and true. ​The love we all have for Doug is unique to only him. And he was, as I said on my way out of the funeral door today, "the real deal." Correction, he IS the real deal, for his life has really just begun.

​I was grateful to see many people from Frontier at Doug's Celebration of Life, all of whom I haven't seen in 10 to 15 years. ​Working at Frontier brought (mostly) good memories and (mostly) good people who I cared for and respected. Because of Doug, Customer Relations was a great place to work, even while doing the most difficult of all jobs. We rarely dealt with happy passengers, but once in a while we were empowered to move on behalf of desperate customers in desperate situations. I am forever grateful for that.

​While we are left with a void today, the love we had for Doug, the love with nowhere to go, will surely not be in vain. May it never be so!

​I, for one, want to adopt the Doug-ism of "go and love on somebody" as soon as possible. Not only that, but I also want to live out his example of actually doing it. I want the love that so worked in him, from God to others, to be the love that defines my life.

​May we all take a little extra time to ask questions and be present with complete strangers, to find out if our trash men like Gatorade and, if so, what their favorite flavor is, then stocking our fridges full of it for when they complete the thankless job of picking up our trash. 

​Doug left a legacy to all of us, even those who never knew him, for they can know him through those of us who did. It's up to us how that plays out and if we allow his love to truly have a home.

I hadn’t seen Doug in a very long time, but he was one of those people that leaves an indelible mark in a positive way. So many of the things I think about and how I view the world originated with Doug.

​What's uncanny is that just yesterday my husband, Ric, and I were talking about being a politician and having all our dirty laundry exposed. We wondered why anyone would ever choose that life. ​Without quoting my source, I said that none of us would want our life story to be on the big screen for the entire world to see. Especially me.

This is something that ​Doug said to me years ago. I don't remember what the context was, but it stuck, like so many other things he said. More than likely, I was sharing with him my enormous amount of regret about something in my life and he shared this nugget to mitigate my shame. I think I remember saying something like, “Yeah, right, Doug, your life is perfect, and nothing that you have done would cause you any shame.” Of course, he scoffed at that, and our conversation continued.

But his words comforted me to my core. I felt like if even he wouldn’t want his life re-played on a giant screen, perhaps there was hope for me.

​More than anything, it was not what Doug said, but his constant presence and steadiness as the Director of Customer Relations at Frontier Airlines. We all loved him. He was gentle, kind, used his words well and was very approachable.

​Shortly after I retired from the best employer I ever had, Doug retired as well and, a few months ago, I found pictures of the ​event on Facebook. I thought about him so much that day – I wish I had acted on that prompting because I believe it was from God. He was trying to tell me to reach out, knowing Doug’s time was short. I ignored the prompting.

​I worked for Frontier for over six years and both my happiest and most challenging work experiences were the three years I spent in Customer Relations. We had a great team, with many great bosses, and I loved them all. It was a fantastic job, but the most difficult, too. Dealing with angry passengers, day in and day out, took its toll.

​I left Customer Relations to go to the training department. Although I loved the training piece of the job, I was not accepted there. My introvert personality was not understood. Suffice it to say, my training department days became numbered, and I was given two weeks’ notice. At the time, I was a few months away from being able to retire with full flight benefits, something I had been eagerly anticipating and working toward.

I was desperate so I went to talk to Doug.

We went on a walk, and I filled him in regarding my not-so-ideal experience on the training team. He listened, then said, "When the train goes off the track, it’s nearly impossible for it to get back on it." It was obvious from what I told him that the training team track had most definitely derailed, with no hope of improving.

​He was wise and able to articulate a situation in just a few words, doing so in a way as to avoid heaping shame on a head that was already drowning in it.

He did all he could to help, hiring me back in the Customer Relations Department so I could do my time, then retire. It was one of the most humbling experiences of my life because I knew that everyone realized that I had not been a “success” while on the training team, even though my lack of training ability was not the reason why. Doug allowed me to hold my head as high as I possibly could, never saying a word about how I managed to burn my bridges in both departments.

It wasn’t a mercenary mission on his part. I remember him looking me in the eye and saying, "Quite frankly, we need you."

​He redeemed a bad situation, in more than one way. And even had a small party for me, a few months later, when I retired, tearily leaving to go work for Oracle. I was a jumbled-up mess that day, but Doug understood and never told me to stop crying. He got people.

​Doug endured a lot with me, but he never said, "I've never managed anyone like you." Instead, he simply managed me – and a variety of other personalities – as all great managers do.

​Frontier was in its glory days when Doug was at the helm and, as such, was one of the main sponsors of my beloved Colorado Rockies. From time to time, Customer Relations and the EarlyReturns Departments were able to occupy the suite boxes at the ballpark, and it was never enough for me. I always wanted more. I was relentless in my pursuit of free opening day tickets and throwing out the first pitch at a Rockies game, after my co-worker, Scott, was selected. I never stopped asking Doug when it would be my turn.

​When I say relentless, I mean relentless. I begged and pleaded and pleaded and begged. He encouraged me to never stop asking, that maybe one day it would happen.
​One day never did.

​Though Doug could be serious when times required it, he was ever the prankster and loved to pull my leg because it was so easy to get me riled up. I love baseball. He knew it. And he would use the Colorado Rockies as a ploy more times than not in his merciless teasing of me.

And he also used Jack, my favorite Frontier tail animal, telling me that Jack had been their family pet and had died while in their care. I fell for it, hook line and sinker, and was in tears when Doug fessed up. Never mind that Jack was a snowshoe hare and would not have been anyone’s pet! Logic went out the door when it came to my precious Jack.

Seeking to get even with him, on April Fool's Day I pranked him back. After conspiring with my co-workers, who waited just outside his office door, I went in and told him I had some bad news: I was leaving Frontier and going to work for Southwest Airlines, our nemesis. Fighting words. I vividly remember the look on his face. He told me we needed to "talk about this," but I couldn't stand it one second more, bursting out in laughter, joined by three or four co-workers who giddily made their way into his office to join us. He laughed, knowing I had gotten him just as good, if not better, than he had gotten me.

I could go on and on about Doug. About his love of Chick-fil-A and how he taught all of us that saying, “my pleasure” was much more significant than saying a mere “you're welcome.” I have been saying it ever since. Or him being concerned about a co-worker and me during a bad snowstorm and going out to the parking lot to clean off blowing, icy snow from our cars.

Tears are flowing off and on today because his loss is huge. He loved Jesus more than anything and this was evident in all he did. More than physical loss, my tears are a result of just how good he was and how I desire to be even a fraction of that for the people in my life. To show up, to listen, and to say as few words as possible while still honoring them above all else. He exemplified this with grace, mercy and humor.

​Often when people die, we tend to sugar-coat how truly inspiring and amazing they were. We say how great they were when they really weren’t. ​There is no sugar-coating with Douglas Skelton. He was the real deal. No, really, he was.

Today I honor him with a hearty “My pleasure” and a trip to Chick-fil-A. Without a doubt, I will one day see him again. Until then, I will try to make him proud in the way I live my life, as I shepherd words the way he did.

​Not that I had that much talent, because I didn't, not nearly as much as my beloved granddaughter. But if I had the intention of being better, maybe I would have been better. I read recently that intention trumps execution and I believe this to be true.

​But I digress. Charlotte has grace, beauty and confidence that I didn't exemplify as a dancer, not even as I got older. I was anxious ​and awkward, and full of the comparison trap. Always looking at someone else's moves to validate my own. Even after I hung up my ballet shoes, I continued in this dead-end trap.

​As I watched her do a tap dance, leading her peers, then a ballet dance, I got tears in my eyes again. This time, thinking how blessed and undeserved I am. I never imagined I would be sitting in a packed, high school auditorium watching a dance recital with my granddaughter doing the dancing.

​At that moment, my life flashed before my eyes—all the struggles and ​mistakes, bad choices and heartbreaks. ​Yet they all led to this. And this, I thought, is a beautiful masterpiece, a perfect culmination of all things lining up to become Charlotte.

​One different move, one second to the right or the left, a different choice, would have resulted in some creature other than this magnificent one that I adore more than anyone, except God.

​Yet, right here, this very moment, she exists and we have the proud joy to delight in her. What's truly incredible is that every single adult in that room felt the same way about their daughter or granddaughter. And ​every single person would be right: their child or grandchild is the image bearer of the Most High God, a living, breathing, walking miracle.

​Some might say I am making more of a dance recital than should be made. And some are certainly welcome to some opinion.

​But life exists in the small moments, that while they are happening seem just that. I think that the little moments all add up to make very big ones. To find joy and peace in that is a gift. Especially in this crazy world in which we live.

We all need more light. And my precious Charlotte emanates it.

​After the recital, children gathered with family and friends, showered mostly with flowers. I brought candy (which Charlotte really loves) because I know her! Having her run up to me exuberantly, throwing her arms around my neck, and yelling "Nonna!" is truly everything.

​What's remarkable is, I never cared about having grandchildren. It wasn't a strong pull for me. I saw them as being one more thing to keep me up at night, worrier that I tend to be.

​But from the moment I heard the news from Joseph and Lauren that they were expecting a baby, I ​was all in. Charlotte and her little sister, Amelia, are the best gifts I have ever received. They are the light in the darkness.

​So, when I get to relish in the reality that my very own flesh and blood is on the stage, tapping her feet and doing pirouettes, it makes me grateful. I do not deserve it or anything else, for that matter. It's all grace, lavished upon my family and me. Grace in a four-year old's dancing body up on a stage made just for her.

​I'm full of gratitude and love, knowing that I could have been in a much different kind of scenario, living a much different kind of life. Thank God, literally, I'm not.

If I had only known...

​Those words, in some form or the other, haunt us all, if we are self-aware and older than 16. I had mastered them by that age but had no idea just how much I would utter them over the years.

If I had only known...

​I would have guarded my heart like the beloved thing that it is. It would not have been given away like a piece of cheap jewelry you buy from a second-hand store. ​And I would have guarded my body if I had known it was the temple of God, belonging only to Him. Even after I knew, if I had only done the more difficult, obedient thing. ​I would have guarded my time and my treasure. I would have given more and complained less.

But what is that they say about hindsight? We see perfectly when looking back, but not so much as in the here and now. ​The here and now can be filled with the heart wanting what it wants. Instant gratification. All the things we think we need. All the pretty things wrapped up in shiny packages that entice and tempt and deceive.

​Funny thing about the here and now is it is the here and now but for a blink of the eye. And then it is yesterday, too. ​And yesterday became the past with days, weeks, and years, all accumulating so fast that we can’t even remember many key details. Or moments. ​​Because we are waiting, wanting, or deserving the next thing. ​Getting the next thing, albeit it a lover, a job, a house, or a fortune, leads one thing to the next then the next then the next. ​Until that sweet peace of the nursery fades so far from view, we must strain our eyes and our heart to gain a glimpse of it.

​So, we may, in a sweet moment of reflection or self-awareness, decide to be better, to do better. To let the here and now be more about HERE and NOW. ​To listen more than trying to force our selfish way. To really hear what others have to say. Instead of simply listening with the intent of waiting to talk, to be heard, to be right.

​What if I, if you, could slow down and just be with others, not uttering any words at all. Merely sitting with another and lifting their burden for a quiet afternoon or evening. ​Coming alongside of them, putting an arm around their shoulder, saying "It may not be okay, but it will be." And believing it as much for us as for them. ​What if we took a moment to see God in each person, as all are image-bearers of the Most High.

​How often do I see God in the one who has broken my heart or ​cut me off in traffic or has different political beliefs than me? If I could do some of these things, it would be a great first step to getting past all the "I wish I had knowns" in my life. Or at least a few.

​And a start is simply that: a start. You don't get from Step 1 to Step 20 in a heartbeat. It takes time. And intention. And grace and mercy and love and forgiveness, all things that are in short supply these days. ​But they don't have to be.

So tonight, before I close my eyes, I will claim that peace. I will put to bed all the noise, distractions, pain and hurt. Tonight, I will claim His perfect, precious peace.

Good night.

Writers of all shapes, sizes, ages and genres showed up -- around 200 people! I have been a writer, in one form or another, for nearly my entire life, but this was the first conference I had ever attended. I picked a doozy!

First, most, if not all of the attendees, are devotees of Lewis. Having read four of his books, I would place myself in that category. But if understanding his books is a qualification? I'm afraid I will have to bow out. I am not the type of book reader to gleefully read a paragraph nine or ten times until I understand it. I simply don't have time for that, especially on my quest to read 50 books this year. But the way he uses words and the thoughts that he thinks are mind-blowing. I call him my "spiritual crush," borrowed from another author that was not at the conference.

Songwriters, authors, poets, and then some shared deep words with us, making many of us cry, even sob, more than once. The mere use of words can bring the best of us to tears. And there were many eloquent ones shared.

More than that, we were challenged to use our words, in whatever form we write or speak, to bring beauty and life to others, the people we may shepherd, our lambs. Pastors are not the only people who shepherd: we can all take a stab at it if we but would. As I think of the word "lambs," right now I can think of many in my life who this word describes, including my perfect and precious granddaughters, Charlotte and Amelia.

One poet talked about the overuse of the word "awesome" after said poet gave an employee at a store exact change. "Awesome!" she exclaimed. Which caused him to pause and think; which caused me to do the same. I thought about the number of times in a given day, let alone a week or month, that I use this word. Correction: used this word.

The definition is: "Something so impressive or overwhelming that it inspires a deep reverence, admiration or even fear."

Ouch.

Today, when I began to say it, I thought twice, texting "incredible" instead.

Lately I have been profoundly convicted of the way I use words, mostly in conversation with others. This has been on my heart for months, actually. Over the past many years, God has been pruning me, shaping me, showing me all of the ways I need to change. It has been painful, yet beautiful, at the same time. The fact that He will not leave me alone tells me a lot about His great, enduring love for me. He cherishes me enough to not leave me where I am.

Years ago, I thought the best thing I could do was live out my true-to-life, passionate, Italian self. If others didn't like it, so be it. It was who I am. Now I am aware that just because I can say something definitely does not mean I should. And that goes for most of what is said on social media.

Our words have great power. To build up or to destroy. Consider this: "But I tell you that every careless word that people speak, they shall give an accounting for it in the day of judgment. For by your words you will be justified, and by your words you will be condemned." Matthew 12:36-37 NASB.

Double ouch.

Every.Careless.Word.

There have been times I have wielded words like a kitchen knife, slicing through the air with the intent to land on its (my) prey. I don't want to do that anymore. Ever. And it's so easy to do, when hiding behind a computer screen or cell phone. Isn't it? Or when I feel justified? Or hurt? Or angry.

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

Jesus is the Word and he breathed life into all of creation, along with God and the Holy Spirit, when the Earth was formless and void and nothingness. Elohim is the word for God that means Creator. It is in the plural, and it is all over the book of Genesis. 

Adam, the very first human, was told to name the animals and tend the garden. I wish I could have been there to name them all; cat would have been the first animal I named, with bunny as a close second. Rabbit would have never been in our vocabulary if I had been present. What a glorious job that must have been!

Words have been with us from the beginning, and we were created to use them for His purpose and glory. Am I? Are you? Are we?

How truly awesome it would be if we could learn this great truth.

For those who do not know, my brother, Scott, died 15 years ago. He was only 49 years old.  He was the middle child, two years older than me and three years younger than my oldest brother, Eric.

And he was larger than life.  At least in his growing up years.

I have written a great deal about him, our family and my mom and dad, especially since all three of them have now departed their Earthly home.  

I like to remember how Scott was in the early years, full of life and athletic prowess:  a phenomenal pitcher, a great dancer, a talented guitarist. He had a zest for life, but like all of us, he had his issues.  

My mom and dad spent a lifetime trying to get him healed. I'm unsure at how effective they were.  How effective is any parent when a child has his own will and is determined to exercise it?  I can only speak to my own ability to "control" my three adult children.  It isn't happening.  But even when they were younger, it was an uphill battle.

My parents fought that battle, one foot forward and two steps back, for decades. They would have fought it forever, had Scott lived.  I hated to watch it while he was alive but would give anything now to have a bird's eye view.  Why?  I think my parents would still be alive if Scott were.

That's because, before Scott died, they lived full, vibrant lives.  This is not to say those lives were drama-free.  Quite the contrary.  They fought about many things, namely my father's drinking and his inability to live up to my mom's standards.  But they were happy to the degree that any mismatched married couple could be.  And they made it work, somehow.

Dad was an avid race walker up to the time Scott died.  He was not happy if he didn't walk 8 to 10 miles a day.  And he didn't just walk:  he walked FAST.  He would never miss a walk, even when the weather was horrific.  On inclement days, he would walk inside, at the mall or the YMCA.  Sometimes mom would join him.

They continued to host many events at their home, including dinner parties, and had a large circle of friends.  Some they had met decades before when dad worked in Longmont, CO at the FAA center.  They made a point to get together with these couples on a monthly basis or so, even after dad retired, meeting somewhere halfway, like Northglenn.  Mom lived for anything social and would often give me a run down on each week, before it started.

"On Monday, we are going to dinner with Helen and Richard, we are going out dancing with Lola and Lee on Wednesday," she'd say.  Then she'd go through the rest of the week, telling me her vast plans.  She did more in one day than I usually did in a week.

They traveled, went out to eat often, spent time with their grandchildren, hosted dinner parties, lived life.  They were in their late seventies when Scott died; they still had so much life to live and were relatively healthy.

But the years before his death were not easy and the writing was on the wall, early on.  In fact, Scott always said he never expected to make it to fifty.  Prophetic words or self-fulfilling prophecy?  We will never know.  Mom and dad spent much time, energy and money trying to help Scott, paying for a condo for he and his third wife, sending him to bartending school (not the best choice for an addict) and allowing him to live with them.

At one point, Scott and mom actually moved in together, when mom had grown tired of her fights with my dad.  Crazy.  I had forgotten all about this until recently.  Funny how you remember things in pieces, when your psyche can process it.

I remember going to visit her at the apartment they shared, even after Scott had moved out.  I can't remember where he went or what happened to him.  Only that she was on her own for a while, then decided to go back to my father. The situation wasn't exactly picture-perfect right up to the minute he died.  There was much drama prior.

For a very long time I was angry with Scott and felt manipulated by him. It got to the point where there could no longer be a relationship, because it was one-sided. Whenever I got a phone call from him, I knew he wanted money or some other favor. Tough love eventually won the day, and social distancing became a thing before it became a thing.

I regret that.

When I found out Scott had died, I was devastated. Beyond words. I was in Philadelphia at the time and remember acting like a zombie for the rest of the day. I had to fly back to Colorado the following day, in deep grief, which is not a ton of fun on a packed flight when you cannot stop crying. The flight attendants were so kind and gracious. I will never forget how well they treated me and I learned empathy for others who had to travel under such circumstances.

Scott died in Nebraska and had been living with friends. I worked for Frontier Airlines, and they offered to ship his body back to Colorado for free. Again, I will never forget that act of mercy and I remember how much it meant to my mom.

My dad was in alcohol rehab when Scott died so we were unable to tell him about Scott's death until he was strong enough to bear it. As if that would ever be the case. It seemed like weeks but was more than likely just a few days. I won't forget his wailing anytime soon. No parent should ever have to mourn their own child. Most parents can think of nothing worse.

There was much blaming of each other in the days and weeks following Scott's death, on the part of my parents. There was no closure, no drawing closer. They say the death of a child either brings you closer together or further apart. My parents did the latter which was not surprising because they already stood on shaky ground. Years of trying to fix Scott had taken its toll. Their relationship had played second fiddle to trying to fix Scott. All relationships had. We were all in the same sinking ship. 

I had a lot of anger back then. Of course, it is one of the stages of grief, one of which I am intimately acquainted. I would like to say it was just the run-of-the mill anger everyone goes through, but it was more than that. It was also secondary anger due to the loss of my parents, the loss of my family, the dream of having the situation turn for the best. All of us wanted that, not just my parents. We all wanted the happily-ever-after, all's well that ends well celebration.

In the end, Eric and I simply could not be guests at that dinner party anymore. The food was spoiled and tainted, and we could no longer digest it. 

The Day conjures up many an emotion for so many of us.

When I had a mom, I often lamented the fact that we weren't the picture of closeness, that I often felt guilted into spending time with her, even after I became a mom. I remember cheerfully telling her, "Happy Mother's Day," and her saying thank you, rarely remembering to return the favor to me.

And it hurt. It made me angry.

How do I feel about it now? I have empathy for her, for she was a woman that could not tell her very own daughter Happy Mother's Day. In hindsight, I would understand and grant her grace and I would gladly spend just one more day with her. I would now know that her title alone, even with her flaws and imperfections, garnered respect. 

Yes, I would be different because I am different. I have the benefit of being on the other side of the situation. Hindsight.

Maybe, just maybe, I would understand, too, that I was not -- am not -- the easiest person to deal with. As a daughter, I was sometimes a pain in the butt. As a wife, mom, friend, I am flawed and am a work in progress, thanks to God.

Later on, after I became a mom, I felt blessed to have my own three, but the day was often a let-down for a variety of reasons, none of which I choose to identify at the moment. Or ever. Only my journal knows. Some of it had to do with how my husband felt about the whole mom thing, but some of it was because my expectations were too high. And perhaps still are.

I come by it all naturally, as my mother's own expectations were off the chart. My hapless dad, imperfect as he was, did his best to shower her with flowers and a lunch or dinner out, all the while thinking, and even saying, "You are not my mom."

Ouch.

We have heard all the opinions on having expectations and I will not belabor them here. Needless to say, I have not listened to said opinions that say it is best to not have expectations; therefore, you will never be disappointed. But I have many -- for others and for myself -- and this will more than likely never change. I desire growth for myself, as well as others, and I think this is healthy and normal and good.

My three adult children have their own lives, as it should be, and I am happy for them. One son has his own wife, our Lauren, who he loves and who I love. And she is an amazing mom now, too, to my precious Charlotte and amazing Amelia. She is worthy of honor and respect because HE is worthy and HE created her, uniquely and wonderfully. I am so blessed to have her in my life!

When I think of being a mom, I think of God's mercy and grace, lavished upon me, and I know I don't deserve it. Not in the true sense of the word for I am not a big fan of that word. There is no way that I deserve anything that I have, but that is the whole point of grace: unmerited favor.

Another thing that crosses my mind when I think of being a mother is that one day I will have to say goodbye to my beloved three, plus my granddaughters, and it is heartbreaking to me. I haven't talked much about this to anyone, only a select few. But I would bet that many a mom feels the same way as me.

There are a lot of different types of grief. One such type, for me, is the thought that death will come, and with it, a temporary separation from those who are my flesh and blood, the ones that came from my own body. My prayer, of course, is that I die before my kids so, of course, I will leave them.

I will be in the presence of my King, Jesus, and that will be glorious. At that moment, I will feel no loss and no pain, as that is what the Bible promises. For me, it's the time before that, when I know I am going to die, that causes me much angst. How sad will I be, seeing them for the last time, until we meet again? I have no idea, but it is something that I have thought about for years. 

The greatest of all sadness to me is that their lives will go on, and I will not be here to witness it. All the things I will miss. Selfishly, I want to be here for everything!

I realize that everyone who has ever lived has been in this situation. No one gets out of here alive, unless the rapture happens soon and I pray it does! Maybe I have a unique take on all of this. But maybe not. 

Maybe other parents feel the same way, but they are afraid to verbalize it. It doesn't feel good. At all. 

My hope and my prayer are either I die suddenly and have absolutely no time to think about any of this or I get complete and total peace when the time comes. I know that once I am in Heaven, all will be well because I will be in the presence of my Creator Redeemer, worshipping at His feet, and He has promised no more tears or pain.

What is the moral of this story, what is a mom to do that feels any of the feelings described? Try to be in the moment and enjoy the here and now. Love your kids, your grandkids, your spouse, your friends, your life. Love whoever God puts in your path.

Try your best to live a life with no regrets.

Happy Mother's Day!

 I have been thinking about the disco dance group that was known as “The Silver Steps” a lot lately. Who knows why? Maybe it’s because I finished writing a story about Sid, a member of the group, a week or so ago, after starting it three years prior.

Maybe it’s because I am writing a book about grief, about all different kinds, and even though Sid’s murder was a long time ago, the details are still fresh in my mind.

Or maybe it’s because, for a fleeting few months, my life felt like a scene out of Saturday Night Fever (I have been known to say that I lived out Saturday Night Fever). Not only did I love disco music when so many loathed it, I had all the clothing to go along with it. It was a crazy, dizzying, unique, fun time of my life.

Probably all three are factors in my renewed fascination with the dance group that played such a huge role in my early teenage years. Of course, Scott died nearly 15 years ago, and I found out recently that Greg Winchester passed away many years ago. Now all that is left is Sam Wells, Sid’s brother, and many memories.

I don’t remember who thought up the idea of having the group, but more than likely it was my brother, Scott. He had always loved music and dancing. My other brother, Eric, was the marketing genius around the group, that much I do remember.

The Silver Steps had a ton of fans, mostly swooning junior high and high school girls, but my dad was not one of them. Looking back, he was probably wise in his advice to tell Scott to not quit baseball his senior year of high school in order to pursue his dancing career. My brother was an incredibly talented pitcher who could throw extremely fast at an early age. As teenagers will do, he ignored said advice and pursued dancing. Why he couldn’t do both is beyond me, but maybe he was burned out after playing baseball since he was six. We will never know.

When I met Sid, Sam and Greg, the other members of the group, I was in ninth grade. The three guys, along with Scott, would use our spacious basement to practice and sometimes I would watch, sometimes participate. I was head-over-heels gaga for Sid and loved Sam and Greg, too. Talk about a teenage girl’s dream. I was fortunate to have many bonus brothers.

As I mentioned, Saturday Night Fever was all the rage, and The Silver Steps knew all of the dances in the movie. One particular night, More Than a Woman blasted from our basement speakers as Sid took me by the hand and led me, doing his best to replicate John Travolta and Karen Lynn Gorney’s dance from the movie. I was no Stephanie Mangano nor was he Tony Manero, but we did our best. I kept yelling at him, telling him that he needed to lead, but it never seemed to happen, as I ended up being jerked abruptly, here and there. Looking back maybe it was my issue, for even then I had a hard head and a strong personality. Maybe I refused to be led?

I was frustrated and showed it, until Greg took over, taking my hand as the two of us glided across the dance floor. It was a significant moment for me, as I found out that it wasn’t me because Greg led me just fine. Maybe my feelings for Sid got in the way of all sound judgment? Who knows. I was only 14. Knowing what I know now, that moments with Sid would be fleeting, perhaps I would have treated him kinder, gentler. These feelings always accompany grief and regret, don’t they?

Even with the faux pas dancing, I adored Sid and he knew it. He told Scott that the next year, once I got to high school, he wanted to date me. I have no idea why he would do such a stupid thing because Scott had rules about his friends and his sister. They were broken more than once, I am afraid.

I waited with giddy expectation for the start of tenth grade! But when I arrived in high school, Sid had moved on with someone else. It broke my heart. But I remained faithful to the group, being its number one fan.

The Silver Steps performed at school, at the Dicken’s Opera House and discos across Denver. They won prizes, just like in the movie, and it was the coolest thing to be able to attend competitions at places I would never have been allowed to go without being twenty-one or having a fake ID! It really was like being in Saturday Night Fever, without the curse words and sleezy sex scenes.

After I posted the story about Sid’s murder, I felt compelled to follow up with something positive, to describe a magical time in my life. I am afraid my words don’t do any of it justice. It had always been a mixed bag being Scott’s little sister because of his immense popularity and natural talent in so many areas. There were envy and jealousy, all the normal teenage angst stuff.

But it was sheer poetry to watch The Silver Steps and be allowed to swoon like the other girls, pointing at Scott and declaring, “That’s my brother!” I may be a bit biased, but he really was the best dancer in the group, followed by Greg. Scott defined the Silver Steps.

I have great memories of all the guys as Scott remained close to them throughout the years. He lost track of Sid more than anyone and sometimes I think that’s because Sid lost track of Sid, becoming a bit different when he started hanging with important people at The University of Colorado. Just my opinion, of course. I only know bits and pieces of the story.

But I knew him when. And those are the memories I hold in my heart. The songs, the dancing, the times spent in our basement with laughter and frustration and stepping on toes, both literally and figuratively.

And though I was far off from God when Sid died, struggling to cope, God was not far off from me. He carried me and sustained me, to this very day. The desperate sadness gave way to a gentle, nagging grief that comes and goes, as grief tends to do.

From the comments shared with me, I was definitely not alone in my grief over Sid. Judging from my memories, many of you had the sheer joy of relishing the rise of The Silver Steps as well.

For all of these things, I’m grateful. And I would do it all over again.