Home for the Holidays

Home for the Holidays

For 40 years, the holidays started for me the week before Thanksgiving. It was a short work week, and I’d start packing on Monday for my one-and-a-half-hour trip to Jonesboro, Arkansas from Memphis. I couldn’t wait to get in the car and drive over one of Memphis’ two bridges crossing the Mighty Mississippi River.

I’d carefully plan what to wear on Thanksgiving Day with the family, and to church on Sunday morning. Saturday night after Thanksgiving we would always celebrate my birthday with a big dinner of Mom’s homemade chicken & dumplings, my favorite.

When Jim and I married in 1986, we split our time between his family and mine for the holidays, which made it even more special. Different traditions only added to the festive feeling and I happen to love turkey and dressing.

When we had children, packing became more complex. If you’ve ever traveled with infants and toddlers, you know what I mean. And, of course, they had to be dressed perfectly for the holiday pictures. Through those years, the packing and anticipation of the trip became part of the fun of the holiday.

When we moved here to Jonesboro in July 2019, I gave little thought to the holidays and focused on getting settled and helping Jim get started in real estate.

In November, when the subject of Thanksgiving came up, it occurred to me that there would be no packing and driving, no bridge crossing, no overnight stays. It’s a short 15-minute drive to my sister’s house, so if I forget something I can easily drive home and get it.

When I expressed this to Jim, he replied by offering to drive me to Memphis so we could drive across the bridge. Sometimes men really don’t get it, y’all. But it was a nice thought.

Change is a constant. I don’t fear it, I welcome it, because it always brings new experiences to enjoy and new insights.

If you take a close look at “Santa,” you’ll notice a family resemblance. That’s because Jim wore the Santa suit at our neighborhood party. We were hoping the girls wouldn’t notice.

I think as we age, the changes in our lives help us adapt to the challenges. I miss the days of young children and smocked dresses. I miss staying up late to finish matching sister outfits for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

But I no longer have the energy to stay up late — this one-time night owl is now regularly in bed by 11:00 p.m. I’m too tired at the end of a day to spend hours preparing a full dinner. I’m thankful that I no longer have to worry about diapers, carseats, strollers, and the like — at least not until and unless I have grandchildren.

My mom, at 86, can no longer make the homemade chicken & dumplings, so we’ll do something different for my birthday. I really don’t care as long as we’re all together. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss the gathering around Mom’s dining room table and those yummy dumplings.

Our youngest, Sara Ann, is coming in from Little Rock, so she will be the one packing the car and driving. Elizabeth, our oldest, is in San Diego and can’t make it home. I’m still not used to having a member of our family absent on Thanksgiving.

Tonight, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we’ll stay in our own home, prop up our feet and watch TV like a regular weeknight. And maybe toast the holiday with a nice glass of wine.

Then tomorrow we’ll pack up Artie (our puppy), an appetizer, and homemade cranberry salad and drive 15 minutes to my sister’s. And it’ll be a great day, except I’ll miss Elizabeth something fierce.

That Time I Talked to Art Garfunkel

That Time I Talked to Art Garfunkel

And I Did Not Cry

Last night I spoke to Art Garfunkel.

Now, this was not a private conversation. In fact, about 500 people (by Jim’s estimation) bore witness.

We were given a generous and special gift from my sister and brother-in-law, which included tickets to an event at the St. Louis County Library and an overnight stay in a nearby hotel (the hotel is another blog post entirely). The event was an onstage interview with Garfunkel, moderated by a local St. Louis public radio host. Tickets included a pre-autographed copy of his new book, What is It All But Luminous, Notes From an Underground Man.

We knew the seating was first-come-first-served, so we planned to arrive at the library by 4:30 p.m. for the 7:00 p.m. event. We spent 30 minutes inside the library before they closed the doors at 5:00 p.m. to finish setup. Doors opened again at 6:00 p.m., so we spent an hour waiting outside. Jim and I were numbers one and two in line, respectively.

Before the library closed, I tried to bargain with the employees: My husband and I will help you set up if you’ll let us stay in here and save the front row center seats. They declined our generous offer, but they did show us where to get in line so we’d be first and we were.

We’re first in line!

Promptly at 6:00 p.m. the doors opened and we raced to our front and center seats. It was entirely worth the wait, even though it’s still 80-too-many degrees in St. Louis in October.

Here I am in front of the stage holding my book.

My hair looks a little funky from being outside in the St. Louis heat/humidity for an hour. But see how close the stage was?

There were absolutely no photos or videos allowed during the interview, so no photos of Artie. Which was OK because the interview was fascinating and toward the end they opened it up to questions from the audience.

So of course I raise my hand, and I’m the very last question.

The woman in charge of the event hands me the microphone. I’m about 10 feet from ART GARFUNKEL, y’all.

I momentarily froze. He was looking at me. The first thing that came out of my mouth was:

Me: ( Verklempt and overcome and almost involuntarily): Omigosh I am talking to Art Garfunkel.

AG + 500 people:  Loud laughter

AG (Commenting on my top): I love your lace. You know wardrobe.

Me. (To myself): Omigosh a lifelong New Yorker just complimented my clothing. Art Garfunkel just said I look good. (I’m enormously thrilled as I’ve always been a huge fashion nut/clothes horse.)

Me (Aloud to Art Garfunkel + 500 people): Mumble mumble something lame like I try.

Me: First of all, thank you, because 46 years ago you taught me to harmonize. I listened to your songs all the time, and I’d go through them twice. First I sang your part and played it again and sang Paul’s part. I still sing a damned good harmony (I do).

AG: Smiles. Crowd laughs loudly.

Me (To myself): Omigosh I made Art Garfunkel smile.

Me (To AG): For all of your poetry, how is it that you’ve never put a melody to those words?

AG: Good question. They are two different things. Paul Simon is brilliant at it. I tried it and it didn’t work for me.

Me: Second question: The Concert in Central Park in 1981 was a true high point of my life.

AG: Mine too.

Me: I read that you didn’t like your performance. When I heard that, I thought to myself, “What in the world—?”

AG + 500 people: More loud laughter

Me: You were both flawless.

AG: You listened differently than I did; you heard the two of us back together, the songs, the memories … I heard the fine nuances and imperfections …

Me: I still watch it and it still makes me weep.

AG: Smiles at me.

We left our home near Memphis at about 8:30 a.m. and arrived in St. Louis in time for lunch. We met quite a few very nice people, many of whom were amazed that we had driven five hours. I’d have driven 10 hours for this experience.

Me with my autographed book

P.S. Oh, yeah I forgot to mention the book. It’s is an easy read, but, like Garfunkel, it’s a bit strange. He even admitted to being weird, so my saying this should not hurt our new BFF relationship. It’s sprinkled throughout with his poetry, which is quite nice, and is full of expressions of love for his wife and children.

A Parent’s Paradox

A Parent’s Paradox


When you become a parent, you sign up for a life of mixed emotions.

You want them to sit up, but you know you’ll miss holding them.

You want them to walk, but you fear they’ll fall and hit their head.

You want them to go to school, but it means they will leave you. It means they’ll have 180 days away from you. And they might fall on the playground and skin their knees.

You want them to make friends, but it means someone else will influence them in ways you won’t anymore.

You want them to know what it’s like for a boy to make their heart beat faster, but you don’t want them to get their hearts broken.

You want them to enjoy their first kiss, but you don’t want it to go any further.

You want them to pursue their dreams, but your heart breaks at the thought of them leaving.

You want them to grow up, find their passion, but it’s so hard to let go.

Until you do.

Until you watch them fall in love. And the child that you held on your knee is in someone else’s arms and that’s their home now.

Or maybe they don’t fall in love, but they make a life for themselves far away and you watch them become who they were meant to be.

It’s strange when you realize you don’t know their wardrobe, you don’t know their friends, or what music they listen to in the car.

And even though somewhere that isn’t your house is home for them now, you can hardly contain your joy as you watch one make a home with their love — the same way you did all those years ago — and the other build the life she dreamed of and a promising career.

It’s a paradox that our greatest joy is both in holding them close and in letting them fly on their own. Yes, it’s ridiculously hard to let go. But it is so worth it. 

Why My Faith Won’t Let Me Be OK With the Death Penalty

Why My Faith Won’t Let Me Be OK With the Death Penalty

I’m taking a deep breath now. The way you would inhale right before you jump out of an airplane (which I’ll never do). While I won’t take a physical leap at 10,000 feet, I’m taking a bit of a psychological one here, because I’m about to express an opinion on a highly-emotionally-charged subject, and I’m pretty sure I’ll alienate some folk.

I’m going to tell you why, as a Christian, I cannot support the death penalty.

I used to. Right after Jim and I were married, we were held up at gunpoint in a parking lot late at night. In a nice part of town, in case you wondered. The robbers took all my jewelry and made Jim lie spread-eagle on the very cold asphalt before speeding away with our brand-new wedding rings.

To say I was traumatized is to grossly understate the terror I felt nearly all the time. Around the same time as our robbery, several brutal, seemingly random home invasion robbery-homicides occurred. One poor woman went out to get her mail and the robber accosted her in her driveway, forced her into the house, and shot her in her own bedroom. These things became connected in my mind in the midst of my post-traumatic stress, and for several years I lived in fear. I was afraid to walk out to get my mail. Afraid to be alone, even during the day. Terrified of parking lots. I was afraid to take a shower when I was alone in the house.

My life was ruled by fear. And so were some of my opinions and beliefs.

They caught the person responsible for the robbery-homicides, and I wanted him tried and fried. I wanted to be sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he wouldn’t kill me or anyone else I cared about.

Enter the senior pastor of my church, sometimes in the late 90s. He was a man whose theology and life I admired then and still do. Until one day he talked about capital punishment. And he was against it.

When someone I respect presents an alternate point of view, I think it’s worth it to consider their argument. Maybe I’ll end up agreeing, maybe not, but I always consider it. This time I changed my mind. A 180.

I realized that other than escaping immediate physical danger, no wise decision is ever made from fear. I wanted the man to die out of my own fear. Fear stokes the flames of racism, bigotry, and a refusal to respect anything different than what we believe. The time had come for me to stop being ruled by fear.

I became ashamed of my arrogance. How is it my right to judge whether another human being, made in the image of God, should live or die? And how on earth do I reconcile my sense of vengeance with anything Jesus taught?

For me, there was simply no way to square the death penalty with my faith. It is God’s place to say who will live and who will die. His, and His alone.

Some of you would say, “Well, they took a life, they chose the sin, they were cruel, brutal, tortured and terrorized a person.” Yeah, many of them have. But I’ve sinned, too, and, no offense, so have you. I’ve been unkind, selfish, prideful, and I’m guessing you have, too. None of us are without wrongdoing.

It’s ironic to me that some use the Bible to justify capital punishment. The story of the Bible is God’s redemption of our souls, not His condemnation. Don’t we realize that we are just as culpable as the murderer? And yet, God chose to send His Son to atone for our sins, and for those of the ones we would put to death. To put another person to death is to say that they are less deserving of His atonement and redemption than we are. And friends, that’s prideful.

The only One who is perfect and fit to judge shows us infinite mercy. We who are imperfect, rather than choose to imitate Jesus, prefer death over mercy for a brother or sister. I’m thankful that my Heavenly Father’s mercy is greater than my sin, even if it means His mercy is also greater than the sin of the murderer.

One last thing. Nothing that is devised and mediated by humans is perfect, and that includes our justice system. I started to look up the statistics on how many prisoners have been executed and later found not to have been guilty of the crime. I started to, but I didn’t. Because, for the purposes of this post, it doesn’t matter.

One is too many.

Blue

Blue


Just yesterday, I marveled at the fact that I didn’t feel a bit blue this week.

The first two weeks in June are always difficult, as the anniversaries of two loved ones lost occur within days of one another; my sister-in-law (killed in a car accident June 9, 1999) and my dad (died of a sudden cerebral hemorrhage June 13, 1993). And this year, they fall in the same week, which culminates in the celebration of Fathers’ Day.

Yesterday I realized I hadn’t really felt the familiar sense of loss and heaviness that is usual for this time of year. I decided that maybe this year it had been long enough, and I was over it.

But it hit me between the eyes. Today. It’s not long enough. 

Not long enough to lose the ache of loss, to stop thinking about the experiences we haven’t shared.

Not long enough to forget his nickname for me, his lovely white hair, or the wisdom with which he’d have helped us through difficult times.

Not long enough to forget her laugh, and the way she played with my young daughters, or to wonder how many selfies they’d have taken together.

Not long enough to forget how much he loved to watch the Cardinals play this time of year, and how thrilled he’d have been to know his two daughters saw them play a World Series game at Busch.

Not long enough to forget about the mother she would have been, the friend she was, and the sweet times she treasured with my mother.

Not long enough to forget what he taught me about love, that it isn’t dependent on how well we behave, what we wear, our grades, our jobs, or anything else … it just is. And when it is, it envelops us, holds us, cherishes us, sacrifices for us, and comforts us as nothing else can. It’s enough.

No, it hasn’t yet been long enough. And today I realized it won’t ever be long enough.

I’d rather feel the familiar ache and shed the tears than forget one moment. Because the memories are precious enough.

Colors of Life

Colors of Life

I’m blessed with amazing friends, who are

black

white

Christian

Jewish

atheist

Muslim

gay

straight

bi

transsexual

empty nesters

parents of small children

parents of teenagers

childless

geeks

technophobes

luddites

conservative

liberal

young

middle-aged

old

reserved

extroverted

wealthy

homeless

… and I love that I don’t live in a bubble in which everyone agrees with me, lives like me, and thinks like me. If we’re never challenged, how on earth do we grow?

If you don’t have friends with whom you disagree, you’re missing out on far too much of life’s color, on perspective gained from hearing other points of view from people you care about.

Life is not one-sided, it’s not monochromatic. One of God’s best creations is the rainbow, which represents the spectrum of all colors.

Do you have friends from different walks of life, different stages, different lifestyles? If not, find some. Life is so much richer when you see all of the colors.

Funk.

Funk.

Funk has at least three meanings: it is defined as a genre of music, a foul smell, or a dejected mood. I’m kind of familiar with the first definition, all-too acquainted with the second (we have dogs, remember?) and am currently experiencing the third.

I’ve thought twice about writing about this, because I like to stay positive, I try not to moan about my (mostly first-world) problems, and, as a person of faith, I sometimes expect myself to be brimming with joy at every moment.

That’s a load of crap.

We all have adversity; Jim and I, like everyone else, have endured our share, from serious illness to loss, and, now, unemployment. And though I do have an underlying peace, that doesn’t mean I feel like smiling all the time. In fact, recently I haven’t felt like smiling at all. I’m seriously bummed out for three reasons:

  1. Job. Blah, blah. Jim hasn’t found anything yet, which isn’t surprising or even particularly concerning. He’s at a higher level than he was last time he searched for a job, and those jobs are harder to come by. I know he’ll land somewhere awesome. I’m just ready for it to happen. Now. It’s hard on him not to have an office to go to every day — somehow, the Office of Transition (aka, our increasingly cluttered dining room) just isn’t the same.
  2. Stress. He’s stressed, I’m stressed … everyone knows about stress. I find myself much more easily overwhelmed these days, and it gets worse when things pile on. Having to put Molly to sleep, a stupid branch that fell on our roof and cost $200 to remove, and the computer Jim uses, which is much better at displaying the spinning beach ball than loading a Web page; little things, big things, medium-size things. They all add up to make us want to scream.
  3. Pain. I’m not just talking about psychic pain, though there’s plenty of that. I have a long-standing herniated cervical disk that has begun to bother me again. And by bother I mean torment. It’s nearly impossible to sleep because every position hurts, and it’s torpedoed my summer running program. Lack of sleep brings irritability, inability to focus on a task, and discouragement at my low level of productivity.

I share all of this to say that sometimes we need to trust others enough to be transparent, to be real, to stop saying, “I’m fine” when we’re really not. I have people in my life who like/love me whether I’m wearing my happy face or not, and if you’re one of those, I’m grateful. If you’re not, well, you probably stopped reading at the third definition of funk.

OK, the thought vomiting expression of frustration is over now. I realize and appreciate how blessed we are to have amazing supportive friends and family, not to mention faith. I think otherwise we’d have both lost it for good by now.

This past Sunday we were at an outdoor event, and after a brief summer thunderstorm, there was a lovely rainbow, which I realized only comes after the rain.

We’re still standing. And if you made it this far, you’re awesome. Thank you.

RIP Sweet Molly Girl: 14 Years of Love

RIP Sweet Molly Girl: 14 Years of Love

molly-close
In happier days — she loved playing with this foam football. She’d bring it to us over and over until we got tired of throwing.

One of the worst things about being a grownup is having to do hard things.

With "little sister" Gracie napping on her back. I think she liked it.

With “little sister” Gracie napping on her back. I think she liked it.

We did one of those things today. Our beloved 14-year-old yellow Lab, Molly, had to be put to sleep. She has been part of our family, a loving and dear pet, since about 2000. Both girls grew up with her and remember her as a bouncy puppy. Watching her, knowing the pain she was in was heartbreaking for all of us.

We knew it was the right time, but it was a mere eight months ago we lost our sweet Gracie. And, even though we remain positive, with Jim still in job transition, it was almost too much for us to handle.

I struggled with guilt; I would look in her eyes, so trusting, and wonder if she knew what we were about to do. But thinking of her suffering was the difference. You cannot love someone — even a dog — and want them to suffer. And to allow her to continue in a life with no quality would have been cruel.

molly-charlie-pogo-380x380Both of the girls came over and said “Goodbye” to her, with hugs and tears and memories as they saw her for the last time.

A couple of weeks ago, we were at my sister’s house in Arkansas. Sitting in her pool, she mentioned Molly’s condition. While we knew that it was inevitable, sometimes you just know the limits of what you can bear and I told her so.

So Sara, my sister, offered to take care of it for us, to actually take her to the vet. That was today.

I’ll miss seeing her, even if the last few weeks, she’s mostly laid on a towel on the kitchen floor. I’ll miss watching her chase and retrieve the foam football and bring it back to us to do it all over again. She was calm and quiet and a sweet presence.

all-4-dogs

It’s not easy to get a photo of four dogs together. You can barely see Charlie behind the patio chair, but I promise he’s there.

This week has been extra hard; knowing what was to happen, anticipating the loss, all the while knowing it was necessary. Even knowing something is the right thing, that it’s best doesn’t make it easier to bear.

Real love is doing what’s best for someone else even when it hurts. Even when it puts you on the verge of tears and makes you pretty much cognitively impaired for the better part of two weeks.

Jim with Charlie (left) and Molly at the lake house in the summer of 2010

Jim with Charlie (left) and Molly at the lake house in the summer of 2010

Several days ago, a pastor friend of mine reminded me there is theological support for the fact that we’ll see our pets in Heaven. I find it comforting that I’ll see her again, and when I do, Gracie will probably be napping on her back.

Rest in peace, sweet girl. You were loved, you were cherished and you are missed.

Are You Creative?

Are You Creative?

I just ran across an interesting article on Lifehacker about the creative personality, called The Seven Elements of a Creative Personality. I read everything I can on this topic because it pretty much describes me. Especially this:

You’re creative if:

Your Mind Has an Associative Orientation

This means that you have an active imagination. “You can fluctuate between daydreaming and perceiving reality,” says Martinsen. “You’re playful and have an experimental attitude.” But you are also able to become deeply absorbed in your work. For example, you might be so involved in your work that you forget to eat lunch. Interestingly, the advertising students scored slightly higher with associative orientation than the artists. But both these groups ranked higher than the baseline sample.

This nails me.

Yesterday I had a few minutes to myself and decided to just sit quietly and relax. I set a timer and closed my eyes. The first thing I heard were birds singing outside. The birds reminded me of my daddy, who could whistle like a virtuoso. He sounded just like the birds and if I’d been a bird, he’d have certainly faked me out.

That got me started thinking about duck calls. Remember, I grew up in Arkansas. There are people in my family who are expert duck hunters and can make the duck call sound just like the real thing. The poor ducks get all excited, thinking they are going to see a friend and end up on someone’s dinner table.

So duck calls and bird whistles got me thinking about how easily we’re all deceived. How quickly we hear what we want to hear and chase after it without fully investigating, only to be destroyed in the process.

I think that’s another post for another day; I’m not feeling that deep right now. But it does lend a bit of insight into the workings of the weird creative mind. A mind that goes from birds singing to complex life concepts in five minutes or less.

If you’re not a creative person and have to work and/or live with one, chances are there are times they drive you crazy. Ask my husband. But you probably drive them crazy too.

I’m grateful God didn’t make everyone like me, though the world would surely be fun and colorful. We need analytical minds to keep us from buying a car because it’s pretty and has a sunroof, or to figure out which TV is really the best for the money.

We see the beauty in our differences when we respect and honor them, rather than trying to fit everyone into our mold. You probably have at least one creative person in your life; I have many analytical types in mine. Don’t just tolerate those differences; celebrate and cherish them as we help each other get things done and have fun in the process.

Rest the rest of the article on Lifehacker here.

On the Occasion of the 21st Birthday of My Youngest Baby

On the Occasion of the 21st Birthday of My Youngest Baby

girls-stroller

My youngest baby is 21 today. It makes me a little misty eyed, I’m not gonna lie.

I tried to resist the motherly instincts last night when she told me she was going out at midnight to buy her first legal drink.

Me: Be careful. Are you taking Ethan (longtime boyfriend) with you?
Her: Yep!
Me: Well, have fun.

(Ethan is big and strong and not the sort of guy you want to mess with. And very protective.)

See how well that went?

Don’t get me wrong; I love having adult children. I love the adult conversations, and it makes me happy to see the great women they’ve both become. But it’s real, on-paper, legal confirmation that this phase of my life is over.

Which is awful and awesome. It’s the end of being needed in many ways, but it’s better to be wanted anyway.

Parenthood is a long journey, and I’m not sure you ever really reach a destination in the sense that the trip is over. But I’m loving where I am now.

I love the laughter, the fun, and the friendship. The adult relationship that isn’t based on dependence, but on love, commitment and many, many shared memories. The ease of being with people who know you inside and out, have seen you in a swimsuit and without makeup and still love you.

It’s been an incredible journey. The best/worst, most rewarding/hardest most heart-rending/touching journey of all, I think. I’ve made mistakes, but I’ve done my best and I have no regrets.

I’ve never made a quilt, but I think parenthood is how I imagine it would be, and someday I will make one. It’s a panoply of squares, each of which represents a smile, a hug or a tear, all joined together into one beautiful piece. If the last 24 years of my life are that quilt, I’m grateful for one so beautiful, that covers me when there is a chill and comforts me when I cry.

Here’s to you, girls, and to the next 24 years together.

The View From 54

The View From 54

I never try to hide my age; I’m proud of each and every year. I always say, no cancer survivor complains about growing older. I cherish and revel in my birthdays, because each one is another little triumph over the big C.

For those of you who dread getting older, you’re just too young and foolish to know what you’re missing.

This summer, on one of our St. Louis trips, we had pre-game drinks at this great bar called 360, that’s on the 26th floor of the Hyatt at the Ballpark, right across from Busch Stadium. It’s our favorite hotel in St. Louis. The view is spectacular, and, of couse, we loved looking down on the stadium as the Cardinals took batting practice (sadly, closed to the public). We may or may not have creeped on them with the big telephoto lens.

From the top, we could see the buildings, the graceful ones and the eyesores, but we couldn’t see the peeling paint, the cracks in the sidewalk, the litter, graffiti, or any other marks of a downtown urban neightborhood. Busch Stadium, the Gateway Arch, and the beautiful City Hall were easy to pick out, and we enjoyed the overview of a city with which we are only slightly familiar.

Aging is a little like that view from 26 floors up. You see the traffic jams, the road construction, and if you could yell loudly enough, you could tell the drivers below to avoid those streets. Instead, you watch them unwittingly strand themselves in traffic. The higher you climb, the farther out you can see, and the smaller the people and problems on the ground appear.

I love the view from 54. It’s hard to believe how much I dreaded the empty nest; I could not have been more wrong. I love the luxury of eating popcorn for dinner if we want to; making spontaneous plans and running off for weekend getaways with only the dogs to worry about.

But most of all, I love what I know. That money, clothes, houses, cars and other material things are not where it’s at. It’s about the experiences, the memories, and mostly the people.

I remember many moments from my younger days. With the exception of my wedding day, I don’t remember what I was wearing, how much I weighed, or what kind of car got me to my destination.

I remember faces. Voices. Hugs. Tears. Laughter. Love.

Life is short. Make memories.


It was about 104 degrees when I took the photo above. I hate that the sky is so blown out, but I was on the 26th floor, outside, shooting into — and rapidly wilting in — the late-afternoon sun. Jim would’ve shot it much better, but I like to hold the camera sometimes too.

Memories: Old and New

Memories: Old and New

We don’t travel a lot and we don’t take many long vacations, so this last week has been a little wild and epically wonderful.

First, Jim and I took a quick trip to St. Louis for a Cardinal game. We drove up on Tuesday for that evening’s game, arrived early in the afternoon and had a couple of drinks at the 26th-floor bar at our hotel before walking across the street to Busch Stadium.

I still get emotional when I walk into Busch Stadium. Maybe it’s the sheer excitement of the in-person experience, the enormity of the World Series victory or the thrill of the crowd and the crack of the bat you don’t get from a TV broadcast. But I think it’s more than that. It takes me back to days when I sat next to my dad in the old Busch Stadium. He taught me to use the scorecard to keep up with every play, told me about his favorite player, Stan Musial and explained the finer points of the game as it unfolded.

We saw an incredible game, with a dream of a pitching matchup: Cardinal ace Adam Wainright vs. 2011 Cy Young winner Clayton Kershaw with the Los Angeles Dodgers. As much as I despise the heat, the 102-degree game time temperature didn’t matter. The game was exciting and the Cardinals won. We collapsed in our cool hotel room afterwards, enjoyed a good night’s sleep and drove home on Wednesday.

Back to reality, to the daily routine and the Cardinals on TV — that night in an even hotter game (104 at game time) that went into extra innings.

This weekend we took the girls and their boyfriends to the lake. It’s a lot of fun to have adult children and our girls and the guys they have chosen are all genuinely great young people that we enjoy spending time with. We spent the entire day on the boat, swimming, napping, relaxing and just enjoying the company of the ones we love most. We watched a beautiful sunset on the lake.

There was some action-packed inner tubing that unfortunately ended with a trip to the emergency room when Elizabeth perforated her eardrum. She’s been in a lot of pain and we weren’t able to go back out on the lake on Sunday, but the girls and I had a nice leisurely trip to Wal-Mart while the boys unloaded and covered the boat.

Left to right: JP, Elizabeth, Sara Ann, Ethan

Few things go as smoothly as planned. What I love about our family is that even when they don’t, we find a way to enjoy each other even in Wal-Mart.

Parents of young kids, take heart. Your best times with your kids are yet to come. One day we’re changing diapers, the next we’re sending them off to senior prom and the next we’re discussing real-life issues and challenges with people we’ve come to respect and admire for their intelligence and character. Enjoy every phase and don’t dread the next; there is goodness ahead.