Have A Little...

Faith.  A simple word with complicated meaning.  It is a seed buried deep within our spiritual cores, ready to be nourished and blossom with the sprinklings of tragedy.  It is a belief that things will work out, despite our lack of vision for fate's secretive reasons of the bumpy journey we must endure.  It is an inherent hope that has either sustained us or has failed us miserably.  Yes, to me, this is faith.

We all have known faith.  Embraced it.  Bargained with it.  Coddled it within our breaking hearts. Placed it on a pedestal of worship. I have, too.  With undertones that may be religious, spiritual, or meditative, we lean against its pillars of reassurance.  Sometimes, as they say, it is all we have to cling to during desperate times.

Working in an emergency room for 16 years, I have seen faith present its various faces many times.  It may be within the circle of a grieving family, their hands clasped in prayer.  It may be in the young mother's eyes, watchful of her sick child lying in a hospital cot.  It may be in the older gentleman's anguished cries as I share the devastating results of his wife's testing.  It may be in the silent strength of the obvious love of a dying man's partner.  It may be in the ER staff's comforting whispers.  Faith cannot be contained, especially in tragic circumstances.  I tend to think it is a part of the coping fabric that threads all of our lives.

Why do I think that?  Because, those moments of my life where I had to believe in something more, where I had to dig deep within the rubble of my soul to scrape a little bit of sanity, were during intense, personal moments.  My son's illness.  My mother's death.  My grandmother's death.  A life-threatening injury to my father.  I swear, when my mother and my son were both simultaneously enduring chemotherapy, I stared faith right in the face and bargained with it.  Threatened it, even.  "If something happens to my son," I uttered to invisible universal ears while pulling at my hair, "I will never forgive you for it." Yes, I know faith.  It has been my best friend and my worst enemy.

After my son's initial diagnosis, I stood in the hospital corridors outside of his pediatric room, disheartened and in disbelief.  Cole had just returned from the OR where a mediport had been placed in preparation for an aggressive initial round of chemotherapy.  My spiritual guidance, Father Tom, stood beside me, recognizing my slipping faith.  "Why Cole?" I asked, over and over, tearful and angry.  "Why couldn't it have been me?  What kind of world do we live in for a child to endure this?"

Father Tom, in his infinite wisdom, answered my pleas with words that I still carry to this day.  His words, to me, exemplify the true nature of faith.  "Jim," he said, his voice husky and comforting, his arm wrapped around my trembling shoulders, "I can't answer your questions.  I wish I could, but I can't."  He paused slightly, choosing his words.  "I can only pray that at some point in Cole's life, on his journey, the answers of 'Why?' will become more evident.  That the reasons will be more clear to all of us of why he was chosen to endure this illness."  In other words, in staring at a big, suffocating fog of nothingness, Father Tom was telling me that I must have faith.

How does one do that?

At my rock bottom, the openness of my mind was staggering. I listened to any words of support and encouragement, my hopes and faith hinging onto any little hint of a better tomorrow. I'd walk away from family and friends, my mind reeling and spitting out their words to suit my recovery, my belief system.  Ultimately, I learned to believe that all things in our lives happen for a reason. I had to arrive at the belief that Cole would survive and thrive, that the years we will have together would be many.  To not arrive at this point would have meant a certain death in an unattainable part of my core.  I was learning to survive by walking the path that my faith created.

Cole survived.  And as I type these words, I whisper a silent thank you to those universal ears of faith that fulfilled my every request.

Every day, though, followed by every week, every month, and every year, there is more profound sadness, more tragedy, that requires us to dig deep and rediscover our faith.  To recommit ourselves to examine our morals and ideals while we cope with a crisis.  A few years back, another setback occurred in my life, plummeting me even farther into my spiritual well.  Cole had veered from remission while my mother concurrently fought a losing battle against leukemia.  And I was back to the same dark place that I had turned my back on just a few years earlier.

Again, though, my faith sustained me.  It wasn't easy.  But now, with things going well, especially after my very own first health setback, I sit here and appreciate the moments of goodness in my life.  I have learned, from these various experiences, to give my attention to faith during the good times, too.  My faith has been tested and tried and, fortunately, has sustained me in my times of need.  It is my time to feed some nourishment back, during the good times, to those who have surrounded me with smiles and encouragement and and unwavering friendship and love. A phone call. A card. A lunch date. A smile. Some kind words.

It is a two-way street that I have learned to travel with faith.

Where does your life sit right now, on this very day?  Are things going well for you?  Are you facing crisis?  Are you recovering from or approaching a trying moment?  Are you engaged in the environment surrounding your life? How is your support system?  And, most importantly, how is your faith?  Do you think maybe that little seed patiently waiting to sprout within you, in a moment of need, might appreciate a little attention now?  If so, give it some.  Sow it.  Water it. Feed it.  Coddle it.  Embrace it. The effort taken now to examine and understand your faith will reap you rewards when you most need them.

All around me, including dear family and friends, including strangers and patients in the ER, I see daily struggles occurring.  At times, I feel helpless and out of sorts, my seat on the sidelines but a useless location to witness another's misery. But I know, from continuing to grow as a compassionate and kind person, that good times will prevail if one can just hang in there. So, please, just hang in there.

And have a little...                     

The Beaten Path

It has been almost five years since my mother lost her brave war against leukemia. Within this time frame, sadly, some of Mom's familiar traditions have become more of a fond memory rather than a continued reality. For example, although we can all cook a Christmas ham, it was Mom who criss-crossed those seasoning cloves just right on the hind, drowning them again and again with her secret glaze until the browning and flavoring were perfect. And it was Mom who decorated our home and Christmas tree into a welcoming, warm winter wonderland, season after season. Sure, my wife and sisters could probably duplicate her feats, given enough time, but it's just not the same without that extra ooomph of Mom's energy swirling among all the festive activities. Of her love swirling among her family.

The realization (or maybe, rather, fear) that someday my kids wouldn't remember Gramma, with her specialness and unique ways, was so strong, so biting, immediately after her death that I, along with my siblings, worked hard on trying to keep things just the way they were before she died. We tried to arrange the food in the fridge like she did. We continued keeping a pen and paper on the counter in the kitchen, right where she did. We folded towels just right, "like Mom taught us." We changed bedsheets from the cotton variety to flannel and then back during the revolving seasons of each year. We spritzed her perfume in the bedroom, desperately trying to keep her scent fresh. Writing cards, cooking a favorite meal, shopping in excess (with seven kids, if something was on sale, you bought ten of it), calling one another on Sundays...

Not only us kids, but Dad, too, seemed to expend a momentous amount of energy into recreating a surrounding environment much as Mom would maintain. As if somehow, despite Mom's permanent absence, submerging ourselves into a specific physicality of life would sustain our memories and souls.

Wrong.

Slowly, we each learned (at different paces and different depths) that it was okay to create new memories. New traditions. That it was not a betrayal of Mom or her memory to not bake a ham on Christmas or to not fold the towels in tri-fold but rather bi-fold. Memories injected with her presence, I learned, would always make me smile, no matter how things may now be done.

As a result, new traditions have begun to emerge within my family, poking their hesitant faces through the stomped, packed-down soil (laid by moi) and into our sunlight. They are now welcomed whole-heartedly. Fresh Polish sausage and perogies have become our Christmas dinner staple.

Dad, like a few of my siblings, will still occasionally struggle over the exactness of maintaining Mom's traditions. However, he too has gradually learned to let go of some of the uniqueness of these traditions and, instead,"go with the flow." His smiles and good-naturedness seem to walk hand-in-hand with releasing some of that burden. As they say, a remake is rarely as good as the original.

Just like the rest of us, Dad has also created some of his own rituals and traditions. And recently, while visiting him over the holidays, I was reminded of one of his rituals that I hope he never abandons.

It was during the drive home to visit my father that I explained to my wife that I was struggling to find material to write through the holidays that did not carry too much "heaviness" to it. It seemed all I was observing in the ER were patients and families with too many problems, too much heartache, and too high a level of expectation that we could fix all of their problems. On Christmas day alone, I continued, I had seen several elderly adults, without any complaints, "dumped" off in our ER by family who then immediately left to resume their holiday celebrations. "You'll have to keep Mom a few days," said one son, "so don't call me to come pick her up." After seeing an older gentleman for "trouble walking for ten years," abandoned by his family in our waiting room, I was losing a little faith.

Where was the love?

As we approached my childhood hometown, much like we always do, we turned off the main highway onto a small country road, a road that leads to the cemetery where my mother is buried. Single-lane and winding, my kids love how I beep before each sharp curve to alert an opposing vehicle or pedestrian that we are "coming around the mountain." It is a five-mile country journey that we have grown to love, anticipating the moment when we can pull off the bumpy dirt road and into the cemetery, where Mom is always waiting for our visit, right beside Christ on his crucifix. A visit back always starts this way.

Cautiously, because of freshly falling snow, our vehicle ascended the cemetery's small entrance knoll, turning left and then right and then left again, until we parked alongside the field where Mom is buried. As the kids always do, they hurried from our SUV and ran to Mom's grave stone, appreciating the fresh evergreen wreath, the new plaque, the winter flowers, and the leftover sea shells brought by Gracie the previous summer.

As my wife and I took our time getting out of the vehicle, my wife pointed down to the snow-covered ground and exclaimed, "Jim, do you see what I see?" I looked to where her finger was pointing, to the aisle leading to my mother's grave, but remained oblivious to her point.

"Look at all the other grave sites and aisles leading to them," she continued, "and tell me what you see."

I looked around at the cemetery, paying extra attention to the aisles. They were covered in freshly-fallen snow, hardly disturbed, except for the occasional lone foot prints leading to a stone and back. I looked back at the aisle leading to my mother's grave site. And then I got it--my wife's amazingly simple point.

"Do you see the footprints?" she asked, as I looked down to appreciate the well-worn path made by my father's size 15 winter boots, a path that lead right to my mother. His multiple trips back and forth were evident.

And suddenly, at this very moment during this very holiday season, I had found the love. A diamond of wonder among the sparse holiday rubble of disappointments.

My father will soon be turning 81 and, yet, twice a day, every day for the last five years, he has visited my mother. Through thick and thin. Through sunshine and snowstorms. Through the emerging dawn and the pending dusk. Rearranging fresh flowers, lovingly trimming weeds, and cursingly wiping bird poop for her stone's top. Crossing himself time and again while whispering his prayers. Sometimes, I imagine, wiping a tear from his eye. Sometimes, I'm sure, smiling his big smile while immersed in a warm memory.

And down at my feet, where I stood, was the proof of his five-year tradition--his beaten path leading to and from Mom's grave.

I smiled big, hugging my wife for pointing out this almost-missed moment. How could I have not seen this beaten, well-worn path? I grabbed my cell phone and immediately took several pictures, one included above, although none captured the minute details of each of my father's boot prints. It didn't matter, though. The moment had imprinted itself into my mind, forever.

And suddenly, as I looked toward my wife, who had joined my kids at Mom's grave site, I spun myself around, taking in the magnificent surrounding mountains while breathing in the clean country air. This world of ours made sense--the clarity of things changing, of the constant coming and going of new and old traditions that would continue to feed our wanting souls.

I wonder what traditions my children will continue when they become adults. Me? I know one tradition I hope to someday emulate or be the recipient of...

The beaten path.

To Karen, thanks for pointing out the obvious to me. As always, a big thanks to you for reading...I hope you each had a great holiday season and are enjoying the new year.

Bald Is Beautiful

She was sitting up and resting comfortably in her hospital cot, her home-made mauve and black afghan tucked comfortably under her arms. A pale yellow handkerchief was lumped on the bedside table beside the phone. She looked up at me as I walked into the room, greeting me with her big smile and sparkling hazel eyes. Except for a few patches of sparse, fuzzy auburn hair, she was bald.

"Hi, Mom," I said, walking up to her and pulling my mask down to gently kiss her cheek, "how are you today?" Despite the heart-breaking circumstances which lead to her being a patient lying in a hospital bed, I had never seen Mom look so beautifully breath-taking. And under normal, healthy circumstances, she was already quite a beautiful person, inside and out.

Mom ran her hands over her scalp, weakly smiling. "Well, honey," she said, "I guess we can cancel the rest of my hair-dressing appointments for the year." Over the past few days, the ravaging effects of Mom's chemotherapy regiment had taken ahold, which included her hair falling out in clumps.

"Mom," I said, reassuringly, "I don't think I have ever seen you look more beautiful." I walked over to the yellow handkerchief and picked it up, examining it. Strands of her thick, wavy hair clung to it. "What do you say we just throw this out?"

"Oh, Jimmy," she said, exhaling a deep breath, "I just don't think I am ready for that yet."

I understood completely. Mom had been raised in an era where curlers and perms and colorings played an important part of a woman's presentation. And although Mom was far from vain (how could she be when she was busy raising seven kids), she thoroughly enjoyed indulging in her hair. Hair that was now gone.

Despite a custom-made wig and multiple handkerchiefs, I don't think Mom's beauty was ever more evident than when she went bald during her chemotherapy days. Her baldness only seemed to enhance her indomitable spirit. Her eyes danced more openly. Her raw facial expressions confirmed her appreciation of life. Her prominent cheekbones exuded her infinite strength And the curve of her smiling lips were only that much more welcoming, appropriately framing the beauty of her words.

Accompanying her baldness, the truth of Mom's bravery in fighting her illness could not have been any more evident.

As I go along in my typical days of being an ER physician and the father of a child who has survived his own life-threatening illness, I can only tell you, without hesitation, that this baldness that accompanies one's fight for their life is as pure and as defining of one's character as any physical attribute can be. Without any words spoken, a patient's baldness from chemotherapy reveals a fighting spirit and a commitment to continue living. It reveals a strength drawn from reservoirs most people don't recognize they have until faced with crisis.

It commands my respect. And I rightfully give it.

Recently, at my gym, I couldn't help but notice one of the trainers, Barb, working-out with a woman who wore a handkerchief over her scalp. It was obvious that this client was intimately familiar with chemotherapy. It was very inspiring, to say the least, to watch this woman physically push herself through a workout despite her recent setback.

A few weeks later, surprisingly, I saw this same woman working-out without her handkerchief. Evidently, she chose not to cover up her baldness. And she looked stunning. As Barb and she worked out beside me in the cable room, I decided I had to speak up.

"Excuse me," I said to the woman. keeping it simple, as Barb looked on, "but I just have to tell you how stunning you look. I have no idea what you are going through, but I've seen you working out and pushing yourself these past few weeks and am thoroughly impressed. I wish you the best."

Well, Barb's client blushed a little as she thanked me. And later on, Barb came up to me and said that my words were exactly what her client had needed to hear since she was having a bad day. I hadn't been sure I should have said something, but Barb reassured me that my words were quite welcomed by this brave woman.

Especially in our ER, because of our regional cancer institute, we are privileged to treat many people who are wearing their baldness proudly as they undergo chemotherapy treatments. Both male and female. From the very young to the very old. And every time I have a patient who is bald for this reason, I make sure they know that they have my utmost respect. And if it is a child, that respect is also accompanied by a pile of stickers, a coloring book, and a Popsicle, if allowed.

A few weeks back, a brave little seven year-old girl greeted me as I walked into her ER room. She had been battling acute lymphocytic leukemia and, despite some mouth sores, still managed to greet me with her fading smile. On her head, nothing but baldness. At most, just a few patches of fine blond hair clinging desperately to their homeland. I smiled back at her as I approached, hoping my eyes conveyed my happiness to meet her. I must have looked like a big giant Smurf--I had donned a blue paper gown, a blue mask, blue foot covers, and cream-colored gloves. Until we figured out her immune status, we had to protect her from us.

"Hello, May," I said, extending my hand. "It sure is nice to meet you." We talked a few minutes about school, her best friend, and who her favorite doctors at the regional Children's Hospital were. Her mother sat at May's bedside, contributing to May's memories. "May," I continued, when there was a pause in conversation, "when did you lose your hair?"

She got quiet, hesitant almost. Her mom spoke up. "About three weeks ago, doctor." "Well, May" I said, my eyes hopefully conveying my sincerity, "I've seen many patients who have lost their hair because of their medicines, but I must say that you are by far the most beautiful." May looked up at me, serious now, and locked her eyes onto mine. I didn't flinch nor did I look away.

"Seriously?" she asked. "Seriously," I replied. In her child's voice, she softly said "But I don't like it. Everybody stares at me."

"You know why, May?" I asked, grabbing her hand with my gloved one. "They aren't staring because you lost your hair. They are staring because they are amazed to see such a brave and courageous seven year-old. And that's you. Showing all these people that you can be beautiful and brave no matter what medicines you are on or no matter what disease you are fighting." She nodded at my words. "The next time someone stares at you, May, just give them your biggest smile ever!"

"Like this?" she asked before donning one of the most perfect smiles I have ever seen.

"Just like that." I told her, admiring her gaps from losing her baby teeth.

I'm not saying that if you are undergoing chemotherapy and have lost your hair, that you need to express your baldness. Hardly. Wear a wig or a bandana if you feel more comfortable. During your fight, you do what you need to do and don't worry about what the rest of us think. But if you are in my ER or if you pass a middle-aged guy who happens to take a second glance at you, don't be alarmed.

It's just me, sending you good energy and well-wishes. And recognizing your courage.

Yes, indeed. Bald is beautiful.

As always, big thanks for reading. I appreciate your time. Emma update--day 15 of 17. Swimming at the Great Barrier Reef today before beginning the long trip home tomorrow. If she comes home, that is! Australia, you have a new, wildly-excited admirer in my daughter. Thank you. See you in a few days...

Making Me Proud

My wife and our thirteen year-old daughter went on a girls' date this past summer. Just the two of them. Shopping, shopping, and more shopping. And. More. Shopping.

The rest of us gladly gave them this time, happy to avoid our busy mall area.

Karen and Emma had a wonderful day of togetherness. They had gone to stores they normally wouldn't shop at, trying on different-styled clothes and shoes, and just enjoying their "girly" afternoon immensely. Fashion shows left and right, I'm sure. And at Emma's age, nothing is better than a private day with Mom, right?

At one point in their day, unfortunately, they had experienced a little "encounter."

Last year, we purchased a VW Beetle Convertible to run around town in during the brief but beautiful summers we have here along our great lake. It's not a big car and certainly doesn't need a lot of room to be parked comfortably in a spot. What it lacks for in size, though, "Bumble" makes up for in fun. Can you imagine the added pleasure that driving this car during a girls' afternoon out brought to my family?

So, during their excursion, my wife and daughter decided to stop at Marshall's. My wife, as she tells the story, drove down the main parking aisle near the store and found two spots alongside each other. She put on her signal and turned into the one empty spot. There were no cars behind her while she was turning in, and no cars approaching from the opposite direction, either.

She and my daughter gathered their things, purses and what not, and, as they were each exiting the car, their doors open, my wife said another car zipped out of nowhere, trying to pull into the adjacent empty spot beside her driver's side.

As she was stepping out, my wife said this car kept impatiently inching forward, into the vacant spot, barely leaving room for her. "He even parked outside of his lines, Jim," she said, adding worth to her story. Sadly, as the car got closer and closer, my wife noticed an offensive man, 50-ish maybe, yelling obscenities and flailing his arms at her. She said it was obvious that he was in a rush and was frustrated with giving her the ten seconds time she needed to get out of our vehicle. A car that you can fit three in one spot, no less.

My wife was incredulous at this gentleman's behavior. Behavior that our daughter was witnessing.

"What's wrong with that guy, Mom?" Emma asked.

"I don't know, honey. Stay here for a minute, though, would you?"

My wife was going to have a talk with this gentleman.

She walked up to this gentleman's car door and waited for him to get out. She mimicked for me the look of surprise on his face when he glanced up through the window to find her standing there. I wish I had been there.

He opened his door and got out, cleaning up his behavior and no longer swearing.

"Is there a problem, sir?"

Clearly, she had embarrassed him. He didn't respond and struggled to keep eye contact with her. She just kept staring.

Isn't it funny how a lack of a windshield can turn a lion into a mouse?

"Did I do something wrong to offend you," my wife continued, "because if I did, tell me so I can apologize to you for it."

She paused, giving him a chance to explain himself. He didn't grasp the chance. I can only imagine what being called-out felt like.

My wife continued. "And if I didn't do anything wrong and you were just yelling and waving your arms at me because you were impatient, then I don't appreciate your behavior at all. In fact, you should be ashamed of yourself."

She pointed to my daughter. "That's my thirteen year-old daughter over there. We're trying to raise her to be a good citizen and person. Today, she witnessed your rude behavior and asked me why you were acting this way. What should I tell her?"

The man was frozen to his spot, speechless. Again, he offered no excuse for his behavior.

"I guess I'll just tell her that you're having a bad day and leave it at that. I'm sure you wouldn't want us to think you act like this every day."

My wife, realizing her point was made, turned back to our daughter. "Come on, honey," she said, walking back and holding out her hand to Emma, "let's go do some shopping."

Together, hand-in-hand, they walked into the store.

Hurray! My wife, although steady in her beliefs and convictions, rarely sees the need to be confrontational. To her, that is wasted energy. She has that rare ability to see the best in everyone, often dismissing their ugly side to "They must be having a bad day." Clearly, though, this man's swearing and carrying-on must have affected her to some unfamiliar level.

If you ask me, mama bear was just protecting her cub.

From every perspective, my daughter was fortunate to have learned such a lesson from her mother. Importantly, Emma learned that one can stand up for themselves and do it in a respectable and dignified manner. Sadly, though, not every person is going to have the courteous manners and exemplary behavior that we try to instill in our kids, and we just need to accept the good with the bad. Actually, embrace the good. And, before moving on, learn something from the bad. In the right doses, actually, the lessons learned from these negative encounters may hold more benefit for our children than we realize.

The best thing about this encounter, though, from my view? My daughter was able to see that she has one heck of a cool Mom.

Something she probably already knew.

As always, big thanks for reading. Next post will be Friday, April 16. See you then...

Yin & Yang Weekend

I just got home from an incredibly hectic shift. Arriving at 6:00 a.m., there were eight people waiting to be treated from the overnight, several waiting for over three hours. When I left at 2:30 p.m., there were, again, eight people waiting to be seen, the wait still over two hours. Not the same people, of course. But still, the feeling of accomplishment was a little lacking.

Chalk it up to the yin and yang of the ER.

This weekend holds more of the same. Much to be happy about, with a touch of sadness mixed in. The yin and yang of my life.

I'm off from work the next four days. As I type, perfect weather hovers outside my office window, an unexpected embrace of warm sunshine befriended by a slight breeze and an endless blue sky. A long-lost hug that will linger for four days, if the weather-lady is right. Just in time to welcome Easter weekend, one of my favorite holidays. Peanut butter eggs, marshmallow chicks, fruit-flavored jellybeans, big chunks of chocolate--by noon Sunday, if my family isn't on a sugar high, then shame on us. If you see my family in church, I will be the one with peanut butter breath. My wife? She'll be the one with fluorescent pink, yellow, and blue sprinkles, remnants from the marshmallow chicks, clinging to her chin.

What makes this a most happy weekend, though, would be that it's...(drum roll, please) my birthday. Yep. Easter Sunday will be my 43rd birthday. I'm surprised, really, that I am entering my mid-40s. I remember very well when 40 seemed ancient to me, and I've surpassed that. Although my mind, spirit, and body are, for the most part, preserved, I sometimes look in the mirror and wonder who the person looking back is. According to my wife, it's my father's son.

Honestly, though, I couldn't really care that it's my birthday, except for the excitement it brings to our home, to my family. For the past week, I've caught my kids and wife whispering to one another, multiple times, only to stop as I approach. "Hmmm," I'd ask, faking bamboozlement, "what are you guys talking about?" My kids, especially my youngest, can't lie to save themselves, and yet they are able to play along remarkably with this.

Our family's birthday tradition? Started by my mother and successfully passed on, I, Mr. Birthday Boy, get to pick out dinner, which this year will be perogies and fresh sausage from the local Polish market. God Bless the Polish. And my birthday cake? Like every year past, Mom's Famous Chocolate Cake, made from scratch (including one cup of brewed coffee), topped with creamy, whipped, melt-in-your-mouth peanut butter frosting.

Doesn't life sound good? And taste good? Believe me, it is all good. Especially the cake.

So for all of my yang, what is the yin? The most simple way to explain it, I guess, is with two words--Mom's cake. Now baked by "my girls," my wife and daughters, and not by Mom.

Four years ago, on April 6th, Mom died. Two days after my 39th birthday.

My memories of Mom are almost all good, barring the last few weeks of her life, when AML ravaged her beaten body. I remember my 39th birthday very well, the feelings of helplessness that day. Trying to smile on the outside while the inside was desperate to change fate. The yin and yang of my young kids trying to celebrate my birthday while Mom lay ill in her own bed, breathing her last few breaths. After years of Mom breathing her beautiful spirit into us seven kids, it was her time to exhale her last breath. And time for us to breathe her spirit into our own families, without her.

After four years, it's easier to celebrate again. Time is the great healer. Thanks to my thoughtful sister, Rosie, who photocopied each of us a copy of Mom's hand-written and manually-typed recipes (refined tips included), chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting is not the only recipe of Mom's that my family enjoys. You should taste her Apple Jewish Coffee Cake. Laminated and bound, these recipes are truly gifts that keep on giving.

This is not depression, trust me. Simply, the memories and reflections of my mother's life are quite strong during this time of year, walking hand-in-hand with the introspection of my own life. As human beings, we have the privilege to experience some of life's lows, embrace them, grow stronger and wiser from them, and use these experiences to better ourselves. An ever evolving task. From this rubble, an appreciation of life's finer moments is gained.

Do any of you know where I am coming from? Any stories to share?

A memorable holiday weekend, filled with fun and laughter, good food, and celebrations of our religious beliefs, awaits my family. I know that. And I look forward to it. Plus, don't forget about the birthday presents I'll need to unwrap! I'm easy that way--give me a good book and a great musical CD, and I'm happy. At points, though, I know my mind will wander to thoughts of my mother.

It will be okay.

After all, I know where all this sunshine came from.

As always, big thanks for reading. A Happy Easter to all of you who celebrate this holiday. Enjoy your weekend. See you next week...