It was the end of a long day. My fingernails were chipped, my left toe was aching because I’d taken a corner too sharp and there was a coffee stain on the front of my shirt.
The last thing I wanted to do was stop at the grocery store, but we’d eaten out a few times this week and the only foods the fridge was keeping cold were sodas, cheese slices and mustard.

After throwing a few frozen dinners, fruit and a bag of lettuce in my cart, I made my way to the check-out line and took my place behind an elderly woman and a young man as they painstakingly unloaded their grocery cart.

The woman gave the cashier three plastic cards, telling her there was $17 on the first gift card, $12.71 on the second and to put the remainder on the credit card.

It took a few minutes for the cashier to figure out what she was saying, and I found myself growing crankier every time the cashier squinted her eyes and said she didn’t get it.

As I waited for some type of understanding to take place, I looked around at my fellow shoppers. The woman standing behind me was on her cell, complaining about her boss.

One line over, a frazzled young mother was trying unsuccessfully to convince her 3-year-old he did not need four candy bars.

There was the quiet elderly couple two lines over, their small cart filled with low-fat cheese, reduced-calorie bread and a day-old cherry pie.

A man in a rumpled business suit was holding a bouquet of roses in one hand and was busily tapping away on his Blackberry with his thumb.

The woman in front of me was still trying to explain what she needed the cashier to do, and I found my patience dangerously close to the “empty” mark. I kicked myself for, once again, choosing the slow line.

I have the worst luck choosing lines, especially when I’m tired and in a hurry. The last time I was in the grocery store, the lady in front of me disagreed with the discount the computer dispensed.

Instead of the dollar she felt she was entitled to receive, the register only rang up 50 cents. She asked the cashier to have someone physically go look at the display so she could get her discount.

I wanted to give her the two quarters so I could be on my way, but something in the way she looked prevented me from sounding off.

Perhaps it was those worry lines around her eyes or the worn edges on her sleeve that told me the 50 cents many of us take for granted meant a great deal to her.

Thinking about that lady, I looked again at the people in front of me. A cane was hanging over the young man’s arm, his beard was shaggy, and his pants were a bit too tight.

The older woman appeared to be his mother, and the two of them watched every penny the cashier rang up, and their purchases were the essentials — no junk food or name brands.

I was buying convenience groceries. They were buying what they needed, using a variety of resources just to make ends meet.

Gratitude is something we often feel when circumstances remind us to be thankful — narrowly avoiding a fender bender, a friend helps us out of a jam or we make it home safely on a rainy night.

I didn’t need a close call to remind me how fortunate I am. That opportunity was as close as the grocery store check-out line.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

In less than a month, my niece and her husband will be welcoming home a third son. Chrisy and Blair are the parents of two wonderfully behaved 3-year-old twin boys, and they’re looking at their expected third boy as a genuine blessing.

Chrisy smiles when people say “three boys, oh my” and claims she’s happy as long as the baby’s healthy. But Chrisy loved dressing up in gowns for Mardi Gras balls, has a beautiful collection of Barbie dolls and taught dance classes for years. She was probably hoping to pass those loves on to a daughter.

I know how she feels. Many years ago, before parents could find out the sex of their unborn baby, I assumed my babies would be girls because I wanted a daughter so badly.

When I found out I was expecting, I made a soft pink blanket to wrap around my baby when she finally arrived. Just to be on the safe side, I stopped in a baby boutique and bought a beautiful lacy white newborn bonnet and carefully tucked it in my suitcase.

Surprise. My first-born was a boy, and I reluctantly returned the bonnet and traded it for a kid’s LSU baseball cap.

I was thankful I had a healthy baby, but secretly, I wanted a daughter who would share her hopes about becoming a woman with me, a daughter who would grow into my friend, just as I have with my mother.

When I found out I was expecting a second child, I instinctively knew he was a boy. Still, there was a 50/50 chance for a girl, so I quietly crept back to the baby section in a department store, bought another white, frilly bonnet and tucked it into my suitcase.

And, a few months later, I traded the bonnet for a baseball cap.

With my third pregnancy, my mom said she was hoping I’d finally get that girl, but I knew better than to think pink.

Still, I went back to the same store, a 2-year-old toddler and squirmy 7-year-old in tow, and nonchalantly bought another white, lacy bonnet.

Once again, I tucked that bonnet in the back part of my suitcase.

And, once again, traded the lace for sturdy denim.

Thankfully, my three boys are healthy, intelligent young men, and they’ve brought us great happiness. Chrisy’s third boy will bring her the same amount of joy. However, the joy that comes from rambunctious young sons is served up a bit differently.

We want pink ballerina shoes. We get muddy boots.

We hope for pink bubble baths. We get rings of brown dirt in the bathtub.

We want lacy nightgowns. We settle for camouflage underwear.

The mothers of girls will say they get the same mud, sass and sweat as the boys, but as I watch my granddaughter, I’m amazed at the different way she approaches life as compared to my sons.

My granddaughter snuggles with her favorite baby doll, cooing and singing her to sleep.

My boys slept with their Ninja Turtles and He-Man swords, but they beheaded Michelangelo and Splinter before dawn.

My granddaughter says “excuse me” when she burps. My sons belched as loud as possible and believed putting their cupped hands underneath their armpits and pumping their elbows up and down like greased lightning was great fun.

But my sons are my friends and they’ve brought wonderful women into my life who’ve become the daughters I didn’t have.

So, my dear niece, you might not get the pink perks that go along with rearing a daughter, but the joys of being the mother of boys are just as rewarding.

They’re simply buried underneath a mountain of smelly socks, bright red Matchbook cars and dried-out pizza crusts.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The set was minimal — a plain Formica kitchen table in center stage, two matching chairs and an old Frigidaire in the back corner next to a kitchen sink.
When Traci Lyn Thomas stepped out from the wings, dressed in a cowgirl outfit, complete with fringe, sequins and cowboy boots, and began to sing, it was as if the legendary country singer Patsy Cline had come to life.

The event was the stage production of “Always, Patsy Cline” at the Durango Arts Center in Colorado. The play is based on a true story regarding Patsy, as she was called, and a friendship she had with a sassy Houston hairdresser, Louise Seger.

According to legend, Louise and Patsy enjoyed a friendship that lasted from the beginning of Cline’s career until a plane crash in 1963 took her life.

The play is told from Louise’s point of view and opens with a bodacious performance by Mary Ellen Cerroni who brings the spunky Louise to life.

When Patsy came to Houston to perform, Louise happened to arrive early, befriended the singer and then invited Patsy to spend the night at her house. The singer accepted, and it seems odd that a performer would go home with a fan.

But back in the early days of country music, singers and musicians didn’t allow self-indulgent egos to alienate them from their fans, unlike modern singers who stay in expensive hotels and use stretch limousines and private jets to avoid their fans.

Patsy and Louise found they were more alike than different. Through letters over the years, these two women from different walks of life found they shared quite a bit — loneliness, struggles with money, a love of music and the bonds that only women forge.

Numerous songs were featured in the play, which delighted me as Patsy Cline’s one of my favorite singers. It’s impossible to stay dry eyed through “Crazy” and “Sweet Dreams,” and I found myself tapping my foot in rhythm when Thomas sang “Lovesick Blues” and “Walkin’ After Midnight.”

The audience loved the show, perhaps because Patsy’s life reflects struggles many experience — a hard-scrabble life, a rocky marriage and poverty.

My brother, sister-in-law and I loved the show, and we talked all the way home about the singers we admire and the ones whose songs have touched our lives.

The next day, I found myself humming some of Patsy’s songs, reflecting on beauty and true talent. It’s not in the movie star packaging of today’s entertainers, and beauty’s not necessarily in the skyscrapers of a bustling downtown.

Beauty is simple — a freshly picked bunch of bright red radishes, a yellow daisy growing tall in a field of green grass, a crystal-clear stream bubbling over rocks and boulders and a strong, simple voice reminding us of love, cheatin’ hearts and the blues.

And make no mistake — Colorado is a gorgeous state. The Rocky Mountains are faithful sentries on the horizon, the humidity is low and there’s a gorgeous surprise around every corner. The people are friendly, there are four distinct seasons and it seems there’s a stunning site around every corner.

That beauty’s also evident in a field of bluebonnets, the sun setting over the Comal River and days when country music’s playing on the jukebox and you’re dancing cheek to cheek with a special someone.

Like Patsy sang and Willie Nelson penned, we’re crazy about lots of things, and living in Texas — enduring the heat, humidity and more heat — might be hard to understand from time to time, but because it’s home, it’s wonderful.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Some people love to shop for jewelry. Other love shoe shopping. But there’s no way those jaunts compare to back-to-school shopping extravaganzas.

Perhaps it’s because I’m a writer, but I cannot resist the siren’s call of the spiral notebook or a thick, three-subject composition notebook.

My love of back-to-school supply shopping dates back to my elementary days. Long before the first day of school, I had my book sack packed with a Big Chief tablet, a few No. 2 pencils and a wooden ruler with inches, not centimeters.

Everyone had the eight-pack package of crayons as those were the affordable choice at the downtown Kresge’s. I could only dream about having the box with 64-colors featuring a built-in sharpener.

Glue came in a dark, brown bottle, not a tube or stick, and I spent quite a few hours keeping myself amused by smearing glue over my hand and then peeling it off like skin, my imagination running away as I dreamed I was a secret agent like James Bond and being tortured by the Communists.

Inevitably, Sister Adrian noticed what I was doing and took away the glue, rapped the back of my hand with my wooden ruler and my daydreaming came to an abrupt end.

But there were other treasures in my sack, including a big, pink eraser and fancy Bic pens. When Bic pens first entered the market, we were mesmerized by the inexpensive ball-point pens. Best of all, we learned to take the ink cartridge out and turn the plastic barrel into a spitball launcher.

Today’s student can still write in plain composition books, the ones with the white specks on a black background. We had to be quite careful with those books as the teacher could tell if we ripped a page out, usually to make a spitball.

Instead of plain, vanilla folders and three-ring binders covered with a blue material-type substance, modern fancy portfolios, as they’re called, have pockets, zippers and hidden compartments where one can hide lunch money and all the passwords for school accounts.

Treasures abound in the school supply aisle. Highlighters come in a variety of bold or pastel colors. Need loose-leaf paper? I’m still drawn to the the wide-ruled style because we quickly learned we could jot down fewer words yet still look like we’d written the Great American Novel.

Then there are all the fun extras on the school shopping aisle. There are Post-It Notes in every color of the rainbow and backpacks in all styles, designs and shapes.

No more gray metal lunch pails to carry our bologna sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. These new plastic lunch boxes are durable enough to serve as a stepping stool, a tool to whack your brother or an impromptu third base.

And although it’s hard to improve on a pink eraser or a plastic protractor, modern supplies dazzle the mind. Plain school supplies now share shelf space with external hard drives, memory sticks, blank CD’s, mirrors and shelves for school lockers and tape dispensers in all colors and shapes.

There’s no end to the wonders and marvels on the school supply list, and my writer’s heart rejoices when I find a highlighter in a fluorescent green, a new ink pen that glides across the paper and an inexpensive device that can record voices and seamlessly play them back.

You can keep the electronics and home-goods aisles. I’m happy testing the purple and aqua blue pens, so until the sales are over, I’ll be loading up until next August.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The sun’s shining, the sand is sparkling and the jade-green waves are gently rolling into the shore. All the makings for a booming summer tourist season are in place except for one key ingredient – people.

For over 20 years, we’ve spent a week on the beach in Gulf Shores, Ala. Long known for its relaxed atmosphere and sugary white sand, the city has become a paradise for families looking for leisure time at the beach without the often-rowdy college crowd.

We’ve watched the area grow from a few mom-and-pop establishments to major chains and dozens of outlet mall stores.

Over the years, Gulf Shores, like many Gulf Coast cities, has weathered numerous hardships — hurricanes, floods, droughts and economic recessions.

And then came April 20, 2010.

The Deepwater Horizon drilling rig exploded, killing 11 workers and setting off an uninhibited oil gusher that released millions of barrels of oil into the Gulf of Mexico, the worst spill in America’s history.

The Gulf Coast community watched, agonized, screamed, protested and howled at the political winds about the inability of the oil giant, BP, to stop the gusher.

Photos of oil washing up on the once-pristine beaches and helpless animals covered with sticky oil were splashed across the fronts of newspapers and Websites, branding this area as practically uninhabitable.

Three months later, the well is capped.

The waters are clear, and the sands are clean.

But the tourists are gone.

Eerily gone.

Normally during the tourist season in Gulf Shores, there’s bumper-to-bumper traffic, a 45-minute wait at all the restaurants, and umbrellas practically touch along the shore.

This week, we’ve cruised through the city with ease, been seated immediately at restaurants, and there’s less than 50 people on the beach as far as I can see in both directions.

Beach Patrol workers, driving brand-new 4×4 utility vehicles, motor up and down the beaches all day while Coast Guard helicopters fly overhead, dutifully checking for contaminants in the water and on the sand.

Souvenir boutiques have few shoppers, and the most popular items are “Save Our Gulf” T-shirts with a spewing oil well design on the front. When we ask where the catch of the day comes from, our waitress answers “Texas.”

Seeing once bustling restaurants boarded up, brand-new “for sale” signs in dozens of store windows and parking lots that are normally overflowing with mini-vans and family sedans practically deserted, the economic impact of that oil spill becomes painfully real and personal.

Our first evening, we visited one of our favorite restaurants, and I noticed an elderly gentleman clearing off the tables. Often the wait staff in a tourist area is filled with teens looking to make money for the summer.

From the deep tan lines on his face, his lean physique and his weathered knuckles, it appeared this man had spent a lifetime in the outdoors, perhaps hauling in fishing nets or piloting charter fishing trips. Now he was folding napkins, refilling salt shakers and cleaning up crumbs.

That’s where the devastating effects of any economic disaster can be seen – in the eyes of those who’ve lost their livelihood, their dignity and their connection to the land or the sea.

But people are resilient. They’ll hitch up their britches, roll up their sleeves and do whatever it takes to restore their way of life.

Along the Gulf Coast, however, they need people. So come back. Have some fun building sand castles, splashing in the waves and fishing in the Gulf.

The water’s beautiful, the sand sparkles, and laughter, especially laughter, is sorely needed in these parts.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

It was 1 a.m. Footsteps reverberated up and down the halls, laughter seeped through the thin walls and my reconstituted mashed potato dinner was weighing heavily on my tummy.

I was spending a long weekend at Texas A&M University for a student workshop, and I’d forgotten all about life in a dorm.

When I left home for college, I thought I’d hit the big time. Although there was cracked linoleum on the floor and cinder-block walls, I embraced that cramped room like it was the Taj Mahal.

So when it was time for my eldest son to attend college, I insisted he live in a dorm because I wanted him to experience university life in all its glory.

After four nights on a college campus, I came to realize I was sadly mistaken in making my sons endure the dorm experience.

For example, bathrooms. Sharing shower facilities with 50 strangers was a lot of fun when I was 18 years old. Trotting down to the showers carrying a bottle of VO-5 shampoo and soap on a rope was an adventure.

Now, I’ve come to enjoy my quiet bathtub soak time. There’s no one warbling “Rocky Mountain High” in the shower next to me, and I don’t have to worry about athlete’s foot.

College Food. For two years, I mostly existed on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Ramen noodles and tuna fish because they were the cheapest eats around.

Occasionally I’d splurge on a cafeteria breakfast of reconstituted eggs, a few slices of bacon and buttered toast. I thought I was at a Renaissance feast.

Now, butter is a thing of the past. Likewise with full-fat cream cheese. We health-conscious baby boomers have meekly accepted we can only have imitation eggs, spray margarine and turkey bacon.

Walking. When I was a young girl, trekking across campus was a piece of cake. I simply slipped on my 20-pound backpack and practically jogged to my classes.

Now, a walk across campus felt like lumbering across the Sahara Desert wearing lead shoes. As agile Aggies whizzed by me on their sleek bikes, I was making deals with the heavens above if I could instantly transport my hot, tired body into an air-conditioned sedan.

Noise. Growing up in a house of nine, I was accustomed to commotion. In my youthful John Denver days, living in a noisy dormitory where girls were playing music so loud it seeped through the walls was no big deal.

Now hearing music at 2 a.m. isn’t a time for me to rhapsodize about the mountains and eagles. It’s a time to bang on the wall and crankily tell them to turn it off.

Beds. I never remembered tossing and turning on the mattress on the top bunk back in 1973. My roommate and I lounged there for hours, playing cards, talking about boys and eating chocolates and chips until the wee hours of the morning.

Now I need my therapeutic pillow, a heating pad and a full eight hours of sleep or I’m worthless the next day.

The dorm life. It’s not the wonderful escape I remembered from my past, so the first thing I’m going to do when I get back to my quiet, air-conditioned life is apologize to my sons for making them live on campus instead of allowing them to live in a comfortable, quiet apartment.

The second is fix them a meal of real scrambled eggs, hot, bold coffee and fresh New York bagels with real butter and cream cheese.

Now that’s the life.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

(The television show “Everwood” was one of my favorites. I heard this speech and, before the days of TiVo, watched it three times to get all the words. I wish I’d written this, and I wish even more I knew who did write it. Whoever said TV is the vast wasteland misses those moments of poignant dialogue that touches the heart. This is one of them for me.)

The more things change, the more they stay the same. I’m not sure who the person was to say that – maybe it was William Shakespeare or perhaps Sting – but at the moment, it’s the line that best explains my tragic flaw – my inability to change. I don’t think I’m alone in this. The more I get to know people, the more I realize it’s everyone’s flaw.

Staying exactly the same for as long as possible and standing perfectly still feels better, or at least the pain is familiar if you’re suffering.

If you took that leap of faith, one outside the box, if you did something unexpected, who knows what other pain might be waiting out there.

It could be worse pain, so we maintain the status quo and stay on the road always traveled.

It doesn’t seem so bad – not as bad as flaws go. You’re not a drug addict; you’re not killing anybody, except yourself a little. But when we finally do change, it doesn’t happen like an earthquake or an explosion or, all of a sudden, we’re a different person.

I think it’s smaller, the kind of thing people wouldn’t even notice unless they looked really close which, thank God, they never do. But you notice it. Inside, it feels like a world of difference. You finally become the person you’re meant to be forever, and you hope you’ll never have to change again.

— From “Everwood.”

(Was going through files and thought I’d post this one from a few months back. The pizza, by the way, was worth every calorie!)

At the last minute, a friend and I decided to meet for a quick dinner. Both of us had a list of household chores a mile long, but we decided the dust wasn’t going anywhere and we needed a girls’ night out.

We talked and laughed from the minute we left her driveway until we arrived at a local restaurant. When the waitress came over, we instinctively ordered the typical “I’m on a diet” beverages — water with extra lemon.

I think I’ve been on a diet since the seventies. As a teen, it was fashionable to be on a diet. As a young college student, eating light was a necessity as those dollar bills went to tuition, room and board before they went to the Winn-Dixie.

When planning a wedding, I dieted like a crazy person so I would be thin for the wedding pictures. In reality, I had the concept backwards.

A girl’s wedding day should be the time when she weighs the most. That way, whenever she looks back on the wedding photos for years to come, people can say, “You sure have slimmed down since that time.”

As a bonus, a gal can always get into her wedding dress years after taking that walk down the aisle.

But we don’t think rationally as we count calories and try to Zumba our way into those blue slacks that have been hanging in the back of the closet so long, the price tag was printed by hand.

The young waitress handed us the menus, and I tried to figure out what I could order and still button my slacks in the morning.

We looked at the appetizers and spinach seemed like a good choice until I saw that healthy vegetable would be covered with warm cream and served with goat cheese.

So I skipped down and thought the salmon salad might be a good choice.

Until I saw the price tag — $12.95. Sorry, but I’m not paying over $12 for lettuce that’s $1.79 in the grocery store. And salmon, while tasty, just doesn’t taste the same on lettuce as it does swimming in a sea of butter sauce.

I looked at the pasta selection and immediately lingered on one of my favorites, lasagna. “Layers of pasta, meat and cheeses” the description began, and I could feel the button on my pants begin to strain.

Immediately, I changed tactics, looking for the seafood box as that’s usually a low-fat choice. The shrimp was grilled, but when served in a lemon cream sauce over angel hair pasta, I knew that thick sauce negated any health effects from the sea.

Ten minutes later, I was still studying the menu, wondering what low-calorie dish I could choose, and then I sadly realized there was nothing on that menu, except a dry house salad for $6.95, I could eat that wouldn’t completely blow any semblance of a diet.

About that time, the waitress returned to our table and asked for our orders. Impulsively, I decided to go for broke.

I ordered pizza because I love pizza. I love the freshly baked crust and the way the melted cheese smothers the layers of pepperoni, mushrooms and Italian sausage. If I’m going to blow my diet, then I’m going to do it in grand fashion.

I’ll diet tomorrow. And from the way that warm, scrumptious pizza tasted, probably for the next week.

Okay, the next month.

But when the food’s delicious and the conversation’s even better, calories shouldn’t matter.

Now all I have to do is convince my hips.

This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

The restaurant was crowded and noisy. Glasses clinked, country music filled the air and the wait staff bustled from table to table. The casual atmosphere suited us as we had our son, daughter-in-law and 2-year-old granddaughter along.

As is tradition in this steak house, the staff joins together once an hour and dances around the restaurant, arms linked, kicking and clapping as they wind their way around the tables.

Our granddaughter was enchanted with the smiling dancers, and we could see the wistfulness in her eyes as the lively group passed our table.

When our waitress, Lauren, returned with our check, we mentioned how much our granddaughter loved the dancing, and Lauren asked if she wanted to come dance with them.

We said we were getting ready to leave, but Lauren said she’d quickly round up the staff so Kylie could dance.

In minutes, Lauren came back to our table with a big smile and held out her arms, inviting our granddaughter to come dance as the music began.

The waiters and waitresses were clapping and kicking, and our granddaughter was right there with them. All of us had happy tears in our eyes, watching Lauren and the wait staff helping our young granddaughter learn the dance.

Our granddaughter twirled, clapped and spun with the teens. At the end, the manager proudly bestowed a smiley face sticker on our granddaughter’s shirt, and the huge grin on that little girl’s face is one we’ll never forget.

Later that night, I opened my e-mail and read a letter from parents whose son, Alex, had attended the Boy Scouts of America’s Cockrell River Camp, a summer camp north of Houston.

Alex has High Functioning Autism and is easily overwhelmed. During registration, Alex’s worried parents made sure they talked with all the counselors about their son’s special needs.

It was easy to see these were parents who kept a close watch on their son yet wanted him to experience
summer camp as independently as possible.

In the letter, Alex’s parents noted that one Eagle Scout, Will Baumgartner with Troop 1880 in Richmond, took it upon himself to be Alex’s unofficial helper. Because of Will’s voluntary involvement and willingness to help someone with special needs, Alex was able to complete numerous merit badges and enjoy camp.

The biggest surprise, however, came at the swimming hole. At the beginning of camp, Alex was overwhelmed with the swimming test, so when it was time for the Aquafest race, Alex got into the water and stayed in one spot, not moving.

The swim directors jumped in the water next to Alex and encouraged him. Because these two young men came to Alex’s rescue, the rest of the campers began calling Alex’s name, and the parents said it was like a “Hallmark moment” to see the whole camp cheering for Alex.

So many times, we hear about the callousness and viciousness of people in our world. That self absorption is evident all over the place, from people who cut us off in traffic, jump ahead of us in the grocery store line and think only about their time and what the world can give to them.

But young people like Lauren and Will make this world a better place, and people like them, people who live from the heart, are all around us.

From volunteering to help a special needs boy earn a merit badge to helping youngsters on the playground at Vacation Bible School or simply taking a few minutes out of a busy work schedule to teach a child how to dance the Cotton Eyed Joe, life is a better experience when we reach out and improve the world one unselfish act at a time.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I wrote this for a dear friend who’s relocating from the area.

Looking back,
We often yearn for what’s left behind.
Friends. Family. Familiarity.

Even now, these people and events shape us,
Mold how we think, how we ponder and how we feel.
Our life lens is chiseled because of where we’ve been,

But it is the present that defines who we are.

So live.
Experience the moment.
Taste the sea and feel the wind lift your wings.
Look forward to the sunrises and savor the sunsets.

As you look ahead,
You’ll see a foreign course — cloudy and vague.
Ambiguity. Anticipation. Acceptance.

As you travel that new path,
Gather the memories you’ve made.
And add new friends, new experiences and new challenges.

But, every once in a while,
Look back and smile.

Remember from whence you came.
Thankful for where you are.
Hopeful for where you’re going.

– July, 2010