I’m a girly girl.
I don’t leave home without lipstick or gloss. Accessories are a not an option, they are a necessity. I like pink, and if it sparkles I love it.
So you might find it strange I hate long nails. Perhaps it’s the way they click on my keyboard when I type that sends me over the edge. Nevertheless, I try to keep them cut short.
Today as I was responding to some emails, I noticed the clickity clack of my nails on the keyboard. I stopped to inspect. Shocked at the long length, I hopped up and ran to the bathroom to retrieve my clippers.
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I stared into the blue water of the pool, then down at my flip-flops. I lifted a wary eyebrow towards my brother. His eyes wide, he nodded, encouraging me to take a step.
“You’ll walk on water – just like Jesus,” Jay told me. I had completely dried from our summer dip in the pool and stood wrapped in my faded Kodak towel my mom got for sending off the UPC codes from film boxes. Kneeling down beside the pool, I removed a flip-flop and gently placed it on the water.
To my seven-year-old delight, it floated.
My brother, almost three years older and wiser, stood smug beside me.
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I didn’t really want a dog. 
I’m not a pet person. But something about the floppy ears and the big brown eyes even melted this always-sanitize-after-petting girl. Don’t buy me an “I love my Lab” t-shirt yet, but I will admit I strongly like my dog – most of the time.
My husband recently installed an underground electric fence. Our poor pooch, Comet, gets a little jolt any time she comes near the gates of our wooden fence. That Houdini of a dog has escaped the backyard more times than I can count and once was caught by animal control. So we had to do something to keep her safe.
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It’s the beginning of December when they start making their appearance. First as a slow trickle, but then two by two they march into my mailbox – Christmas cards.
In recent years, the majority are picture greetings. With giddy excitement, I tear open each one, eager to see the creative cards and read well wishes. Every year I display them across my kitchen cabinets, smiling faces greeting me as I cook and help with homework.
For years, I struggled with what to do with them at the end of the season. It seemed a crime to toss the beautiful glossies of the families I loved in the trash.
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Written on
November 21, 2012 by
Carol in
Blog
In a cabin on the edge of the Smoky Mountains, she sits together at a table with her parents and children. In her eyes are strength and beauty, but behind them there is brokenness and despair.
Her one true love left the earth too soon and the thought of going through the holidays without him is almost too much. In the quiet of her mind, she has relived the entire last Thanksgiving – the meal, the conversations, the games played and even the private laughs they shared when no one else was around.
She isn’t alone. There are many today who will take this day one breath at a time.
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“En nombre de Padre, de Hijo, y de espiritu santo.”
The waters stirred as the dark haired gentleman followed the pastor into the baptismal pool. The pastor introduced himself and this gentleman to the congregation. Hundreds of eyes rested on these two as they readied to represent Christ’s death, burial, and resurrection. “This man comes to us tonight to be baptized.” Those were the last words I understood.
The pastor then spoke beautiful Spanish as fluid as the water in which he stood. The words were engaging but made no sense to me. I followed as closely as possible listening for chunks of words I understood comparing them to the words I knew and expected at a baptism.
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Tiny sock covered feet shuffle across the carpet towards my room. I hear the shh-shh-shh-shuffle getting closer. It stops a few feet from me. I look up to sleepy eyes and tornado hair. She waits. “Good morning bitty girl!” I muster all the excitement in me. Her eyes brighten, her eyebrows raise, and her mouth tips upward as she takes a flying leap towards my legs with arms outstretched. I cover her head with kisses and bend down to sprinkle some love on her cheeks and forehead, as well.
Every morning is the same. My little girl drags into my room and waits to be acknowledged.
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You are finally here. After weeks and months of planning, you are here. It’s hot, but you don’t mind. You can almost feel the wind whipping through your hair already. A bead of sweat strolls lazily down your back, but your smile doesn’t waver.
As you walk through the gates you grab a map. It’s not like you need one. You memorized the lay of the park even last night before you fell asleep, knowing which rides you would hit first. Your arms swing quickly to keep time with your step.
Finally, you catch sight of it in the distance. Your eyes strain to read the sign at the entrance.
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