30 Day Blog Challenge: Day 1

My Favorite Song

My usual answer to this is "Walking in Memphis" by Marc Cohn, and while I still LURVE that song with a passion, I've lately gotten to know Switchfoot again, after a long parting of ways, and one song has been on repeat for the last few weeks.

Gone by Switchfoot

She told him she’d rather fix her makeup
Than try to fix what’s going on
But the problem keeps on calling
Even with the cellphone gone
She told him that she believes in living
Bigger than she’s living now
But her world keeps spinning backwards
And upside down
Don’t say so long and throw yourself wrong
Don’t spend today away
Cuz today will soon be

Gone, like yesterday is gone,
Like history is
Gone, just trying to prove me wrong
And pretend like your immortal

She said he said live like no tomorrow
Every day we borrow
Brings us one step closer to the edge (infinity)
Where your treasure, where’s your hope
If you get the world and lose your soul
She pretends like she pretends like she’s immortal
Don’t say so long
Your not that far gone
This could be your big chance to makeup
Today will soon be

Gone, like yesterday is gone,
Like history is gone,
The world keeps spinning on,
Your going going gone,
Like summer break is gone,
Like Saturday is gone
Just trying to prove me wrong
You pretend like your immortal your immortal

We are not infinite
We are not permanent
Nothing is immediate
We’re so confident
In our accomplishments
Look at how dark it is

Gone, like frank Sinatra
Like Elvis and his mom
Like Al Pachino’s cash nothing lasts in this life
My high school dreams are gone
My childhood sweets are gone
Life is a day that doesn’t last for long

I just love the whole "seize the day"message here, that our time here on earth is comparatively short and that we need to be focusing on what matters rather than on what we can get or how much fun we can cram into our lives before we die.

The highlighted portion is my absolute favorite line in the entire song. So fantastically good.

Literary Twin

About six nine twelve a long time ago, somewhere or other, I was asked who my literary twin was. And when I say I, I mean that I was part of a large poll that included the question "Who do you feel is your literary twin?"

I don't know what I answered, but whatever it was, I was wrong.

I know I was wrong because I know I didn't answer "Anne Shirley", and there is no question that she and I are the same person, barring hair color. And a BA.

I have just reread four of the eight Anne novels by LM Montgomery, and I giggled as I read, just because I was seeing myself in the pages. Idealistic, dramatic, prone to stopping in the middle of a task because my imaginings had gotten in the way. It's as if someone bottled my childhood character and wrote a book about her.

It isn't even just my childhood character, though. I still imagine things, constantly. Ridiculous things, too, the same as Anne. I am only slightly less vocal about it than she is, and I don't believe I ever kissed a flower.

I even married Gilbert Blythe, although he says his name is Paul.

The funny thing is that, as I have grown up, I see more of Marilla Cuthbert in myself, especially in the way I deal with the children I care for. No-nonsense, firm, not given to flights of fancy EVER. I was a bit appalled at fist, but I'm not altogether sure that it's a bad thing. I just have to be careful to temper the Marilla with the Anne.

I do love reading the Anne books. I feel that, if I could only step through the pages into her world, she and I would be "kindred spirits" together.

Whiny-Pants

I knew this was going to happen.

The year started off great. I was reading a book every few days, actually internalizing almost everything, getting emotionally involved in everything I read (Except Multiple Blessings. I'm almost positive that Kate Gosselin is an automaton)

And yet, here we are. I have been slowing down in my reading since April, and I haven't been able to read anything since "It Sucked, and the I Cried". Incidentally, this isn't like when I read Harry Potter and then take a reading fast for two weeks. That has everything to do with being mentally exhausted and grief-stricken. This has to do with being in a rut. I shouldn't be in a rut, you know. School is over, summer is here, Glee and The Big Bang Theory are both wrapping up seasons, leaving my weeknights wide open. I do have Lost on my XBOX, but, really, how addicting can it possibly be? The point is, I want to read. I love to read. I just can't find anything that is hooking me in.

I tried "Running with Scissors". Not happening for me. At all. I hated the first 10 pages, pushed through to 50, and decided life is too short to read books I clearly hate.

Then David Sedaris's "Me Talk Pretty Someday". It came highly recommended, but reads like someone telling a story you don't really want to hear. What's worse is that everyone but you thinks the story is fantastic, and you're left wondering if its you or the world who has the problem.

The the first book of the Pendragon Cycle, "Merchant of Death". Promising, but as much as I love Young Adult fantasy, even I need a break now and again.

So, here we are. Me and "The Book Thief". Young Adult. Fiction. World War II.

Sounds like a possible winner. But it's sitting in the other room, and I'm talking to you people. I'm avoiding it. Like that kid in high school who was a tiny bit creepy and wanted to take you to homecoming. You know he's there, you would just rather he didn't look at you and breath all heavy.

Follow-up

My own lack of faith amazes me sometimes.

After the financial disaster from a few weeks ago, we were devastated. It was going to put all our family-making plans on hold, as well as cause me to have to find a new or second job to make ends meet.

Yet here we are, only two short weeks later, and each and every bill is being met, one of them following a letter from the IRS informing us that they shorted us about $500 on our 2008 return (funny, that's exactly how much we need for the only bill we hadn't found a way to pay yet)

How great is my God? And where do I find the audacity to question what he is doing? He has proven, yet again, for the hundredth time in my life, that he is faithful, that he will provide, and that I never need to worry.

Also, on the day "The Crisis", I heard this song, and it reduced me to tears. It's an account of a real woman, poor in the worlds eyes, but provided for by the king.

All I Need - Caedmon's Call

Did not catch her name
Did not catch her tears
It hit me like a train
When her story hit my ears
Mother of eight sons
Father off to war
Got no home address
Just bricks on a dirt floor
Jesus is all I need

Tiny plot of land
Corn stored up in piles
Years it doesn't rain
They just stay hungry for a while
No fatted calf to kill
She made a feast of cuy and corn
She said, "Who else knew my name
Before the day that I was born?
Jesus is all I need
Jesus is all I need."

She bragged about her boys
How they're growin' into men
How they learned to praise the Lord
Old Style Ecuadorian
To buy the new guitar
They had to sell the swine
Said, "My boys go to school on a foreign angel's dime.
This world calls me poor
I bore my babies on this floor
He always provides
Sure as the sun will rise.
So I'll sing Him songs of praise
'Cause I know He'll keep me in His gaze."

Rain poured from the sky
We raced back to the van
There were tears in the eyes
Of this poor, forgetful man
Mother of eight sons
She knows the peace of God
Lord, help me learn to lean
On thy staff and thy rod
Jesus is all I need
Jesus is all I need

Valley

The interesting thing about being a practicing Christian is that the phrase "Everything Happens for a Reason" takes on a whole new brand of meaning. Because we believe in an actual being who takes a definitive interest in our lives, patterns emerge that seem to have the holy thumbprint on them. Frustratingly, the reason for certain things happening doesn't often become clear until much later, which gives one cause to empathize with the children of Israel when God said "Yea, walk around the wall, then shout and blow your horns. The walls will fall down, I swear". For those that don't know the end of the story, the walls did fall down, and the day was won for the Israelites.

In a world without walls that need tumbling, we have other trials that seem to be just as daunting. Take Saturday, when Paul and I received three, count em', three bills we were not expecting, all of them 3 digits, and one of them edging in on four. We can't afford any of them.

I have no earthly idea why God is choosing right now to allow this to happen, or what he is trying to tell us. Perhaps we have gotten so proud of ourselves overcoming debt that we have forgotten who the praise really goes to, and He is now knocking us back, Gideon-style, to remind us that the battle, financial or otherwise, is his, not ours. In case you are unfamiliar with the story, when Gideon was readying himself to take the Hebrew army against the Mideonites, God told him to send all but 300 men home, so that it would be obvious that their victory was miraculous. Sometimes God send us into these situations with the knowledge that to overcome them would be a miracle.

Whatever the reason, we are being given, in this admittedly horrific situation, an opportunity. It hit me recently that God is not a passive entity. He is active in our lives, constantly molding and teaching and giving opportunity to grow. Maybe out of this will grow a testimony to his faithfulness, a newly remembered trust in his promises, or a humility in the knowledge that the battle is always the Lord's.

My prayer now is that we rejoice in the fire and in the valley, and that, though we are afraid(which we are) and discouraged (which we definitely are), we will remember that God has never failed us.

Apology

It's very upsetting when you are angry at someone for very good reasons, and you have thought all day about what you will say to them when you next see them about how terrible they are and how long-suffering you have been, and then they show up at your work with the words "I'm sorry, I was being dumb. I love you so much"



Because then you're the jerk.



But really, how can you stay mad when you have something this darn attractive apologising:
Love you, my love. Forever and ever.

Literary Constipation

I'm blogging a lot today. Possibly because I'm not reading, which is quite the anomaly for me.

I've picked up several books since my HP re-read, and haven't been able to hook into any of them. It's a bit discouraging, really. And obnoxious. There is nothing worse than wanting to read, sitting down with a book, and finding yourself unable to care about anything that is going on. Perhaps I am still distraught over poor Fred.

Books I have tried (and failed) to read over the last week and a half:

- Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carrol
- The Host by Stephanie Meyer
- Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne
- City of Ashes by Cassandra Clare
- My Life in France by Julia Child

My brain is feeling a bit slushy in it's disuse. Soon it will be sloshing about in my skull and running out my ears.

Enjoy that visual this lunch hour.

Au revoir.

Evangalism

Evangelicals are an interesting lot. They also get a large amount of bad press, so I thought I'd come to their aid and clear up a few things.

The problem is that there is a great aversion among the general public to people forcing their opinions on other people. Usually this doesn't actually translate to forcing anything. Rather, it is a euphemism for "They think I'm wrong!" We, sadly, live in a world that believes the logical fallacy that all viewpoints are equally true, and that if you have the audacity NOT to believe that all viewpoints are equally true, you are forcing your opinion on people.

By the way, I call it a logical fallacy because it is. All viewpoints cannot be equally true. It's impossible. It's closely related to the idea that something is true for you because you believe it. Sadly, as much as I may believe the sky is green with red polka dots does not make it so, even for me. But I digress.

Evangelicals. There are several factions of them that take it too far. The Westboro Baptist Church comes to mind (I will not link to that horrific website. Google it if you're curious), as do the many crazies who stand on street corners, damning all they see to a fiery eternity. These are not the evangelicals I would have you think of. Think of the quieter evangelicals. The ones who cling to their faith and truly believe that you should believe in it as well. The ones who may have argued with you (for the record, they shouldn't have) over Christianity's validity and grew increasingly frustrated as you refused to convert. I have been that evangelical. We are seen as a bit pathetic and misguided. Why can't they just let people think what they wish and leave everyone to their own beliefs? Why do they have to insist that everyone believe as they do? What judgemental people!

Here's the scoop on that. Most evangelicals are not aiming for judgemental. They ascribe to a belief that, for one, claims inherently to be the only way to salvation. There is no way around that claim in Christianity, and it is made, not by Christians themselves, but by the cornerstone and deity of the faith! Christ did not claim to be a way, or even the best way. He claimed to be the ONLY way. For two, they are commanded to tell other people. Not asked, not suggested. Commanded. For three, you have to understand the way the evangelical sees the world. The evangelical see themselves (or should see themselves, if they are honest) as a sinner whose only salvation was Christ. Therefore, they look around at the world and see a world full of people headed for a terrible, horrific fate. To an evangelical, it's as if the whole world is dying of cancer, and they have been handed the cure, but no one will believe them. An evangelical feels like they are screaming "This doctor cured me! He gave me the cure, and I don't have to die! I'll take you to him! He can cure you too!!" and everyone else just says "I don't see this doctor. I don't believe you!" as they continue toward a painful death, trying myriad other cures that do not work or work for only a little while, when the true cure is so easily given. Try for a moment to empathize with how frustrating that must be, for someone who truly believe in only two roads, and sees the majority of the world headed down the wrong one.

The evangelistic spirit does not seek to be right, or to "win" by converting X amount of souls. Yes, there will be those whose pride gets in the way and who debate with you and lose sight of the message, but cut these some slack. By their own admission, they are not perfect, only forgiven.

Sadly, today's evangelical finds little opportunity to proselytize loudly. In today's world of "believe what you will, but leave me alone", the mere mention of Jesus's name is enough to shut down the communicative channels, sometimes permanently. Most have been reduced to being "lifestyle witnesses", living well and hoping someone will someday ask.

I am a terrible evangelical Christian. I struggle with the daily life of someone who strives to be like Christ. I struggle internally with my faith. But I know the road I am on leads to paradise, and I wish you were on it with me. To all those I have not done a good enough job of telling this to, forgive me.

This post is dedicated to Daniel Ian Rosoff, for whom I did not do enough. For him, I was and am burdened with a love that is as close to Christ's love for humanity as I ever care to come. I pray constantly that someone better than I will show him the way to Christ.

It is also dedicated for Kicae, for whom I did just enough. I look forward to the day I see him again, and we will need no interpreter.

Lent

Lent.

My Husband and I celebrate, if you can call 40 days of self-denial "celebration". Which I can't.

This year, despite my mother-in-law's urging to "take something on" instead of give something up (As I told my mother, there are only so many slots in my life, and they are all full), I am giving up Facebook. My sweet link to the outside world. My dear facebook. I'm not a face-to-face social animal. I need the protection of the internet to form "meaningful" "relationships" with other "people".

I'm a little broken up over it, actually.

Paul is giving up video games, which I know is as hard for him as giving up facebook is for me. I can see this while thing ending in a giant compromise about 20 days in, for both of us.

In place of video games and facebook, we are starting the Love Dare, which we began on Valentine's Day. It's endorsed by Kirk Cameron, who is, dare I say, the Tom Cruise of Christianity, albeit slightly less creepy.

Also I need to start reading my Bible again. Apparently there's some good stuff in there.

Followers!

Five people follow my blog. I'm actually quite thrilled about that. It satisfies the needs of the attention whore in me.

Observations for today -

- The Diva Cup = Woman's greatest invention. It's not gross, I promise.

- Eight months is the awesomest age on a baby. B (my charge) is basically the coolest kid ever.

- I've read over 6000 pages this month...well...not this month. Last month...the one that ended two days ago. That's a heckava lot of pages. That's a dissertation...times 3...or 6. How long is a dissertation?

- I have the best librarians. I went to the library yesterday, accompanied by my husband, who NEVER goes to the library, but took the opportunity of sneaking kisses in empty aisles, which made me feel like we were in high school. It was not a bad feeling. Anyway, we were getting ready to leave, and one of the librarians walks by and says to me "They sang your song on the Grammys last night, and I thought of you!" I don't need to ask which one. My name is Rhyannon, only one letter different that the title of the Stevie Nix song "Rhiannon". What astounded me is that this woman, who sees hundreds of people a day, remembered not only my face, but my name, and rememebred it enough to want to let me know that Taylor Swift and Stevie Nix did a duet of my song on the Grammy's. Hows that for making a girl feel special?

Bibliophilia

As a child, I loved to read. I loved it. I read everything I could get my hands on, and, with very few exceptions, I was allowed to read anything I wanted, with never a mention of reading levels or something being too mature for me. I read things that were too old for me (Outlander when I was 14) things that were about right (All the Chronicles of Narnia at 9 - 12) and things that were too young for me (The Mary Poppins books at 13). I was picky about the genre of the books I read, but that's alright when you're young. It's probably what kept me away from the Stephen King and Tom Clancy on the shelves. I loved fantasy and romance, as well as silly books that made me laugh. I loved the written word, and was highly encouraged in this by my mother, who had been reading to my sister and I since we were infants.

I read a great deal up through high school, but tapered off once I got to college, and very nearly stopped when I got married. Marriage makes you poor, and I could no longer afford to go to the bookstore and buy whatever by heart desired. This year though, I have rediscovered a beautiful thing: The public library.

I have become a frightful addict to this institution. No more than two days goes by that I am not in the library, returning, borrowing or picking up one of my many holds. I know the librarians by sight now, if not yet by name, although, if this habit of mine continues, I could see that happening very soon.

Somehow new steps have been added to my routine. When I walk out the door, I check, not only for my keys and cell phone, but for my library card as well. My daily internet rovings include The Nest, Facebook, Blogger, and now Goodreads and the Public Library Site, to look for and reserve new books.

I had forgotten how much I adore reading. With this new, constant stream of literature, my mind, which had begun an alarming descent into slushy disuse, now buzzes with activity, thinking of what I have been reading, what will happen next, and when I will get a chance to sit and read a bit more. Reading not only transports me while I read, but throughout my day. It is, cliche though it may be, an escape, but more than that, a tool for keeping my mind busy as the monotony of the day drags on. It is something that is indescribable to a non-reader, but those who have found themselves lost in the written word understand.

Now, if you'll excuse me, Elfland is waiting.

What I am reading now: I, Robot (audiobook) by Isaac Asimov; Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin; Elfland by Freda Warrinton

Relationships.

I'm rather bad at them, actually. I'm still not sure how I managed to hook a husband, and such a dashingly handsome one at that. Men are simpler, I suppose.
Regardless, the point remains that, while I am happily married, I lack the natural ability to nurture and maintain friendly relationships.
I think it stems from two things.
Firstly, I am not very conscientious of others. I like to talk about myself, and I forget that other people exist for reasons other than being my own personal sounding boards. I also forget to be interested in their lives. I am a forgetter of birthdays, medical conditions, things I have been told only moments before, and life experiences. I am often both prone to second-guess people's reactions to my words while I remain hyper-aware of their body language and facial expressions, leading to an awkward dance between reading the people around me and not over-analyzing them and assuming that they are thinking of ways to ostracize this loud, obnoxious newcomer. I speak long before I think of what repercussions could come from my words. I am abrasive and do not adjust my speech and tone for various situations and people. Conversation for me does not flow easily unless I am with someone I know well or one of those lucky few who could talk to a brick wall and make easy conversation. The subtleties of polite conversation escape me, and consequently, I tend to either say nothing or say everything that is in my head. I am not rude, precisly, I'm just not what one might call very considerate.
Secondly, I never lost the idea that I am an awkward person. I was incredibly awkward in high school and somehow, though I have been assured that I am not, I still see myself that way, and that insecurity leads me to second guess myself before I approach people, before I call people, before I send messages and comments on facebook and message boards. I will begin to dial or type and then think to myself "Who needs to hear from you?" Self-depracating? Yes. Can I help it? Nope.
The knowledge of the first only exsaserbates the existance of the second, leading to a young woman who rarely puts herself in social situations and has trouble maintaining friendships that she has somehow stumbled into.
It's not sympathy I'm after. It just feels nice to get it out of my head. It's noisy in there, and I'm in school. I need to make room.

This, really, is a part of my happiness equation. As uncomfortable as I am in the social spectrum, being with people I know and love makes me happy, and I cannot know and love people if I do not first allow myself to meet them.

Goal # 1: Make a phone call, a girl date, and a lost connection.

No Judgement this week, only this...

Pray for the people of Haiti. It is hard to understand why God allows this kind of thing. It is what challenges my faith the most, and yet I know we live in a world fallen by the actions of those who came long before us, and that God allows, but does not cause, permits, but for a purpose. Perhaps this earthquake and the terrible loss of life will shed light on a country that has been broken and hungry for so long. Haiti has been largely ignored in the grand scheme of things and now perhaps we will allow our eyes to be opened to the third world deprivation that is going on only a short plane ride from our comfy homes.

What can you do? What can I do? How can we lend our help?

Generally Happy

I am a generally happy person, I guess. Other than the psychosis that makes me mildly cynical and a little panicky, but I'm sure everyone has something like that. We're all a little nuts. If you can't tell, the last two books I read were about mental facilities and crazies. Due to the fact that my life starts, in my own mind, to resemble the books I read, I've been thinking myself crazy the last two days, not the least because I identify just a little too strongly with Susanna Kaysen. Not as much with Teddy Daniels, but definitely with Susanna Kaysen.

Anyway, whether or not I am crazy is not the point. If I'm not, my brain will, as it always does, figure itself out in a few days. If I am...well, there's not much to be done about it now. The point is, while I am generally happy, I am one of the least mindful people I know. Some people live life deliberately. I can't define what that looks like exactly, but you know those people, the ones who live deliberately. Watching those people, I often find myself wondering if I couldn't be living a happier, fuller life. So I made a list. I love lists.

Things That Make Me Happy

1. Spending GOOD time with my Husband
2. Dancing
3. Reading
4. Having a challenge or goal to aspire to
5. Running
6. Shopping
7. Talking to Marian
8. Laughing
9. Traveling and New Places
10. Writing
11. Decorating/Creating/Building

As far as I can see, happiness is like an equation. Things that make you happy = X, Amount of Happiness = Y. The more I do things that make me happy, the happier I become.

Mathematics of Emotion.

25 Books in 2010

I'm not usually one for goal-making. After all, I'm not usually one for goal-keeping, so what's the point? However, I hav decided, against my better judgement, to read 25 books in 2010. It doesn't sound like a lot, but that's roughly 2 1/12 books a month, or an entire book every two weeks.

The reason I know I am probably doomed to failure is that, as with Couch to 5K, I find myself saying "Two books a month? Easy Peasy". Somehow I think this will be more challenging than I imagine. And on the off chance that it isn't and I breeze through 25 books in the next 6 weeks, I'll have to up the ante to 52 books in a year. Or not. But it's a thought. Anyways, here we are.

1. Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro (completed Jan 4)
2. Inkheart by Cornelia Funke (Completed Jan 7)
3. Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen (Completed Jan 8)
4. Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane (Completed Jan 9)
5. Gulliver's Travels (In progress)

Books I want to read this year:

It Sucked, and Then I Cried by Heather Armstrong
Emma by Jane Austen

After that, I have literally no idea. Maybe I'll reread the Abhorsen Chronicles. Is that cheating, to reread?

New Years

Today is the last day, not only of this year, but of a decade. 10 years ago, I was 12 years old, halfway through seventh grade, and, if memory serves, having a party that would result in us finding confetti scattered throughout our home well into my high school years. I thought it was great. My mother never let me have another New Years Party.

Resolutions inevitably come with the new year. January 1st gives us a starting point for everything we want to make better about ourselves. I'm not making any resolutions except "Have more Sex." I think we can all just agree to that one, because really, who doesn't want more sex? Except you single people. You all can just keep it in your pants.
Instead of resolutions, I have the 101 in 1001 plan. You can read all about it here. You won't get updates often, as I am bad at lists and even worse at updating blogs, but it should give you a general idea of my goals. They aren't lofty or anything, and I would add "Be Less Judgey", but I feel like the Judgey thing works for me.

Daddies

I have two daddies. Not in a California, Vote-Yes-On-Prop-8 kind of way. In a complicated sort of way.

The father I've known my whole life, Victor, is an amazing man. I am proud of him, and take every opportunity to allow the words "Air Traffic Controller of the Year, 1993" to escape my mouth. See? I just did it again. He met my mother when I was only 18 months old, and married her when I was 2. This man did not have to be the father he was to me. He loved me unconditionally, never favored my sister, who was his daugter biologically, and cried as he walked me down the aisle at my wedding. I was always and forever his little girl, bloodlines be damned.

My biological father, of whom I have very few pictures, and none in digital form, was Chris Walls. My mother's high school sweetheart, and a man who, I've heard, was incredibly amazed with his little girl. The Lord called him home when I was 19 days shy of my first birthday. I have virtually no memories, and those I do have could very well be invented memories born from pictures I've seen and stories I've heard. I have a copy of Alice in Wonderland, his favorite book, with a note from my grandmother telling me so. I have a copy of Treasure Island with the name "Christopher Walls" written inside. I have a photo album that shows me the orgins of faces I make, smiles I've seen in the mirror, and hair that gives me trouble on a daily basis. It is an interesting feeling, to have a father one has never met. There is no sense of grief, persay, becasue one cannot grieve for what one has never known. There is, however, a sense of loss, or, more appropriatly, of a missing piece that I will never get to know. I feel almost cheated out of meeting this man. So many people, my mother, my grandmother, my aunts and uncles and cousins, have memories of him, while I, his daughter, have none. It is like only knowing half of where you come from, while the other half is clouded in mystery.

It is a complicated emotion. I love my father more than anything in this world, and I would not trade him. How does one grieve the lost peices of her heritage while not undermining the love she has for the man who raised her? I have asked myself if I would trade what I have for the ability to know Chris, but quickly abandoned the question because I realized it's pointless. Whether I would or not is irrelevant. I have been dealt this hand, and nothing changes it, whether I would will it or not.

His death cannot, because of my age at the time, pain me, although as I have grown older, there has come an unfamiliar ache and occasional, unexplainable tears when I thnk of this man who gave me parts of who I am and was then called away so suddenly.

I call myself blessed. Two men loved this little girl, and two men formed who she would become. God has given me a blessing in this, if sometimes a bittersweet one.

If any of his family read this, I would ask for your memories. I have none of my own that would allow me to know him, and if you have them, I would accept with utmost gratitude. I also hope that my ability to be candid does not offend or anger. It has taken me a long time to find the ability to put these thoughts into words, and my ability to write far outdoes my ability to speak.

If you have memories that I can borrow, email me rpyates516@gmail.com