Lily of the Valley

She is a small flower,
about the size of my pinkie.
She seems delicate and fragile
upon first glance,
but she's much heartier than one might think.
She has a gentle presence,
with intricate scalloped edges
on her face turned to the ground.
Unassuming,
she has a strong, refreshing fragrance
that fills a room.

I believe I have found a new favorite flower.

A Word to Single Moms

All single moms are not the same, and yet somehow they are. 

There are women whose husbands have died.
There are women whose husbands have left.
There are women who don't know the father.
There are women who asked him to leave.
There are women who are safer on their own with their children.
There are women who never married, who chose from the start to do it alone.
There are women who are married, he is present, and yet she parents all alone.

There are stigmas with each category.  Some women are favored as heroines, courageous and valiant; others are stigmatized with a scarlet letter.  Some receive an outpouring of grace and resources; others are left to fend for themselves and do their best.

But here's the deal: single moms are moms.  And that's hard, selfless, valiant, courageous, constant work. 

I have been deeply supported from the moment I took on the unwanted title.  Truthfully, this deluge of presence continues to carry me through; it has (you have) been my saving grace, my safety net, and my beacon on many nights.

I ache and wonder for women who wear a different mantle, those who travel a path that does not warrant help, support, empathy, or grace.  How much harder their road must be.

Single moms are single moms.  Different and yet the same.

A Ball Gown and a Cemetery in Autumn

O Aspen leaves, how I love you. 

Your splashy yellows and sparkling golds are the ball gown of a Colorado autumn.

(You have grown on me, as I can't say you compare to the glorious colors in the east during these weeks of the year.  But I liken this comparison to apples and oranges, and I shall agree to love you differently.  Because you really are quite beautiful.)

The last two Saturdays, we have driven into the mountains to see the fall canvas of colors.  I'm telling you, this is an autumn favorite of mine.

(Plus, I never, ever tire of a road trip that involves a recipe of: 1) a great playlist, 2) someone else as the primary driver, 3) stellar company, 4) a good book and a sweet mocha in my hands, 5) sweet and salty snacks, 6) a DVD player and headphones for my children.  I realize that's a tall order.  But strike the right concoction, and I'm in for the long haul.

And I have the bladder of a teacher (trained to go only twice a day), and this makes me a delightful companion.  I hardly ever need to stop.  :)

The second Saturday, we took a wrong turn that landed us in the most glorious accidental destination: a 150-year-old cemetery.

I love cemeteries.  It's a different facet of people-watching.  Each tombstone offers a story: dates, names, seasons, titles, epitaphs.  And the clusters of them together paint pictures of families.  I could explore forever, connecting their dots, imagining who they were.

I read about a woman listed only as 'mother,' and she was 18 when she died.

I read about a 'world's woodmen,' his tombstone depicted in a marble tree trunk.  He was 26.

I found stones with only initials.  I wondered why there was so little to record.

I sat among the stones of a family who lost three children in the winters of 1868, 1873, and 1875.

Underneath one man's name, I read the word 'killed.'  His family chose for there to be no mistake, ever.

I read about a baby who lived for six days, and they didn't offer his name.  But I bet he had one.  Somebody called him by something, someday.

I have never left a cemetery because I was ready.  I left because it was time to go.

The space is sacred to those who know these people.  I tread carefully.  Perhaps this is morbid to some, this comfort I have.  I have been fascinated my entire life, and now I am keenly aware that this journey isn't forever.

Someone - anyone - loved each of these people.  And that's a story I want to hear.

Philosophy v. Aesthetics

I have always said Cinderella is my favorite princess.  And I think she forever will be because I'll never in my life get over that ball gown of hers.

But I think I like Belle better. 

She is smart, she isn't distracted by the wooing antics of Gaston, and she loves books.  She has her head on straight. 

Perhaps Cinderella is aesthetically my favorite, but Belle is philosophically my favorite.

I think I'll start asking little girls to clarify. 

"Ah, yes, princess-shmincess.  Tell me your comparisons, aesthetically and philosophically." 

If we're going to do the whole princess route, I think I have a valid argument.

Little Ballerina

She danced all around me, this little ballerina.

I attended a conference for the students of John Brown University, and the children of many of the staff and faculty came along to enjoy the perks and amenities of a large camp with horses, canoes, kayaks, and ropes courses.

And the children worshiped with the community of college students on retreat.

And she danced all around me, this little ballerina.

As we sang the truths of the psalms, the cries of our heart, the laments of heartache and the joys of grace,

she danced.

I said to her mother, "She is a lovely ballerina."

"She does that all the time.  She can't read yet, but she wants to sing along.  So, she dances."

She wants to engage, but she doesn't know how in the language everyone speaks around her.  So she dances.

I think that's what I'm doing too, little ballerina.  As I string words together to find the voice of my heart, I join you in your chorus of praise.

Dance away, little one. You inspire me.

The Other Side of Catatonic

A couple of weeks ago, I was in the ER.  Anxiety had put me in a catatonic state, and when I realized I had been sitting motionless in my car outside Starbucks for 45 minutes, I thought perhaps I was in over my head.

Panic and anxiety win sometimes. They're tough competitors.

I don't really remember very much of the day, which my therapist says is terribly unfortunate, since she was having a really good hair day.  (I adore her.)

I do remember some things, like the isolating feeling of hearing conversations happening around me, and my inability to engage.  People asked me questions. I couldn't answer.  They talked about me, around me, over me. 

I could only communicate with my eyes. 

My mom understood that language.  She said to me, as I lay gowned on the gurney behind the curtain, "I know you're thankful, Sweet Pea.  I can do this as long as you don't look at me that way.  Tricia, please.  I know.  You don't need to tell me." 

I looked away because I was making her cry.

My parents communicated well on my behalf, as this is their story too.  And most of the nurses, administrators, and physicians assistants talked exclusively to them.

Except for one doctor.  The Chief Resident.  He talked straight to me.

He pulled a stool next to the bed, he took my hand in his, and he looked at me.

"Hey," he said so gently, "I hear you're having a bad day, Tricia.  I hear you had an episode outside Starbucks.  I hear you have a broken heart.  We're taking care of you.  We're going to help you."

He didn't feel my pulse, listen to my heart, or check my vitals.  He just talked to me.  And I could only look at him.

If ever I have reason to visit someone who is in a coma, I will talk directly to that person.  I will hold her hand.  Because it's really, truly possible that she will be able to hear me. 

Pink

I've shared Starbucks space with a woman for many months now.

We've never spoken.
We just share the space;
she is at her table, I am at mine.

She has worn the badges of pregnancy and baldness, of fighting cancer and carrying new life, all at the same time.

When she comes alone, she wears a baseball cap or a lovely scarf.

When she meets a friend, she wears an impressively natural, brunette wig that brushes against her shoulders.

Each time, she has brought the baby along inside her.

This morning, she wore a pink baseball cap over her bare head. And she carried a carseat with pink trim.

Her baby has been born. They match: both in pink.

She is a walking contradiction, an inspiring picture of new life in the face of threat, of fierce strength with lovely accessories.

She is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

Real Conversation

I like real language.

Not small talk. I can't really do an evening of talking about the weather, traffic, hair styles - or worst - sports or politics.

(This is perhaps because I am apolitical. It's just not in my genetic makeup. I often handed Robb my ballot; it mattered to him. So unless I had a strong opinion, I gave him my vote.)

I like real conversation.

It doesn't have to be audible; today's technology allows for real deal conversation without saying a word out loud. Text messaging does not have to be impersonal; it can be as fluid as a coffee date.

I like when people truly speak to one another.

When they abandon platitudes,
set aside the safe, insulating cushions of small talk,
when people are brave enough to talk
about the things we don't talk about,
the real topics of life.

I like when people really think. Together.

I like words that bring meaning,
gird with affirmation,
unify,
reason and listen,
teach real love, real life.

And there's much merit to the conversation
that doesn't exist at all,
the beauty of silence.

There's a lot to hear between the words.

Responsible

'Responsible.'

Adjective.

Answerable or accountable, as for something within one's power or control.

Involving accountability.

Being the cause of something.

In some contexts, to be 'responsible' means precisely what the word implies: to be capable of giving a response.

At any given point, I may or may not be responsible for this season of my life.

The cause? No, I'm not the cause. And the cause is baffling. Nobody is responsible for this. And it is beyond me why God thought it was a good idea.

In control of? Ha. No.

Accountable for? Absolutely. And more than ever, I am thankful for grace - grace that forgives and heals.

Capable of giving a response?

Depends on the day.

Sometimes all of this madness leaves me wordless. Incapable of responding.

Other times, I must respond in order to sort any of it out, in order to put one foot in front of the other.

Perhaps this blog is my response.

Even if I am responsible to this season of my life, I sometimes find it inexplicably difficult to respond in this season of my life.

Or perhaps silence is a response in itself.

A response is a choice; each choice is a response, even if nobody can hear it.

Joy and happiness are different; their responses do not look the same.
I used to be happier. But perhaps now I know joy.

Joy is the voice that gives me a response. Even when I have nothing to say.

Even when happiness hides.

Pleasure, Loyalty, and Adventure

I read recently that the three primary pursuits of young people are pleasure, loyalty, and adventure.

I assert these are perhaps the deepest longings for adults as well.

We want to feel good, we want someone to stand beside us, and we want to avoid boredom. In themselves, they're not bad goals, not even lofty or unhealthy.

But if left unfulfilled, we may become even more desperate to attain them, and desperation is usually the root of unhealth.

And so, as the single mom of two boys, I add this to my mental checklist of things to consider.

Testosterone is such a foreign entity to me, and yet it is a far greater presence in our home than the estrogen counterpart. And I must somehow aim to channel these longings of theirs in ways that will gird them in strength, equip them to be faithful and true, and show them that what they want most is here: they don't have to go looking somewhere else, somewhere that could lead them entirely off course.

So, I begin with adventure. That seems the easiest of the three. I choose to plan fun for the three of us, to show them that this trio is a fun place to belong. We can have fun, they're welcome to invite others to join us as they grow older, but they don't need to look very far to find fun, laughter, and adventure. It lives in our home.

I can say yes until there's a reason to say no. Sure, kiddo, give it a shot. If you think you can do it, give it a go. And perhaps this leaning toward yes will encourage them to someday answer the still, small voice that prompts them to do something great with their lives, something bigger than them, something that started as an idea. The courage to say yes.

So, then I look at loyalty. They're hungry for someone to stand by them, no matter what. Young people who do not find this in their homes - in the inner city but also in affluent suburbs - find themselves instead looking for lasting affinity in other circles.

They could spend their lives spinning from one anchor to another, looking for anything to take root in the name of loyalty.

And so today, I can aim to show them what loyalty looks like. Model it. Show them, I am always here when you need me, but you do not always need me. There is a balance between loyalty and dependence, and it can be found - even if you must find it anew each day.

I have heard that a child who has lost a parent needs only one thing to grow into fulfilled adulthood: just one person to love them unconditionally, no matter what. This is loyalty. And by God's grace, my children have this in spades, and not just from their mother.

And then, that last one: pleasure. They're going to look for it, for what feels good, what matters most and offers the greatest high on any level.

And so maybe my task is to show them that pleasure isn't the greatest good. That other things matter more, like love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self control.

Pleasure didn't make the list.

And if that means he doesn't get a popsicle with every meal, well, then maybe that's the seed of the root of contentment.

If I wait until later to teach these things, I might miss my window. They might start looking before they even know what they're hungry for.

Okay, guys. Let's find it. Let's start right here.

In a Wheelchair

When we traveled to Disney World, I spent a few days in a wheelchair.

Let's face it: Disney is magical, fun, and all things great... and it is exhausting.

For a girl with limited stamina, this was a necessary concession, and it took me a long while to give in. There was just a lot to the decision for me; right or wrong, I needed to think it through.

What if someone else needs the wheelchair I rent that day? What if someone sees me park the wheelchair and get up when I can, when my strength is strong, when walking is more convenient? What might they think? In general, what might people think?

Is it misleading for me to sit when I could stand?

My questions were many; my inner arguments were extensive. In the end, I agreed to the wheels. Only because it seemed to be best for everyone else if I would choose to spend my days sitting instead of trying to keep up. Physical energy I saved promised instead emotional energy I could give.

I learned a lot. A lot.

First, I learned quite a bit about the practical experiences of those who spend their days on four wheels. I learned how pedestrians and foot traffic may or may not accommodate.

My brother was the strength behind my wheelchair most of the time; he said navigation is really about momentum. If he moved forward with confidence and stronger momentum than the oncoming traffic, they were bound to move out of his way.

Frankly, that's a pretty good leadership principle in general.

I spent a lot of time looking at the backsides of people in front of me. I didn't intend to, but all those bottoms were at eye level. I thought of creating a photo montage of the various shapes, lines, and figures.

(But I didn't. I mean, who would that benefit? There was just a lot of it happening right in front of me. A lot of the time.)

But I learned some deeper things, too. The wheelchair was something of an extension of myself, a crutch to carry on the outside.

Generations ago, a widow wore black for an entire year, alerting the world to be sensitive, reminding passersby that she was healing. While I'm thankful this tradition is gone, there is some merit to wearing a nametag that says, I need a slower pace, please.

If this trauma in my life is the emotional equivalent of a car accident, if the physical version would have landed me in the ICU for several weeks, then for the first time, my wound was visible.

People didn't know why I was in a wheelchair; they didn't know my need. They simply knew I had one; they simply knew that for some reason, I couldn't keep up on my own.

And they were right.

And in their sensitivity, I learned to rest. It was a plus-plus situation: others assumed I needed rest, and therefore I claimed what I needed. An interesting study of cause and effect, of which comes first, the request or the response.

Part of my reluctance in the decision had to do with my concern for my family; I was sure I would slow them down or become a burden to them. Someone would always have to push the wheelchair. Someone would always have to get me where I needed to go. Someone would always need to take responsibility for me.

That's humbling.

But I realized something entirely opposite: as I came to terms with my limits, as I chose to sit instead of stand, it made everyone else's day easier. My parents could enjoy the day, knowing I wasn't maxxed out. My children could enjoy longer hours at the park, since I didn't need to rush back to the hotel to rest. Adventures abounded and everyone enjoyed it more, all because I was willing to know what I couldn't do.

Recognizing my limits increased everyone's strength.

And on a final (and most important) note, I'll aim to make better eye contact with people who ride in wheelchairs. Far too many people make eye contact instead with the person behind the chair.

I was most humbled at the end of every day as I returned my wheelchair, well aware that I had the option at all: to borrow and to return.

Invincible

In our home, the loft overlooks the living room. There is a high ledge where the first story opens up to the second. Tuck climbed over the ledge, letting his feet dangle 16 feet from the floor.

The first time, I responded firmly and with great emotion, helping him to understand how terrifying that was for me, that if he fell from the ceiling he could break bones or even die, how our family is already too small and I do not wish for it to get any smaller.

Strong words, but all true.

I really thought the message hit home. I mean, why would he want to evoke that in me again? Really?

And then last night, my mom was reading a bedtime story to Tyler, when she glanced up to the ceiling. And she saw the bottom of Tucker's feet.

He had done it again. There he sat, carefully perched.

And then came the task of responding with urgency, not panic, getting my attention but not alarming Tucker, thereby causing him to lose his balance.

She said very evenly, "Tricia, Tucker is over the ledge. He is sitting on the top with his feet over the side."

One need not be prone to anxiety to respond to such a scene with shock and horror. Last night was not a pretty night in our home, neither in words nor tone, as he attempted this for the second time.

This morning at breakfast, we revisited the event. I had to make sure he understood.

"Tuck, do you know why you got into so much trouble last night?"

"Yes, because I was being dangerous when I climbed over the wall, except it wasn't dangerous for me because I didn't feel afraid."

"Afraid and danger are not the same thing, Tucker. You can be brave and still be in serious danger."

And suddenly I heard the very I words I was saying to him. I heard them for myself, not just for him.

'Afraid' and 'danger' are not synonymous.

I can think of many times in the last six months when I was afraid, terrified, shaking in terror, but there was really no danger at all.

I can also think of many times in my last three decades when I felt strong and confident, oblivious and unconcerned, although danger lurked closer than I could imagine.

They are not synonyms. They don't always feel the same.

Sometimes you just have to take somebody else's word for it.

Crepe Paper

I am changing.

My eyes look different. Older.

This is aging me. My spirit is becoming older.

My face isn't as young.

My eyes crinkle like crepe paper.

I'll be 32 next month. That seems too young to feel so old.

And I don't even care.

It was bound to happen sometime.

I'd rather give my youth to a broken heart than hand it over to sun damage.

Bring it on, wrinkles. You tell my story.

Age me well.

The Pirates and The Princesses

It really is the most magical place on earth.

The common misnomer is the 'happiest place on earth', but that's Disneyland. My children cried at least once a day on our visit to Disney World, for various reasons depending on the day. So maybe that doesn't happen in California.

But it was truly magical.

When my children come face to face with the manifestation of their imaginations, when they meet the characters that they've only known in their favorite movies, when they watch Tinkerbell and Dumbo fly, when they can fight their own battle against Emperor Zurg - I'm telling you. Talk about pixie dust.

A fellow tourist said to me, "Now, how old are your children?"

"They are four and five."

"Well, my children are 11 and 13. We intentionally waited to bring them until they were older."

It's nice to meet you; I intentionally brought them while they are small.

I'm sure there are some definite perks to doing Disney Parks with children whose legs don't tire. On the flipside, there is also something truly unbelievable about taking children who are young enough to absolutely believe in every ounce of it. They never even ask if it's real; it doesn't cross their minds that something might be manufactured for their benefit. It's real deal.

They believe in it all.

And maybe I didn't just take them 'for them.' In part, I took them 'for me.' We needed some magic in our lives.

And it helps that Uncle Rob can make it all happen - the Global Puppet Specialist with the Entertainent Show Quality team of Walt Disney World (say that ten times) - can make it all happen.

I just have one small, teeny tiny philosophical issue with the WDW. The Dub-Dee-Dubs. (I just made up that nickname. Kind of proud of it. Smilling to myself... digressing.)

It's the whole push for every girl to be a princess and every boy to be a pirate.

Sure, there's a high degree of enchantment when you hand a girl a tiara, a boy a sword.

But if I may push the magical envelope, I don't so much dig the idea that girls should aim to be helpless, pampered, in need of masculine rescue, and - above all else - glittery beautiful and put on display.

And boys? By all means, hand them a weapon upon arrival. Let's set on a pedestal those who steal, rape, pillage, and poke each other's eyeballs out. That's definitely the little tourist I want at my dinner table.

Especially one who believes it can all come true.

Granted, Disney would lose a lot of revenue if they gave all little boys make-overs to become Prince Charming. But even the prince? What'd he do? He kissed a girl. She fell asleep; he kissed her. Voila. Hero.

Again, my hat is off to Rapunzel. Way to think outside the castle, girlfriend.

In Six Words

Sometimes I find my heart on someone else's page. It's like coming face to face with a stranger I know so well; it's like having someone else introduce me to myself.

Check out this excerpt from Signs of Life, by Natalie Taylor. She has me thinking in six-word increments.

~~~

I decide to wander through Borders bookstore for a while. I find a book called, "Not Quite What I Was Planning."

Smith magazine invited its subscribers to submit their own six-word memoirs. The book was inspired by an Ernest Hemingway Line: "Baby shoes: for sale, never worn." Hemingway proved that an entire story could be told in six words.

The book is amazing. It's funny and sad. I want to meet all of the people behind the quips.

"I'm ten and have an attitude."

"I still make coffee for two."

"Accidentally killed cat. Fear anything delicate."

One of my personal favorites: "Birth, childhood, adolescence, adolescence, adolescence, adolescence."

Of course I think about my life in six words. What would it be? What six words would summarize the insanity of the last year of my life, let alone the first twenty-four?

What first comes to mind is "Single widowed mother trying to recover."

But then, I reason, if I only had six words, would I choose the word widow? Would I allow that word to make up my identity? Just a half-dozen words to describe everything I've been through - would widow make the team?

If I wanted to be as descriptive as possible, then certainly widow does explain a lot.

I am a widow, at least in title.

But after reading through some more six-word memoirs, I decide that if I only had six words, I wouldn't take widow.

"The female version of Indiana Jones."

That's not mine, that's an entry on p. 29. It's brilliant. I want to be friends with that girl. Maybe she's a widow too and she just decided that her adventurous spirit was more important than her marital status.

Need or Want

I need a cup of coffee.

I need to sleep in.

I need retail therapy.

I need quiet.

I need a good book.

I need to sing.

I need to talk.

I need to listen.

I need my friends.

I need time alone.

I need.

I need a job that honors my gifts.

I need a job.

I need to be happily married.

I need to be married.

I need to have children.

I need my children to obey.

I need my children.

I need.

I need her.

I need him.

I need.

Maturity knows the difference between need and want.

They are not synonymous.

I am learning. My list is changing.

Sometimes.

Potter's Wheel

I've never worked with a potter's wheel. But I've been learning about it recently.

There are two different kinds of wheels: the 'old school' kind that the potter kicks gently to keep it in motion, and the 'new fangled' kind that rotates electrically.

I'm learning that skilled potters know that this is really the only control they have over the process: the spinning of the wheel. Everything else must happen on its own, in gentle submission from the one who seems in charge. As the clay rests on the wheel, the potter gently holds and molds the clay as she 'throws' the pot.

But the whole process is about participating. Not controlling.

I've learned that if the potter tries to manipulate the clay, tries to create it into something she has in mind, then it can throw off the entire piece. Not simply alter it... this kind of forceful intervention can derail the process, sending clay bits flyinig, creating quite a mess.

I'm told it's a very magical experience, letting clay form itself in the hands. It is as if the clay knows what it is to become, it simply needs guidance and balance to stay on the wheel. But with gentle hands, it can evolve into something the artist may never have imagined.

I probably will never try my hand at throwing pottery, mostly because I have texture issues and the idea of wet clay in my hands makes me gag a little; I can't even really think about the after effects of dry clay on my hands and under my fingernails. Nope. No can do.

Still, the process fascinates me and the parallels are many.

Tucker's babyhood and toddler years were complicated in a few ways, with unexpected surgeries, breathing issues, multiple hospital stays, and limited language requiring therapy for several years. Every season presented a new something to learn about this little boy, a new way to help him, a new way to know him.

And this journey allowed me a rare privilege: I learned early on that my children were separate from me. Their abilities were not a reflection of mine. I could neither control them nor other people's perceptions of them.

(This goes both ways; when Tuck could not speak, when only I knew how smart he was, I had to resist the implicit and explicit assumptions that I had not done my best. That his language was the result of my mistake. On the flipside, as Tuck kicked three soccer goals last weekend, I can assure you: this had nothing to do with my influence on his ability. I've never in my life scored a goal, point, shot, basket, first base, or home run. Never. He seems well on his way to all of the above. And I delight in that: it's about who he is, who he was born to be, not who I have created in my image.)

Their experiences and abilities have quite little to do with my control and intervention.

Some? Sure. And I take my repsonsiblity very seriously. Very, very seriously.

But the whole act of parenting - and of life in general, I am learning - is about participating, not controlling.

My husband died; more than ever, I am faced with the facade of control. It really means nothing.

Control means nothing. Participation means everything.

I'm in. My heart is engaged. My mind is alert. I will raise these boys, with grace, help, and wisdom from God. I will do every single day of their lives with them.

But with grace, help, and wisdom from God, I will not seek to control them. Because really, I can't.

And perhaps, with gentle hands and submission from 'the one who seems in charge,' this masterpiece - these boys, this family, this life, this journey - will evolve into something we never imagined, neither Robb nor me.

The ones who were once 'in charge.'

(Even now I smile at the big joke we played on ourselves. In charge. Ha.)

Control is nothing. Participation is everything.

The Fourth Finger on my Left Hand

"I see you are still wearing your wedding ring."

Yes. I am. And I will.

I didn't choose to be single; I chose to be married.

I am single, but he did not choose to leave; neither did I.

"Do you think you'll ever get married again?"

I don't know.

I know I have two little boys to raise, and that task calls for all I have. I can't afford any distractions, really at all.

I'm not interested in dating. (The very idea makes me a little nauseous.) I can't afford to introduce my children to someone who may not be here to stay.

I'm a single mom. This role is too important.

I would rather do it alone than do it wrong.

And if my future holds the gift of marriage, it won't be because a searching someone spotted me from across the room and saw that I don't have a ring on my finger.

The ring stays.

Who I Was Before

My counselor is a gracious, compassionate woman who is smart and confident. She can follow any rabbit trail, remember where I left off, listen carefully, and show heaping amounts of empathy and righteous indignation.

Plus, she's 5'10" and wears sassy heels without apology. This, I love.

"Tricia, tell me who you were before December 23. What was true of you?"

I thought for a bit. Tears came faster than words.

"I was productive.

I made a list, and I crossed things off.

I was on the go.

I didn't call myself a stay-at-home mom;

I was a stay-in-the-van mom.

I loved an adventure.

I was ready.

I was an encourager.

I was confident.

I was brave."

She listened. She noted my list.

"You will be all those things again, Tricia. You will. That girl is in there. She's just hiding for a while. You'll be that girl again."

I'll be that girl again.

Mascara

I make funny faces when I put on mascara. (And I challenge the world to introduce me to one girl whose mouth doesn't hang open in contortions while she's painting her lashes.)

Robb used to sneak up behind me and mimic my face in the mirror. Then he would put his arms around my waist and watch while I applied the details of my face for the day.

And then he often reminded me that there was really no reason for makeup, that I should only wear it if I wanted to. (But I always wanted to.)

I remembered that today. I can't quite remember his voice, but I remembered that.

Vividly.