I was going to love without reserve.  I was going to embrace every moment.  I was going to have no regrets.  But the regrets I wasn’t going to have, the moments I didn’t embrace, the love I held back—these pummel my heart and keep me awake at night. 

I remember how night after night, after I had rocked him to sleep, he would awaken and cry when I lay him in his bassinet, and we would be up till 11:00 and later, and I would get so impatient and frustrated.  I remember how annoyed I would get when his cries would awaken his brother.  I remember how so often when I would bathe him, he would throw up the entire contents of his bottle over himself and his fresh outfit, and I would fume that I could never keep him smelling like a sweet baby. 

In the weeks before he died, I began to suspect that we were dealing with acid reflux.  Looking back at how he could not settle and sleep after I’d feed him, at how he would arch his little back as if in pain, at how he slept best resting on my shoulder or when he was propped up on a pillow, at how he would often bring up clear, sharp-smelling fluid when he lay on his back or his stomach—these clues and more make me quite certain he had reflux issues.  No wonder he cried.  Why couldn’t I have been more understanding and patient?

This guilt is a normal part of grieving, they say.  I know it’s true.  Still, that knowledge doesn’t do a thing to ease the sharpness of the shame.  Remembering how I apologized to him doesn’t really either.  What I really want is a “do-over.”  Or at least a chance to hold him once more and look in his bright, logical eyes and again confess my wrong and express my repentance and cuddle him close. 

Without that chance, I lie awake into the night, remembering his soft hair against my cheek, his little head bobbing up from my shoulder when I desperately wanted sleep for him and me, his breath warm on my neck.  And I cry.  And I ask God to tell him how much I love him and how sorry I am.  And I tell God how sad I am that I have regrets.  And I recognize more profoundly than ever how much I need Him, how desperately I need His mercy, how much I need to grow in grace.  I understand more fully that I cannot love well or much unless He pours His mercy and grace into and through me.  I confess all this to my God.  And He comes close.

Owning up to my shortcomings, confessing them honestly, receiving His love and forgiveness—this is transformative.  And so I choose to lean into this regret, this guilt, this shame.  I lean into it to let it do its good work, to let it teach me to fall into mercy and into the embrace of my Father who loves me without reserve, who will enable me as I rest in His embrace to live with no regrets. 

It's funny how, when you really need to stay on task and really focus on getting it done, that's when everything breaks loose around you!  Today was like that. 

We are leaving in the morning for Penn Valley Retreat Center in Pennsylvania for a seminar we've been planning.  Today I needed to:     

• pack 
• put the finishing touches on handouts for my workshop and get to the print shop to get copies made 
• pick up pampers at Walmart and make a few phone calls to make final arrangements for D13 while we're gone.
• (Plus I hoped to give the house a quick once over at least!)

But! 

First Mr. Whetstone stopped by to tell us about the coon he saw entering our attic through the eaves *grrrrr*, and of course there were many other things to talk about. 

Then my sister called, and no way am I not going to take that call! 

Then I realized hubby forgot to take the casserole with him that needed to get to church for the youth rally this weekend (because his wife forgot to leave him a note on the bathroom mirror to remind him!).

Then Marcus stopped by to "borrow" more money.

So.

Finally, shortly after lunch, I was ready to head to the copy shop.  But first, I ran the casserole all the way down to Bremen.  And drove D13 to her counseling appointment.  And came home and gave Connor a nap and quickly tried to pack what I could. 

Then--

The phone rang with a request to drive D13 to her visit with her dad instead of the normal get-picked-up routine.

And Whitney arrived just as we were ready to leave, and wanted to come, too.

So we all headed there, then I ran to the copy shop and to get pampers and a few other things...

And FORGOT TO GET THE PAMPERS!!!!  (oh well, we'll stop at Walmart on our way out of town tomorrow.)

Back at home, D13 had had a rough time at her visit, so we spent a half hour plus talking that through.  Then everyone (Whitney included) scrounged from our smorgasbord (leftovers!) for supper.  Just before a whole posse of teens showed up to hang out on our porch.  And then there was an altercation in the street that got our kids riled.  *sigh*  Dishes got done around 8:00.  Kids are all gone, son is bathed, hubby is putting final touches on his presentation, and I should shower and do final packing. 

Funny how, when I roll with the punches and don't sweat it, that everything still gets done somehow (except for the cleaning the house part!) but without the stress and tension tainting the day. 

Thank you, God, for grace for this day!

Thank you, every one of you, for your prayers and your thoughtful words of comfort and care these past two weeks.  I didn't have the energy to reply to each of you personally, but I want you to know that you have been part of God's comfort to me.  Bless you.

Some of you have asked who Buddy is and what happened.  Looking back over my posts, I realize how fragmented and confusing they were.  Here's what happened:

Li'l Buddy came to our home on September 29 at 3 days old, straight from the hospital.  He captured our hearts immediately, and became our son completely, even though we knew he would in all likelihood return to his family of origin within his first year.  I worked hard to develop a relationship with his birth mom, and we longed for her to know Jesus so Buddy could have a greater chance of knowing Him, too, if/when he returned to her care. 

Buddy was a delightful baby, and quite contented.  People would ask how it's going with two babies in the house, but I was having a ball!  Even with two babies, plus all the additional appointments and running that having kids in care creates, I felt more able to keep up with housework than I had with Connor, who had been so colicky.  That is not to say that there were no moments when I felt frazzled or frustrated.  But we were in love with both of our little guys and were having fun watching them enjoy each other, too. 

Because we spent the Christmas holidays in Belize, we had planned to have our celebration with my family in Maryland two weekends ago.  I had gotten permission from Buddy's caseworker to take him with us, and it was the first time most of my family had met him.  (We got permission for D13 as well.  We are so thankful she was there with us, for she and Buddy shared a special bond.)

On Sunday afternoon, Jason put Buddy down for his nap on a blanket on the floor upstairs in my parents' room at around 1:45.  Typically Buddy would take a 3-hour or more nap in the afternoon, and I rarely check on my napping babies, unless I want to just go look on their beauty as they sleep!  (I'm just not the worried type, and it never felt worth it to spend large amounts of time wearing myself out worrying about SIDS and running up and down the stairs to check on my babies constantly.)  At 3:30, Jason took Connor upstairs to lie down with him for a nap.  As soon as he saw Buddy, he knew something was wrong.  He immediately started CPR on him, and my sister-in-law Larissa (who had also gone up to settle her children) ran downstairs yelling, "The baby's not breathing!  The baby's not breathing!  Call 911!"  I was there in the living room, but it was as if an invisible fog had settled on my brain.  The horrible truth didn't even begin to get through until she looked at me and said, "It's your baby!"  Even then, my head couldn't seem to process the information, until I saw SIL Gloria dash up the stairs with Larissa on her heels.  Suddenly, terror gripped my heart, and I fled up the stairs after them.  I caught a glimpse of my baby's blue face as Gloria and Larissa took over CPR, then grabbed up Connor, who sat in the middle of the confusion.  I blindly stumbled down the stairs with him, crying out to our Father to please let our baby live.  Downstairs, the neices and nephews were frightened and crying, and I herded them together and begged them to pray.  "God hears the prayers of children," I remember telling them.  "You have to pray!  Pray that Li'l Buddy will breathe."  And pray they did.  In the meantime, my firefighter brother Ethan had taken over doing CPR, and Jason collapsed in the corner crying out to God.

Suddenly, (it only took them 6 minutes) the EMTs were there, and I led them upstairs to my baby.  In minutes, they had him loaded into the ambulance, and put me in the front and headed to the hospital.  That was the longest ride of my life.  The driver went so slowly, it seemed, and I spent the entire trip begging God out loud to preserve our baby's life, for his mother's sake as well as ours. 

At the hospital, they ushered me and Jason (my brother Jason had followed the ambulance with my Jason, D13, and Larissa) in before they took Buddy in.  I remember thinking, Why aren't they rushing him in?  And the fleeting thought that perhaps he's gone already, and that's why...  A lady took us to a family conference room, but minutes later came to take us to Buddy.  They had his little body laying on a full-size gurney... he looked so small.  There were people all around him.  All I could see was his little leg.  The doctor came to us immediately, a most tender, compassionate look in his eyes.  He assured us that they were doing all they could, but that they were getting no response.  He explained that once this process starts in a baby, it is nearly impossible to reverse.  He told us they were going to do a few more things, but if Buddy's core temp was dropping, there was nothing more they could do.  He invited us to stay, or if it was too difficult for us, we could leave.  Oh, I didn't want to see my baby looking so lifeless, but I couldn't leave him, either...  Jason went to his little foot and took it.  I asked to go up by his head.  In those few moments, they did what they had to do, and they were done.  The monitor's beeping slowed to silence, and it's glowing lines flattened.  In the silence, we wept and talked to our baby.  I glanced up at one moment, and all around the room, standing almost reverently with tears in their eyes, were the dozen or so medical personnel who had been trying to save our son's life. 

They let us stay as long as we wanted there, to hold our baby and say good-bye.  My parents and brothers and sister and their spouses were there with us, as well as Connor  and D13 and my oldest neice and nephew.  A grief counselor came and helped us make little footprints and handprints.  We spent about 45 minutes answering a forensic investigator's 20 pages of questions.  The EMTs and the medic who had worked so valiently to save our son came and wept as we hugged and thanked them.  The doctor, the nurses, the hospital social worker, the forensic investigator-- everyone was so caring and helpful.  And we held our little son, and kissed him and talked to him and said our good-gyes.  We were with him for over 4 hours, and we are especially grateful for that time since we could not have the final good-bye of the funeral.

When a child in care dies, the case is immediately closed.  Therefore the parents made all the funeral arrangements and the state had no more say.  The parents had every right to say who could be at the funeral, and the father chose for us not to be there.  While this was hugely disappointing to us, we understand his pain and respected his request.  Instead, we held our own memorial service on Thursday evening of last week.  It was a beautiful evening, and brought a sense of closure for us.  So many people who love us came that evening and brought their comfort.

It is also so comforting to me to know that this tragedy did not surprise God.  That it happened in Maryland complicates the case somewhat, but I am so grateful it happened there, and that my family got to enjoy Buddy before he was gone.  Having my firefighter brother there to do CPR leaves us with no questions about whether it was done right, like we would have if we had been here in Indiana by ourselves.  God knew.  And he orchestrated that we would have such a caring doctor, and even a Christian forensic investigator, who prayed with us after she came out to the house to photograph the scene.  Because we were with my sister Lydia, whose husband is currently on staff at SMBI, the whole school was praying for us.  My brothers got their churches to pray as well, and of course our church was, too.  In the middle of the trauma, we felt so... carried. 

Though we miss Buddy beyond words, God has given us the gift of faith to keep trusting His goodness.  Your prayers and care minister His goodness to us as well.  We are experiencing His sufficient grace, and it sustains us. 

The day before Buddy left us, as we exchanged gifts

Thank you all for your love and prayers.  We have been so cared for and comforted from the moment this horror began.  EMTs and ER staff, the forensic investigators, the caseworkers have ministered to us.  Our family has been with us, our friends have called and come over and brought food and sent flowers and left messages.  Your care is His care, and it carries us. 

The family does not want us or any of the caseworkers to attend the viewing or the funeral.  This is so hard for us.  Buddy was our baby, too, and we long for the opportunity to say a final good-bye.  We are extra grateful now for the extended time the hospital allowed us to have with Buddy after he went Home. 

We are planning our own memorial service for Buddy for Thursday evening at our church at 7:00.  We welcome you our friends to join us.  Just wanted you to know...

Last week as I was sorting some old pictures to stuff into albums, I came across a list.  It was a list of fourteen names.  Five were highlighted.

I made the list a few years ago at my grandparents' house.  It took them a little time to think of all the names.  But as the stories were spilled, the names flowed out with them.  Fourteen names.  Fourteen children that my grandparents took into their home, in addition to the four they had given birth to.  Never mind that they had a farm to run and a family of their own to raise.  Never mind that they were extremely busy helping to run an outreach church, doing visitations and other ministry in their community.  Taking in these children was a natural expression of their love for God and their care for others.

Some of the fourteen were with them for only a few weeks.  Some were there for months.  Some came and went and came again.  Five of the fourteen stayed with them to adulthood.  Five still call my grandparents "Pop" and "Mom", and four still come to major family functions.  A few are faithfully following the God they encountered through my grandparents.

As we were making the list, I asked my grandmother what made them decide to take these children in.  She seemed to think it was a rather irrelevant question.  She said something like, "They needed somewhere to go, and we were there."  It appeared rather obvious to her that if a need is before you, God must have put it there for you to fill, and He would certainly give you what you needed to handle it.  Though she did not use these words, she gave me the distinct impression that, of all people, we who claim to know Jesus have been given what the hurting need and should be the first to offer His love in tangible ways.

It was good to have that conversation with my grandparents.  My earliest memories of my grandparents involve them helping others, including young people.  And I have always been aware, of course, that they raised more children than their own, which planted the desire in my heart to follow in their footsteps.  But hearing these saints discuss giving up privacy and sharing their home and resources and love with other children as if it was the most normal thing in the world stirred me deeply.  Even now, recalling their words and attitude moves my heart to greater willingness to sacrifice what I must to care for the children God has placed in our home. 

The list of fourteen names is tangible evidence to me of my grandparents' love for their God.  What a legacy I have been given!  In love for God and for others, I want to be just like them.

  Pap-pap, the patriarch of our family.  This man has prayed for me every day of my life.  I'm sure I will never know till heaven what all that saved me from.

  Grandmother-- a spunky, gracious woman of God!  I want to be like her.

  It is so precious to me that my son has experienced the blessing of my grandparents.  I thank God for that gift.

 Blithely,
 ignorantly, the whole nation 
 waltzes
 off
 to the clinic to
 protect
 their children from
 disease.

 Blithely,
 ignorantly (perhaps), the parents of the Dear One
 whose life was worth
 nothing
 (to them)
 allowed a doctor to
 protect
 them
 from inconvenience.

 Blithely,
 definitely not ignorantly (oh, the wretchedness), medical researchers
 use
 the Dear One's
 broken body
 to develop protection for
 those millions
 who were given the chance the Dear One
 wasn't.

 Blithely,
 ignorantly (perhaps), medical professionals
 pressure
 equally ignorant parents
 to vaccinate, to protect
 their children from
 disease.

 HOW CAN THIS BE????

 I,
 whose broken body aches to give birth,
 could scream at the
 injustice.

 Father, forgive us, for we know not what we do.

 http://www.immunizationinfo.org/vaccine_components_detail.cfv?id=32

 http://www.catholiceducation.org/articles/medical_ethics/me0044.html

http://www.cogforlife.org

Dinner is always interesting here.  I never know who I will feed besides my family!  Monday night it was Jaechelle.  Last night another friend of foster daughter D13 was here, but claimed he wasn't hungry.  Tonight it was 13-year-old Devontae.  He is a handsome young man—dark satin skin; even, firm features; hair that hasn’t been cut since he was 6 years old pulled back into a bush of a pony-tail; pleasant demeanor.

As is typical, the conversation eventually came around to the subject of fighting.  It is of great interest to these kids who has fought or is planning to fight whom, who started it, who said what, who claimed to win the fight, who actually won.  I get so weary of it.  It’s all so pointless to my way of thinking.  My way of thinking says to just walk away from the big mouths that get up in your face.  Everyone knows that’s a lot harder.  Plus you don’t get in trouble, nor do you have to watch your back everywhere you go. 

But to Devontae and kids like him, I just don’t get it.  “You don’t know how it is,” I’ve been told.  And they’re right.  I don’t.  Over the years I have learned to ask lots of questions and listen to their stories before I even begin to think of offering my take on things. 

So tonight when Devontae talked of getting into a fight, I asked him why he didn’t just walk away.  “I was just defending myself,” he said. 

Me:  Oh really?  But you just told us you threw the first punch. 

D:  Yeah, but he was taking off his shirt to fight me, so I had to defend myself.  (This was after the kid told Devontae to meet him in the bathroom and took a friend with him, and Devontae grabbed his friend to go along to back him up, because he knew the kid wanted to fight him.) 

Me:  So why did you even go in there?  Why didn’t you just let him talk his stuff and walk away?

D:  You don’t get it.  If I didn’t fight him, I’d be like that Josiah boy (who dresses, walks, and acts like a girl) and I wouldn’t have no friends.  And then I’d get picked on all the time.

Me:  So if you don’t fight him, people think you’re scared and weak, and they don’t respect you, so they don’t like you or want to be your friend.

D:  Yeah.

Ok, you and I know that it isn’t a sign of weakness to walk away.  Even Devontae can understand that it takes a lot of strength to not fight when you’re mad, more strength to do that than to fight.  But when it costs you respect and friendships, well, at thirteen that is unthinkable.  And if you don’t fight, you become a target for other angry kids to unleash their anger on, so you still have to watch your back.  Only now you’re doing it alone, without a posse to back you up.

My question is, how do we meaningfully bring this young man to truth, when his reality contradicts it?  If we were to simply spout off the truth that Jesus says to turn the other cheek, and that He commands us to love our enemies, it would confirm to Devontae that we don’t get it, that we are out of touch, and he would tune us out entirely.  How do we draw him in?  How do we expose the lies so that he can really see them, and present truth that he can connect with?  Bottom line:  How would Jesus interact with Devontae’s reality? 

This is where we need not just wisdom, but also great understanding.  And I ask these questions here because I want to hear from you all, to learn from your thoughts and ideas. 

___________________________________________________________________________

While we're on this subject, our beautiful foster daughter is really beginning to get it that fighting doesn't get you what you think it will.  Our conversations have been getting through.  She's been telling me that she's "done with that childish fighting stuff.  That's so 2008." 

Today she came home from school emotionally frazzled but elated.  Two of her classmates had gotten up in her friend Marc’s face and were disrespecting him.  Marc nearly fought the two, but D13 convinced him to leave the room.  Then she yelled at the one classmate, who then threatened to choke her.  Even though she was so angry she wanted to hit him, she left the room, too.  She went to Marc, who was venting his anger by throwing chairs around (healthier than throwing punches, wouldn’t ya say?!) and tried to calm him down.  When things were settled back down in her classroom, she apologized to the teacher for yelling and having an attitude! 

Now, folks, this story not sound like anything to celebrate, but this is PROGRESS!!!!!  D13 convinced Marc to walk away, she didn’t hit anyone either, plus she took responsibility for her attitude and actions publicly!  She told me, “I feel so light.  I’m still upset that he threatened to choke me, but I feel so good that I did what I did.”  She didn't feel that heaviness that always comes after the adrenaline and exhileration of fighting.  I am soooo proud of her! 

I sometimes have wondered if she has avoided fighting because she knows she’ll have to leave us and end up in juvie the instant she pulls a punch.  But after today, I realize that she really is getting it that fighting is no solution to anything, and she is learning to think in the middle of her anger, which is something entirely new for her.  Plus, she is helping her friends choose to not fight.  When Marc called this afternoon all upset that their classmate had threatened D13 and saying he was gonna fight him, D13 told him, “Don't do that childish stuff.  Fighting him would be like one five-year-old hitting another.  You say you want to be a good leader.  But no one is going to think you’re a good leader if you fight him.”  Ooo, boy!  I just want to shout Hallelujah!

Still, she understands the code these kids live by, and at dinner, she totally concurred with Devontae's conclusion that avoiding fighting is not an option for him.  I could sense the confusion in her, though, because she also agreed with me that fighting doesn't really get you what you want or think it will.  So again, how to bring light and truth to my girl...

... the chocolate kind!  Hurrah!!!  And now my kitchen is finally cleaned up, and I am exceeding tired but stark awake.  So here I sit.  Those turtles are another of God's good gifts to me, a message of comfort and encouragement, via a dear friend!  I've gotten quite a few of those in the past few days.  Let me tell you about them.

Last week was a abysmally dismal week.  We faced much discouragement, wondering why in the world we ever moved here. 

On Friday out of the blue my sweet, caring sister-in-law called me.  Which might not be so unusual to those of you who telephone your sisters-in-law on a regular basis.  But we seldom phone each other.  So this was a total God-moment-- He knew how a chat with her would help me lay my burdens at His feet.

On Saturday afternoon, as we were puttering around washing dishes and doing little maintenance jobs, there came a fierce pounding upon the front door.  Instantly my hackles rose at the possibility of Connor being wakened from his much-needed nap.  Jason opened the door to a Booming Voice asking, "Could we bless you with a ham and a New Testament in the name of Jesus?"  "Well, yes," Jason whispered in reply, his thoughts also upon the son slumbering upstairs.  And then the Booming Voice and his wife asked if there's anything they could pray for us about, and we invited them to step in, and thereupon commenced to have a wonderful 10 or 15 minutes of sweet fellowship in Jesus!  Booming Voice and Wife prayed for us, and blessed us for living in this ill-reputed neighborhood, and left us with beaming smiles and ringing ears, and Connor slept through the whole thing, bless God, and we shed much of the dismal-ity and flitted about the rest of the day feeling much encouraged and purposeful.  Two strangers had no idea how much we were in need of their cheer, but God did!

On Sunday, dear friends invited us to spend the day at their peaceful house in the country, and fed us a bountiful feast, and listened to our hearts, and took care of my baby so I could take a nap.  A blissful respite indeed from the demands of our lives.  A gift from God.

Last evening after Christmas carolling, an older brother whom we love came to me just to ask how we're doing and what's happening in the city, and to tell me he prays for us regularly and that he blesses us in what we are about.  Dear fellow, I think I unnerved him a bit when I got all choked up!  God knew how those words would be balm to my soul.

Today my caring friend came and stayed with Connor while I took Li'l Buddy to the doctor.  Now that might not sound like a very big deal, but let me tell you, it is!!  With two foster children who are not siblings, it feels like all I do is make phone calls and meet appointments with doctors and caseworkers and therapists and CASA workers and school and twice-weekly visits for each one, and the house goes to pot.  Yesterday was three appointments, today was one, and tomorrow is another three, plus take a friend to her doctor appointment.  All of which is very hard on a certain little boy whose naps are constantly interrupted as he gets dragged along to everything.  So to have my friend offer to come stay with him so he could nap till he was done and not have to get dragged around again was wonderful indeed!  Not only did she stay with Connor; she also stayed the rest of the afternoon and took care of Buddy so I could do a few things uninterrupted, then made turtles for/with me!  Do I ever feel cared for!  PLUS I've got a bunch of turtles in my freezer!  Thank you, Esther and Jesus!

I am so grateful for God's good gifts.  It's easy to focus on the negative and let the enemy steal my joy.  In our Sunday school class last Sunday, the question was raised of how God blessed Mary the mother of Jesus for her faithfulness, and it struck me that much of what she experienced could not have felt like blessing to her at the time.  We look at her and say, "Wow!  To bear and raise and live with the Son of God-- what a blessing!"  But think about it:  Her pregnancy made her almost lose her fiance, and she almost certainly  faced critical judgment and lost friends.  She watched her son being rejected and killed by her countrymen.  Do you think any of that felt like a blessing?  So that got me thinking.  (Dangerous, I know!)  When things get bad for me in some way, the last thing I feel like is blessed.  But what if there is a blessing in the middle of yuck somewhere?  What if what feels like a curse holds blessing?  Can I look for that blessing, instead of focusing on the negative?  If I can, I think I won't let go of joy so quickly, hmm? 

So tonight as I am winding down, I am grateful for God's goodness to me, and I am determined to look for the blessing of God in the middle of the yuckiness of life and to hold on to joy!

A few evenings ago, I made us a delicious mess of greens that an African American friend on the next street shared with us.  I have eaten greens before, but never made them, but the way Ms. Lois and Whitney told me to fix them was easy and sooooo yummy.  That's one of the things I like about living in the city in this culturally diverse neighborhood.  Often my Mexican neighbor Erica will send her son down with a plate of her wonderful cooking.  We get invited to the big birthday bashes all of our Mexican neighbors throw for their kids, and believe you me, they really know how to cook.  But they don't bake, so I try to share baked stuff with them when I can. 

You know, it's easy for me to focus on what I do NOT like about city living and on what I miss about living in the country.  Such as how the above mentioned Hispanic neighbors faithfully and generously share the thump of their music with us.  All.  Weekend.  Long.  Yes... it wearies me.  Such as how I can't step outside and sit on my porch or go into my yard without someone joining me.  Such as how I get tired of coming home late at night and not being able to park in front of our house.  Such as how there is absolutely no view here.

But---  There are many good things about living here, and it's so important to remind myself daily of these good things to keep a joyful attitude.  So permit me to list some of them, because after a harried morning, I need the corrected perspective!

• I like enjoying different cultures that are represented in our neighborhood.
• I like that Kroger's awesome deals are only minutes away, as are Walgreens' and CVS's!
• I like being able to walk downtown to the Jazz Festival and Rhapsody in Green, or to watch the parade with my boys;  I like being able to ride our bikes to the park every Tuesday evening in the summer to listen to the municipal band play.
• I like that my son is accustomed to the many beautiful shades of skin that our friends have, that he isn't scared of people who look different than we do.
• I like that we can go for bike rides and always enjoy different scenery.
• I like that we have several parks close by, especially Island Park, where we can dip our feet in the river.
• I like that I don't have far to go for Baby N's visits.
• I like being close for our club kids to stop in and chat.

Ok, I'm feeling better.  Now I need to clean up this morning's wreckage, and I'll feel even better!   Happy day to you!