sunflower explosion

Sometimes seeds lay dormant for a very long time. Then when conditions are right, and the weather cooperates, all of a sudden, there is action.
Drive along the fruit way from Ogden to Brigham, and up on the mountains you will see an explosion of one of my favorite flowers. Bright like the sun. Happy like yellow. Big like my dreams. And easy like Sunday morning.

Sunflowers.

a thousand tears.

I cried a thousand tears the last few weeks for a tragic accident that hit me at the core. A sweet little girl, just my Maggie's age, was taken all too soon from this life. My heart broke into a million pieces as I put myself in the shoes of the mother, and thought, in an instant this life can change.




And there is a loss.




And an empty feeling.




Nobody to wear the tiny shoes, or play with the little toys. No warm fingers to wrap around a baby blanket filled with the scent of a clean bath. No more soft kisses to say goodnight, or sleepy eyes in the morning. The very thought nearly breaks me in two.




But, sitting in church yesterday, I was impressed to remember that a loss on this side of life is a treasure found on the other. Someone dear is holding her near, and loving her. Rocking her until the space of time evaporates and forever is filled in its place.

 And that will be a great day indeed.

mighty like a man.

I love moments that boys want to be tough like a man. And show their muscles. A tough man starts years before by being a rough boy. And, testing the limits of his strength.

white bees

-- Happy Father's Day to my dad who has been there at all of my crossroads, and who's example is as far reaching as the stars in the sky.

From my book White Bees...

"I woke up this morning to three inches of brand new snow.
There is something about the first snowfall that makes me think back, way back, to when I was five years old. I am sure that it is my first memory, and the first time I saw them. They danced down the double sliding glass door thick and light. A pale white sky masked the sunshine behind the storm. In my memory I am young and alive, and also very curious. The snowflakes to me look like white bees. They always have. Swarming, happy, intelligent bees.
I let my eyes follow one ‘bee’ all the way from the top of the window until it rests quietly on the soft forming snow. The process takes concentration and care, let your eyes slip away for just a moment and you will lose sight of the bee you are following. I sit on the hard linoleum kitchen floor and curl my toes over the heat vent -- and stay wrapped up there until the last bee lands. Minutes turn into at least an hour, or about four cycles of the heat vent warming up. In my memory clear as yesterday, my Dad bends down next to me and ask me what I am watching, and I tell him I am watching the bees. He laughs and teases me saying that they are actually just snowflakes. This annoys me slightly, but I love the attention. From then on during each snowstorm I felt an obligation to makes sure each bee made it safely, and each time I watched, my father teased, and each time he teased, I loved it even more.
Even as I got older, I still called snowflakes my white bees. The name just stuck. And my Dad, well, he never forgot about the bees either. All these years later, it is the one memory that takes me right back to the feeling of a Father’s love on a wintery day.
Father’s should be like superman. You know. Someone who can lift a car, or rescue us when we need help. Luckily for me, my Dad looks like Superman, and can lift a car too. That’s right. Well, to be clear, he looked like Clark Kent in his early days, and he has a car lifter in his auto shop, but it is all just the same. As kids we would beg him to throw on his thick rimmed glasses and fling his small, red and blue felt jimmy-rigged cape on. He would do it, but not often. Even as hard as we would beg, he only transformed into Superman on the rare occasion.

But, as a child, it only takes meeting Superman once to know he is real."

the mystery of the mailman.

Mail carriers. UPS men. FedEx chics. They are all cut from the same cloth. Aloof, mysterious, and focused. Out here in the country our mail is delivered before the sun comes up. Practically anyway. All I know is that, it is always in there, waiting for me to go get it.

Once I heard a knock at my door, and before I could get down the stairs to answer it, all I saw was a trail of dust and the UPS truck pulling out of my driveway.

Last month though, I had a breakthrough. The UPS man stopped to pick up my Old Gringo boots, per Old Gringo's request, so that they could be repaired. AND...I was not quite ready with the boots in the box and all of that. There were about six VERY awkward seconds as I tried super duper fast to put the boots in the box, and then, something strange happened. The UPS man spoke. And he said very dryly, "Those are nice boots. I think I will take them home to my wife instead of sending them back to Old Gringo." And then I knew. The mystery was gone. And just like that, he was just like the rest of us.

every sunday. and the six days in-between.

May is the month I lost my Grandpa, a day I will never forget. All of us cousins were there, in the final minutes as he left.

And the room fell quiet.

But not the kind of quiet that makes you uncomfortable --wishing someone would talk and break the silence. No, a different kind of quiet. The kind of quiet that invites angels into a room, for a brief moment.

And May is the month I lost my dear Gram. And she had her own angels gathering her up and taking her home, when she passed all alone.

Still, each Sunday,like clockwork, I miss them both. Sunday was the day when we would all get together at their house, for a dose of BS and our only bowl of sugar cereal for the week. And I am not sure which I looked forward to most.

So tomorrow, I will go put flowers on their graves. And I will be still for a moment. And quiet. And hope that two special angels peak through from above and know that I still miss them...every Sunday...and the six days in-between.

room in my heart.

Eleven years ago when Hayden was a baby, there was this moment, sitting all together in our tiny first home, when my husband said to me, "I don't know how we can possibly love another child as much as we love our little boy."

He had bright blue eyes, huge cheeks that dimpled when he smiled, and a perfect part on his blond hair. I may never forget that day. When it seemed, there could only be room in my heart for one, sweet, little boy.

But motherhood, and love, well -- they are both flexible. They bend, they stretch, and somehow, the room you thought was never there -- ends up being there all along.

If you get lucky to meet a second or a third ...your heart will grown...again and again.

And when you meet that new little person, you will say, "I have loved you all along."