Ollie Ollie Outs In Free

I have never been comfortable with people who think the Dickman and I have the perfect marriage, and in truth, that myth is perpetuated only by those who don't know us well.

Don't get me wrong. I have a great marriage, a blessed marriage. 

But a perfect marriage... no freakin' way. 

We are an imperfect couple who are too dang stubborn to give up on each other. And after 37 years of marriage, we have learned to accept our differences and embrace our strength.

No, that's not a typo. We have A strength. Just one, but it's a good one. Almost like a superpower.

Our strength:  COMMITMENT

Commitment to our marriage. 

Commitment to our dreams. 

Commitment to our faith.

Commitment to each other.

So, even on those days when I'm bloated and pissy and taking my stress out on him... even on those days when all he wants to do is watch six hours of uninterrupted football while I'm chopping cotton and milking cows for sustenance... even then, our commitment holds firm.

Maybe it has something to do with falling in love when we were just puppies... all those years and all those layers of life solidifying into an unbreakable bond...

Whatever it is, wherever he is... is home.

And now that our home is in the country, we have turned into two old spoiled farts.

We've gotten used to the tranquility and addicted to taking deep breaths off the back deck. So much so, that when one of us is gone for awhile, we have our own silly way of letting the other know we are safely home, again. 

Heck, I even made him a sign...

Remember when we were kids and stayed outside playing until the street lights came on? Playing games like “Kick The Can” and “Hide And Go Seek”, remember...?

In our little neighborhood, we had a rule: if someone had hidden themselves so well that nobody could find them, then they got to come 'home' free.

Whoever was "IT" let them know they were safe by yelling, “Ollie Ollie Outs In Free!”.

There was no better sound to hear; no better feeling than to know you could come finally come out of hiding and run home, free and safe.

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This week, my heart has been heavy for a beautiful friend whose husband found his way home.

I'm not exactly sure how the Dickman and I became friends with Paul Revere and his lovely wife, Sydney. But I must say, it's been an honor.

The famous rock star... 

and his stunning wife, a popular Marilyn Monroe impersonator...

Though we were duly impressed by their accomplishments and notoriety, the biggest honor of knowing the Reveres was to witness their amazing love, to breathe in the rarified air of their devotion.

Both were larger than life, even before they met.

Yet, conversely, to each other they were but mere mortals. She was his beautiful Syd and he, her Baby.

They were completely sappy to be around, and you never left their presence without a smile on your face.

It breaks my heart to write of them in the past tense. They were a team in every sense of the word. If ever two were truly one, it was Paul and Sydney. Commitment had become their superpower, as well.

I have read dozens and dozens of tributes and memorials for Paul Revere... for his contribution to Rock and Roll... his work with veterans through his foundation (http://ridetothewall.us/)... for the life that he lived so well. I hope the accolades for him keep coming and never stop.  He deserves them all and so much more.

A huge void is left in the absence of the force of nature that was Paul Revere.

But now, my thoughts are with his Sydney... the beautiful wife who never left his side, who always had his back, who gave him strength to keep smiling and laughing until the end, even when she did not know how she would carry on without him.

This incredible woman has inspired me to live better and to love deeper and to never take one single day for granted. To guard my commitment and keep it strong.

Her commitment never wavered. And in the end, she gave her Paulie the most unselfish, loving gift of all. Sydney helped him to run home, free and safe.

Ollie Ollie Outs In Free...

It's Not the Message... It's the Messenger

I stomped out to the car and angrily slammed the door. I was having a no-good-terrible-horrible-very-bad day and now I had to make another freaking trip into town to pick up more medicine for Da Mamas.

As I merged onto the loop, my sucky attitude went into overdrive. I was angry at that trucker for going 5 miles under the speed limit! I was frustrated with my brother-in-law for slamming cabinets while searching for Fritoes!! I was furious with the Dickman for being twenty minutes late for supper (I made REAL mashed potatoes, dang it!!!).

At that precise moment in time, I felt overwhelmed and underappreciated.

Then, I turned onto Bell Street, and saw this beautiful lady holding a sign just for me...

I stared at her as I drove by, and caught her eye just long enough to give her a 'thumbs up'. 

The further away from her I drove, the more impactful she became.

I wanted to know what had motivated this lovely soul to spend a selfless afternoon on a windy street corner, offering sweet inspiration to random passersby.

I wanted to give her a hug.

I drove thru the pharmacy and headed back her way, intending to stop and find out her story.

At the last minute, all I did was slow down enough to snap a picture and wave to her like a besotted admirer.  Because by then, I was.

It wasn't so much about the message; I know I am important to my people. I know  they love me whether or not I spend hours slaving over a hot stove mashing  potatoes. 

So, even though the words on the sign were powerful, I was much more inspired by the messenger than the message.

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A few weeks ago, I got a text from my hairdresser, Penny, asking me to stop by her shop for a minute.

Of course I went by. She's my hairdresser, for Pete's sake. She knows more about me than the Dickman. She hates my gray and she washes it away. She refuses to give me a perm, even when I beg. She saves the best issues of PEOPLE magazine just for me (Is Bruce Jenner really a tranny?). AND... she lets me wear a cape.

I got there as quick as I could, and she handed me a big box full of gifts.

“What for...?” I asked in surprise.

“For you. You'll understand when you read the card.”

Among all the goodies in her sweet care package, Penny had included a pot of impatiens (for patience with Da Mamas), a pot of sedums (because she wanted me to have One Freaking Thing that was Low Maintenance – thank you Baby Jesus), a sunflower head to plant with my G-Babes, and my favorite of all, a wooden sign...

In her card, Penny said she made the sign because it reminded her of me.  She said that I was an inspiration to her.

Oh, man.

To say Penny's thoughtfulness touched me deeply would be a ridiculous under-statement.  You know in the Bible where Jesus is washing the feet of his disciples and Peter gets all squirrely, because he knows he is not worthy? I was Peter. As I held that box full of love and thoughtfulness, I knew exactly how he felt. 

I was humbled to the roots of my professionally colored hair, y'all.

Here's why...

You see, Penny is not just an awesome hairdresser. She is one of the most amazing and inspirational human beings I have ever known.

She is a single mom who, after standing on her feet for twelve hours straight dealing with schmucks like me, goes home to take care of her disabled daughter whom she refers to as Her Angel.

Her daughter was born with disabilities so severe that doctors said she would never live a functional life... she was blind, she was paralyzed, and they said she  would never be able to communicate.

But Penny didn't listen to no stinkin' doctors. She took her baby girl home and loved her as only Penny can.

That baby is now 14 years old. She's a beautiful, silly, brilliant girl who plays a pink guitar and loves her brother and her puppy dogs and has the most infectious laugh you've ever heard.

Penny's daughter is a force of nature. All because her mother refused to believe she would be anything less.

As if all that is not enough, Penny spends her 'spare' time helping out with women's shelters, taking in strays and feeding the homeless.

And, oh yeah... she also brings dogs back from the dead.

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After a particularly stressful day, Penny walked into her house and glanced out the window to see her dogs chasing each another around the backyard. All of a sudden, one of Penny's dogs fell limply to the ground. She and her son rushed outside and were shocked to see that their big strong boxer had stopped breathing.

"Diesel's dead!” cried her son.

“Oh, no he's not!” screamed Penny. “You don't get to die on me, Diesel!  Cause if you die, I have to dig a grave. And I'm way too tired to go digging a grave. Not today!”

Then with all her 100 pounds of might, Penny started slamming her fist into the huge boxer's chest.

Her son was screaming at her to stop beating on the poor dead dog when they heard Diesel cough softly.  Once.

Then he began to move...

“He's alive!!!”, her son exclaimed in surprise.

“Yep. Now we gotta figure out how to get him in the car.” Penny said. “And then take him to the vet. And pay the vet's bill.  But at least I don't have to dig a grave. Not today.”

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Words are important.  Words teach.  But when you're too tired to dig...

Da Mamas... No Teeth, No Beard, No Worries

Our Mamas are as different as night and day. Literally.  

His is an early-to-bedder and mine is an up-all-nighter. His is a worrier and mine is fearless.  His has teeth... and mine does not.

There must be some existential meaning behind Mom cutting her wisdom teeth at the ripe old age of 79, though I'm not sure what it is. All I know is that there is something way wrong in the timing of wisdom teeth that decide to come in after all the other teeth have gone.  That just ain't right...

So, there we were – Mom and I – sitting in Day Surgery, awaiting extraction.

“Two Things, Robin. I want you to remember Two Things.”

“Okay, Mom. What are they?”

“When I get out of surgery, make sure nobody sees me without my top dentures. And even if I'm drunk as a skunk, tell them I'm okay so we can hurry up and get out of here.”

True to form, she came out of the Recovery Room chirping, er... slurring, like a drunken magpie with top dentures intact, telling the nurse she was starving and ready to go home.

“Tell them I'm ready to go home, Robin.”

“But Mom, you can't even feel your tongue.”

“So...? Go get that nurse and tell her I'm ready to go home.  And bring me a hamburger.”

She finally wore those poor nurses out. My Loopy Chipmunk was discharged home in record time.

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Home...

Dickie's Mama has wanted to go home ever since we kidnapped her.

We lured her out of her house by convincing her she was sick and needed to see a doctor. (There are few things my mother-in-law likes better than a trip to the doctor.)

I got her an appointment with a geriatric specialist in hopes of obtaining a definitive diagnosis regarding her dementia.  (She thought she was going to talk to a professional about her favorite topic:  Stool Softeners.)

Throughout the testing, she charmed the doctor completely. He kept patting her arm and telling her what a "good job" she was doing. By the end of the test, she was convinced she had passed with flying colors.

“See... there is nothing wrong with me!” Dora proudly announced. Then, she looked at the besotted doctor and said, “Now will you tell them I can go back to my home?!”

The doc patted her hand again and said, “One more week. I think you need to stay with your family one more week.” Then pulled us aside and said, “Hopefully, she will forget and eventually settle into her new surroundings.”

Fat Chance, Doc.  

Every couple of days Dora would ask to go home.  We became increasingly clever in our delaying tactics...

“Uh, the car is in the shop...”

“Sorry, not today – it's supposed to rain. Hard. Heavy rain with hail and stuff.”

“I would take you home today, but you promised you would help me fold the laundry.”

Yep. Our excuses were growing as thin as Mama Dora's patience. 

There was wailing. There was gnashing of teeth (because, like I said... Dora still has hers).  

Her frustration landed heaviest on the two she loved most. 

Even though they surprised her with flowers...

And tempted her with sweet, fat Great Grandbabies...

Our Mama Dora never stopped asking to go home.  

She was perpetually angry at either Dickie or Jackie, sometimes both at the same time.  And she was especially frustrated when she couldn't remember which one was which.

“You're married to the youngest one, aren't you?” she asked me, over and over.  

“Yes. I'm married to Dickie, the one with the gray hair and beard.”

“He needs to shave that beard!! It makes him look older than the Other One.”

“But the Other One act likes he's the Younger One.” I reminded her.

Which only made her more confused. And frustrated.  

And sad.

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Until today.

Dora woke up this morning saying she had been here “more than a week” and had something she wanted to tell us.

“I had a long talk with... Him... you know... The Man Upstairs. I couldn't sleep. I prayed for two months. I mean two hours. I asked him to... I said 'help me'. And He did. And then I had dreams. Of boys. Those two boys that are brothers. They were little and playing and it made me so happy. And I just want you to know... that I am staying here. I'm gonna live here with my family.”

We whooped and we hollered and we jumped for joy.

Then, she got that wily little gleam in her eye and looked right at her baby boy.

“Now. What are YOU going to do for ME?” she asked Dickie.

Never underestimate a Mama's ability to get her way. Alzheimer's be danged.

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And say hello to Dora's younger looking son...

...the one who shaved his beard for his Mama.

Da Mamas... We've Got This

My 4-year old G-boy watched with interest as I smeared make-up on my face.  

"Why do you wear all that stuff?"  he asked.  

"Because I am old."  I replied grumpily.  

"You're not old.  You're still stretched."

"Huh??"  I asked.

"You're still stretched, like me.  Grandmother is old, because her skin is all bumpy.  But you are still stretched." 

Dear Lord, I love that boy.  

And just a few days later, I understood exactly what he meant.

I stuck my head in my mother-in-law's bedroom to check on her...

... just in time to catch her rolling her boobies up into her bra.

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My Mama didn't quite make it to the end of her self-imposed 90-day trial in assisted living.  When I went to pick her up for her hair appointment a few weeks ago, she looked at me wearily and said, "Okay, I give up.  I'm ready to move back home with you.  I'm tired of being surrounded by old people. They're boring."  

We moved her back in that very day.  

Knowing that my mother-in-law was living down the hall, made my Mom's decision a little easier.  "If you're gonna be taking care of one old lady, you might as well have us both," she said with a grin.

And it didn't hurt that my brother-in-law had taken up residence upstairs.  There is nothing boring about Jack.  

That's right, folks... I am now living with the Dickman, his brother, and our Mamas. Unscripted Reality TV at its very best.  Honey Boo Boo ain't got nothing on us. Motley Crue, indeed.

I know it sounds crazy.  

And I'll be the first to admit:  there is no small amount of cray-cray under this roof. Hardly a day goes by without tears being shed.  

Occasionally the Mamas even shed a few themselves.

But there is also plenty of laughter and hugs and exquisite moments to treasure. Most of the time, it feels like a blessing.

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Shortly after Dora moved in, I walked in on the Haney Bros having a deep discussion about the stages of Alzheimer's and what to expect as the disease progresses.  I heard Jackie say that he was praying hard for his Mom to somehow find peace amid all her confusion, and he didn't understand 'why' God wasn't answering his prayers.  My heart squeezed a little at the pain in their voices, but I already knew what Jack was soon to discover...

God is all over this place.

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My G-babes came to see me a few days ago and brought their parents with them. I was in my Happy Place, my face buried in the neck of my 4-month old G-boy, when I glanced up to see this...

And then, this...

My precious daughter-in-law rubbing Da Mamas' feets with oil.

This young Mother of my Five Favorite Babies, Wife of My Son, Sweet Daughter of Jesus... had carefully packed her oils into her diaper bag just for a purpose such as this.

Tears rolled down my face as I watched her hands, swollen with rheumatoid arthritis, gently and lovingly rub the tired old feet of our Mamas. 

I don't believe I've ever seen a more selfless act of caring and love.

God is all over this place.

He is teaching us patience and humility.  He is challenging our perspective.  He is softening our hearts.  And he renews our strength every day by using us in ways that amaze and bless our spirits.

Oh, yeah.   We've got this.

Every Purpose Under Heaven...

Summer is almost over, y'all.

And as sweet as it has been, I must say... I long for a season without flies. Did you hear that, you pesky flies? Your days are numbered.

Texas summers ain't for sissies. They are hot. They are sticky. They are sweaty. And they bring herds of flies and swarms of mosquitoes as big as your fist because, you know... everything is bigger in Texas.

I'm ready for fall. For crisp mornings and breezy evenings and golden leaves and just... ahhhhhh, fall. The only thing wrong with fall in Texas is the epidemic of football-itis that afflicts almost every male in the state. Texas football without its rabid fans is like, I dunno... something without something. 

Thankfully, just about the time my Irritable Ball Syndrome begins to rage out of control, along comes winter.

Non-Texans are always surprised to discover just how harsh a Texas Panhandle winter can be, with below freezing temps and blizzards that can turn streets into chaos. Chaotic, mainly because Texans do not believe gigantor drifts of snow should deter them from getting in their vehicles and driving to Allsup's for a can of snuff. Or to Sonic for a Vanilla Diet DP. Whatever. 

Texans are Badass. Until we're not...

SNOWPOCALYPSE - 2013

Just about the time we start to have thoughts of sharpening our axes and going all Lizzie Borden each other... along comes spring, drifting in sweet and subtle and full of hope. Except when it's not, because spring is pretty much the bipolar season of Texas, with the constant threat of tornadoes and dust storms capable of drying out every single orifice on a body. Not to mention hailstorms of biblical proportions, because, you know... everything is bigger in Texas.

Suffice it to say, seasons come and seasons go.  But in our big ol' corner of the world, the changes are uniquely distinct and transformative.

It takes a special kind of person to endure the diverse seasons of Texas. We're extra strong and super tough. We learn how to make snow ice cream after blizzards; we never stop believing rain will come after the drought; and we can negotiate insurance reimbursements for hail damage like a boss.

Much in the same way we adjust our calendars and rearrange our closets to accommodate the changes in our seasons, it is also the seasons in our lives that change our hearts.

I can say with all honesty, there have been seasons in my life that I enjoyed more than others. The carefree season of my childhood, the angst-filled season of high school years, the heady season of newlywed bliss, the exhaustively joyous season of young motherhood followed by the roller coaster season of managing teenagers. And then... the Dastardly Season of Menopause. A season worthy of cursing indeed, except for the fact that delicious G-babes happen to pop up about the same time as hot flashes and chin hair. 

Without fail, every season of my life has been filled with blessings and challenges, sunshine and storms.  

But this season may just be the toughest of them all...

This season of caring for our frail, elderly Moms. Precious little ladies who deserve all the respect and dignity we can give them; parents who never wanted to be a burden to their children, who fervently wish they could roll back the years and return to the strong, vital, capable women of their youth.

Every day of this season is different.

There are honey-filled days of laughter and love followed by days of incredible pain and stress. It's uncharted territory, and we don't always get it right. Some days we are the knuckleheads who leave home for a quart of milk, only to find ourselves stuck in the snow. Some days, we get caught in the storm... pummeled by the hail and rain.

Even though we're Texas tough, we could never get through this season all alone.

And we've never been alone for a second.

My brothers and their wives are Solid Gold. Together we are a mighty team of ambassadors for our Sweet Mama.

And those Haney Boys...

Just when the Dickman needed him most, his brother put his life on hold and moved back home to help with Mama Dora. 'Cause that's what family does.

There is never a day that we feel like giving up. There is never a day that we doubt we will get through this. Because even on our very worst days, our track record for getting each other through is exactly 100 percent.

Still... it's hardest on the fellers. Boys are hardwired to fix things. They want to charge in like white knights on their fast horses and conquer the enemy. Whether it's mowing a lawn or changing a light bulb or unclogging the sink, boys never stop trying to be their Mom's Hero. It is particularly painful for them to watch their Mamas grow old and weak, yet not be able to 'fix' them.  Frustrating to know all they can do is help carry them through.

These Cooper and Haney boys are mighty precious.

Mama's Boys, every one.

But today, I want to give special thanks for my brother-in-law.  I want him to know how grateful we are for the unselfish sacrifices he has made, for the peace of mind he has given my husband, for the patient love he shows his Mom. Jackie Dean's heart has always been three sizes too big because, you know... everything is bigger in Texas.

You can't live in Texas and not be changed by the seasons. You can't go through the seasons of your life and not be changed, as well.

The only constant through it all is love. The kind of love that loads all his worldly possessions into a U-Haul and moves back home to be his Mama's hero...

For a season.

(I love you, Jaco Villa.)

ALL KINDS OF MAMAS...

I am an ambivalent fan of Mother's Day.

Any  day  that  honors Mamas is more than justified.    But Mother's  Day is one of those  Hallmark  holidays  that often misses the mark.   I've yet to find a  card  that says everything needed to be said about this day;  never found the right words  to honor our Mothers while acknowledging  the pain of our sisters (or brothers)  who find Mother's Day to be painful or oppressive.  

Whether you think of your Mom as The Egg Donor or your Best Friend, one thing is for  sure:     Motherhood is not an exact science.   Mamas come  in  all shapes and degrees of neurotic-ness...

1)  SINGLE MOMS:  The hardest working Mama in show business. I don't know how you do it, how you manage to stay upright from the backbreaking load of responsibility. Three words to you: You Are Enough. All your babies ever really need to know is that you love them and will always be there for them. Even when you've locked yourself in the bathroom just to freaking pee in solitude.

2)  NEW MOMS: Smelling like spit-up, these Moms are pretty sure they are doing everything wrong and perceive every comment to be a judgment of their inadequate parenting skills. I would gently say to these young mothers: believe in yourself.  Embrace your God-given intuition and never doubt that you are the only one who could be the Very Best Mother for your child.  Trust the unbreakable bond that you have with your baby. And if the Voices of Experience are getting on your last nerve, rise above. Don't allow your insecurity to limit the love available to your son or daughter.  Children cannot be overloved.

3)  CHILDLESS MOMS: Those who would give anything to be a Mom, who feel forsaken by God. My sweet sisters, your infertility is not a curse... your miscarriages are not “God's will”.  Please, my broken-hearted friends, please know this: He will never waste your pain. He will give you what you need. He will use you to fill the void in other lives, to bridge the gap.  Your arms will be filled with those who need you most.

4)  BROKEN MOMS: You precious souls who come from a cycle of brokenness; who were raised by troubled Mothers who instilled your soul with worthlessness and insecurity. To the children of these Moms, I would say four words: It Isn't About You. Your Mother's lack of parenting skills would translate to any child placed in their arms. Your highest purpose in life is to break the cycle. I am amazed by your strength and perseverance. Broken Moms raise amazingly empathic and self-reliant children.

5)  GRIEVING MOMS: I can't imagine what it is like to lose a child – whether in utero or one that has been walking around this planet for years. Losing a child defies the laws of nature. We are here for you, to hold you, to listen to your stories, to speak the name of your child when your heart simply needs to know we haven't forgotten. We honor your grief.

6)  AGING MOMS: Ahhhh, my sweet Mama. It's hard to see her body failing, painful to watch her struggle. May I always treat her with the respect and dignity she deserves. May my well of patience never run dry. May I cherish every day of our lives together. Give us strength as we walk our aging Mamas home. And for those whose Moms have found their way to heaven, hugs for your aching heart.

7) MARTYR MOMS: The Moms who never sleep, who never eat, who never shower because they are too busy seeing to the needs of their children. Who post their monthly menus on Facebook and color coordinate their children into high school.  Stop the insanity! I promise you will not go to hell for failing to iron your baby's crib sheets.  Nor will CPS come and get you for hiding your favorite cookies from the kids.

8) STEP MOMS: Blessed souls who often end up with half the responsibility and none of the recognition. Seriously, is there anything harder to blend than a family? Hats off to you. Sending buckets of patience and a fresh tongue, as yours is surely chewed to shreds.

9) FOSTER MOMS / ADOPTIVE MOMS: These Moms truly amaze me. To be chosen by God to raise a child who grew beneath anothers' heart, to take them into your life and make them yours. There is a special place in heaven for these Mamas.

10) GREAT MOMS: The ones who never tried to be your best friend, but busted your butt when you needed it. The ones who encouraged you to find your own way. The Mama whose love was unconditional, but not without consequences. These are the Moms who never stop hugging first.  And who make a mean pot of spaghetti.

11) ABANDONED MOMS: I ran away from home once, when I was seven. My Mom had angered me mad beyond reason, so I made sure she watched as I packed my red plaid lunchbox full of food and headed out the door. I walked to a shade tree at the end of the block, sat down, and ate the entire content of my lunchbox in one sitting.  Suddenly foodless, my future looked grim.  I quickly decided that Mom had been punished enough and it was time to return home. Silly story, I know. Because I have friends whose sons or daughters  made life choices that took them too far away from home. I pray an extra measure of God's peace upon these Mamas. There but for the grace of God, go I.

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I could go on and on, couldn't I? There are too many kinds of Mamas to mention.  
Guess which Mom did not make the list?

THE PERFECT MOM

No mention of that chick, because she simply does not exist.  Every type of Mom, at one time or another, has managed to screw up the most important job we'll ever have. Thank you for the grace, Baby Jesus.

Wherever you may be along the continuum of Motherhood... may we all learn to celebrate our journey, support each other, believe in each other, lift / hold / prop one another up, never judge, always love. May we be full of compassion, stop trying to one-up each other, and strive to be somebody's shero.

Because it does take a village, y'all. Whether you are a Mom-to-be, New Mom, Surrogate Mom, Mr. Mom, Grieving Mom, Aging Mom --- whoever you are, wherever you are --- you are the village.

We Are The Village.

We weep with those who weep, we rejoice with those who rejoice.

On this Mother's Day, I hope you find a reason to rejoice...

It's Still Last Night...

When we were barely teenagers, my friend Karne and I would write each other sweetly poignant notes that always began with: “It's still last night..."

We would pour out our girlish hearts on 3-holed ruled paper, celebrating requited puppy love with our pimply-faced boyfriends and/or agonizing over unrequited crushes unaware.  They were  lengthy epistles full of the inherent angst common to teenage girls everywhere.

The connection between us was destined and deep.

We lived the privileged lives of nurturing homes, the rarefied sanctity of supportive and intact families.

Though our hearts were joined, our paths were varied. She was a reporter for The Bulldog Growl and a budding Thespian. I was a big-mouthed cheerleader who sang quietly off-key in the choir.

We graduated and went our separate ways. I plighted my troth with the Dickman and she headed off to college with a backpack full of dreams. Although communication dribbled to sporadic at best, our conversations always began exactly where they had ended.  Never missing a beat.  A quirky gift of language common to friends of the heart.

Karne came back home to get married, and I was her bridesmaid, as she had been mine. 

She celebrated the birth of my two sons,  while having trouble conceiving, herself.  God finally blessed her with a son who grew beneath her heart and one who grew inside of it.

Her precious mother died too young. My father too, then hers. We carried each other through the losses. She has commiserated with the dramas of my life and I have helped her laugh through hers.

This weekend, the Dickman and I were honored to join her in celebrating the wedding of her oldest son. It was a stunning event, set in the beautiful north Texas countryside.

We wore our matching boots...

She wore The Horsehead...

And I cheered as she danced with her newly wedded son.

When I returned to the hotel, my heart was too full for sleep. So, I did what came naturally. I sat down and wrote my Karne a letter...

Dear Karne,

It's still last night...

I can't begin to tell you how happy I am for you, for where you are in your life Right Now. You've never seemed happier, never smiled brighter, never been more beautiful than you were tonight.

I know your Mom and Dad were at the wedding. I felt their presence all around us and I know you did, as well.  An unspoken understanding, none the less expressed.

You and I, we've done a lot of living since the halcyon days of our youth. If those two silly girls knew what lay ahead... well, their skinny knees would've been knockin'.

If we knew then what we know now, we would have never left the safety of our Mama's kitchen tables nor abandoned the healing powers of Green Chicken Noodle Soup.

Remember when we thought we had all the answers? Thank God we were too naïve to realize just how difficult the questions would become; too innocent to imagine that growing up could be so painful and unpredictable, so beautiful and shattering. No one could have convinced us of all the ways life would try to break us, then somehow assured us the love around us and between us would unfailingly put us back together, again. And again.  Every.Single.Time.

I can't imagine my world without you in it.

The Gift of It All hit me last night as I looked through the lens, ready to capture you and your Timmy in all your post-wedding dancing bliss. With my finger poised to snap the shutter of my little pink camera, you turned and smiled right at me...

And my eyes filled with tears at the glorious happiness on your beautiful face, the love sparkling from your eyes.

Friend of my soul, dancing with the love of her life. Celebrating the hope of the future, while surrounded by sweet spirits of the past. 

Keep those red boots dancin', my friend.  

Love You Infinitely,

Wob