As a reader, I always thought that the ending was the goal. And it is. But it never occurred to me that it was the well-written middle that actually got me there as inevitably as a cart on a roller coaster track.

If only life had someone writing me out of my "swampy middles."

I am a strong believer in being the best person you can be. Not in some humanist, "you-aren't-living-unless-you-achieve-your-full-potential" way. But in an "I'm-grateful-for-the-person-I-am" way.

Are you grateful for the talents you have?

Over the years, I have often wished I could be one of those people who could just focus on one thing and get really good at it, and was frustrated trying to do that over and over. It's about time I accepted myself just the way I am. Are you like this, too?

The weekend before last, our dear friends Mark and Colleen came down for an unexpected, but much-enjoyed visit from Yellowknife. Colleen and I took a walk in the woods, and espied some very pretty things.

Levi's eulogy was the most difficult thing I have ever had to write. Not because I didn't know what I wanted to say, because I did.

Sharing Levi's eulogy was the most difficult thing that Jason has ever had to do. But he did.

God gave us both the strength to share the story of this precious little man with those at his funeral yesterday. For those that were unable to attend, I am posting it here.

We all have "cinquefoil" in our lives. Sometimes it sneaks in because we just don't have the time or energy to deal with it right then. Eventually, though, we have to stop and examine the things we fill our lives with and question, "Is this still of value to me? Is this something I want to nurture right now?"

At the beginning of the week, I had no idea all the ways that this week would not follow my nice, neat plan.

What makes someone inspiring? And why would I want to be that, too?

Wow, yesterday's post about how Christians treat the LGBTQ community has sure generated a lot of great, constructive discussion (a little here and a LOT on Facebook), which is exactly what I hoped it would do. The comments have provided me with some more thought-food to chew on, and I hope it has done the same for many of the people engaged in the conversation.

How do you care without bleeding out? How do you protect yourself without becoming callous? How do you draw the line between "making a difference in the world" and "being healthy and whole for me and my family" when your heart breaks every time you hear about the damage done to one of the least of these?

We all have days when we don't feel beautiful. On those days, we need to know that we ARE precious, we ARE amazing, and we ARE loved. We are the apple of our Father's eye.

Grief is a funny thing.

One day, you can be perfectly fine, feel like you have accepted your loss, and that life will once again be wonderful to live.

The next day, you can be on the verge (or beyond it) of tears at every waking moment.

Crisis is hard. Grief hurts. But I would much rather be a strong, tall sunflower, or an intricate and complex bonsai, each a masterpiece of beauty, than a poor, coddled sprout that dies young in the luxury of inadversity.