Sister Sister....

When I was growing up, I always wanted a sister. Although I didn't have one of my own, I had an up close and personal look at what it was like to have a sister, because my mother has two of them, and their close and loving relationship was something that I envied.

My mom and her younger sister, in particular, have something special and unique, even for sisters, I think. Although in personality they are very different, my aunt is outgoing and funny and the life of the family party, while my mother is shy and quiet and frequently on the fringes of the action, they have a symbiotic relationship that benefits both of them. They have an easy closeness that defies space and time, built on a lifetime of experiences together which started when they were babies and has continued from then until now.

We had a reminder of that interdependence recently, at the graveside of their oldest brother. They were standing together, each lost in her own thoughts and memories, I am sure, when suddenly, one of them began to silently weep. Without even needing to look, the other one leaned over and put her arm around her sister and hugged her close, and they drew their heads together without a word being said. That unspoken understanding between them, the certain knowledge that they are there for each other, is something to envy, and I do.

I should, of course, mention that I do have a wonderful brother, who has provided all the love and support and entertainment one could ever ask for from a big brother. I wouldn't trade him for anything, he is the best sibling I could have ever asked for. I just would have liked to add a sister to the family table.

Living in a very small town, I got to see sisters up close and personal with the girls I grew up with, both relatives and friends, and I saw a variety of relationships and interactions, some good, some not so good, but which I knew, in adulthood, would be warm and rich and loving. I envied them their shared memories more than their shared wardrobe or toys.

I experienced the combat zone of sitting between sisters who were born on the same day but had very different personalities, and didn't hesitate to share with everyone their dismay when they didn't agree on something. (Which, for the record, seemed to be a lot, especially during band, when flutes became weapons with a long reach!) I watched friends serve as role models and mentors for younger sisters. I watched the pride and frustration as older sisters helped younger sisters with advice or direction, and I saw the adoration of younger sisters as they emulated the older sisters they worshipped.

I knew I was missing something irreplaceable, and it made me feel vaguely left out. Then I grew up.

Along the way, I discovered something important. Although I may never know the accidental, if special, relationship of sisters born to the same parents, I do, in fact, have the intentional sisterhood of many women who enrich my life and make it complete. It is an amazing gift of love and caring, and it is sufficient.

I have found sisters of the heart within my extended family, of course, cousins with whom I shared my growing up, and who were there from the awkward stage to the angry phase to the what-is-she-thinking-but-we'll-be-there-for-her-when-it-all-falls-apart period. Although we didn't grow up in the same house, we spent enough time together that I am not sure I could be much closer to them, and I certainly couldn't love them any more. I have shared their joys and their sorrows, felt their pain and their fear, as they have mine. You are stuck with your relatives for life, and I'm happy to be stuck on mine, because I have been richly blessed by the sisterhood I have found within the family circle.

But sisterhood is not only a blood line, or a family affair. I have found other intentional sisters of the heart through the years as I shared my life, and have been privileged to share in the lives of others. I have close friends with whom I can be entirely myself, for better and for worse, because we have been friends for so long the history speaks for itself.

I have friends whose relationship with their real sisters suffers when seen through the looking glass, and for whom the friendship provides a level of understanding that they don't find in their actual family. Somewhere along the line, I realized I am cheating them out of the fullness of the sisterhood we have built together when I mourn over a relationship I never had, while taking for granted the sister standing in front of me.

I have friends who have strong and loving relationships with their own sisters, and who extend that love to a select few outside their circle whom they treat like one of the family. To be included in the family events, as one their own, accepted on a family basis, is a gift of sisterhood built on a relationship that is valued on both sides. I wonder, if I had a sister of my own, would I have found room in my heart for that gift of love?

I have other friends who see me as I am, know my flaws, and choose to overlook and love me anyway. What a gift, to be allowed to live inside my awkward and quirky self, and have someone see the higher self I wish I was. No sister could be more uplifting than a friend who could turn their back on you but chooses to continue to meet life head on with you.

My brother has, in fact, been responsible for bringing a sister into my life, after all, when he married my lovely and beautiful sister-in-law. She has enriched all our lives, not only because she loves my brother and makes his life better, but because she loves us and makes our lives better, too, just by her being in it. I am grateful for the unqualified love she has for all of us, and we are very lucky she was willing to join our family circle and be a part of it. Although we are sisters-in-law, she is my sister of the heart first, and the relationship we are building is one that I treasure all the more for not having had a sister before.

I have a very special set of sisters, my Eve Circle sisters, who are sisters in Christ. We have been together a long time, most of us, a group of women who have gone through birth, death, divorce, child rearing, unemployment, our faith journeys; everything life has to throw at us. Within the circle of friendship we have together is the loving assurance of our shared faith, and the support of women who truly care about each other in the deeper way of family. God is our father, and we are sisters in His family. Although we are all very different, He has brought us together to compliment and contrast with each other, and each member of the circle has something special to share. We shine up the faith that each of us experiences to make it bright enough for the world to witness.

Valentine's Day is coming, and there will be a lot of talk of love and romance. There will be cute pictures of Cupid, and couples everywhere will be celebrating the love that they share. It can be hard to be single during this in-your-face couple time, reminded at every turn that what most people take for granted is out of reach for you, and it can hurt.

But I prefer to focus on the love that I have in my life, rather than what I am missing. In fact, since my divorce, I have learned quite a lot about love, and have discovered that I have a lot more of it in my life than I ever realized. I am grateful that there are women in my life who have been willing to fight through the shy, reserved exterior until they found the warm heart within, and who have believed I was worth the trouble it took to get to know the hidden me. Because of them, I have opened my heart, ever so slowly and cautiously, and found that there is love all around me, and that I am richly blessed with sisters of the heart wherever I turn.

So this Valentine's Day, I wish each of my Sisters of the Heart a day of love and respect and joy, filled not with the superficial expressions of love found in the advertisements and the store shelves and useless trinkets that will soon be lost or forgotten, but the deeper love born of shared experiences and full relationships with people who love you as you are, flaws and all. That is the real gift, a gift of the heart, and the only one that will last.

Happy Valentine's Day to each one of my sisters, from my heart.

Dog day afternoon....

You know what I love about dogs? They are who they are, and they don't spend a lot of time worrying about being what society, or anyone else, wants them to be. They act, and react, based on their natural inclinations, and your direction. The only people they worry about are the people who actually matter to them - their pack. Although there are celebrity dogs, you don't find the family pet worrying about what Annette Bening's dog is up to, because it just isn't relevant to their lives.

Thus, you find our mutt in an expensive fur coat, otherwise known as TidBit, running around with dreadlocks in his Papillion ear fringe, his pure bred fur coat occasionally dirty and sometimes even matted, especially after a good roll on the lawn, hair hanging in his eyes, yet still completely pleased with himself, because he has his toy and is ready to play. Gizmo, the actual mutt with an inferiority complex, runs around like a maniac, barking at the wind, still completely at peace with how he is living his life, as long as I'm not mad at him.

The only thing that really matters to either of them is that they have a warm place to sleep and two square meals a day, along with the company of the humans who are in charge of their lives. They are content to let everything else happen as it will, with no fanfare or advanced planning required.

In short, their lives are simple and straightforward. To know themselves is uncomplicated. If only it were so simple to be human.

I have heard it said that life throws curve balls at us. I think life is a curve ball. The trajectory never seems to take me where I expect, and I am always ending up in left field from an unplanned hit when I thought I would be right over the plate.

This week, for example, I had my calendar set, appointments ready to attend, work to be produced. I knew on Sunday when I perused my weekly obligations exactly what would happen through the week, and what I hoped to have accomplished by week's end.

Something funny happened on the way to Saturday, however, and I got nothing accomplished that I expected. We got hit with a blizzard that was both unexpected and fearsome, the worst weather I have seen in Kansas City in the over 20 years since I've lived here, in fact.

Don't you just hate it when the weather people get it right?

They were obnoxious and annoying, warning us for days ahead of time that THIS one was going to be The Big One, The Storm of the Century. (What kind of chutzpah do you have to have to label something an "of the century" event when the century is only 11 years old, I ask you?) That is why I dislike weather people so much. Every time there is weather, it's an "-est" event - biggest, coldest, windiest, hottest - whatever is happening, they hype it until you don't listen any more. Of course, talking about weather is their job, so what else are they going to do, right? But that doesn't make it any more palatable out here in viewer-land.

This time, they gave fearsome predictions for unprecedented snowfall in an area that gets paralyzed by six inches at once. They warned the public to be prepared with extra food and water, in case people lost power, or couldn't get out for days. I rolled my eyes and yawned.

Fortunately, I did think it prudent to make sure I had adequate supplies of fresh food for the rabbit and myself, prompted by a glance at the sky on the morning of the main event. And I did have the ice melt at the ready, just in case the ice storm of the century actually did develop right on top of us. Otherwise, I was pretty cavalier about the whole thing, figuring it was just another non-event here in the heartland.

The day the storm was originally predicted to begin dawned, and nothing. The weather people started shifting, telling us it was delayed, but would happen overnight, then the following morning, then the following evening, and finally the day after that. By that time, I was cheering for a rout, hoping that the whole thing would simply evaporate, and the storm would just be an epic fail, much to my delight and their discomfort.

It did not work out quite as I had hoped. The ball not only curved, it came back and hit me, then kept going in the opposite direction. Life is funny that way - it has a way of humbling you when you get too uppity.

I have seen storms like this one before; growing up in Minnesota, I am familiar with blizzards. But I have never seen anything like it in Kansas City. We are not Minnesota, and were not prepared for what happened. It brought the entire metro area skidding to a halt, reminding us all that Mother Nature still wins when she has a temper tantrum.

The snow came down, slowly at first, dry little flakes pelting your face as they dropped from the grey clouds overhead. Then they came harder, and the wind picked up. Before we knew it, the ground was covered with white powder, and the snow was flying in all directions, as the 40 mph wind gusts threw it around.

When all was said and done, we got about a foot of snow where I am. Capricious, as blizzards are, it was blown into drifts as high as three feet in some places, while the ground was bare in others. The drifts were wind-swept, standing in frozen waves, crisp and white and brittle looking. The world was a fairy land - I half expected to see the Snow Queen walk through my yard at any moment.

I didn't leave the house for days. Living in the city, with everything nearly at my fingertips, I have lost the ability to plan ahead. I put off getting anything until I am out. I don't stock up, I don't think forward, I don't plan, because the 24 hour WalMart a few blocks away has enabled me to be irresponsible in that way.

When the blizzard hit, the fury of it all reminding us that in the end, nature will have her way, I found an old, now unfamiliar pattern, and stayed home. For days. Natural recluse that I am, I slipped into the comfortable seclusion effortlessly, and it was almost difficult to make myself leave when I finally ran out of something crucial and had to make my way to the store again at the end of the week.

I enjoy life's little interruptions, the diversions from my strict plan that unexpectedly make the journey interesting. While it is good to plan ahead, and it is necessary to set a schedule and have goals, the occasional reminder to be flexible when life curves away from your plan is important, as well.

On the other hand, too much of a good thing is a bad thing. I, for one, have had enough of the long winter, and I am ready for spring, and the renewal that it brings. I think the dogs would agree, because every time they go out the door, they look surprised anew at the blanket of white covering their familiar terrain. But then they jump right in and find a way through, taking life as it comes. I think they have the right attitude, and I will try to emulate that flexibility a little more joyfully this week.

If your life is a curve ball this week, here's hoping you enjoy left field! Batter up!

Dear Dad, I wish you were here....

I spent some time this week reflecting on my father's death, a cataclysmic event in my life which occurred 38 years ago. That is a long time, and it is surprising how painful those anniversaries can still be. At the same time, however, I can also look back now with a lot of joy in the memories of the fun and laughter that we had, and on balance, there is a lot of enjoyment in it.

One of the things I got to thinking about was how little I really knew my dad. Just 12 years old when he died, it is hard for me to see him from an adult perspective. My memories of him are frozen in that time, like an outdated shadow box I can't quite bear to take down. I know some of his character traits, of course, and I have heard a few stories about him that give me some basic insight into what he was like with other adults. But one thing you lose with your parent when they die too soon is the ability to know them as a person, and it was that which I was pondering this week.

One of the most interesting phases of parenthood is reached when your children become adults. You don't necessarily interact with them every day, and they start to become known to you as individuals, with attitudes and opinions and their own way of dealing with life. It is fascinating, as you see what they have learned from you, and what they have chosen to do differently.

I missed that with my dad, and he with me. I wonder if I would disappoint or delight, if I turned out as he hoped, or not. It isn't possible to know, and I'm sure he would say he loves me just as I am, because he was a good dad, and that is how a good dad would feel. But I still wonder what he would have thought in his heart of hearts, because I just don't know.

I wonder, too, what my view of him would be if I had gotten the opportunity to know him as a grown up. I know the essential person would be the same, but would I notice other traits more clearly, once I was old enough to appreciate them, or would my view have remained pretty much the same.

I wonder how well we really know anyone, when it comes right down to it. We know our family members fairly well, I suppose, at least superficially. We know what they like to eat, we know what their favorite color is, we know their likes and dislikes, and perhaps even what their gifts and talents are. But how well do we know the heart of those we see each day?

Would people be surprised at my inner life, I wonder. Would they be shocked at what I am thinking? I pride myself on my integrity, I am as honest as I can reasonably be, but honesty doesn't always mean I reveal every thought and feeling, either. I wonder if anyone would be surprised at the frustration and occasional rage that can be found seething inside me?

I once participated in a fun activity among friends, where a sheet was passed, one for each person, and everyone had to write one word to describe that person. They didn't get to see what anyone else wrote until we were done, so it turned out to be a rather good analysis of how people perceive each one of us. I was considered, not surprisingly, truthful and funny. When eight or nine people all use the same words, I guess you have to accept that they are probably pretty accurate.

I wonder, if a sheet were passed about my dad, what words would be used. How would the people who knew him well describe my dad, if they had to choose one or two words to do so?

He was known for his sense of humor, so would it be that? Would it be kindness, because he was, at heart, a genuinely kind and helpful person? Would it be faithful? Or spiritual? Smart? Or possibly a perfectionist? Driven or willful? What words come to mind, I wonder, when his name arises in a conversation amongst his relatives and friends that remained here to mourn?

When I think of him, there is a rich variation of traits, but his humorous approach to life stands out. He found humor in almost everything sooner or later, a trait that I share, and thus appreciate greatly.

It wasn't always funny to me, I must admit, when he was making jokes. When I was little and foolishly crying over something insignificant, he would tease me that he loved my singing, and beg for more. It would make me so mad, but in the end I would have to laugh, because of course, he was right, and the situation usually was funny, when seen in the right light.

He worked full time at the local elevator, and then came home and farmed, as well. His work ethic was undeniable, as he was usually outside before first light and not back in the house again until after dark, while he struggled to get everything done in the day that required his attention.

Sundays were an off day, however, a day of rest, and my family rarely worked on Sundays, other than what was absolutely necessary to keep the animals fed. One year, the hay had been cut and baled, and it had to get put away before it all rotted in the field. I don't know why the timing was what it was, forcing us all to work on Sunday, but that afternoon found us out in the yard, putting up hay into the barn.

It was a hot and miserable task, and we were all out of sorts and crabby about it, while one thing after another went wrong. Finally, the hay lift, which brought the bales from the wagon below up into the hay mow, broke, leaving us without a way to get the hay into the barn. My dad, with his usual dry humor, said he reckoned that this was God's way of telling us to quit working on Sunday, and we all had to laugh. We also took him at his word, and I remember personally running for the house before he could change his mind!

I followed my dad around when he was home as much as possible, and I got to spend more time with him than a lot of girls probably spent with their fathers back in those more distant times. I was in the barn with him most nights, and learned from him to feed calves with a bottle, and to muck out the floor. I saw his work ethic, and I benefited from his endless patience in explaining things to me.

He was a boy scout troop leader when my brother was young, and a 4H leader when I was growing up. He took time for kids, and not just his own. He was there for any kids who needed his attention, and I have heard from a lot of people over the years how much that meant to them. He was especially active in teaching about the outdoor life, and made it possible for a lot of kids to fish and skate and camp. At the same time, he quietly modeled a respect for living right that many of us have taken forward into our own adult lives.

My dad was human, and thus fallible and imperfect. If I am to be honest in drawing this verbal portrait of my father, I have to acknowledge that there were flaws that could be added to this list of accolades. No one knows better than my brother and myself what happened when we fell short of his high expectations, for example! But I also know that my dad set the bar high because he loved us, and wanted us to be the best people we could be. I can forgive him for not being perfect, because he forgave me for the same.

When I look back on my dad's life, I know that it wasn't a story which would write a best seller, or be noticed by those we consider to be important. When he was buried on a frigid January day, (my poor cousin's 18th birthday!) it wasn't national news.

But the church was full of people who knew him, who cared about him, and who missed him when he was no longer here. His wife and children, his sister and brother and in-laws, his nieces and nephews, and his many friends, all of us lost someone that was important in our own small world.

I used to have a recurring dream that my dad came back to me to give me one last hug. I dreamed that same dream for many years, but I was never able to reach him. If I could spend an hour with him now, I would take that hug, of course. But I think I would also want to know who he was, who he wanted to be, and what was important to him.

There are no guarantees in life, and tomorrow is not a promise. Take time to share yourself with those you love. Give someone you love an extra hug today, and tell them what matters to you deep down in your heart. That is the most important gift you can give, and the best gift you will ever receive.

Words worth....

I am, at end of the day, [or the blog,] little more than a purveyor of words. Words are my passion, some say my gift, and they have deep meaning to me. I generally choose my words carefully, so that my meaning is clear, if nuanced, by the choice of prose with which I express my thoughts. Thus, it struck me this morning as I read a brief item in the news, how much has been lost in our culture of casual twittering. We live in a world literally flooded with words, but meaning and intent have been nearly lost under the requirement of speaking to each other in 143 digits or less.

The item that set me to thinking concerned a young wife and mother, 25 years of age, who has enrolled in first grade, along with her two young sons, ages 4 and 5. She is not American, and the obstacles to her enrollment were not merely custom or age. She is from Pakistan, and like at least six out of every ten women in that country, she is illiterate. She had a yearning to learn, to open up the world even from behind the veil of her burqua, and to show her sons a better way of life for all Pakistanis.

This is all the more remarkable, because women seeking education in Pakistan is extremely controversial. Women, and girls, are literally dying for their desire to be educated. Families are torn apart, fear and tradition keeping them in ignorance as they fight not only the cultural norms but their own family traditions.

The young woman credited her husband for supporting her decision and enabling her to attend school. That sounds like faint praise to your average American woman, I suspect, but I don't doubt that in her case it was genuine and sincere. Without his approval, she would not be able to do anything in a country where a woman is considered to be the property of whatever man is in charge of her life. And by allowing her to attend school, he risks dishonor for his family, and himself, in a culture where honor drives nearly every interaction and transaction.

She is a brave woman, risking death or other backlash, in her quest for something so elemental that we, in an atmosphere of greater personal freedom, take it entirely for granted. She is, in a word, a hero to me, for standing up in the face of tremendous adversity to make a difference, not only for herself, but for other women, and ultimately men, as well. If she can successfully navigate the educational system, it will encourage others to make the attempt. And because knowledge is power, she is empowering a whole new generation as her sons see that her education makes her a richer, more productive person.

The media has, in my view, confused the word hero with the word idol. Celebrities, actors, sports figures, tech CEO's, politicians - none of them are heroes to me, although they are frequently accorded that status by a world of people who have lost the elemental meaning of what a hero is.

Most heroes are not famous. They don't perform heroic acts to become celebrities, although ever so briefly, they may be thrust into the unwanted limelight for doing what came naturally, although not necessarily easily, to them. On the contrary, from my observation, true heroes frequently shun the media, hiding from the attention, turning aside the suggestion that they are, in any way, extraordinary.

American Idol at least has the moniker right. We idolize celebrities for being famous, regardless of their accomplishments [or lack of accomplishments, as the case may be.] We idolize them for their money, their power, and their prestige. We honor them and fete them and feel like we know them personally, because we have become inundated with the minutiae of their lives. We call them heroes for spending time and bringing attention to their various pet causes. We confuse talking about poverty or illiteracy or child abuse with enduring the consequences of those issues, and we pretend that by adopting a child they are saving the world.

If any word should have a clear meaning, it should be the word hero. It should be used sparingly, and only for those who have earned it. There is no substitute for them, because they are genuine and real, and all too rare in an egocentric universe.

The world is full of unsung heroes, people who have stood up to adversity and overcome it with humility and grace and very little fanfare. We occasionally hear about the passerby that saves someone from a burning building, or jumps into the water to save a drowning child. Every now and then, a human interest story will surface that briefly reminds us a hero is an everyday person in extraordinary circumstances, and they have risen magnificently to the occasion.

I am not elevated by the big catch, or by someone who can play make believe for a living. I don't feel inspired by politicians who make rules for others to live by, nor do I find someone who is famous for being, well, famous, worthy of emulation. I may be envious of their money or their platform or their success or even their good luck, but they don't really change the world for the better with their presence.

I am, instead, called to action by those who have inspired and motivated those around them to be better than they thought they could be, elevating others through their own selfless acts.

Time magazine will probably never name Rukhsana Batool as their person of the year. She likely won't ever design a computer network that connects people on every part of the planet. She may not solve the problem of world hunger, she will probably not provide the way to world peace, she isn't going to find the cure for cancer or the common cold. She won't design a new car, and she certainly won't ever reign in Hollywood.

But Rukhsana Batool has overcome fear and oppression and enculturated ignorance in a show of bravery that uplifts and inspires. She is going to change her own little corner of the world with her fearless action. From such small beginnings revolutions evolve, and she is in the vanguard. To me, that makes her a very special person, someone to hold up and emulate and honor. She is, in a word, a hero.

I have a long list of personal heroes. They are people who have inspired me and prodded me to be better than I thought I could be, people who rose to their own occasion, and made a positive change for someone on a personal level. Corrie Ten Boom, and Miep Gies are my heroes. My mother is my hero. I have a close friend who heroically navigates the tough hand she was dealt in the game that is life.

I am inspired by the ordinary people who came to the aid of those injured in Tucson. I can only hope that if I am ever called to account, I will acquit myself as well as those on Flight 93 on September 11, 2001. I would hope that if I am ever in a position to save someone through my own selfless action I would do it without thinking, because it is the right thing to do.

Rukhsana Batool, you have inspired me, uplifted me, and given me hope that even in the darkest corners of this planet there are people with vision and courage and the inner strength to lead the way to a better world.

Now I think that is something to idolize.

Tragedy and triumph....

It has been a difficult week in the American psyche, as we collectively struggle to understand the shooting of innocent people, including several government officials and a little girl, by a mentally unstable young adult who couldn't make sense of his own reality. It is frightening and horrifying to think that something as simple as attending a meet-and-greet with your congressperson could result in the death of a little girl who hadn't even had the chance to go to middle school.

It is so easy to focus on the many crises, both natural and man-made, that plague this world. There are floods and shootings, landslides and earthquakes; disease, wars, tornadoes and fires. The news cycle focuses on the catastrophic events, running them over and over in an endless loop until it seems we are showered with bad news 24/7.

But, as with every tragedy, out of this horrific situation have come some triumphant moments. It is the triumphs that make life worth living and we must celebrate them for the uplifting moments that they give to us. The valleys are deep and long for most of us, and feel endless. When the mountaintop is reached, we have to embrace the experience with abandon, throwing our arms out in joy and acceptance, affirming the positive moments for the miracles that they are.

The big miracles are easy to see, and to appreciate. A congresswoman should be dead after being shot in the head, but she is alive because of a 20 year old intern hired just five days earlier and who both knew how to stop her bleeding, and had the presence of mind to put his knowledge into action. Another man would have bled to death but for the presence of mind of a stranger, who saw his injury was life threatening, knew what to do, and did it. The gunman was stopped while he was trying to reload by a few people, including one with military training, who decided they weren't going to let him continue his killing spree. Heroes, all of them - everyday people who stepped up to a plate they didn't even know was ready and waiting for them until the moment it happened.

We all celebrate these big miracles, and rightly so, because they show the best of human nature, and make us all a little better. But there are other miracles that happen around us all the time, if we look for them, and I think they should be celebrated, too.

A new baby is a miracle. A budding flower is a miracle, as is a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. A pet saved, a disaster averted, an unexpected hug from a loved one - all can be miracles in the right time and place. Life is full of little miracles, if we look for them. I have been contemplating that this week, in the midst of the obvious miracles that we have seen in Tucson, and I think that I need to be more cognizant of their place in my life.

To me, it is a miracle that my dog is alive today, when he could be dead. I have worked with some phenomenal people this week who made things happen for clients they didn't even know, just because they are great people. I have had uplifting words offered at just the moment I needed them most, and the person had no idea how much they buoyed my spirits by their kindness. Spell check is a miracle every time it catches my mistakes. My truck doesn't need a new transmission when we thought it did, my washing machine didn't break down and need the repair I expected, my driveway got cleared of a heavy snowfall unexpectedly - all are surprising little miracles that made that day, and my life, a little better.

We can take many things away from the shooting in Tucson this week, and each of us brings our own unique perspective to the outcome. Where one person sees it as the obvious reason for gun control, another sees it as an equally obvious reason to allow concealed carry. Where one person sees a need for easier access to mental health care, others fear for unnecessary intervention. I have seen some expressions that congresspeople have no business meeting their constituents on the street corner where everyday people gather, while others abhor the idea that we would further isolate the people making the rules that the rest of us have to live with.

We have many deep and strongly held convictions in this nation today, and many of them are in opposition to each other. It is a difficult and contentious time in our nation's history, and it is easy to focus on the many obstacles to happiness in our country today.

But in the final analysis, the most important thing is what touches each of us personally, and in that, I have decided to focus on the little miracles, and leave the worries behind. My personal world is small, and I lead a small and insignificant life in comparison to a Congresswoman or a judge or a national leader. But even in my small life, I see the miracles every day, if I am willing to look for them. And in that, I think I will find a greater level of joy and peace and satisfaction in my daily living.

In each tragedy, there is a moment of triumph. I wish to everyone a week of small miracles, and the appreciation of what they bring to your life. Happy climbing, and celebrate the mountaintop!