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People everywhere are sick of being bullied. About everything. I’m a confident person but even I struggle these days with what’s “ok” to post on my own social media accounts. I know what I think. I know what scripture says. But there is a palpable, potent force at work to bend my thoughts/opinions/beliefs or simply my posts to that of group chorus.

Most of this, let’s call it peer pressure, is coming from fellow christians. No need to add evangelical or progressive qualifiers, because the one resounding note of unity among these two divergent camps is when they get to ranting, they are darn near indistinguishable. The messages may be polar opposites, but the affects are strikingly similar. It goes a little something like this… 

Thank God for the return of professional sports, am I right? We all need a happy place now more than ever. Admittedly, I’m not much of an NBA fan but desperate times… 

So when they kicked off their bubble season, I’d never heard of Johnathan Isaac. He got a lot of tweets opening weekend, so I did some digging. He plays for the Orlando Magic; spent a year at Florida State, grew up in the Bronx.  At 6’11”, he’s an imposing power forward. He’s also black. 

Trying (in vain) to escape all things politics, I couldn’t help but notice much ado made around league-approved social justice messages allowed this season on backs of jerseys (in lieu of last names) as well as entire organizations (not just players) taking a knee during the anthem as a show of unity in the fight for racial justice. But Johnathan Isaac chose not to participate. He stood while everyone else knelt; he wore his jersey with his name on it, while everyone else wore a Black Lives Matter t-shirt. Some called his actions a non-protest. He called them a protest, and I’m just open minded enough to allow the man the right to define his own terms. 

Power to the people.

Now lest we jump ahead and begin nodding our heads for what we think his reasons were, let’s listen to him first. He was very clear his stance (ie: literally standing) had nothing to do with the national anthem or the flag, and his decision to wear his jersey rather than the BLM t-shirt in no way indicated he doesn’t believe black lives matter. They matter a lot according to him, because as aforementioned, he’s living one. 

But neither patriotism nor racial injustice was his focal point that day, or I’m betting any of the days we’ve spent squabbling on social.  You know what was? You’ll never guess so I’ll just tell you… Jesus Christ. The Gospel. Being mindful to take every opportunity to point the world (and ever so sadly christians) to Him, the one goal worth fighting for. Because to Johnathan, kneeling or standing, wearing a t-shirt or a jersey isn’t what’s going to help even one black life (or white one, I might add). Only the Gospel can do that. That was his protest. You can hear it for yourself here.

In stark contrast to everything choreographed that weekend, he was questioned on his reasons, his experiences, his faith, while reporters and sports fans alike, listened attentively. He was gracious. He was thoughtful. But most profoundly, he was humbly empowered to preach the Gospel without interruption or interference or protest, speaking eloquently while wearing a mask. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever witnessed.

Imagine. The sweet aroma of Christ drawing others in. Do we still have it in us?

I began by stating I’m tired of feeling bullied on social media by other christians. I don’t think I’m alone in that feeling. It’s depressing and makes my stomach hurt. But truth is, we all think things/believe things/ regularly assume things that are ugly, so ugly, about christians we view as extreme, even if we don’t post for all to read. Even more troubling to digest is that these “bullies” are our people. Like it or not. The whole “find your tribe” and stay cozily closed off, isn’t actually scripturally sound. As members of one body, Christ, we aren’t entitled to pick and choose who our people are, which really, really sucks as an independent American woman. 

But in rare moments like Johnathan Isaac’s press conference, I am reminded, ever so gently, to live into a purpose greater than my personal ambition of being known, liked and holed up with my kindreds. 

This is a worthy battle, unity in Christ. With the virtual world in the palm of our hands at all hours of the day and night, our differences are glaring. Different isn’t bad. Conformity isn’t unity. But could we each offer up that we do not own the entirety of God or His plan in our little brains? He’s so much greater than you or I could ever know. Thankfully!

So while you obey his nudge one way, and I obey another, let’s calm down the rhetoric and as a recovering scroller myself, I’ll choose to be less defensive, take comments less personally. 

Because there is still a hurting, lonely populace out there, grasping for even one shred of hope. People are dying at alarming rates. The world is changing. What we the christian church hold out there should be Jesus, and only Jesus. Not a way of life or an ideology, a cause or a crusade. And most definitely not a president. 

I always thought it was kinda cool/kinda not that John wrote down Jesus’ words while he prayed. It seemed like a private moment he was eavesdropping on. But I’m glad he did. Especially this year. The longing in Jesus’ heart for his followers to get along is reminiscent of the longing in mine for my boys. It’s embedded in a mother’s heart, this desire for familial love, which was put there, I believe, to reflect the trinity…this great mystery that you, me, the Father, Spirit, Son… we are all… one.

My prayer is not for them alone, I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. May they also be in us so that that the world may believe that you have sent me. I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one: I in them and you in me. May they be brought to complete unity to let the world know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me. 

John 17:20-23

It’s a rainy gloomy day where I sit. One of those that allows for thoughts to wander, feelings to percolate, body to absorb. There has been a lot in 2020; personally, locally, nationally, globally. Everywhere and everyone. No one exempt. It’s surreal to think back on the Super Bowl and the divisional and championship games leading up to it. The comebacks of epic proportions. The play-off curses exhaled into non-existence. The 50 year drought coming to an end. Exuberance for a Mahomestown hero. The very real possibility of a dynasty unfolding right before our eyes. Here locally, in my city, 2020 was hella awesome for a minute.

Personally, though, feels like a lifetime ago we sat in a courtroom, financially insolvent; small business bankrupt. A place you never dreamed of sitting yet somehow relieved to be there because it marked not only the end, but the beginning. Moving on. Releasing all, including your pride. Hopeful that while one chosen path proved abysmal, the next will be rewarding. Yeah, same month as the Super Bowl, so, you know, 1 out of 2 ain’t bad.

And since I’m such a sports junkie, I can’t help but frame the beginning of our nation-wide shutdown from my seat on the couch, ready to launch Hoop Mamas everywhere into our favorite annual sporting event. Because this year (2020 again) the number one overall college basketball team in the nation was my team. Azubuike was unstoppable and we were going to reunite that gentle giant with his momma in Atlanta where she would watch him cut down the nets. Until we weren’t. Because we couldn’t. No one could; and the biggest freaking roar of “what the’s” the sports’ world has ever heard went ringing throughout the land. From every region of every sport on every level, one by one by one we watched them go. Not just postponed, but gone. It was unprecedented.

Then reality started kicking in that this was serious, gravely so, and action other than lamenting the losses was needed. The vulnerable among us were, well, vulnerable, and as a collection of humanity, we had to step up. We had to stay home. Or go home. We left universities and schools and stores and eateries and airports and parks like vacant ghost towns. Remnants of a life once lived. We did this for others, which was good for us, because life is not always about us. 2020 for the Global Reminder win.

In the meantime we discovered our new favorite thing and Zoomed into action on all fronts. Business meetings, church services, workout sessions, classroom instruction, wedding showers, happy hours. You name it, we zoomed it. I’ve had enough of it to last a lifetime! On the nice spring days, we walked. Or ran. Or biked. It was exhilarating to see so much physical activity every time you stepped outside. Almost like the good life we forgot we could have. Of course, if the good life included venturing out alone, earbuds securely implanted, eyes fixed on any human about to enter your 6 foot radius, so you could gauge their next move then as nonchalantly as possible, step aside into a berm or wander into the vacant street or even run up a grassy hillside into someone’s yard if necessary. It was Norman Rockwell-esque, is my point.

With this massive societal pause came extra time for social media. Like, it’s embarrassing how much extra. I’d joined Twitter at the start of the year and kept it all sports, all the time. No politics, no celebrities, no nothing but that which brought me joy. But you know how that goes. Other stuff slips in. Sure enough, I found myself reading thread after thread about Ahmaud Arbery. This poor kid. As aforementioned, the whole nation is moving their bodies to the beat of their own drum outdoors. Are you informing me, Twitter, that one can’t stop and absent-mindedly look inside a house under construction because one is probably bored out of their mind and then continue with said run without being chased down and murdered because one is now a “presumed burglar”? Well let me just tell you, Twitter, what I did. I took pictures on my phone along various walking routes, of outdoor living spaces and decks that I’d like for the back of my house. Pictures. Of other people’s homes. Without their permission. Where were my neighborhood watch accusers? How do they know I wasn’t casing these homes for future burglaries? (I mean, I did just declare bankruptcy.) This made me crazy that I could do and Ahmaud could not. So I walked 2.23 miles in his honor. Mostly I walked for his mom, because it was mother’s day weekend and my heart hurt for her since she will bear this most unbearable burden the remainder of her days.

But that was just the start of Twitter’s betrayal.

Along comes tweets about Amy Cooper. I’m not going to pile on as I’m sure she’s legitimately sorry for her behavior if for no other reason she must now own it in some way. But man, what shameful things we do when we feel so entitled. Lord, help me. Help my pride not to hinder my ability to be corrected when I’m wrong. Help my defensiveness not to override my common sense when I’m called out for actions that hurt others. We could talk a long while about Amy’s racism, but let’s start with her defiance. That, we recognize; and most of us can acknowledge “Aw, hell no” or whatever it is we say when challenged, leads to worlds of regret.

2020, smh.

But today, what really has me somber, is George Floyd’s live-feed murder. I obviously didn’t watch it live but with technology, it sure feels like I did. I made myself watch the whole gruesome video twice. There aren’t words for what I witnessed. A man … a living, breathing human being, asking politely for more breath, denied. No anger. No accusation. Sweet almost. Humble definitely. Please, sir, I can’t breathe.

Isn’t this the exact same fear gripping the world right now? What we watched in real time happen to George Floyd is what COVID-19 does over days or weeks which is, makes it impossible to breathe. And hasn’t each citizen on the planet taken drastic measures to avoid this horrific, lung-suffocating virus? The dichotomy. That one would deprive a life of its breath because of an alleged forged 20 dollars, as the world sets trillions on fire to save the breath of a faceless humanity.

I know it wasn’t because of the 20 dollars. Or the burglaries. Or the dog leash. I know they had black faces, which to some, made them expendable.

But what I don’t know is what to do. So I’m writing, which I’ve not had the motivation to do in quite some time. Too consumed with myself. My hard life. My stuck place. My perceived insignificance. My “what’s next” overriding my right now. Pandemic was nice for me in that regard. Everyone entered the boat I’d placed myself in. Going nowhere for now. Nobody getting ahead if everybody held up. Made me feel less like an outlier and more like a participant. And I’m a group gal so feeling apart of something has always been huge for me. {Enter: love of team sports.}

I’d only ever experienced watching a soul leave its body once before, with my Grandma Pauline. Fellow family members and I encamped around her bed, singing her favorite hymns until she passed peacefully into the next life. It was heartbreaking, yet dignified. Gut-wrenching, yet poignant. I thought of that night while I watched George Floyd die. Thought about how his family was reliant on strangers to capture the final minutes of his life on their phones, helpless to offer even a modicum of grace.

He had a kind face, though, that George Floyd, even as he lay dying. I’ll never forget it because it awakened something in me. His quiet pleading whispered to me that my life matters. I see the irony, and yet, it’s true. It’s not the accomplishments or the accolades, the followers or the platforms, the job description or the salary, the dreams fulfilled or the ones long abandoned.

It’s breath that makes life. It’s so simple.

Isn’t the entire world at a reset? Can’t we rewrite the metrics on what is deemed valuable? Can’t we lean in to our own discomfort at how the world, the nation, our cities, our lives have not worked, and start anew? Can’t we be as sober minded about these actions as we would be if say, a worldwide pandemic threatened all of humanity?  Oh wait… I guess it’s time then.

Not even June yet, 2020. What else you got?

“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.”  ~ T.S. Eliot

I didn’t have a word for 2018. Seemed like my declaration from the previous year was in need of more than the allotted 365 days. I had coined 2017 “the year the bullshit ends”. Doesn’t have a very spiritual ring to it, and yet, it was spoken in total faith. Of course I was referring to Phil. I’d had enough of the crazy. Enough of the chaos. Rhythm, discipline and routine is what was needed around this house. And I regularly reminded him. I even gave midnight, December 31st as a deadline for his shit-show to be cleaned up… or else. 

But I am not without grace so I granted an extension. 

About midway through 2018, I awoke one morning with a prayer…a cry as to why these patterns persisted in this man and therefore our life. A rather simple yet direct response came, “Did you think you wouldn’t be affected? Did you think the rewiring and redirecting (aka, “bullshit ending”) would leave you untouched?” My short answer was, “um, yes.” (It’s not my bullshit we’re trudging through). But the Spirit went on to say, “you believe you’re still being made into one flesh as if ‘one flesh’ is some level you attain and the end result is relating well with one another. This isn’t true. The sacred mystery of marriage is that you two became one when you swore your vows to me. Whether or not you hold up your end, I will always hold up mine. So when I’m purging Phil of harmful patterns (at your repeated request, no less) you’ll not only feel, but endure the pain. I don’t work on his deficiencies, without exposing yours. In sickness and in health, the two are one.”

Yeah. Mind blown.

At a particularly low(er) point, when anxiety had all but derailed me, I lashed out at God. Real good. It was not pretty. I’d grown weary. Why was it taking so long to right our course? Where was the hope that all will be well? Sitting on my deck I demanded the Lord show himself to me. Like, right now. With my eyes. Why won’t you help my faith that is faltering? Although no actual being appeared, the Spirit again spoke. He whispered, “you see me everyday. Every. Single. Day. with your eyes.” And in that moment Phil’s face appeared in the chair next to mine. “Sometimes,” the Spirit reminded, “I present myself as weak and in need. You’re looking for the Savior, but I am showing you the man. I was and am both. Another great mystery. When I was a stranger, you took me in. When I was in prison, you visited me. When I was naked, you clothed me. When I was crazy, chaotic, erratic and unreliable … when I was Phil, you loved me.

Of course, this made me cry. Soft tears, not angry ones like before. 

I’d like to think I’d have believed a baby in a manger was God’s promise kept. Or that a 12 year old claiming God to be his Father would not furrow my brow. I’d really like to place myself at the base of a rugged cross, weeping for a man bludgeoned beyond recognition, simply because he was dying and alone and over the course of several years had grown precious to me. Then I probably should love the Jesus right in front of me. The one who presents as such a mess these days.

Because if breakthrough is to occur (spoiler alert: that’s my word for 2019), then the bullshit I’ve been ardently praying for relief from will be ours. Together. That’s what marriage is. That’s what these years are for. In sickness and in health, good times and bad. 

I’ll live my best life on the other side. The last of the great mysteries revealed.

More like bullying, assault and suicide. Oh my.

Disclaimer: I’ve not read “13 Reasons Why” nor seen the series that is spreading like wildfire across our adolescent populace. If you don’t know what I’m referring to then you either don’t have a teenager living at home or your approach to pop culture is to hold out hope the Amish will have their way in the end.

If you are the latter, I love you with the love of the Lord, but it’s time to go ahead and pick up an Entertainment Weekly.

I have 3 teenaged sons. My 18 year old watched the entire 13 episodes in 2 days…beginning on Easter Sunday. I had no idea, since he streamed it from his phone. (Can one convert to Amish?)  Anyway, a few days ago, I asked him if he’d heard of it and we talked easily and without pause, for about an hour. Almost like peers. He is very cerebral and took the content as more of a means to an end — that good story telling is a necessary art even when it violates our benign sense of the experiences of others. It was not as upsetting as it was informative to him.

I would characterize our conversation as great. A great conversation indeed! (shout out to Easter comedians everywhere)

With confidence building, I engaged my 13 year old on the matter, and interestingly, he’d heard of it for the first time earlier that day in PE. He knew instinctively this was bigger than Team Peeta or Team Gale. This was heavy. And real.  Once I turned on that faucet, the floodgates were opened. We spent considerable time on the subject of suicide and hopelessness and he asked if he could play me some songs of particular interest to him by 21 Pilots. For most of that evening we sat on the couch listening to music on his phone and discussing it. Me and my middle schooler.

I’ll take that win, technology. And I’ll raise you one; we allowed none of your other distractions.

The very next day, my 16 year old texted me that a friend of his had voluntarily checked themselves into a mental hospital for observation, struggling as they are from anxiety and depression. Opportunity, I hear you knocking. We texted back and forth a bit, then when he got home, I proceeded with caution. He told me he was doing fine and that this was a good thing in the life of his friend.

A little background on the middle son, our deep, deep well of everything has meaning. While riding along in the car he will unbeknownst to anyone else be taking video out the window, inspired by something only he noticed, and/or devise a  playlist for the errand run because why wait for an open road when today has presented us with down the street? Never miss a moment is his God-given mission.

So this conversation had potential to go a lot of different ways.

When I bravely ventured into the unknown and asked if he’d heard of 13 Reasons Why, he looked at me and said “yes, and it’s retarded”.  After the initial shock of A) him using that word and B) this very unexpected response, I couldn’t help but chuckle.

Why is it that?

Because, he said, I know people going through these things and all that show is doing is messing with them. Then, when other friends not affected by these issues say it’s the most realistic thing they’ve ever watched, it leads me to conclude that I don’t need more depictions about what’s real when I know people living it. This isn’t a direct quote but it’s pretty darn close. 

Safeguarding his empathy. That’s my deep well.

Three different perspectives, three different levels of exposure, three different responses. Good art has a way of doing that.

The key to popular culture is knowing yourself first. If your kids don’t, then the responsible thing  to do is censor the intake, because knowing how you’ll digest this sort of material is essential. The next good step is discussion. Or rather, broaching the subject, then listening. The unsettling nature of what kids are exposed to or facing themselves is only getting more raw, but with thoughtful reflection, what is thrown at us from seemingly nowhere and then everywhere, can be redeemed.

I would caution against assuming these hot topics have not crossed your blissful teen’s pleasant path especially if you’ve spent the greater part of their childhood shielding them from all things sad, shocking and “worldly” as if by labeling certain aspects of this broken earth with air quotes will magically keep them at bay. Have we not lived 40-something years and not realized at least this much? The last thing we want to do is miss this softball sized lob of an opening into our teen’s willingness to share because we are a bit more righteous in our indignation than is called for.

Bottom line is each of my three vastly different Christ following children wanted to talk about stuff we rarely if ever mention in passing conversation. It was not a hard sell. I barely had to ask a question but when I did, I was not given the eye-roll, but an answer.

For that alone I could kiss the author on the mouth.

Carry on, good mothers.

Though we walk in the midst of trouble, He preserves our life… Psalm 138:7

If in centuries to come, there is an anthropological study done on those of us who occupied North America in the 21st century, I think they will footnote our insane penchant for sports.  I mean, as a culture, we crazy.

We care deeply about the athletic performance of grown men and women we will never know, and spend countless hours (and thousands of dollars) watching, empowering, near demanding our offspring compete.

We are, as we say, “all in”.

Absurd as our mania can be, every now and again we are the beneficiaries of a grander, more noble effect these sports of ours are capable of producing.

Such was the case for my family in the fall of 2014.

Baseball provided some breathing room for my really sad boys thrust into life-altering change.

We arrived in Kansas City mid-summer, having moved away from the epicenter of cool that is Austin, Texas, and right away, my sophomore and I settled into a nightly ritual of Royal watching.  It was what we looked forward to most; he, so he wouldn’t be reminded that he knew no one at school, and I, to forego for an inning or two, the burden a mother bears when she must let her babies flounder before they can fly. Those rare nights the Royals had off, we were genuinely bummed.  Cain, Salvy, Gordo – they’d become our buds.  I’ll admit I had to remind myself a few times that technically I could be Hoz’s mother – big ole smile and winning personality and what-not.

But I digress.

We were firmly acquainted with the team when time came for the city’s first playoff game in 29 years…and it was a Wild one.  My dad, brother and nephew had seats at The K, and we were texting fools. “What’s it like there?” “Send me pics!” You know because you do the same thing.

In our house that night, there was no lounging, no leisurely watching.  We each sought outlets for our rising nervous energy. Late in the game, down 7 to 3, my hard-working, exhausted husband, said his good nights.  Amid our pleas and protests he said – and I quote – “I know, I know; I’m going to miss the greatest comeback in Royals history.”  I can still picture exactly where everyone was in the room when he said it and the stunned silence that followed, because he seemed to mean it.

If you’re a KC fan, you won’t ever forget the unlikely manner in which his prediction became one of epic proportions…nor the crazed, delirious jubilation that spilled from every house, on every street, in every quadrant north or south of the river, east or west of the state line.

It was definitely a moment.

Meanwhile, my brother was screaming into his phone (because texting, at this point, seemed wholly insufficient), “this is the greatest game I’ve ever seen in my life…in any sport!”

Whoa.

Had the Royals really just given baseball its man-card back?  I believe so.

After that Wild Card win, for the first time in my vast sports-viewing experience, I noted how much I was enjoying myself during the games. No stressing, no superstishing, no providential deal-making. It was so nice! I felt like I was watching an unknown Shakespearean drama unfold, with heroes and subplots galore; our own Kansas City masterpiece that I had a sense would live well beyond its October shelf life.

The Royals were brilliantly going about their business, reminding us that life indeed is good.

Aside from near nightly watch parties with family and friends, what I’ll take with me for a long time to come is how each game, a different player stepped up.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  Every Salvy-soaked player-of-the-game, deflected personal praise in favor of team.  Reporters seeking to highlight individual awesomeness, got the same response every time: Deference. Humility.  Are we still talking about sports here? What an example for my boys.  Seriously.

The Royals supported rather than undermined our collective parenting efforts to raise ego-less kids.  #thatswhatteamdo

In my opinion, their spectacular play-making was unprecedented. Be it outstanding defense or extra inning walk-off victories powered by big bats and speedy base running, athletic prowess was on display, reminding the nation that baseball is not just a way to pass the time. And this while sporting jerseys with the name of our fine city etched across the front of them.  Honestly, I’ve never felt so cool with a rally towel.

The Royals gave an entire people group feelings of legit bad-assery!

Which brings me to October 15, 2014.  A day the sky was as blue as I’d ever seen.  A day when anyone over the age of 40 who’d grown up in KC, was unexpectedly overwhelmed with emotion. We were back. The World Series would no longer be linked to high school in the stories we told.  We were relevant again; in the majors, in our families, and in our shared experiences.

The Royals reminded a city who they are:  a hometown envied not for beaches or mountain views or recognizable skylines, but for pride in our people, for loyalty in the face of longevity.

Quite simply, we are KC.

So you can be sure that the heartbreaking, deflating, 7th game, 9th inning terrible loss, would not be the end of this story.  We’d come back in a year with a 5th game, 9th inning, break to home plate on a routine ground ball that defied all logic — unless you had lived through the wrenching pain of a man left stranded at third.

Then you would know exactly why the risk was worth the take, why the audacity to replace a memory could propel a player, a person, to greatness.

But we would need to dig deep, play the game well and survive another grueling season if we were going to witness that greatness.

And so it goes in life.

There is pain and there is glory in every place you find yourself.

Assembling a team takes time, but when done right, has the power to produce some kind of wonderful.

We know.  We live in KC and cheer for world champions.

Welcome home boys.

My whole life long, some have called me Liz, some Elizabeth, and some endearing loved ones, the ever winsome Lizzie.  Some knew me first as the girl from Missouri (what up, Raytown?!), some as the Kansas Jayhawk super fan, and some as the adopted Austinite where, over the course of ten years, I started saying things like “all y’all” when addressing my children, accessorizing, and engaging in the truly southern art of long and leisurely dinners with friends.  Oh yeah Midwest, it’s a thing, and we are missing out.

I love all my names and embrace all my places, for they paint a picture of a girl who can’t quite be defined, and a woman unwilling to be pinned down by experience.

So why a blog?  Well…

I’ve stacks of journals going all the way back to junior high, most filled with angsty things like guy crushes gone awry (and there were many) and big dreams now abandoned.  But as I grew and life got real, my writing turned reflective, prayerful even, and sometimes, when I least expected, insights gained from journeys forged through rough terrain, flowed from heart to hand. I found myself wanting to share what had been hard won, because that’s what we humans do. We share.

So I bought a computer. Yes, a conscious relinquishing of pen and paper was the next step in my development as a writer.  #ILikeTheOldenDays                       #NoI’mNotOnTwitter

At first, only the tightest circles of trust were allowed to read, but then, as I became a little less consumed with my own frailty, something beautiful happened and people I never imagined as leisurely readers, let alone “personal experience” types, were moved.  They told me so.  And now I’m on the hook. Challenged. Encouraged. A little bit scared. (But isn’t that kinda the point, I ask myself?)

So this is my attempt to dare to do what I feel most alive doing…sharing parts of me with you, in what I hope is something honest, something worth your time, something that no matter how different our experiences might be – in life, in love, in God – our shared humanity shines through.

That’s why I’m blogging (and if you must know, why I’m face-booking too). It’s all about the share.

 I look forward to this sweet exchange with you.