I’m reading Don Miller’s new book. I feel like that in itself is a confession because I told myself I wasn’t allowed to break the binding until all my homework for the fall quarter was completed. I have one 10-page paper looming over me like an anvil from an old cartoon ready to fall and squish my head, so I thought I deserved a distraction. Whew! I feel better having confessed that and all.

Anyway, I write this because in the first few chapters Don discloses that his story isn’t interesting enough for a movie. I think most of us would agree that if our lives were displayed on a screen, there’d be a lot of dull (and embarrassing) moments. Remember, Jessica Simpson and the ill-fated Newlyweds series? She successfully achieved dull and embarrassing in one foul swoop. It’s easy to laugh at her misfortune, but if in the same situation, I might slip up and confuse chicken and tuna myself.

He also talks about narrative. His first book is written in a narrative, essay form. The moviemakers discuss how narrative isn’t engaging for an audience. They can’t get inside your head. They quickly lose interest when they can’t engage. It made me think about my narrative. I don’t know about you, but the voice inside my head is my most cherished companion. It laughs with me when I see an arrogant, toolbox of a guy trip on his ego. She helps me get rid of the red hue that sprays across my cheeks when what I intended to say and the actual words crash in a destructive mess of words and subsequent hand motions. She rehearses the important deliveries and pumps me up when I need an extra dose of courage. She reminds me that although my thighs are not as small as the girl working out in front of me, I am here working out and not sitting on the couch at home investing my evening into a sea of Ben and Jerry’s. She helps me to rationalize situations that would cause me to react poorly. She helps me make it through tough encounters with people I don’t want to see. She rolls her eyes internally so I can restrain myself from being impolite on a blind date. She prays deeply and loves freely. She is vulnerable. She cries when she hears songs that tell a story. She’s great. But I think the moviemakers are right. The audience doesn’t get to see all that. That comes when you are in relationship with someone. You can’t expect to know all there is to know about someone from a movie, or even a book or a blog. I think the gift of relationship is meeting their narrative and becoming part of their story.

I’m only a few chapters in…Dangit Don!

Lessons from the Apple Store

A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to travel to Asia and before you think this post is about my wonderful adventure, let me say, I will save that for another date. Today’s story is however about something that occurred while jaunting halfway around the world. A friend had used my MacBook to access something via her thumb drive and my hard drive crashed...well, twenty minutes later it crashed. Coincidence? I think not. For any of you mac users, when you see the faint light grey file folder with a question mark blinking at you, you know how this feels. It reminds me of the coon dog that would enter the foreground of the screen during old school “Duck Hunt” from the original Ninetendo. It pops up and laughs at you and shakes up and down a little as if its laughter at your failure is causing it to convulse rhythmically. I would always try and shoot the dog to stop its berating of my hunting skills once and for all, but alas the gun only worked on the poor ducks. In other words, you feel like you are the butt of a huge practical joke. Like someone or something is laughing at you saying, “Ha! Your stuff? It’s gone! Sucks to be YOU!”

I didn’t have time to mourn the loss of my laptop while on the trip, but as soon as I returned home, the reality of what happened hit me like a ton of bricks. Questions circled about. “What will I do for school when I start classes again this fall? How can I afford to fix it or buy a new one? Are you supposed to keep graduate school papers for anything important? How many pictures did I have on iPhoto? What kind of small fortune did I drop on iTunes in three years?”

Craptastic!

I was able to grieve the loss of my papers quite quickly in almost as much time as it took to write them (don’t tell my professors), but when I started to think about the pictures and the iTunes, my heart began to sink.

Off to the Mall of America Apple Store where in a miracle of sorts the manager honored my expired extended warranty (that I forgot I had purchased once upon a time) and installed a brand new hard drive for free ($800 value, gasp!).

As I went to pick it up the next day, I was explaining my plight to a cute, little Apple Store associate not quite nineteen years of age. As she returned from retrieving my computer in the back, she handed it to me and said, “Well, you could look at it as cathartic!” Now aside from the fact that lil’ miss Apple probably just learned the word ‘cathartic’ the previous year in her freshman ‘Intro to Theatre’ class, it made me think – “Maybe she had a point”. My entire hard drive was wiped clean. Everything good and bad, gone. A fresh start. A new hard drive with no mark of my history of my struggles or memories I’d like to erase. Hmm…

Now, to be honest the three years I’d owned that hard drive had been riddled with some crazy memories. Most of which have been deleted. But, you can never completely delete things off your hard drive, right? CSI could probably locate those bad memories in two minutes flat. So, yeah, I like this new hard drive. Cathartic indeed! But then I start to think about the memories that I would never, ever want to delete - Pictures of my nephews growing up, years I spent in CA as a youth director with students I love, goofy photo shoots with forever friends, secret songs I got from ordering Matt Wertz’s latest album early!!!!!

I think what it comes down to is you can never erase just a part of who you are. The good comes with the bad. It makes up who we are. Even though I have painful memories that make me nauseous to think about, I love who I am today and I know that those painful days played an intrinsic part in making the “today me” happen. I think about the many photos I lost and how many I had uploaded to facebook (oh, thank goodness for facebook). But, isn’t true that you only upload the best to facebook. You don’t upload the photos where someone blinked, or when someone is cracking up because someone said something funny or farted right before the shot. You edit life a little for facebook and that’s what I missing. So, as thankful as I am to have a new hard drive for free (plug MOA Apple Store once again), I would rather have an unedited version of me and my memories. I’m learning that the journey isn’t worth deleting no matter how silly or painful it is and that the destination is just another starting point.

Happy Father's Day Brosef!

I have a big brother. I’ve never written about him because, like most sibling relationships, ours was tumultuous at best. From summer afternoons spent being forced to play the “robber” in cops and robbers with the neighborhood boys to dirty sock ambushes suffocating my face while my brother pinned me down on the couch as well as the classic loogie fake, I was subjected to the most common “big brother” moves directly from the playbook I’m convinced they all receive at birth (the little sister’s birth, that is).

Even though I daydreamed of what it would be like to have a big sister instead of a big brother, my favorite books and tv shows had brother/sister relationships. “The Berenstein Bears” and “The Cosby Show” were the top two. I felt special like Sister Bear and Rudy Huxtable. I have a big brother and even though he beat me up, made me play the roles nobody wants to play like goalie, catcher, and ‘robber’, and incessantly framed me for his indiscretions with mom and dad, I would still catch him sticking up for me. See, it was only okay for him to treat me that way. As my big brother, he held the exclusive rights to all teasing, embarrassment, roughing up, and fear induction to the point of tears. Any treatment toward me of this nature that occurred outside of his puppet strings was not allowed and he made sure to defend his birthright….out of my sight of course…or so he thought.

Growing up I also saw that he would feign disinterest or even a sense of irritation or indignation at having to help me with a ‘pickle’ I’d gotten myself into, but I’d soon learn to recognize the sly joy he got from helping me out and in later years, he grew weary of the mask and settled into the helpful big brother role, albeit a sassy, know-it-all one.

During our awkward transition into adulthood, my brother started to open up to the idea of me reciprocating some of the advice giving. The summer before I went off to college he began to actually ask me for my advice...in a very sneaky way. This odd tradition began. On the nights where we were both home, he would yell at me to turn his TV and bedroom light off because he was too lazy to get out of bed. Under the veil of darkness my brother shared his fears and struggles and hurts. It was almost as if he couldn’t see me, I wasn’t really there. He wasn’t really telling his little sister about all the crap he had endured his first two years (and incidentally the only years) of college. I was just a necessary sounding board for the pain he had been keeping inside for too long. I was the only one he felt safe enough to share his fears. That summer I sat in the threshold between the hallway and my brother’s room many a night and remained silent. He cried. He laughed. He sat in silence processing. I’m so thankful he couldn’t see my face because although I never said a word, so often my face betrays my desire to remain neutral (something I have to work on if I am ever to be a therapist). He shared a HUGE secret I have kept to this day and that, in itself, is a huge victory for this self-professed Chatty Cathy. I’m so thankful for that summer and how it allowed our relationship to mature and afforded me the amazing opportunity to see my brother in a different light.



Today, I see him as a dedicated husband and father of two boys. I see how the two rascals I call my nephews disarm my brother’s tough exterior in an instant and how they alone can soften him in a way that makes me smile on the inside. I get to put so many pieces that comprise my brother together: smart-ass, son, brother, husband, father. Growing up, I definitely took some knocks from my big brother, but I wouldn’t trade him for a sister for anything. Truth is, in a lot of ways, I look up to him. But, don’t tell him that. ☺





"Danielson" and I. Circa 1981.

Keep Your Crabby at Home!

If there is one character trait that I could eradicate from my being, it would have to be my crabbiness. Yes, I said it. Does admitting the fact that I have some crabbiness in me, give me any points? Like GI Joe says, "Knowing is half the battle". Can I be given a tiny bit of credit? Maybe? Just a tidge? I didn't think so.

A few weeks ago I had my first meeting with the team I'll be traveling to China with in July. We were having a great discussion on how to be servants to one another and the Chinese teachers we'll be partnering with as we teach summer camp. I blurted out, "I should make a shirt that says, "Keep your crabby at home". This t-shirt would soley serve as a reminder to myself. The idea came from a statement I heard about ten years ago in college. The summer after my freshman year I particpated in a cross-country tour with a group of students. We had a couple of purposes, but mainly we served as ambassadors to our college. "YAY, We are happy, smiling, perfect Christians! Come to our school. Give money to our school!" The problem was I wasn't happy, smiley all the time. We put on a show every night complete with lights, set, music and dancing. We ate countless potluck feasts handmade by congregation members named Hilda and Gertrude. Incidentally Hilda and Gertrude like to guilt-trip you into seconds and thirds and think that everyone is too skinny. We slept in the homes of Gertrude and Hilda's kids or cousins or neighbors. We travel in a van all day and eat bag lunches made by...you guessed it Gertrude and Hilda. It was like Christian Road Rules on...Testamints!

Needless to say, when you are with the same group of people day in and day out for months at a time, I don't care who you are, the gloves come off! One morning I just wasn't feeling it and before my backside even found the worn bench seat of the van, I rose my right hand with an air of attitude and said, "Fair warning everyone, I'm having a crabby day today". I thought this warning would protect me from cutesy small talk, pranks, and all other shenanigans that I normally participated in. One of my friends and fellow tour members totally derailed my plan, my wall, my fortress of crab. Dan was a football player with the voice of a Disney prince. I'm serious. You can't help but listen to this guy and feel rebuked and comforted all at the same time. What? Dan says (in his hero-esque voice), "Dana, you know, crabbiness is a choice." My facial expression I'm sure spelled out my disgust in letters that Disney corp. will never use. He continued, "Everyday I wake up and I have a choice to be crabby or not". CRAP!!!!! It made sense, but it wasn't what I wanted to hear. I thought I'd written myself a free ticket out of relationship at least for a few hours by my declaration of crabbiness. And I was pretty sure the whole van heard "Deep Thoughts from Dan". Ugh! I'm caught! I have to choose to not be crabby.

I recently went on a trip to CA with some dear friends from college, two of which were in that van on that 'day of reckoning' years ago. As I knew it would, crabby came to the surface like an explosive volcano (that how she works with me). It spewed all over my friends and I may have spouted a curse word or two. Immediately a wave of disappointment and guilt washed over me. I pushed crabby away, but the damage had already been done. It only takes minutes. Thankfully these friends love me and forgive me, but I couldn't take back my immature display or the words I had said.

What happens when we let our crabby infest those who don't know us at all? Those whom we are called to love? Can we simply say, "Oops...Sorry, I was having a crabby day"? What kind of an excuse is that? Really. I've tried to forget that day in the van many a time. I want an excuse. I don't want to be responsible for my actions ALL the time. But I can't shake it. We do have a choice to be crabby or not and the choice that we make affects so much more than we can see.

I know I'm not perfect and I'm sure crabby will make a cameo appearance on the China trip, but I pray that I can make a choice to stop her instead of feed her.

A Different Ending

I have a confession to make. I am a habitual page-skipper. Like stealing cookies from the cookie jar before dinner, I often peek ahead to the last page of a chapter or, gasp, even the last page of the entire book. I can trace this impropriety back to when I started buying my own books. I’d quickly grow insecure of my “loitering” in the aisle at Barnes and Noble or Target and feel a need to expedite my book selection. Surely people were judging my lack of decisiveness, right? I’d quickly scan the first few and last few pages to see if it was worthy of my hard-earned $19.95 and then quickly be on my way to the safety of the check out counter. But later at home cozying up with my brand new book, I’d inevitably find that my sneak peek had either made no sense in the context of the story or it completely ruined the whole storyline for me. Back in the corner of my mind I couldn’t forget the words written on the last page. Almost like a snapshot, they were imprinted into my memory. Shoot! I ruined all the preceding chapters because I tried to connect them to the ending that I already read. And to think I tried to ensure my $19.95 was well spent, but instead I sabotaged my own makeshift “Consumer Report” system.

Last week I chatted with a couple of friends. One is entering into a brand new relationship complete with butterflies flitting about and birds chirping songs in harmony with the breeze. I think the sun is actually shining brighter on her these days. She is happily experiencing all the joys of the newness, but she can’t help but think about the future. It’s only been a week or so and even though she tries to push it out of her mind, she finds herself searching for the guarantee that this one will work, that this time it will be different. “Can we just fast forward a little bit? Can I sneak a peek to the end of this chapter? C’mon what will it hurt?” Tempting as it may be, and believe me, as I divulged earlier, I’m a page skipper, skipping ahead to see what will happen will affect the process in a way that will steal away from the beauty of the experience. Just like the end of a book, knowing the end will make no sense out of the context of living the experience out or even worse, it’ll rob you of the joy of experiencing each day to its fullest because you can’t get the ending out of your mind. “Oh, sure he doesn’t want to go to my work party, that’s because… or I knew he would react this way when I told him about my past because he did this…” Analyzing is best left to the scientists. We get to simply live.

In stark contrast, another friend of mine just entered therapy after it became clear that relationships were not being lived to their fullest. This friend is being asked to read backwards instead of forwards. My friend must reread pages that were painful to read the first time around. I’m sure skipping to the end of therapy, getting to the place where everything is healed seems all too appealing right now, but by reading backwards and reliving the pages that are difficult to read, a different ending is being written.

A different ending.

By inviting God to stand by us in the process and walk through it no matter how impatient or how racked with pain we may be, we get a different ending.

If only my books would’ve had a different ending. Then I wouldn’t have wasted my measly gap paycheck. Don’t waste your $19.95. Live it out. Don’t desire to skip the pages. Because truth is, your new ending is worth way more than $19.95 and God is dying [has died] to write it.

I need you more than you need me.
I need Africa more than Africa needs me.

On April 25 I’ll be running a half-marathon in Nashville with my friend, Mel. The problem is Mel lives in Sioux Falls, SD and I live in Minneapolis. So, I’m training alone and have absolutely no motivation aside from the few hundred dollars I have invested into my plane ticket and marathon registration. When I lived in CA, I ran two half-marathons (within a month) with my good friend and roommate, Jenni. She made training fun. We’d rock out to iPod dance parties at stoplights and laugh at the differences in our playlists. When you train WITH someone, you’re accountable. You can’t look someone in the eye as they’re lacing up their shoes and say, “Ah, nah. I don’t feel like running tonight”.

This is where all (or some, I hope) of you come in.

I recently joined an organization called Mocha Club. Mocha Club’s philosophy is to forego two mochas a month ($7) and then that “pocket change” provides a wide range of services, education, resources, clean drinking water, and much more to many communities in Africa. Seriously, 7 bucks! You can build teams and together make a difference in Africa. Now, I know some of you are thinking, “Africa! Dude, there are people right here that need help!” I agree, wholeheartedly. So, don’t stop what you’re doing here. Continue to keep your eyes open for opportunities in your city, neighborhood, and family. But, think about this: $7/month can be deducted from your checking account without you so much as blinking an eye or even affecting your monthly routine (other than a few mochas). Conversely, that $7/month can do amazing life-changing things for people in Africa.

Here’s my idea/plea/invitation: I need help motivating my training for the half-marathon and I think that it’s time I train with a purpose. A lot of people run to raise money for various causes. So, in that same spirit, I will be running for Mocha Club.

Here’s my goal: I’d love to have 13 people (one for each mile) join the Mocha Club.
Here’s the catch: To qualify, I must run 2:10 or under.

Two hours and 10 minutes is a significant drop from my other times. In the first marathon my time was 2:21 and I felt healthy and great. The second marathon I had injured my knee and finished a poor 2:28. I've never been a "runner". Just to give you a glimpse into my “running past”, my freshman year I faked having to pass out after my inability to complete killers under the specified time. My slow running caused my entire team to continue doing the killers until we made the time (as a team) the coach had set for us. I saw no way that I was ever going to make it and after the third try, seeing even the huskier girl cross the line before me and under the time, I thought it was time to act…like I was going to pass out. Sorry, for any of you that are reading this for the first time and you were on that b-ball team ☺ .

So, like Jump Rope For Life in third grade where we asked friends and family to donate for each minute jumped, I am asking you to commit to join the Mocha Club only if I complete the Nashville half-marathon in 2 hours and 10 minutes . You are my accountability. I need you more than you need me. And I’m hoping you see that you need Africa more than Africa needs you.

Please consider it. Watch a super sweet video they made
and check out the wicked cool free t-shirt you get for joining here.

See how Africa is full of joy, hope, and promise and how far $7 goes to impact lives.

Join my team!

Love Means Nothing

Did I get your attention? Before you think this post is about some embittered, poor woman destined for membership in the "Old Maid Club" complete with a lifetime supply of cats, let me assure you. It is not.

I am a tennis player. I eagerly peeked through the fence holes watching my dad play when I was barely old enough to walk on my own. As I grew older, my dad would tote my grade-school self along to the park for his match and give me a racquetball racket and a ball. I would never tire of hearing the thud, thud, thud against the huge green wall outside the courts. Sometimes I'd take a break to study my dad's game and try to emulate his fancy technique. Other times I'd end up running after the rogue tennis balls that were attempting a daring escape into the wooded area near the courts. During my awkward middle school years no matter how bad my day was, I could always count on warm summer evenings spent enjoying the sweet sound of a tennis ball hitting my racquet until the sun set. My older brother, dad and I would ride our bikes to the neighborhood park after supper and play until our arms were dangling with exhaustion or the dusky mosquitoes became unbearable, whichever came first. We'd quietly curse the disrespectful kids rollerblading on the courts next to us and laugh as we tried to earn a soda by pegging my dad at the net. Then we'd climb onto our bikes and coast down the hill to our house (it was a blessing that we had a downhill journey on the way home). Post-tennis snacks consisted of a heaping bowl of ice cream with Nesquick chocolate mix on top. And then satisfied, spent, and elated I'd crawl into bed and sleep like I hadn't a care in the world.

But now...my cares are plenty and many are unwarranted.

A few months ago I began playing competitively again following a long hiatus after the close of my college career. It has been a very humbling experience for me. I'm pretty rusty granted, but nonetheless ranked as a 4.0 player so my matches are against other 4.0 players. In five matches so far, I've managed to squeak out a "w" in only one. And, to see the lineup of my competitors you'd think I was in the senior league. A fair assumption is that the youngest opponent I played was 40. So, yes sports fans, that means I'm getting schooled by players that are at least 10-20 years my senior!

In a particularly grueling match last week, I thought of the title of this post because of its proximity to Valentine's Day. I thought it would be humorous to post this ON Valentine's just to spite the holiday. In tennis scoring Love = 0. . In my recent match if you were to look at any given time, you would've thought I was winning. I had two aces for goodness sake. But, believe me a couple of aces a winner does not make. I lost the match 6-0, 6-1. That's bad in case you aren't familiar with tennis scoring. Sometimes in my life, I am tempted to gaze at the other courts. I see the aces and ardently wish that I could have that same kind of luck or skill or talent or hair, boyfriend, job, house or fill in the blank. But the truth is, I am looking when an ace is happening and I don't see the whole match. I compare my whole match to their one ace. I need to remember my love of the game. How I enjoyed playing not to win, but because I enjoyed the people I was with, the sound of the tennis ball on my racquet, the laughter, and the ice cream :).

Life is not about winning or points. It's not about who has more or who is "better". No one ever shouts across the street at you 40-Love. But if people said I was Love (0), I'm starting to think that maybe I wouldn't mind.

Thirty by 30!

One of my friends from college started a list long before Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman made lists of the "bucket variety" famous. About a year and a half before Melodee's 30th birthday she dreamed up a list of thirty things she'd like to do before she turned 30. You can check it out here. My girl Mel is ambitious and inspiring. After completing her measly list of 30, she continued on. Currently, Mel's list stands at 249...and she's completed 93 of those. It's fairly significant to note that Mel is what I'd call an "introvert", but came busting out of her shell right about the time she created her list. Mel found a passion in running at about age 27 and it became sort of an impetus for change and adventure...and her LIST. Also, interesting side note: during college I was the athlete not Mel, but this summer we went for a run in Spearfish Canyon during a little vaca and she nearly lapped me. I consoled myself with a juicy slice of humble pie :)

I've been listening to John Mayer lately. A song that has been hitting me square between the eyes lately is Stop This Train.

A phrase in this songs says:
So scared of getting older
I'm only good at being young
So I play the numbers game
To find a way to say that life has just begun

So, with Mel and Mayer as my muses, my numbers game is my own list of Thirty by 30. Although 30 is knocking loudly at my door and I fear getting things done, I'm choosing to embrace the day; to happily and expectantly drive toward the sun rising in front of me instead of run with my tail between my legs lamenting all the goals I have failed to achieve.

I am inviting those who can help me or think I should add some things to my list to please comment. I am open and willing to accept help...maybe that should be on my list too. :)

So, without further Adieu, ah, ah, ahem: THE LIST

1. Surf in Hawaii
2. Sing one song at a coffee shop or bar (not karaoke...with a real band)
3. Learn how to play a song on the piano
4. Write a play
5. Run a half-marathon in Nashville
6. Audition for a local production or commercial
7. Drink a margarita in Mexico
8. Organize and launch a shoe donation company
9. Learn how to play a new sport
10. Make at least 10 new friends
11. Write a song
12. Read a book recommended by someone I normally wouldn't ask
13. Write a letter to the Editor to a magazine or newspaper
14. Only buy coffee from local (non-chain) shops for one month
15. Eat healthy for an entire week
16. Anonymously help someone out
17. Forgive someone
18. Ding-dong ditch and leave a bag of groceries at someone's door
19. Finish editing a wedding video from this summer...sorry Alexander's :)
20. Paint fun portraits of my nephews and give to them as a gift
21. Make a funny non-sensical video with friends and post on youtube
22. Refrain from eating out for two weeks (I originally put a whole month, but I'm a realist :) )
23. Stay in a really posh hotel with a rooftop pool
24. Choose to make someone's day even when I'm having a crabby one
25. Get back in touch with an old friend
26. Make it to the second round of a tennis tournament
27. Accept a compliment without making a remark about something I'm not good at
28.
29.
30.

Please add to my list or comment on what I have so far. I turn 30 on June 26 and will be updating all my "faithful" blog readers on my progress.

Procrastination Station

A new quarter started a few weeks ago and already I'm failing at getting ahead of my assignments. It's not a new habit for me, I've been perfecting it for years and years.

Growing up, my family was known for their timeliness. The Ward clan was never late. In fact, I remember showing up early more times than I can remember. Believe me, it's a bit awkward when you show up for a party and the hostess opens the door wearing a bath robe and curlers while a forced welcoming smile directs you to "make yourself at home". At an early age I picked up on the awkwardness of being too early. We seemed too eager, too desperate for an outing, and we put the host(s) in an uncomfortable position. Inherently, I think this contributed to my current affliction of being slightly late to events and a procrastinator in general. I think somewhere inside me I wanted to alleviate the awkwardness of being too early and like a pendulum, I swung too far in the opposite direction and developed a habit as equally as negative and a faux pas in its own right; I'm a late procrastinator. This fall I even showed up late to a first date! Seriously, party foul! Recently I submitted an assignment that was due at 1:00pm at 12:59:46pm. What? I laughed out loud, but my professor wasn't laughing when he told me his TA had designed the link to submit the assignment to disappear at 1:00pm. Am I going to the same school as Jason Bourne? Sheesh!

Maybe it's a bit of a stretch to connect being late to procrastination, but my point is: I think it's easy to get caught up in the rules. We criticize those that are late and shake our heads in disapproval while we wait, but what is important? I say what it is most important is that we show up. Showing up communicates more than simply being on time and not being present. Getting it done. Following through. Finishing what you started. Being true to your word. I may be late and the reigning "Queen of Procrastination", but I finish what I start. I follow through. I do what I say I'm going to do. We owe that to people don't we? We owe it especially to the people we have enough of a relationship to have that kind of a commitment. My parents may have inadvertently taught me to be a late procrastinator, but they taught me to follow through and finish what I start and for that...and countless other things, I am grateful.

Peace on Earth