But What If I Don't?

Oh my gosh...I should go!
But why?
I shouldn't. 
But I can!
But why would I?
There is no time. 
But I'm so close. 
But why would I?
What would I say?
I'd be setting myself up for disappointment. 
Maybe even disaster. 

But what if I don't?

This was the internal conversation I had with myself several times last week. You see, I didn't write because I was at a communication conference (I know, the irony); the National Agri-Marketing Association annual conference, to be specific. 

As I took the stairs (and by stairs I mean elevator) to the 16th floor where my room for the week sat, I couldn't help but take in the Kansas City view. 

...And maybe sing Kansas City Lights in my head. 

Something caught my eye as a scanned the buildings, lights and old signs that dotted the historic stock town skyline. Only two blocks away, on the side of a building was a recognizable brand, and one of which I've been a card-carrying member since I got my license and could drive myself to the local Wooden Key. 

Wait. WHAT?! 

I'm this close to the Hallmark world headquarters? 

How did I miss that when I planned my week?

I went to my room and opened my laptop. Before my mind plotted anymore, I needed to confirm that this was fact and not fantasy. 

It was fact. 

Meetings. 
Engaging.
Socializing. 
Networking. 
All things NAMA continued throughout the week and each time I went to my room, or a breakout session didn't hold my attention, my mind drifted to the thought that I was just two blocks from the institution that held my "dream job" - writing for Hallmark. 

The familiar tug-o-war conversation clouded my thoughts each time. 

Oh my gosh...I should go!
But why?
I shouldn't. 
But I can!
But why would I?
There is no time. 
But I'm so close. 
But why would I?
What would I say?
I'd be setting myself up for disappointment. 
Maybe even disaster. 

But what if I don't?

I went back through the conference's jammed schedule and found one hour between sessions when I could sneak out and go to the Hallmark headquarters. 
To introduce myself. 
Give them a business card. 
Or two. 
Maybe tell a joke. 
At 3:00 I visited with a few industry colleagues and let them know I'd catch up with them closer to 4:00. I had an errand to run. I took the Heel-Toe Express out of the hotel and down the Kansas City sidewalks. 

This is not me. 

You and I both know I have my mother's cankles. 

Before I knew it, though maybe a bit further than the estimated two blocks, I was much closer to the beloved brand I'd seen in the sky days before. 

           

I walked the long corridor to an entrance that appeared to be official. You know, because I'm a very formal person. Truly, if I wasn't there on business I would have likely pecked on the first floor windows until noticed. 

A security guard, proudly still serving at the approximate age of 114, greeted me as soon as I entered the foyer. 

"Can I help you?" the guard asked. 

"Yes, this.....is a strange request. But for twenty years I've had the dream of writing for Hallmark. I'm in Kansas City this week on business and I saw your headquarters were so close. I just....Can I speak to someone in your Creative department?"

"The name of the person you'd like to speak with?"

"Oh, well, I don't have a specific name...." I was losing steam with gramps. 

Blank stare. I'm not sure he wasn't blind. 

"I have business cards....for my blog! Can I give you these and you see that they make it to someone in the Creative writing department?"

"I can't do that," he softly said, calmly crushing my dreams. 

"You can't do that? They are just business cards. Just so someone can find my blog. Nothing dangerous. No white powder......," I continued. Anthrax was not what I imagined my joke would be about, but in this point of the charade I was running out of ideas. 

"I cannot do that," he sternly replied.

Guess he was serious. I wondered briefly if I was something like the 187th street-wanderer he'd dealt with today?

"Here. Here is the internet code (it was a website: http://corporate.hallmark.com/company/hallmark-jobs) to find a job. That is all I can do. Go to the museum. If you haven't been there," he finished. 

I don't want to go to the museum. I don't even want a full time job!  I actually love my job! I just want someone to read Jean's Boots. My thoughts stayed internal. 

"Where is the museum?" I asked, deflated. 

"You passed it walking in. Just at the other end of the corridor."

I thanked him and left, putting my cards back in my shoulder bag. Dang it. 

I took the Heel-Toe Express back down the echoing corridor and entered the museum and gave it one last shot. 

The gal behind the desk to me to go across the corridor and speak with the security guard. I reveled that he had sent me her way, and she was just as confused as I. She reached in a drawer and gave me the exact same piece of paper with the Careers link on it. 

The communications geek in me was glad that they were at least consistent in the their message. 

I quickly walked through the amazing Hallmark Visitor's Center and tried to digest as quickly as possible all the history and heirlooms meticulously displayed in one place. 

Norma Rockwell's Kansas City Spirit

Even a Hereford made it into the history. 

My visit to Hallmark was brief and unsuccessful. A lot like I envisioned the "disaster" in my pre-planning thoughts, in fact. I didn't get "inside", I didn't get a free-lance gig and I didn't get my blog business cards to Hallmark Creative. 

But I did learn a lesson. 

Home almost a week now I've thought of that strange experience and wondered what got me to charge over there with such expectation and slight confidence? 

That question is easy to answer with another:

But what if I don't?

I knew that if I left Kansas City, within blocks of Hallmark, and never tried to promote my passion, I would have wondered for the rest of my life what might have been. The easy part happened: I got shot down. The hardest part would have been to wonder what if for the rest of my life. 

So what if you did the same?

What if you downsized...everything?

What if you told her how you really felt?

What if you asked for forgiveness? And, what if you extended it?

What if you moved home?

What if you went to the meeting?

What if you started taking care of yourself, now?

What if you apologized?

What if you stood up for yourself?

What if you wrote the letter?

What if you left the well paying job for one that made you happy?

What if you were made uncomfortable, for once?

What if you made the phone call?

What if you registered for the course?

What if you admitted to it?

What if you didn't care what they thought?

What if you actually pushed yourself?

What if you told someone?

What if you did it? That one thing.

But what if you don't?

Let my story of two business cards still on my kitchen table be a lesson. Your greatest pain in life could lie in wondering what might have happened had you compiled the courage. Don't let that happen. 

But don't just listen to me. Take it from this guy:

Side note: Anyone know anybody who works for Hallmark?

The Lost Volumes

I never met the man, 

but I've sure enjoyed watching his life unfold, 

more than ninety years after it happened. 

I went to an auction in Auburn, Indiana five years ago and found a bunch of things I didn't need, such as a lamp I never got to work, a desk bigger than the room in which I intended to use it and a set of chipped ice cream bowls. 

Don't even act like you're surprised. They were in the $5 and under pile.

Oh...and an entire box of old photos, albums and greeting cards. A jackpot for a gal like me who loves history and once dreamt of a job with Hallmark. Who am I kidding? I'm still anxiously awaiting the day that one of their Execs stumbles upon this blog. I sure hope it's the day that I have no grammatical errors. 

Anyway, as I briefly thumbed through the box of photos, I couldn't help but think that it was some sort of mistake. These weren't old torn greetings cards or scenic photos; these were documentation of an individual's life. My stomach hurt in a way that I knew it wasn't hunger pains. I let the box be (you can't appear too interested in those situations - folks always want what others do, and auctioneers who know the bidders' desires are dangerous, in themselves), stepped away and roamed through other tables of "junk" (aka treasures).

At the end of the day, I walked away with the box for $5.00. 

Shortly following that auction, I dove into the box that intrigued me so much. I spent the Friday and Saturday nights of one weekend in my dear little (first) house and sorted through photos of Richard, born in 1921.  The more I saw, the more sadness came over me. 

Birthdays. 

Richard's Birthday, 20 years apart. 

Camping trips. 
Christmas. 
Graduation. 
First loves. 
The service. 
Wedding. 
First home. 
Kids. 
Obituary. 

This man's entire history was in one box. 
Sold for $5.00 at a general auction. 

Weekly I've turn Richard's life photos into greeting cards for family and friends. I sent one just this week to dear friends who just had their second son. 

Richard was a happy man. Who adored his wife. Served his country. Loved his sister, Catherine. Traveled to California. 

But who would know that? His lost volumes were sold for $5.00. 
Photo by paper photo I've tried to imagine what he was doing or feeling in the moment, so many generations ago. I've sorted his photos, piled them and stored them. Convinced that my organization and commitment will preserve his story, I've also began thinking of my own. 



A coworker came into my office this week and tossed a Snapfish package at me. 

"We only use Snapfish for Christmas cards," Brandon said as he relayed the large photo tube to me. (Don't worry boss, I ordered poster size aerial photos of our Randolph County locations for the new meeting room. My time on Snapfish was legit). 

"I've never used them, but made an account to get this meeting room finished and wow - there is a lot on there," I told him, as I unrolled my co-op posters. 

He revealed that he can't remember the last time his family physically printed a photo. I sat back in my chair and wondered about the same. 

I remember in high school we stood in line at Wal-Mart the afternoon following a dance to print and finally see the photos taken the night before. There were no retakes. There were no deletes. There were no selfies. There was, however, a lot of wasted film. 

But do you know what? I can still look back on those photos and remember the naive fun we had. 

I told the coworker that he better start printing the memories. As a father of three daughters, we was bound to need photos for a wedding slideshow - or three. He laughed but seemed to really digest that idea. No father of daughters likes to talk about weddings, I guess. 

Our conversation made me think back to Richard, born in 1921, and all the quick glimpses of his life that I have. Thank goodness I have them. The negatives, too. 

Just as a family has lost 

volumes of one man's life, 

our high-speed generation is 

losing volumes every single day 

with technology. 

When was the last time you printed off a picture? A real photo that generations to come can hold? Something you can write on the back of, identifying who was in the photo and the year it was taken? Something physical, not digital. Trust me: jpegs  and RAW files won't be around forever. 

And, how will we document your battle 

with head lice if we don't print 

and write on the back of photos?

I have no great way to store the photos that I speak of (I could do an entire blog on the photos Cody and I sorted or tossed (burned) once we married and began living together) because I get sick of storing my own. But I think they're important. They're physical proof of the life we're living now. They're the stock show photos our grandsons will one day find and frame and the wedding photos our great granddaughters will one day put in a locket. They matter. Don't post your story, print it.

As for Richard, I hope that his lost volumes inspire you to print - if only ten per year - photos that document your family history. I'll continue to send his story across state lines and time zones in an effort to pass his unidentified legacy on. 

Can we commit to no more lost volumes?

Or, at least can we all pledge not to sell our great-grandparents love story in a glorified garage sale? 

Thanks. 

New Again

At 6:47 in the evening  I found myself 4,000 steps away from my Fitbit goal. No bueno. 

I did what any crazy Fitbitter would do: Put on some comfortable boots and decided to take a walk. Camera in hand. 

No rest for the weary, I thought to myself. 
Or, those included in a public challenge where other people can see your daily steps...

Spring has finally showed her pretty face around the farm.
New blooms, new green, new life.

While I walked the fence row, I wracked my brain to come up with a blog idea. It had been a long time since I made it to 7:00 on a Tuesday night and just didn't feel anything humorous or inspiring to share. 

Ask, and you shall receive. 

Suddenly, everywhere I looked I was reminded that we're in the midst of Holy Week and just exactly what that means. 

I can't put the gift into words, 

but I can share with you my favorite song that puts this week 

- and His sacrifice - 

somewhat in perspective.

Like spring on the farm, He has made all things new again. 

It is beautiful. I hope you'll listen. 

New Again by Brad Paisley & Sara Evans

You may view it larger by clicking here. 

Video compiled by Blake Bowden. 

The Provider

The woman inserted her quarter and the grocery cart was released from it's line of inmates. 

So we meet again she thought as she walked through the Aldi entrance. There was a sale on butter so her objective was to buy an entire case, as well as other things discovered in the Sunday flyer. 

She waited behind a couple to get a gallon of milk. They were deliberate in their choices, marking each with discussion as they crossed items off of their list. The woman couldn't help but notice that they didn't appear to have much; by the way they were kept and dressed. It was far too cold this March to leave the house wearing thin t-shirts and no coats. 

They were polite and apologized for standing in her way; the woman didn't mind. This was her day off the farm. 

Fifteen minutes later the woman made her way to the check out line and found herself once again behind the same couple. The man had his wallet out and was reviewing the groceries they had placed on the belt. 

In a deflated, quiet voice he whispered to his wife, "I don't think I have enough money." He continued to leaf through the folds in his wallet, and then his jean pockets. The wife watched with worried eyes. "Do you have any money on you?" he asked.

The wife searched through her purse and pulled out a couple dollar bills. They paired their money and both looked at the food they hoped to buy.

The woman behind them suddenly felt a bit of anxiety on behalf of the couple. 

The cashier scanned the items quickly, dropping them into the cart at the end of the belt. He read them the total and the man handed him the bills. "We're short."

The cashier counted the money. "You're short $1.40," he let them know, quietly. The couple reviewed their cart and quickly discussed what item they could do without that week. 

"How much are you short?" the woman behind them asked. The cashier repeated: $1.40. 

"Well, I've got that, I'm certain of it," said the woman. She dug into her purse and handed the cashier the exact amount. Both the man and his wife were incredibly grateful and thanked the stranger multiple times. They left with their cart full.

The woman visited briefly with the cashier as he rang total. He and she both agreed that we've all been there. 

"Like butter?" he asked. 

"You have no idea....," the woman replied. 

She packed her bags, returned her cart and retrieved her quarter. Then she loaded her car and settled in to drive to the bank. "This car is such a mess!" the woman said aloud as she tried to get things organized on the seat and console so she could even operate the Ford. She lifted a tablet, her calving notes  from the farm that morning, and stopped. Instantly. 

Under the stack of records:

$1.40 sitting on her console. 

Across town, my phone rang.

"Hi Momma."

"Boy do I have a story for you!" she said enthusiastically across the phone lines. 

"Oh my, what happened?" I asked, then listened to her tell the story.

 

Plenty left over to share with others. Mom got her $1.40 back, somehow. 

Rural Neighbors

Rural neighbors. Not everyone has them, but everyone can appreciate them. 
Their friendship. 
Their patience. 
The way that they always seem to have the extra 1/2 cup of sugar that you're lacking. 

Rural neighbors are the first person called when your husband is out of town and you find a set of twins, one with a broken leg. Rural neighbors try like heck to console you through tears, emotion and panic. The rural neighbor does one heck of a job in role he's not prepared for. 

Rural neighbors lend their sons to your manure-hauling efforts and kindly ask you to buy candles to support their daughters' cheerleading fundraiser. 

Rural neighbors are the first ones you call when your dog goes on an extended journey and is no where to be found. They're also the first ones you call when your dog has pups sixty-three days later...

Rural neighbors show up for no reason, stick around for no reason and don't leave - because they have no reason to do so. 

Rural neighbors are tried and true hay help when a storm is brewing. 

Rural neighbors seem to have just the right tool or piece of machinery - you know, the one that you don't own - to get the job done. 

Rural neighbors are on call. 24/7. No questions asked. Without pay. 

Rural neighbors make burning Flint Hills pastures a team effort. Countless sprayer trucks, eyes and evaluations. 

 Photos by Heidi Anderson

Rural neighbors Leave The Light On. 

Rural neighbors are the ones you contact first, even before the power company, when the electricity goes out to see if they’re in the same situation.

Rural neighbors don't pass judgement when they drive by and see a serious argument taking place in the barnyard. Rural neighbors know that every farm has a trash pile. 

Rural neighbors watch the neighbor boy turn into a basketball star using only discipline and a plywood backboard connected to a 150-year-old barn. 

Rural neighbors have sons that drive too fast, sons  that have a truck that's too loud and sons that never sleep. Rural neighbors have sons that have been 17 for, what seems like, five years. 

Rural neighbors see your children off to Vacation Bible School, the Junior Prom and finally...their honeymoon. 

Rural neighbors spend evenings around the kitchen table with the coffee pot brewing, pondering this simple question: What went wrong?

Rural neighbors are the first to organize frozen meals for mothers-to-be, the first to begin funeral food preparation and the first to share a favorite recipe. Rural neighbors know that love is in breaking bread. 

Rural neighbors know the value in a flashlight with good batteries or a bright moon on a clear night.

Rural neighbors keep the congregation updated on your progress when you haven't been able to sit in a pew for weeks. 

Rural neighbors know these lines all too well:

 You didn't hear this from me...

Between you and I...

If I was him...

Bless her heart...

Rural neighbors know the value in hand-me-down clothes, kid's boots barely worn and one-night prom dresses. Rural neighbors take full advantage of these resources before ever considering a mall. 

Rural neighbors aren't shy. They'll ask why the vet truck was in your barn lot for two hours, who drives the BMW that sat in the driveway last week, and why they didn't see your daughter's minivan around during Christmas. 

Rural neighbors will - without a doubt - judge you based on what hangs on your clothesline and also how you react when the clothesline snaps. 

Rural neighbors ensure you'll never sit alone at the Rural Urban Banquet. 

Rural neighbors know when your calves are calving. They're always sure to report the masses of afterbirth their dogs drag onto their back porch. 

Rural neighbors always answer the call. Even the one when the Sheriff calls to tell you there are cattle in the road and you're 600 miles from home. Rural neighbors get those cattle in. 

Rural neighbors may assess the future of your relationship based on your answer to this single question: How passionately do you feel about good fences?

Rural neighbors act as an insta-taxi for your kids when the flu hits your homestead. Football practice, 4-H, livestock judging, dance class...Sure. Your rural neighbor can handle that. She thinks?

Rural neighbors are the first to pull your tractor out of the situation. And, also the first to tell the entire township. 

Rural neighbors give you what is left of their Sunday coupon section after they've clipped through what they may need. 

Rural neighbors agree to - without asking a single question - watching your stock during your son's wedding, your Daddy's funeral or the one weekend in twenty-seven years your groom decides to take you on a real vacation. 

Rural neighbors get you out of situations that you're certain you could not handle alone. I'm so thankful for rural neighbors like Tim at Schaeffer Show Cattle. Good. People.  

Rural neighbors. Not everyone has them, but everyone can appreciate them. 

This spring, take the time to thank your rural neighbor for the support they bring to your life when you need it most. 

Their friendship. 

Their loyalty. 

And perhaps most important: their neutered dog. 

Fifty Years Apart

Today is a very special Wednesday.

Two of the most important people in my life

celebrate another year of influence.  

This beautiful blonde, The Original Jean,  turns 85 

And this courageous cowboy, my husband,  turns 35

On March 11, fifty years apart, 

my destiny was shaped in a special way. 

Checking cows last night I wondered about the greatest lesson The Original Jean and Cody have taught me. 

Put grandkids with solid lung capacity in the trunk to avoid admission costs at the Preble County Fair? 

Nope.

Hold on to things for ten years, then see if they really matter?

Nope. 

When I was young - I'm talking like six years ago - Grandma's kitchen table was the safest place. It was only there that I felt comfortable enough to tell her about the changes, disappointments and searching I faced in life. Though she married young, she didn't seem to judge, she just listened. Her advice was never gushy or deep or even Biblical. Her advice always referenced patience and was typically this:

"You don't have to marry the man. 

Just let him take you to dinner."

Yeah, thanks Grandma. Because of that advice I went through about 403 first dates and started a few fires that nearly burned me to the ground. I also ate a lot of really good meals. Hence the fat jeans/skinny jeans drawer in my dresser. 

I also sifted, because of The Original's advice. 

What I believed was real. 

What I selfishly prayed for. 

What I expected. 

All totally wrong, but silently I kept The Original Jean's advice in my back pocket. 

I don't have to marry him, 

just enjoy the company without expectations. 

Really shoddy long-term advice for a gal who grew up playing M.A.S.H.

Anyway, on March 11, 1980 there was a new kid on the block in Kansas. He looked like his Papa Laflin and had a restless spirit like his dad, Chris. 

Papa Laflin and Cody

And despite giving him the wrong phone number, he still treated me to the dinner that The Original Jean encouraged.

For the record, it was the Worst. Food. Ever. 

But the company sure made up for it. 

He is a passionate man. Made of grit and contemplation. 

He generally doesn't say much, asks plenty questions and his mind never shuts off. 

He constantly evaluates, processes and projects. 

I just typically repeat my question because he takes too long to answer. 

Patience. 

If these March 11 babies have taught me anything, it is patience. 

They've taught me that worrying does nothing. 

They've taught me to let go of expectations and see where life fearlessly leads. 

They've taught me that life happens when you put down the map. 

They've taught me to be careful what you pray for. 

They've taught me that yelling louder doesn't make someone understand what you just tried to explain. 

They've taught me that just because they think they did, doesn't necessarily mean someone remembered to latch the gate. 

They've taught me that sometimes it doesn't pay to to buy the cheap stuff. 

They've taught me that "expectations" is "get a life" spelled backwards. 

Just kidding. 

They've also taught me this:

The best things happen when you're not looking. 

So put away the grand plan and let life go where it will. 

I trust you'll learn that 

the best surprises are the ones 

that had nothing to do with all of your worry.

 

Happy Birthday, Grandma & Cody!

The Long Road Home

I hurried out to start my car yesterday morning. It needed to run several minutes before making the twenty-five minute trek into the office. Not exactly July in Indiana, you know. 
Same routine, same idea, same old predictable same.
But on this particular morning I arose early to get to the office for some added responsibility due to a meeting. 

Then, I lost my footing on the sidewalk and was forced to slow down. 
Whoa, I had forgotten it was going to freeze over night. Weather gal wasn't joking. What an inconvenient day for an icy ride down Highway 35.
Immediately, I thought about everything I had yet to do before noon: 
Make the rural trek in. 
Sort copies. 
Data sort customers. 
Update spreadsheet. 
Print all files for appropriate members. 
Print labels. 
Box documents. 
And at some point, address overnight emails and voicemails. 

Time was of an essence - and if I could make it back to the house without breaking my tailbone - I was going to capitalize on every passing minute. 
I did. 
I rushed to change my boots. 
I hurried the lunch packing. 
I started the coffee, then got frustrated that it percolated slowly. 
For just a few minutes, I patiently listened as Cody said our PS Prayers...day savers. 
I grabbed my bags, lunch and water and rushed back down the sidewalk. 
Slipped again.
Only worse. 
I was again annoyingly forced to slow down. 
I reached the end of the lane only to get behind a car, behind a truck, behind a semi. 
"Really don't have time for this," I said to myself. If I hadn't started Cody's coffee, I'd be in front of that semi. 

Our caravan made it five miles before the leader of the pack - the semi - slowed down abruptly. I thought for a minute maybe a deer or an officer had slowed his pace. But the semi continued at the twenty-under pace for several miles. What did he see that I couldn't?

Miles later we - the pack of job-bound cars and trucks behind the semi - reached the small town of Williamsburg where our route was redirected by a Sheriff. Accident ahead. We rerouted through the rural town and ended up coming out just 100 yards from the scene of the route-changing head on collision with entrapment. The IU Health helicopter was there, awaiting passengers.

(Photo by Matt Monnig....continue reading to learn more about that)

I was sick, enough to roll down my window in need of fresh air. 

As slow as a funeral procession, our caravan climbed the hill parallel to the accident scene. I made it to work just fine, not thirty minutes early, but rather seven minutes after eight.  
Seven glorious minutes. 
I don't know how women can't keep mascara in their car console.

The PS Prayers were good to us. The meeting went well, the day was brief but a good one. I had a dentist appointment at 4:15 and that's a blog for another Wednesday morning. No cavities, but enough content to suffice. 

The long road home was different.
I cautiously made my way back to the homestead after work, eyes forever scanning side ditches and cross roads. A heavy fog had set in and familiar landmarks were getting more and more less visible, let alone the vehicle directly in front of me. I remembered the morning commute and took my heel off the gas. I had all the time in the world. 

I made it home without trouble just in time to help Cody feed the cattle and meet the new kid on the block (a heifer). And also give a pep talk to some young mothers about their role once they were allowed past the gate.

But then, as generally done when given a few minutes to stop and reflect, I began thinking back on the day and how it completely parallels so much we experience in life:

Fiercely rushing through a morning - or day? Week? Month?
Darn near busting my ability to ever do a back handspring again. 
(Just kidding - that happened in 8th grade when I never actually could physically do a back handspring. Ever.)
Annoyed by a row of three (only 3!) vehicles slowing my progress. 
Curious about Someone (in this case, a semi driver) who might know better than I. 
Then, on the return trip home, uncomfortably watching for familiar signs that weren't there. 
White knuckled with anticipation of an unknown outcome. 
A heavy fog nearly able to erase any familiar comfort or knowledge of a place we thought we knew. 

Do you get it?

The Long Road Home is not one for the faint of heart. And as I type that, I'm not referring to anything that has to do with asphalt or passing lanes. 

The Long Road Home is about 
realizing that the living is not in the rush
The Long Road Home is about learning that 
patience is one trait that will be used more often than it will sit on the shelf.
The Long Road Home is about 
understanding that it is okay to learn from those in front of you. Take notes. Heed their warnings, disregarding pride. 
The Long Road Home is about 
learning patience as you wait for signs that you think are to come. Or should come. Or will come. Or, may never come at all. 
The Long Road Home is about patience. 
The Long Road Home is about
letting go of what you thought was to be, and accepting what is. 

Sometimes, the path - that one that we might deem dreadful and discombobulated - is the long road Home. 

It's life. 
Perhaps not the one planned, but rather the one designed specifically for us. 

Either way, you're going to need sunglasses to deflect the snow and maybe a double shot of patience to get through the upcoming years. Trust me. 

On a oh-so-ironic side note, the IU Health helicopter that began the entry of this blog, ended up landing in my cousin's yard in Ohio later yesterday, due to ice. You can read more - including little Cora's perfect, brief media response - here.