Who more than Self their Country Loved

     Yesterday in church a couple of sections to my right and a few pews back, two gentlemen sat straight and tall in full military dress.   They immediately drew my eyes, my heart, and my respect.  Now admittedly I’m a sucker for a man in uniform, but this time my gaze quickly wandered from the dashingly handsome soldiers to the lady who sat sandwiched between them.  I don’t know the family, but I’m guessing that her rank is wife and mother.  She was beautiful in red, white, and blue and while her outfit might have lacked bars and medals, she was the one who I couldn’t look away from.  The men at her side projected dignity and strength and honor, but that Mama?  She oozed pride from every pore.  I’d venture to say that she is the strongest of the three.  How terrifying it must be to offer those you love most up in service to our Country. 

Every year on Memorial Day I look for the words and pictures posted by a dear, forever friend who lost her husband way too soon.  I didn’t have the privilege of knowing him, but the legacy he left behind in his children speaks volumes as to who he was.  My favorite picture that she shares shows a larger than life, grinning guy in a flight suit standing in front of a plane with his arms flung out around little people who clearly adore him.  There is such love and joy in that picture.  And I’m taken aback every single time that I see it.  It’s not every day that you come face to face with a hero.

At the end of the service yesterday we sang “America the Beautiful”, and my eyes watered up just like they always do.  I love this Country and am ever aware of the fact that the ability to call it home is both an honor and a privilege that I have done absolutely nothing to earn.  The debt of gratitude that I owe to those who made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure that I can attend that church and sing that song and vote my conscience and type these words. . . it’s one that I could never even begin to repay. 

O beautiful for heroes proved

in liberating strife,

who more than self their Country loved,

and mercy more than life!

America! America!

May God thy gold refine

til all success be nobleness

and every gain divine.

Who more than self their Country loved.  If that doesn’t just knock the wind out of you.

Back pew Mama, may our heavenly Father always surround your guys with a hedge of protection and may they feel and know the love of a grateful nation.  To my precious friends for whom today is about so much more than cookouts and pool parties, may the God of the broken-hearted wrap you in a comfort and peace that we cannot even begin to fathom.  I’m so sorry that they didn’t make it home.  Thank you for your service and sacrifice.  I promise to never stop remembering.

B Positive

 

Cooper Warren Dulion arrived via emergency Cesarean section on a Wednesday morning 17 years ago.  It was chaotic and terrifying . . . for most of us.  I didn’t get to see it, but they tell me that Cooper arrived completely unphased, looking calmly around the OR as if to say, “Why the panic, everyone?  It’s all good.”  He was an 8 lb 2 oz, 21 ½ inch bundle of pure perfection.  There was no distress, no worrisome Apgar score, no need for the NICU nurses who stood ready to whisk him away.  He greeted this world and its people as if he knew that he was exactly where he belonged, and that hasn’t changed for 17 years. 

Last weekend Coop donated blood for the first time.  He liked the idea of being able to help people.  He did NOT like the idea of that help involving a needle anywhere in his proximity.  Despite his anxiety, he charmed the ladies responsible for the needles, ATE all the snacks, and somehow managed to get a tour of the back processing area.  He left a pint lighter but gained a t-shirt, gift card, and some kind of multi-tool.  He had such fun that he spent the ride home googling how often you can donate.  Weirdo.

A few days after his super-fantastic experience Cooper was notified of his blood type . . . B Positive.  Imagine that.  I couldn’t make it up if I tried.  B positive.  It’s funny because it’s true.  He is and always has been.  Positive that if you look for the good, you will find it.  Positive that it really will all work out exactly as it should.  Positive that if he tries hard enough, he can do it. Positive that all people are his people.   And positive that he is EXACTLY where he belongs. 

Happy birthday my beautiful boy.  I know that you are the one who gets to make the wishes today, but if I could borrow a candle or two, I’d wish that you always . . .

. . . be positive of your ability to make a difference.

. . . be positive that kindness counts, and the good guy really does win in the end.

. . . be positive that He knows the plans He has for you.

. . . be positive that your big, big heart is your most beautiful feature.

I absolutely adore you, Cooper Warren Dulion, from the top of your head to the tip of those big, hairy toes. Of that you can always be positive.

More than you’ll ever know,

Mommy

If You Give a Boy a Cookie . . .

Cooper has a nut allergy.  The scary kind that EpiPens and ambulance rides were created for.  When he was little class party days were the stuff of nightmares for me.  So many edible things from so many different places so completely out of my control.  I made it my life’s work to make sure that he didn’t put ANYTHING in his mouth without being absolutely certain that there were no nuts lurking within.  By age six I don’t know that he had ever had a whole cookie – one that I had not broken in half, examined, smelled, and probably taken a bite from.  We trained like Navy Seals on all of the sneaky places, like banana bread and brownies, where nuts like to hide.  We learned that crisscrossed fork imprints are the telltale sign of a peanut butter cookie, but not always, so don’t just assume so!  And somehow, by God’s precious grace, a cautious little boy, and a paranoid mama, he survived that treacherous life stage known as elementary school.  I can remember my sense of accomplishment – he was listening!  He got it!  Done and done!

But not really.

A couple of weeks ago, my baby boy was at a friend’s house and ate the cookie.  No breaking in half, no sniffing, no bringing it to me to take a bite first, NONE of it.  He just ate the cookie.  And then, just for good measure, he ate five more.  What had looked like his dear friend the traditional chocolate chip had turned out to be its contaminated cousin, peanut butter chocolate chip (didn’t we cover that in SEAL training?!).  That night when I finally felt confident enough to let him go to sleep, as I sat and listened to his steady breathing, I thought “Oh well, I just thought we’d mastered that.  Was he even listening to anything we taught him all this time?”.

And then I stopped and thought about this boy of mine.  OF COURSE he was listening all that time.  He shows us that every single day.  He messed up.  He was having fun, let his guard down, and made a mistake.  He ate the cookie.  And it scared him, and he knew exactly what to do, and he learned from it.  What in the world more could a parent ask for?  That isn’t the last time he’ll eat the cookie (let’s hope henceforth they will be mere metaphorical nut-free cookies), and I hope that every single time, without fail, when he has messed up and is scared, he will do the exact same thing.  He’ll call us.  Immediately.  He’ll trust that we’ll be right here and that, no matter how upset or disappointed we may be, we will love him through it.  And then, after the initial freak out, when the swelling has gone down and our blood pressure has returned to normal, I hope that he’ll learn from it.   If that can happen, then we will have done our job.  

The baby boy turns 16 today.   He is 6 foot 4 inches of pure wonderful.  There is just absolutely nothing like him, and being his Mama is one of the greatest honors of my life.  On his 10th birthday I wrote these words, and while “Green Team” has long since been replaced by football mornings and basketball afternoons, I’m still captain of the Cheer Squad, and that won’t ever change. . . 

This week we talked about decimals as we waited in car line, and then you kissed me before you got out to start your day.  I watched you as you hurried to the door, anxious to be the first Green Team member signed in so that you could get the best hallway.  But then it happened, despite your hurry.  It took mere seconds.  No one else noticed it, but I did.  You stopped at the door, held it open, and glanced over your shoulder to make sure there was no one behind you before letting the door swing closed.  That heart for others wouldn’t dare let it close on someone, wouldn’t dream of not holding it open for the next person.  “There he is!!”  “That’s my boy!!”  “That’s what I’m talking about!!”  You didn’t hear it, but your cheering section went WILD.  It just took a glance over your shoulder to make my heart swell.  Why?  Because I live you.  And when you shine, I feel it with every fiber of my being.

Happy, happy birthday, my Cooper.  Instead of cookies, today let’s eat CAKE!

More than you’ll ever know,

Mommy

Tune My Heart

 

There are those rare, perfect mornings when you have the luxury of opening your eyes not at the insistence of a beeping alarm, but rather just because they are ready to open.  When the sun is slanting just perfectly through your blinds, and the tip of your nose is chilly while the rest of you is snuggly warm.  When rather than rushing straight to the laundry list of “to do” items that will crowd your day, your mind has those sweet few minutes to wallow and wander and wake.  This morning was just that kind of morning, and in those sweet moments of waking, the only thought that flooded my mind, the sole all-consuming and overwhelming greeting to my day was a resounding “thank You, thank You, thank You”.  And I knew, even as I said it over and over and over again, that somehow “thank You” was an incredibly lacking sentiment for a morning, a day, a life like this one. 

Later as I dawdled around the kitchen, the air in the house still kissed with the chill from the night before and the view through the window above the sink absolutely picture perfect, I landed on what I’d been reaching for earlier.  It filled every part of me as if someone were right there next to me at the kitchen sink singing it . . . tune my heart to sing Thy grace.  THAT.  Not just an occasional “thank You” when I stop long enough to remember my manners, but rather all all-consuming, never ceasing, overflowing, overwhelming state of absolute gratitude for ALL THE THINGS, ALL THE TIME. 

I couldn’t put it out of my mind.  It echoed there as I grabbed for the words that someone else had already said so well . . . streams of mercy, never ceasing.  It was one of those rare, beautiful, “stop what you are doing and write this down because this is important, and you need this” kind of moments that are so incredibly precious to me.  One of those times that I’m reminded that He most certainly is talking to me if I will just have the sense to be still and know.  A make your heart beat fast because your fingers can’t keep up with your thoughts, and remember to breathe because now that you’ve stopped to think about it for a minute, His love for you just takes your breath away kind of moment.  I googled the words and just soaked them in . . .

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace

Streams of mercy, never ceasing

Call for songs of loudest praise

Teach me some melodious sonnet

Sung by flaming tongues above

Praise the mount, I'm fixed upon it

Mount of Thy redeeming love     (Come They Fount of Every Blessing, Robinson)

Now, stop reading here if you don’t want to have your toes good and stepped on.  We are, my sweet friends, a bunch of spoiled, whiney complainers.  Sometime after Mr. Robinson penned those words back in 1758, we exchanged our Praise Pants for a more comfortable pair of Bellyaching Britches.   Why is it so easy to focus on what’s wrong rather than to shine the light on the good?  Why has that become our default?  Please note that I’m intentionally using “we” and “our” because I am talking LOUD AND CLEAR to the Negative Nelly in the mirror.  It’s so easy to blame it on “our current situation” or 2020 or a horrible virus or an election year, but at the end of the day, it is a CHOICE.  And I’ve been choosing to let that mess get all over me, draped around my neck like an albatross, weighing me down like concrete boots, and wearing it like a fur coat in August. “It” has been sitting heavy on my head, and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was until this morning when my precious Father whispered in my ear.  Yes, work is hard and life is hard and the world is hurting and broken and no child should ever be sick or hungry or scared and mediocrity is rewarded and the evil squeaky wheel seems to always get the grease and cancer is the very cellular embodiment of Satan himself and college professors who are too smart for their own good try to make us doubt our faith and our team loses and loses and loses and our drive-through order is never correct and the mask gives us chin zits and there just aren’t enough hours in the day to do it all and sometimes it takes a lot of effort to even see a tiny flicker of good, BUT here I am.  There is Me.  And My mercy, it’s never ceasing. 

Last night at Cooper’s football game a group of fans from the opposing team came to the game with one purpose, to whole-heartedly heckle our players.  And boy, did they deliver.  They rattled our guys without even really trying very hard.  Michael commented that every time they started up, our band should start playing.  Just drown them out, he said.  And that, precious ones, is the answer.  Found right there in the bleachers of a high school football stadium.  Songs of LOUDEST praise.  It’s not going away.  All of the ugly?  It will all still be there in our periphery trying to rattle us, and, just as sure as I know that not every morning will start like this morning did for me, I am far too realistic to think that our band will always be able to play loudly enough to drown it out.  But, we sure can make a conscious effort to at least try.  To be sensitive to its creeping in, to know when its weight starts to drag us down.  To know that then, at that moment, THAT is when it’s most important to toot our flute or bang our drum and just drown it out.  Tune my heart, Lord.  When the world is heckling me and it’s just too easy to add to the ugly, teach me the melody of Your mercy and grace.  Remind my heart to sing.  Isn’t it a beautiful thing to picture?  Our all too often whispered faith turning into songs of LOUDEST praise.

And just in case our current state of affairs has your heart’s tuning fork just a little rusty or if perhaps the language of the 1700s doesn’t resonate strongly with you, I took the liberty of adding a new verse to Mr. Robinson’s work (expecting a call from the Hymnal company any day) . . .

Shut my mouth, stop my complaining.

Fill my heart with gratitude.

There is good, help me to see it,

even when someone is rude.

Remind me when in traffic.

Always kind help me to be.

Tune my heart, let others see it.

More of You and less of me.

 

Learner's Permit

I know that this will come as quite a shock to those of you reading this, but this little blog of mine doesn’t have a very impressive readership.  I know, I know, hard to believe isn’t it?!  Let’s just say that being a quarterback’s doppelgänger will get you far more fame than writing a mom blog.  I do, however, have one loyal, dedicated fan who reads and rereads every word that I write.  Who actually asks when I’m going to write something new.  He’s the President and sole dues-paying member of my fan club, and today is his 15^th birthday.  So, it only seemed fitting that I “write something new” on one of my very favorite days of the year. . .

My Cooper,

We automatically associate turning 15 with getting a “Learner’s Permit”.  It’s funny actually, because in reality each of the 15 years you’ve lived so far have been one big Learner’s Permit.  When you really stop to think about how much you’ve learned in that snippet of time, it’s amazing.  15 years ago you couldn’t walk or talk or feed yourself.  Heck, even rolling from your tummy to your back was a HUGE accomplishment worthy of notation in the old baby book. 

 Learning what an Uneven Pavement sign looks like and who has the right-of-way at a four-way stop are small potatoes in comparison to all the learning you’ve managed to pack into life thus far.  The wonderful thing about being your Mama,though?  I’ve gotten to learn right along with you my precious boy.  And, while I mastered the art of rolling over quite some time ago, these are the things that you’ve taught me so far . . .

  1.  Think big thoughts and feel big feels.

  2.  A heart for others is a beautiful thing.

  3.  Ask Questions – lots of questions.

  4.  You can be both confident and humble.

  5.  Be loyal.  Even when it's hard.

  6.  Be genuine.  Be kind.  Be genuinely kind.

  7.  Sometimes you do the right thing just because it’s the right thing to do.

  8.  Making other people feel good makes you feel good.

  9.  Everyone needs a friend.  Why not me?

10.  Find the good.  There is always good.

11.  Look them in the eye and have a firm handshake, everything else will take care of itself.

12.  Cheer for the underdog; be a voice for the voiceless; defend the defenseless.

13.  Be appreciative.  Always.

14.  Give compliments. Mean them.

15.  Tell them you love them.  Often.  There’s no such thing as too often.

This morning when you opened your eyes you were 15 years old.  The first text you sent was to your Daddy, Grace, and me.  It had nothing to do with your birthday breakfast or your gifts or what special things were planned for the day.  Your first thought was for a friend who never got to celebrate his 15^th birthday, and your heart hurt for him and his family, and you needed us to hurt with you because it felt big and important that his loss not get lost in your joy.  We didn’t teach you that kind of BIG LOVE, Cooper.  You came to us that way, and we’re so incredibly thankful for the gift of your big, beautiful heart.  We still have so much to learn from you, and we just cannot wait to see what lessons this year holds!

There, I “wrote something new”.  I also needed to mention the Fan Club dues increase, but we can discuss that later.

                                                         More than you’ll ever know,

                                                                           Mommy

Make the Poster Anyway!

In the last few days I’ve seen news of a growing movement started by some coach, somewhere.  His suggestion?  To put an end to the notorious “HoCo and Prom-posals” that have gained popularity in recent years.  In response to this suggestion, Boy Mamas across the country have joined hands in a joyful circle to raise their collective voices in a resounding “Amen!”.  If you’re in that circle of praise, you might want to stop right here, Sweet Friend.  I try to avoid controversy at all costs – hate it!  You won’t see a political post or often even so much as a strong opinion from this girl.  But on this subject, I feel like I have a little something to say.  Please know that I’m not saying that you’re wrong in your rejoicing – I never would.  I’m just saying that I don’t think that I’m wrong either. 

I am well aware that mine isn’t the popular opinion on this subject, but I’m afraid I won’t be joining the “No Mo ProPo” movement.  There’s no need to make room for me in the circle.  And here’s why…

I actually LIKE sitting at the kitchen table gluing flowers to cheap poster board with my boy.  The key part of that grammatically incorrect sentence is “with my boy”.  I have his attention.  We talk.  I get to hear his excitement, his worry, his happy, his insight into good friends and kinda friends and life in general.  I get a front row seat to what’s going on with that boy of mine.  Turns out that glue and markers and pretty handwriting are the perfect vehicles for real conversation. 

I like to see he and his sister doing this part of life together because that window is closing - fast.  Brainstorming silly poems.  Giving advice; rolling eyes at given advice.  Discussing potential group dynamics or the best picture taking spots.  They are quite a team those two.  It’s a beautiful thing to watch.

I like the fact that he is learning that some things are worth the extra effort.  That people, that girls, that friends, that important things are worth the extra effort.  This is just one more opportunity as a parent that I can discourage the all-too-easy bare minimum mentality.  One day I think an employer just might appreciate that (especially if the job description involves the use of sharpies!).

I like the fact that the sweet little girl on the receiving end of that silly poster will be made to feel special.  I’m a girl mama too, so I can attest to the giddy result of these silly asks.  Shouldn’t we take every opportunity to make someone feel special?  And if that can be done with something as simple as a poster, well, sign me up.

I like the fact that Cooper had the chance to practice meeting a dad and shaking his hand and looking him in the eye, even if it was absolutely TERRIFYING. 

I like the fact that he had butterflies on the drive to her house.  That it was hard and scary.  Life is hard and scary, and it is so important to show up anyway.  I like the fact that we brainstormed contingency plans and that he trusted me to be the “getaway driver” and the person who would help him change schools should the proposal go awry. 

I like the fact that he was present.  They were there.  Together.  IN PERSON.  He SPOKE words.  They weren’t texted using abbreviations.  He spoke the words.  And if he needed to be behind a cute poster to do it?  Well then OK. 

I like that it’s a little thing that is celebrated big.  I’m raising him to be a husband and a daddy, and I want him to know that little things are important and worthy of celebration.  I’m thinking about the daddy who may one day be called upon to write a song and choreograph a dance in celebration of the first time a little person poops on the potty.  That’s the daddy I want to raise.

I like that it’s just plain fun.  I worry sometimes that our children – the children who start stressing about AP courses and SAT scores and college admissions while they’re still in middle school – just don’t always have enough good old, creative, goofy fun. 

And, as harsh as this may sound, I like the fact that sometimes the answer is “no” and it hurts and it’s embarrassing and it makes you want to never, ever, ever ask ANYTHING again, but you just have to.  As much as we want to keep them in a safe bubble, we just can’t.  We should be raising world changing, “that’s just the way it is” questioning, “not on my watch”, wrong-righting, risk takers.  Not everybody gets a trophy, but you show up and play anyway.  Not everybody is nice, but you should be kind anyway.  She just might say “no” . . .  I think that I just might get a t-shirt made . . . “Make the Poster Anyway”!     

      

I understand what you’re saying, Coach, and good for you for investing in those boys – clearly you care.  And maybe just simply asking really is enough.  But why settle for just "enough"?  Do you encourage just enough yardage for the 1st down in lieu of going for the game-winning touchdown?  I doubt it.  

I support you, Praise-Circle Mamas, I absolutely do.  I get that the posters and the planning and the driving – they are just one. more. thing.  And we are tired.  For me though?  These moments, they are so precious and so fleeting.  So, I will make ALL THE POSTERS and take ALL the pictures.  And I will post them for you to see, and you can roll your collective eyes, and that is so absolutely ok, sweet friend.  I will love you anyway from my spot right here outside of the circle, and I will happily use this extra poster board and make you THE BEST poster even if the only celebration-worthy thing you accomplished today was going poop on the potty.  Now, pass that hot glue gun, because soon, WAY TOO SOON, my house will be quiet, and the kitchen table will be clean. 

Lay down Sally, Rest here in my arms

You cannot fully appreciate the phrases “utter hopelessness” or the “depths of despair” until you’ve watched a flustered sixth grader stare into the soulless black eye of their very first combination lock.  “Why?”, their defeated little souls cry out as they drown in a sea of lined index cards, 3” 3-ring binders, and unsharpened number two pencils, “Why has life suddenly lost its meaning?! Why am I powerless to this contraption whose impenetrable complexity must surely rival that of Ft. Knox?  And who in the world thought it wise to go PAST the second number the first time around . . . WHAT does that even mean?!”.  

We’ll call her Sally because there just aren’t enough of those anymore.  My heart must have seen her there in the hallway seconds before my eyes registered her presence.  If ever there was a casting call for the part of “eager 6^th grader”, Sally nailed it from the humongous bookbag that made her look a bit like a turtle right down to her brand-new tennis shoes with the scuff-free white soles.  She had the tip of her tongue clenched between her teeth in utter and complete concentration as she tried for what was probably the 742^nd time to gain access to her locker.  She couldn’t have been more appreciative when I stopped and offered to help, and was all smiles as she ran off to her next class – in the complete wrong direction.

That was Monday.  I didn’t think of Sally again until Wednesday when I saw her there in the hallway once again bravely doing battle with her locker.  This time, however, something was different.  Sally wasn’t standing quite as tall, her face wasn’t quite as determined, and – now, I might have imagined this part – her tennis shoes weren’t quite as shiny.  When she saw me stop next to her, her eyes met mine, and her sweet face crumpled.  “This is hard, and I’m tired of trying.  I’m just, I’m just tired.”  She turned back to the lock and was surprised when I put my hand over it.  I think she expected me to open it for her and looked so very confused when I made no move to do so.  I left my hand where it was and asked if there was anything that she needed from inside her locker at that very moment.  When we’d determined that she, in fact, had all that she needed for her next class, I kept my hand firmly over the lock and said, “I know it’s hard and it’s ok to be tired. I also know that you CAN do this.  It doesn’t feel like it right this minute, but you can and you will.  But for now?   Just leave it.  You’ll come back and try again later.  For now, just leave it.”

“This is hard, and I’m tired of trying.  I’m just, I’m just tired.”  And it was, and she was, and life is, and sometimes we all are. I’m not sure exactly when it became unacceptable to just admit that we’re tired.  Of course, there is something to be said for perseverance and pushing through, but sometimes we are just plain tired of being all that we can be and just doing it and going the extra mile and reaching for those darn stars.  You won’t hear it from Tony Robbins nor find it on a canvas at the Hobby Lobby, but some days mediocre is absolutely beautiful, and enough is just that – it’s totally, completely and absolutely enough.  And on those days when the most positive, life-giving affirmation that we can drum up to whisper to ourselves before falling asleep is, “at least we didn’t have to use the fire extinguisher and the dog’s diarrhea seems to have stopped” . . . well, some days that’s just enough.  Sometimes we’ve turned that lock just as many times as we can stand to turn it, and we just need to walk away.  Yes, we CAN do it.  But for now?  For now, we just need to leave it. 

I find myself asking so often these days “what is wrong with this world of ours?”.  And you know what I think?  I think the author of the Christmas song was on to something.  We ARE a “weary world”.  We’re all just trying so hard to open our lockers, and sometimes it is hard, and we are just so tired.  SO, since it is the season of “Classroom Rules”, THIS is what I would post on the world’s bulletin board if I could:

Rules to Remedy a Weary World

1.  Notice

Look up from your phone and just notice.  Notice the lady whose hands are full and rush ahead to open the door for her just to be nice.  Notice that the seemingly incompetent driver’s license plate is from out-of-state and let them over because they really don’t know where they are going. Notice when a child remembers to use their manners.  Notice when the sky is the most beautiful blue that you’ve ever seen.  Notice lightening bugs that flicker in your backyard.  We miss so much joy simply because we fail to notice.  If we were meant to wear blinders, we’d be horses.  Peripheral vision is a gift; use it.

2.  Find Rest

“Come to Me all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”  It’s one of my favorites.  What a beautiful gift to offer someone . . . rest.  Not just sleep, but rest.  In my mind’s eye I picture a loving Daddy God calling us into His lap where we can just be still.  Jesus knew that the reality of our lives wouldn’t always look exactly like our FaceBook posts.  He knew that sometimes life would be hard and that we would just be tired.  He didn’t offer to fix it for us or shame us into working harder or focusing on the positive.  He simply offered sweet rest.  Admitting that we’re tired doesn’t make us any less thankful, grateful, or blessed.  Sometimes we just need to walk away from our locker.  Sometimes we just need to lay it down and leave it for now.  Sometimes we just need to rest.  And that is so absolutely ok.

3.  Speak kindness and affirmation into others

Last week a dear, sweet lady made an effort to pour kindness all over me with a compliment that my heart needed to hear at that very moment.  She had absolutely no way of knowing that I needed it nor did she have anything to gain by making the effort, but we both walked away from the exchange standing a little bit taller just because she spoke kindness.  Did you notice someone’s new outfit?  Tell them!  Is he sporting a new haircut?  Mention it!  Does someone make you smile just because they exist in this world?  Words of affirmation are a love language in which we can all be fluent. 

4.  Dance with them when they feel like dancing

I remember when the children were small, we celebrated EVERYTHING.  She rolled over – cheer like crazy people.  He used the potty – make up a ridiculous song and sing it in a conga line around the bathroom.  As adults we are so terribly quick to point out failures; if only we were so eager to celebrate successes.  Football players dance in the end zone; we too should celebrate every single one of life’s touchdowns with that same level of enthusiasm.  Nab the closest parking place in the Kroger parking lot?  You jump out of that car, spike that ball, and flap those knees, my friend.  I’ll be right there, dancing with you.

On Thursday I happened to walk by at the exact moment that Sally opened her locker ON THE VERY FIRST TRY.  Our eyes met, and we smiled.  Neither one of us wanted to endanger Sally's cool points, but in our minds?  Oh MAN did we dance!