I’ve been busy with Life and other things, which is why its been quiet here… But I had to share with you a post I found on my friend Clarice’s blog, written by her husband, Ian. Here a sampling,

"One of the joys of a firstborn child is all the firsts that the parents get to experience. Most of these firsts revolve around bodily functions. First green-black-tar poop. First brown poop. First triple-scoop soft-serve poop. First orange poop. First yellow poop. First liquid poop. First projectile poop that hits the wall six feet away. First pee onto baby’s chin. First spitup, pee and poop at the same exact moment. First Dad fart that could be blamed on baby. It’s all a joy and brings laughter to everybody present. It’s a universal truth that fart sounds never cease to be funny. Who would want to miss these baby firsts? Not me!"

Read the rest here.

Just thought I’d share.

I’ve either got a doozy of a cold. Or, I’ve got Bronchitis again.

Someone just shoot me now.

Saying Goodbye to a Dream.
Michelle Kwan announced this morning that she is withdrawing from the 2006 Olympics. It broke my heart when I heard. I admit, I was interested in this year’s Olympics mainly because of Michelle. I look forward to ice skating competitions because I love watching her skate. She has a love for the sport and an enjoyment in it that shows every time she gets on the ice and that none can surpass.

As I watched the highlights of her press conference announcing her withdrawal, I knew what had probably happened behind closed doors. Or what will happen some time in the near future.

You cannot say goodbye to a dream without shedding some tears. Especially one that you have held close for so long. A dream so dear, so important to you deserves to be mourned. And mourned properly. It deserves some sobbing and even some throwing of things and kicking of walls and doors. No one watching her could deny the pain she must be feeling. Yet she handled herself with so much grace and composure. But everyone at the conference knew what this dream meant to Michelle. And they knew how much it hurt for her to admit she would not be able to compete this year. They new the subtext was that her dream of Olympic gold was dead.

My heart aches for Michelle.

But it also aches for all of us who have buried dreams that died before they were realized. We’ve all suffered this grief. We’ve all had dreams that crumbled before we could fully embrace them. And others that died in our arms. And still others that  we never even got close to before they breathed their last.

And the truth is, we’ll suffer this pain and grief again, if we continue to really live, really embrace life. This is just the reality of Life — some dreams die while still planted deep in our hearts. Its the hardest thing to do, grieve such an ethereal yet deeply real loss. I have cried buckets over my lost dreams. I’ve struggled and raged and pleaded. And finally buried them in acceptance that it is time to let them go and move forward.

The thing is, we can’t fully embrace the next dreams until we’ve buried the ones that have died. As long as our arms are full, cradling the death, we can never embrace the new baby dreams God is birthing in the depths of our hearts even as we grieve.

I just recently discovered this. So much time I’ve spent clinging to lost and dead dreams, all the while God is pleading with me to let go and see what new things, new great gifts He has in store for me.

Tonight a new friend spoke at The Bridge gathering and his words echoed those Jesus has been whispering and shouting from the wind to me over the last few weeks: Context. Its about context. Just looking at  the events of my life as stand-alone, or even connected but unrelated lessons to learn from isn’t enough. I need to step back, look back across the landscape of my life and discover the context.

I can do this with some things, especially those further back in my life. But, since I’m walking backwards into my future, I cannot yet fit some of the recent things into the context of God’s design. But I believe someday I will.

In the meantime, I’m learning to let go and move forward with Jesus. I still think lovingly and longingly sometimes about my old dreams, sometimes even ache over their loss. I still wonder at times what life would be like had they not died. But ultimately I can’t be bothered pondering them for long. My life is…. My Life Is.

I am alive. I Live, really Live, and even with all the pain and angst and struggle and frustration, I know that God has done this; He has created Life in me where there was none. He has breathed Hope in me where I could not. I Live. And I Live an Abundant Life. And despite the pain and grief and loss and labor pains of rebirth, man! Is it worth it. I may grouse and complain and cry and wail, but I would not have this thing called Life any other way. Life with Jesus is worth it all. And I love it.

Apparently, I should not have gotten out of bed today, as this is the most depressing day of the year.

Wish someone had told me before I got out of bed and drove all the way to work in the rain.

HT: Busy Mom

…my right ankle is still killing me. I’ve taken to wearing one of those ace bandage ankle supports and my sneakers to work. I seem to aggravate it just by walking. Certain positions my foot naturally lands tweaks it just enough to send a shock of pain all the way up to my ears.

I’m still avoiding going to the doctor. I hate paying him just to have him say, "yep. You sprained it. Elevate and ice and stay off it."

Stay off it. Yeah right.

Last night I wandered into the yard to greet Cirrus, my landlord’s dog, who was faithfully "guarding" the house. As best a long-haired dachshund can guard a house. It was dark, and no one else was home, so relatively little light fell on the lawn. As I headed back across the yard to my front door, I was swallowed by a hole that just jumped out and grabbed me. Oh, it was a deceptive, sneaky little thing. Appeared out of no where and then vanished again as soon as I was nose to dirt with the grass. I hate that.

One ankle bent one way, the other ankle bent the opposite. I don’t think they were meant to do that. And then I did the most amazingly grace-less face-plant smack into the grass. Lucille Ball would have been proud. I’m sure there was at least one angel watching that grimaced, "that’s gonna leave a mark." And another I’m sure that called out, "watch out for the–! Never mind." Too bad they didn’t bother to intervene.

My ankles screamed at me in utter agony, which I thought was rather unfair, considering they were the ones who decided to go in opposite directions. I had no say in the matter.

I crawled on my hands and knees to my front porch, all the while wondering how I would explain this to my doctor, threw my gym bag up the stairs, wondered if anyone had ever before sprained both ankles at once, clawed my way to my feet hanging onto the porch column for support, wondered how in the world I was going to get to the doctor the next day with both ankles swollen and sprained and in pain, and slowly, tenderly, gingerly stepped up the porch steps to the door and into my home, wondering how I would explain this to my co-workers and still be taken seriously as a professional–well, anything. I mean, really. Do you take me seriously after this??

Yes, I elevated my feet to help slow the swelling. No, I didn’t ice them — couldn’t take the cold! Yes, they swelled up — but one went down by this morning. The right ankle, however, looks a little like a tire with a bulge in it. No bruising, though. Not that that’s much comfort.

I also pulled a muscle I never knew I had in my right calf; one that goes all the way up the back of my knee. I know this because it screams obscenities at me every time I move my lower leg, my foot, my ankle– pretty much anything on the lower right side of my body.

That’s just not right. My body should not be screaming at me period. And especially not bad words.

Oy, I’m getting old.

Too old to be this "graceful".  Oh, it was cute when I was little. Watch little Lu walk into the door jamb and bounce back with a smile. Even when I was 20 it was sweet and funny that I walked off curbs at night and banged into clearly visible open filing cabinet drawers. But to be 40 and still falling victim to perfidious "dips" in the ground and knavish pieces of furniture (yes, I sleep with my thesaurus, deal with it) is rather, well, sad, don’t you think?

Not to mention painful.

Someone bring me another Advil, please.