Power Down to Power Up

I attend what I consider to be one of the most inspiring, amazing, and diverse churches on the planet. We have over 12,000 members who truly love being in church each Sunday. Yet despite how large a congregation we have, you still experience an authentic sense of community. This is largely due to the genuine warmth you feel from the moment you walk in. Either through the greeters, the many volunteers who support the children’s and outreach programs or, those you are seated next to during service. I’m always energized and pumped up when I’m at church and amongst my fellow brethren.

One of the things I’ve come to admire and look forward to while in church is the “unfettered reverence” one should embody while in the house of God. For one or two hours on a Sunday morning, we come to worship in song and praise, are fed and taught the Word of God, and drink in the His presence and absolute awe. There’s a song I love that says “When I walked through the doors, I sensed His presence and I knew this was the place where love abounds. This is a temple and Jehovah God abides here. We are standing in His presence on holy ground.” How powerful these words are and how amazing to have the privilege to come weekly to God’s house and “be in His presence”!

Unfortunately, of late, I’ve found that mobile technology has infiltrated our church services and is encroaching on the time where we should be completely disconnected from the world so we can completely connect with God. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of mobile technology; however, I do believe there’s a time and place for these fascinating, yet, ubiquitous devices. I do not believe the sanctuary of God is one of them. I’m finding myself increasingly distracted by cell phones ringing, people texting and emailing, and iPads being substituted for bringing your bible to church. Perhaps the latter is a personal preference and waxes me as old school, and I could accept using your iPad for biblical references, however, not when you’re holding them up distracting those around you, and checking your email and texting on them. We’re not allowed to have our mobile devices on in movie theatres or at stage performances, yet we bring them to church? We’ll respect the viewing experience of those watching Johnny Depp in his latest flick but we fall short of offering the same deference to those who come to worship the almighty God?

I purposely leave my cell phone in the car. I relish having occasion where I’m not fielding calls, texts and emails, and can completely focus on being in God’s house. The ring tone I have for my mother is the theme for the Price is Right (she's a major coupon queen) and that’s the last thing I’d want to have going off in church should she call. Of course, it might be apropo during offering time.

With technology taking it’s highly, un-rightful place in our worship services, we fail to bring the rightful respect to the one, holy God, who is beyond deserving of our reverence and adoration. We need to stop and rethink why we get up, don our Sunday causal best, and head to our houses of worship. Yes, fellowship is part of the equation; however, our main focus is to honor and worship God. We need to remember whose house we’re in and respect the rules of the house. I love the verse in Lev. 19:30 "Observe my Sabbaths and have reverence for my sanctuary. I am the LORD". It’s hard to abide by this command when someone’s Bugs Bunny themed ring tone is going off or they’re taking a call. Yes, I’ve sat near folks who actually take a call in church. Last Sunday during the alter call; the cell phone of the gentleman sitting next went off. The man was clearly embarrassed, but it was a distraction that need not have happened. We are given 168 hours in a one week period. We can certainly give 1 hour to be technology free and focus on the teaching of God’s word and give Him his rightful reverence and honor.

I’d like to challenge my follow church goers to make a conscious effort of remembering who and why we come to worship. To have not only respect for God and His presence, but for those around you who have come to worship. I remember countless times when I was hurting beyond words and being in the very house of God, praising Him, was what got me through to another day. Our focus needs to be put wholly on Him and not our emails, texts and to do lists. Church is not a mobile technology hot spot, but rather “the spot” where we come humbly before Him with an aspect of admiration and feel His almighty presence. We need to remind ourselves that we are truly standing in His presence on holy ground.

Let’s all hit the off the button this coming Sunday and saturate ourselves in the meaning and application of showing reverence for God. I guarantee that by powering down, HE will power you up.

Spreading Your Wings

This coming Friday, my son, Stephen, will graduate from the ranks of junior high and officially become a freshman. Just hearing those words brings pride at having reached a new milestone, and a twinge of heartache knowing, that once again, my young man is growing up. Too quickly, albeit, but growing up nonetheless.

About two weeks ago, Stephen informed me that he had been selected by the academic staff of his current school for a special honor. Each year the collective body of teachers at High Point Academy selects one student of the graduating class who exemplifies leadership, a positive attitude, strong academic achievements, and overall good moral character. For the High Point Academy’s graduating class of 2010, my son was the student selected who best exudes the above criteria. Both Stephen and I were pleasantly (and I emotionally) surprised by the honor. Having gone through an incredibly difficult year this past year, with having lost my job and coming within hours of almost losing our home and subsisting on very little, this was a most welcomed proclamation of good news.

Throughout the extenuating circumstances of last year our mantra was “Positive outlook equals positive outcome”. I’ll admit there were days when it was hard to utter or live those words, but overall, it was a driving force for us. I would never have known that one end result would be Stephen being recognized for his attitude of gratitude and overall optimism.

As a result of having this honor, Stephen was asked to write a 4-5 minute speech. He thought long and hard about what message he wanted to convey and how he could have one final positive impact on his classmates. He started writing his speech on a paper placement at our favorite Mexican restaurant. From there, the speech continued to evolve. Last night he put the final touches on his speech and I was blown away by what he wrote. I applaud you, Stephen!

Here it is.

First and foremost, I am honored and humbled to have the opportunity to address you today. As most of you know, I came to High Point Academy in 2008, entering the 7th grade. I had previously attended The Walden School, which offers a more alternative learning program. I was attracted to High Point because of its solid reputation and structured, disciplined, academic environment. I was also impressed by the genuine welcome of the existing student body. When you’re the new kid on the block it can be quite overwhelming. I had concerns about moving into a vastly different learning environment, but the students and teachers at High Point quickly put me at ease, made me feel welcomed, and instilled in me the belief that I could, indeed, be successful here. Within my first few weeks at High Point I realized that I was in a place that was far better than I had expected. I was being challenged academically, trained in new fundamental principles about life, forging new friendships, and being allowed to flourish creatively. Every morning at drop off, my mom would say “Stephen, make good choices today”. In looking back over these past two years, I can honestly say that I’m thankful that my parents were successful in making the good choice for me to attend High Point Academy.

Although I’ve only been at High Point for two years, my time here has been filled with great memories. A few of those highlights are

- The School Dances
- Premiering my films Twisted and The Giver.
- Going on the end of year camping trip to Leo Carrillo. We all really bonded on that trip.

As you all know, our school mascot is the eagle. The eagle is the American symbol of nobility, strength, freedom and pride. The eagle is immensely powerful, yet majestic to watch in flight. Before an eagle can even learn to take flight, it must go to the very edge of the safety and comforts of its nest and make the choice to jump. It’s said that one must fall before one can fly. This is no different for the most regal and honored of birds. Almost always, the baby eagle will fall to the ground. Once on the ground, it builds up its strength, masters its flying skills, and with unwavering discipline, determination and practice, the baby eagle becomes strong and confident enough to take flight and spread its wings in full extension into the boundless sky above.

As the High Point class of 2010 stands here on the precipice of the nest’s edge and heads off to our respective high schools and the adventures that await us, I’ll agree it can look intimidating. Yet, until each of us takes that daunting leap off the edge, we’ll never know the bliss of being able to soar to our full potential. Granted, we’ll tumble and fall, but in due time, we’ll build up our strengths, come into our own awareness of who we are, develop specialized skills, grow, master our potential, and eventually, like the eagle, spread our wings in full expansion into the boundless sky of life’s limitless possibilities.

To the class of 2010, today is the day to spread our wings. To the teachers of High Point Academy, thank you for being the strength and support in helping us take flight. To the parents of the High Point Academy graduating class, thank you for being the never-ending wind beneath our wings. You all have our eternal round of applause.

And now my friends, it is time for us to spread our wings, and fly into the limitless sky before us.

Getting Your Purple Heart

The Military Order of the Purple Heart was chartered by President, George Washington in 1782. Although protocol around recipients and variations of the medal have changed throughout the years; its purpose has always been to honor military men, and women, for wounds suffered in combat. The actual order includes the phrase "Let it be known that he who wears the military order of the Purple Heart has given of his blood in the defense of his homeland and shall forever be revered by his fellow countrymen."

There’s an irrefutable sense of respect we afford military personal who don a Purple Heart. Its very presence on a soldier’s uniform signals the bravery and sacrifice they’ve selflessly made. We bestow the utmost of reverence to veterans who exhibit their purple hearts, as they regale in the details that lead them to this declaration of personal sacrifice.

Several times throughout these past two years, I have unwillingly been recruited into personal battle. Although my battles weren’t government sponsored battles, but rather inspired by the reckless events of government, I’ve nonetheless found myself on the front line of combat. And, I know I’m not alone. I see my fellow soldiers in the unemployment line, food stamp offices, pleading with their banking institutions, in newspaper headlines, on television, writing blogs about their plight, and in extreme cases, homeless.

Each day, I’ve had to arise early and don my battle gear. Be it a new strategy to finding work, putting on the breastplate of determination to make it through the day, or simply yielding my sword of resilience. The enemy camp is always in full force and at the ready. They have launched their attacks through job loss, financial despair, bullying tactics via bill collectors, charlatan organizations claiming to help, foreclosures, bankruptcies, and all out intimidation and devastation. Unlike any battle, there have been casualties in this war and the wounds suffered have been depression, anxiety, personal loss, and bone crushing exhaustion from the never ceasing battle. Yet, like any good solider, when hit with enemy fire, I’ve had to find the strength within to get back on my feet and continue to charge against my opponent. I’ll admit there have been times throughout this battle when I’ve had to come inside for a time of retreat. Any first-rate solider needs time to recharge and renew themselves. The important thing is to get right back out on the front line and keep fighting with the utmost of fortitude. I don’t mind having holes in my armor as I return to the battle field. I’ve learned that without the holes, the light can’t shine through. Every time I step back into combat I feel stronger and more prepared. My weapons are my faith, determination, network of family and friends, and a well devised strategy. Despite wanting to just drop my sword and surrender, I know that I’m not just fighting this battle for me. My son, my family and my friends are all counting on me. There are no white flags in my survival kit.

When all is said and done, and the losses totaled; I guarantee that my soul, dignity, integrity, or lack of determination will not be part of the final sum.

I have and may continue to emerge with battle wounds. These are scars I’m beyond proud to display. They proclaim to the world that despite taking a hit, I remained constant, took a stand and fought valiantly for what I believed in. That despite how intense the heat of battle became, I never quit. That victory was my only option. In the end, I will receive a purple heart for the wounds incurred. It will be in the form of my business growing, celebrating another year in my home, building my savings account, imparting invaluable life lessons to my son, and waking up each new day celebrating much deserved peacetime.

"Let it be known that she who wears the Purple Heart of life has given of her all in defense of her home and what’s rightfully hers, and shall forever be respected by her peers and fellow soldiers."

Copyright 2010

Being a Soldier's Angel

Earlier this year, my son and I took part in a wonderful organization called Soldier’s Angels. We personally, don’t have a loved one in the armed services, but our hearts goes out to those who do and we wanted to do something to show our support. Soldiers Angels is an organization that pairs you with a soldier who is currently fighting in either Iraq or Afghanistan. The purpose of Soldiers Angels is to provide as much support and contact with our troops from the home front. Each month we write and send care packages to our soldier in an effort to bring a smile, encouragement, and some of the comforts of home to him. We always put a kiss on our care packages as a symbol of our gratitude and hope for God’s protection over our soldier. It can be months before you hear from your soldier because of the conditions they’re fighting under, being housed in a secret location, having worked 16 hours days for weeks on end, or, because they needed to communicate with family first. Either way, we understand and aren’t doing this for our own personal motives, but to support them.

On Veterans Day, as we stop to remember those who’ve selflessly and valiantly given their lives for our freedom, as well as those who are currently fighting, please whisper, or shout if you want to, the words Thank You! Despite the distance and amidst the chaos of war, in some small way, I’m sure our soldiers will hear you.

In closing, I’d like to express my heartfelt thanks to all the men and women who have served, and are serving, our country! Your sacrifice, bravery and dedication are what allow us the freedoms we have today. You are true heroes and have this country's eternal round of applause! Let's also not forget the families of those who've lost loved ones in battle or have loved ones currently serving and the sacrifices they make/have made in the name of freedom.

If you’d like to get involved in or make a donation to Soldiers Angeles, you can do so at http://www.soldiersangels.org/.

I Didn't Know My Own Strength!

I've recently gone through a series of very difficult circumstances, both personally and professionally. Serious life altering changes that on the onset rocked my world considerably! As with most adversities I’ve faced in life, I took a long, hard look at each situation, searched for answers, and a way to grow as a professional and as a human being. I’ll admit there have been moments when I would have preferred to stay curled up in bed in the fetal position crying my eyes out and feeling sorry for myself. In the long run that only yields a bad sinus headache and an even deeper sense of despair. I consider myself more of a Phoenix; always rising above the ashes (or at least out of bed) after some form of destruction has hit my life. These past few months have been no different.

This morning I downloaded Whitney Houston’s new single “I Didn’t Know My Own Strength”. The words spoke so deeply to my heart. The triumph and empowerment she sings of are things I can profoundly relate to. We all get beaten down and battered by the trials and tribulations of life; especially in these tough global and economic times. What keeps us on the path to victory is when we make that instinctive choice to persevere and pick up our proverbial swords and keep fighting. In doing so, we see unfold before us a strength so immensely powerful. A strength we didn't know was residing in us all the while. A strength that will sustain us through to the end allowing us to claim insurmountable triumph and victory.

Thank you Whitney for this song of incredible strength and for the demons you clearly had to overcome in order to sing these words with the amazing conviction and fortitude you did! Way to go!!

Achieving Your Optimal Potential

Watch this AMAZING video on motivations and reaching your optimal best.

The Week Before Christmas

Each year I write a poem for my recruitment team. Those of you in the staffing industry can appreciate the intensity this time of year brings as we near year end and our clients are dizzy with holiday joy and cheer. Last year I wrote a poem called "Working in Recruiting Wonderland". This year I decided to do a twist on "The Night Before Christmas". The names have been changed to protect... well... all of us.

The Week Before Christmas

Twas the week before Christmas and all through the house,
Recruitment was working like a busy little mouse.

Resumes were submitted to the client with care,
In hopes that offers soon would be there.

The Partners were frantic and had much to dread,
While visions of low profits danced in their heads.

With free cokes in the kitchen (but really wanting beer on tap),
The recruiters were exhausted and each needed a nap

When out in reception there arose such a clatter,
Recruiting sprang from their seats to see what was the matter.

They ran to the front quicker than a flash,
Fearing it was a candidate demanding more cash.

When what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But candidates pouring in from both far and near.

More rapid than eagles the resumes came,
As they applied from firms with a reputable name.

On E&Y, BDO, Deloitte and KPMG,
On Grant Thornton, Moss Adams and PwC.

They had all quit their jobs and heeded the call,
To work for McGladrey, each, one and all.

Jackie spoke not a work but went straight to her work,
Handing out applications and going over the perks.

Then Bill laid a finger aside of his nose,
Working on ways to get each candidate to close.

While Alan did interviews and then heard a grumble in his belly,
It was now 11:30 and he was off to the deli.

Jennifer was excited to know cold calls would stop,
As candidates were accepting and the pipeline did pop.

Managers, Supervisors, and Seniors had been hired,
It was exactly the outcome that the client had desired.

Jim was pleased with how the recruiters stepped up to the task,
Despite thinking they spend their days just drinking from a flask.

But they heard him exclaim as in his Porsche, he drove out of site,
Merry Christmas to all and keep sourcing tonight!

Happy Holidays!!!!!

Heartbeats

Today, my good friend Brian shared a touching and tender story with me that moved my soul in such a way, that I just had to pass it on. I have to preface this anecdote by saying that Brian is a single dad of an adorable two year-old baby girl, Alana. Over the past two years, I’ve watched Brian evolve into a wonderful father and wholly embrace his initiation into fatherhood. He often tells me how Alana is the love and light of his life. With Brian you know he’s speaking directly from his heart when addressing any topic regarding his daughter.

One of the activities he shares with his daughter is a weekly Kindermusik class. Kindermusik is a wonderful program designed to teach infants and toddlers preliminary musical skills all the while promoting parental bonding and interaction. During Brian's and Alana’s recent Kindermusik class the teacher instructed both parent and child to draw physically close to each other to feel and share each others’ heartbeats. What a brilliant concept and powerfully moving time of bonding!

Fast forward two days later. Brian is dressing and primping Alana for the day. Any of you who’ve been adventurous enough to meticulous groom a two year-old know all too well that such an activity could have rattled even Gandhi; however, thankfully, such was not the case this morning. Clearly Brian had some good karma coming to him. As Brian was brushing Alana’s hair there was a tender spirit about her. Brian pulled her close and encouraged her to share their heartbeats; to which she readily obliged. In doing so, she heard both hers and her fathers’ heartbeats as one. Being caught up in the moment she gave a gentle smile and cooed. It was such a moving moment for both that Brian had Alana do it again. No words, just bonding through the unified beating of their hearts. A heartbeat symbolizes life and love. Both of which were very present. If every child could have such deep, affectionate moments with their parents just think of the beautiful, peaceful generation of children we’d raise.

When Brian shared this story with me, I was touch by how incredibly blessed both he and Alana were to have had this priceless moment of bonding. I was also reminded that there is a heart beating inside every child and it needs to be heard and tended to. Too often as busy parents we get caught up in the demands of our day. We forget to take something as simple as grooming our children and making the moment special and building lasting memories. We let valued moments slip through our hands. All too soon our children will be off on their own and our homes will be agonizingly quiet. Instead of listening to the current deafening din around us, we need to make some quiet time with our children. Time so quiet we can hear the precious beating of their hearts and be reminded of the priceless gift they are to us. Then, when they’re grown up and eventually leave the nest, you can gently put your hand on your own heart, feel its tender beating and know they’re still close by.

The Merry Bells of Christmas

I know, I know. It's only September 4th and I'm already writing a blog about Christmas.

I'd be remiss if I didn't share with you the wonderful nostalgic experience I encountered this past weekend at the Pasadena Flea Market. As an experienced shopper, I know all too well the pre-shopping ritual that must take place. I was dubious to properly stretch, apply sunscreen, don my baseball cap and sunglasses, chant to the shopping gods for great bargains, and most importantly, grab my non-fat venti vanilla latte with whip. All by 7:30 a.m., mind you. That's right, 7:30 a.m. on a weekend. Bargain hunting requires exemplary skills and a strategy equal to that of a well executed military operation.

The temperature was a disgusting 99 degrees and climbing. It was an optimal environment for hatching baby chicks, not antique shopping. Being the ardent bargain hunter that I am, I was not going to let the sweltering heat deter me. I browsed through countless items with childlike glee. Silverware, paintings, furniture, toys, collectibles, apparel, and every conceivable chachkey you could imagine.

Before I go further, I need to interject here with a story from my youth. Hang with me. It will all make sense in a few minutes.

Every year, on the Friday after Thanksgiving my mother would don this lovely Christmas bell pin. She’d wear it on her wool coat and sweaters. Hearing the first sweet sounds of the tinkling bell would signify the start of the Christmas season. I can remember hearing my mother walking down the church aisle at Christmas all the while hearing her jingle until she properly took her seat. As the years passed, I would search jewelry store after jewelry store in an effort to procure the same pin my mother had. I liked the symbolism it held for me and wanted to one day impart the same to my child(ren). For almost 30 years I diligently searched, but to no avail.

Now here’s where we get back to my original story. See, I told you it would all make sense.

I happened upon a table with a display of antique jewelry. I normally don’t browse the jewelry tables because I know the one thing that catches my eye will undoubtedly be from some Royal family and have a price tag far beyond what my humble purse can afford. Thankfully, today was different. As I quickly surveyed the beautiful baubles, one piece of jewelry in particular caught my eye. It was an exact replica of the Christmas bell pin my mother wore. I gasped with excitement and the largest of smiles crossed my face. I quickly snatched up the pin and inquired as to its cost. The vendor replied “Uh, that one. It’s $7.00.” To which I immediately replied “I’ll take it”.

I made several other modest purchases throughout the morning, but nothing held greater value to me than having found my long sought after Christmas pin. It’s not because of the material value of the pin but rather the sentimental value; which to me is priceless. Hearing the gentle ringing of the pin’s bells has flooded my heart and mind with wonderful memories of my childhood Christmas’s.

In Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life, the character of ZuZu Bailey is quoted as saying “When a bell rings an angel gets its wings”. For me, when I hear the sweet sounds of the bell ringing, I’m reminded of an angel of a mother who created this wonderful holiday memory and how on the wings of this tradition I can share the same with my child.

Oh, and for the record, there are only 109 shopping days until Christmas.

Avon Breast Cancer Walk

This coming September 15th & 16th I have committed myself to walk almost 40 miles, with thousands of other men and women to help find a cure for breast cancer. We will forge new friendships, get blisters on our feet, drink countless bottles of water, sleep in tents, and walk 26 miles one day and 13 miles the next; all the while raising money for breast cancer research. We have committed to the training and fundraising required to participate in this life changing event known as The Avon Walk for Breast Cancer . The net proceeds from this event (and others across America) will support non-profit breast health programs, as well as medical research to help find a cure for breast cancer.

I've been touched my so many stories from my friends and loved ones on how they were personally affected by breast cancer. Whether they themselves are a survivor, know someone battling breast cancer, or have lost a loved one to the disease. I've been humbled and challenged by your personal accounts and will walk in tribute to them.

My story is pretty simple, but at the time was quite a scare. I awoke one Saturday morning, over two years ago, and inadvertently found a lump in my right breast. By Monday morning I was in the doctors office. On Tuesday I had undergone a mammogram and breast sonogram. On Thursday I was in surgery having not one, but three lumps removed as well as several small masses. Two of the lumps removed hadn't shown on the mammogram. Within the span of one week my life had drastically stopped and I was confronted with the possibility of having breast cancer. The morning of my surgery there were several other women going in for breast related surgeries. When all was said and done, my lumps were benign, however, I've never forgotten the other women who went into surgery that same day and received the difficult diagnosis of breast cancer. From that day on, I promised myself that I would do my part to help those who despite optimism, prayers and the best of medical care, suffer from breast cancer. The Avon Walk for Breast Cancer is a great way for me to show my gratitude for my positive outcome as well as help those who suffer from this terrible disease. I'm asking for your help as well.

This year, over 180,000 women in the United States will be diagnosed with breast cancer.

Over 40,000 will die.

That's why we're walking.

To do something big.

To be a part of something special, and something very, very important.
We hope that you'll be a partner with us in this effort.

Each walker must commit to raising at least $2,000. Maybe we're crazy--but if this is what it takes to find a cure, and help our many friends and family who are breast cancer survivors--we'll be there.

I'm asking for your support. Would you commit to making a fully tax-deductible donation toward my efforts to help us meet our goal? I'd like to personally thank each one of you for joining us in this fight. You can make your donation on-line at: www.avonwalk.org. – click on Make a Donation – then click on Donate to a Participate, select Los Angeles and then type in my name (LoriAnn Boyer - for those of you who've already forgotten who sent this email). You can make a single donation or spread your contribution over several months. Any support will be most graciously appreciated.

In the time it has taken you to read this, another woman is diagnosed with breast cancer in the United States.

Please help us change that statistic.

Thank you ALL from the bottom of my heart.

Love,
LoriAnn

First Crush

For the past several months, my son has had a crush on a girl at school.

It wasn’t until recently that he finally opened up and shared his heart’s intent with me, but I’d had my suspicions.

There are certain unmistakable signs that a preteen boy is falling in love.

Improved hygiene, for one.

Suddenly, my son was showering more thoroughly and actually using the soap and shampoo. A huge feat when you’re parenting a preteen. He began getting ready for school a half hour earlier than usual, paying careful attention to his wardrobe and hair. Dressing out of the hamper and walking out the door with bed head was apparently SO yesterday.

Then came the request for a lesson on the proper application of deodorant, followed by an inquiry as to whether he should start wearing cologne.

But perhaps the most telling sign was his newfound affection for Mondays.

He would walk around on weekends forlorn, seemingly counting the hours until Monday morning arrived. With the possible exception of pastors and priests, I don’t know anyone who looks forward to Mondays.

Clearly, this was serious.

One afternoon, while driving home from Baskin-Robbins (please don’t tell my Weight Watchers instructor), my son turned to me and asked a question I wasn’t expecting.

“Mom, what does it feel like to be in love?”

There are questions your children ask that make you realize, without warning, that they’re growing up right beside you. One minute you’re reminding them to use shampoo. The next, they’re asking you to explain one of the great mysteries of the human experience.

What does it feel like to be in love?

Why… it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.

It’s euphoric and beautiful. Silly and tender. Invigorating and heart-thumping. It makes ordinary things feel extraordinary. A glance can sustain you for an afternoon. A hallway can become the place where your entire future might be decided.

And apparently, Monday morning becomes something to look forward to.

Then he asked me about my first crush.

I love when my son asks about my childhood. It gives me the chance to introduce him to the person I was before I was Mom. And I think there’s something comforting for him in discovering that I’ve been where he is, that all of these strange and wonderful feelings are simply part of growing up.

My first great love arrived in fifth grade.

His name was Mr. Pontes.

My teacher.

I fell madly, deeply and unabashedly in love with him.

He was gorgeous, by a ten-year-old’s standards. I was giddy with excitement at the beginning of each school day and devastated when the final bell rang. That meant a long bus ride home and an entire night of counting the hours until I could be reunited with my beloved.

Apparently, love hasn’t changed much in a generation. My son had discovered shampoo.

I discovered perfect attendance.

In an effort to impress Mr. Pontes, I worked diligently on every assignment. This was important. If we were eventually going to build a life together, he needed to know he was marrying his intellectual equal.

Never mind that one of us had a college degree and the other was still mastering long division.

I had also read somewhere that men liked women with long, silky hair, so I kept mine long and perfectly combed. I could have been in a coma or traction and I would not have missed a day of school.

I watched Mr. Pontes with adoration as he glided through the classroom, dispensing his knowledge upon us. I found him absolutely dreamy.

I loved everything about being in love with him: the butterflies, the exhilaration, the anticipation, the sheer joy of being in the same room with the object of my affection.

And I was quite certain Mr. Pontes felt the same way.

Naturally, he couldn't reveal his feelings. He was my teacher, after all. There were professional standards to maintain.

In my ten-year-old mind, his professionalism was not evidence that he didn’t love me.

It was evidence of extraordinary restraint.

When he called in sick one day and left us with a substitute teacher, I was furious.

How dare he not consider my feelings?

There was, of course, the minor complication of our 20-year age difference.

And his wife.

And their two children.

Details.

I was convinced that Mr. Pontes was every bit as enraptured with me as I was with him and had simply decided to wait patiently until I turned 18. At that point, he would divorce his wife, profess his undying love for me, we would marry, have seven children and live happily ever after.

I had no idea, of course, that this plan technically positioned me as a homewrecker.

Great.

A homewrecker at ten.

Clearly, my moral development had not kept pace with my romantic ambitions.

Then, one Friday afternoon, it happened.

“Lori, may I speak with you in the hall?”

This was it.

After months of stolen glances, academic excellence and impeccably combed hair, the man could resist me no longer.

With heart-pounding anticipation and a sweet dizziness, I followed him into the hallway.

He asked me to sit down and crouched beside me.

Oh my heavens.

He’s going to propose.

Never mind that I was ten, he was thirty, and I still needed permission to go to the bathroom.

Love apparently recognizes no administrative boundaries.

“Lori…” Mr. Pontes began.

“Yes?” I said, ready to leap from my chair, throw my arms around his neck and kiss him passionately.

Well, as passionately as a ten-year-old knows how to kiss.

“Ms. Almeda informed me that you were somewhat unruly in the lunchroom today and, despite repeated warnings, you chose not to modify your behavior. Is this true?”

My heart sank.

He was not going to propose.

Worse.

I was in trouble.

How utterly humiliating.

I wished for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. This could not be happening. Mr. Pontes was the love of my life, and I was standing before him a convicted lunchroom anarchist.

I burst into tears.

I confessed to everything.

I apologized incessantly.

For my punishment, I had to write all 50 states and their capitals three times.

For days afterward, I had knots in my stomach and behaved sheepishly around him. The fantasy had been shattered. The future Mrs. Pontes had fallen from grace.

By day two, I realized I was experiencing something entirely new.

Heartbreak.

Sadly, it would not be my last encounter with that particular emotion.

I finished fifth grade still deeply admiring Mr. Pontes, but I was no longer in love with him.

I was much more mature now.

Mr. Pontes was SO yesterday.

Besides, I had moved on.

I was now crazily in love with Erik Estrada.

At least he wasn’t married with a family.

I find myself thinking about that little girl now as I watch my son experience his first crush.

I remember how enormous those feelings seemed. How one person could suddenly make school more exciting, weekends unbearably long and Monday morning something worth counting down to.

And I remember how real it all was.

That's perhaps the most important thing for me to remember as his mother. His first crush may someday become a funny childhood story, just as Mr. Pontes became one of mine. But right now, to him, these feelings aren't small simply because he's young.

They're enormous.

Sitting beside him that afternoon, I realized my son was taking his first few steps down a road I know well.

There will be butterflies and awkward conversations. There will probably be ridiculous decisions and, almost certainly, heartbreak. There may be people he loves for a season and, someday, perhaps someone he loves for a lifetime.

I can’t walk that road for him.

I wouldn’t want to.

But right now, he’s still willing to let me walk beside him.

And that may be one of the sweetest parts of watching him grow up.

Besides, any girl who can get my son to voluntarily use shampoo has already earned a special place in my heart.

The Pinewood Derby

Today was our Cub Scout pack’s Pinewood Derby.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Scouting, the Pinewood Derby is an annual tradition, pitting Scout against Scout in pulse-jumping, nail-biting races. About a month before the big event, each Scout is handed a 6" x 2" block of pine and given the challenge of transforming it into a racing machine that will shoot like a bullet down a 40-foot track.

Every year, I’m touched by watching grown men revert to their childhood as they reminisce about building Pinewood Derby cars with their dads. Some have even admitted to still proudly displaying their cars despite now being middle-aged themselves. I suspect it has far less to do with the glory of winning and much more to do with the memories attached to that little block of wood.

There’s something wonderful about watching the 10-year-old boy reappear in a grown man as he regales you with stories of his Derby days.

This year, due to my ex-husband’s busy schedule, I was tasked with overseeing the transformation of my son’s block of pine into a miniature NASCAR-ish creation.

I should probably interject here that I’m a bit of a perfectionist, particularly when it comes to aesthetics.

This could have been a problem.

But this wasn’t my Pinewood Derby car. It was my son’s. I had to step aside and allow him to take ownership of his creative process. My job was simply to purchase the paints, decals and weights, offer assistance when asked and then watch the metamorphosis from ordinary block of wood to championship-worthy race car unfold.

By relinquishing my ideas, and, OK, a little...um...control, over what I thought his car should look like, I was amazed by what he ultimately created.

Wow.

A life lesson for Mom hidden inside a Pinewood Derby? How novel.

My son was knocked out of the competition midway through. It certainly wasn’t for lack of effort. He placed second in most of his races before eventually making way for the remaining Scouts to vie for the top prize.

One might think that would bring some disappointment after weeks of hard work, anticipation and preparation.

But something quite different happened.

During the final heats, one of my son’s friends, whom we’ll call Tyler, emerged as the front-runner. Every time Tyler approached the track, the boys began chanting his name.

TYLER! TYLER! TYLER!

With each heat Tyler won, the chants grew louder.

TYLER! TYLER! TYLER!

What struck me was that these were the same boys whose own cars had already been eliminated. Their chance at the trophy was over. Yet there wasn’t a hint of resentment or disappointment as they watched their friend move closer to winning.

They were genuinely thrilled for him.

In that moment, Tyler’s wins became their wins.

When the final heat ended, the Cubmaster announced the third-place winner. Everyone applauded.

Then came second place. More applause.

Finally, the boys crowded around Tyler. Fingers were crossed. Anticipation was high. They waited.

“And the grand prize winner of the 2007 Pinewood Derby is...TYLER!”

The room erupted.

Tyler’s friends jumped up and down, screaming and cheering, hugging him so tightly he could barely break free to collect his trophy.

I stood there watching them and found myself deeply touched by the sincerity of their sportsmanship and, more importantly, their friendship.

This was Tyler’s day.

But it occurred to me that Tyler had won something far more valuable than a Pinewood Derby trophy. He had a group of friends who could celebrate his success as enthusiastically as if it were their own.

They say we can learn a great deal from children if we’re willing to look with the right eyes and an open heart. Today was no exception.

I learned that genuine love and support in friendship are gifts far greater than any trophy we could ever take home. I was also reminded that I won’t always take home the grand prize in every area of my own life. Sometimes it will be someone else’s turn to stand in the winner’s circle.

And when it is, I hope I’m standing nearby, cheering just as loudly.

My son and the other Scouts may not have taken home the top prize today, but as far as I’m concerned, they demonstrated something worth far more.

They showed what it looks like to be number one as friends.

Way to go, guys.

A New Beginning

There’s a symbolic nature about the dawn of a new year. It’s as if every January 1st, life graciously affords us a “do over”; the opportunity to start anew. For most, it’s a time to cleanse the previous years’ slate of failures, missed opportunities, broken resolutions, hurt, pain, drama, and mistakes and initiate or reignite our goals and purpose. It’s like the sweetness and sense of renewal you feel after a rain storm. Everything is fresh, beautiful and hopeful again. We thrust ourselves into the new year with great expectations. Not that we approach them in a quixotic nature, but rather with a genuine zeal. We have the best of intentions. For many, unfortunately, the fervor is lost within the first month. Whether it’s trying to lose weight, stop smoking or drinking, start that new career, or taking that long awaited trip, many simply give up all too quickly, only to face the same regret of another failure the following new year. For those that remain steadfast in passionately pursuing their resolutions and dreams, they have the pure satisfactin of knowing they stayed the course and can now partake in the sweet taste of accomplishment and victory.

As I look back at this past year there are countless accomplishments I’m proud of. I set numerous goals for myself, from learning to start a fire in my fireplace to taking my business to a higher level. I experienced the satisfaction of reaching one goal after another. On the flip side, there are also moments in which I wished I handled things differently, whether with more grace and compassion, better judgment, or had disciplined myself to stay wholly focused on the all of the objectives I had set for myself. All in all, I feel I emerged from 2006 a more grounded, compassionate, insightful, intellectually wealthy, and driven individual. I can’t undo the pain, hurt, failures or mistakes I encountered during 2006. I can only learn from them and center my thoughts on the future that is at hand, set new aspirations, and endeavor to reach them with the utmost of commitment. I feel with each passing year, I have come more and more into my own. I’ve finally learned who I am and love the course my life is taking. It’s not the easiest of courses by far, but one I’m eager to embark on as 2007 unfolds. I'm eager to see where life takes me this year and where I'll be this time come December 31st. I lift my cyberspace glass of champagne and enthusiastically toast 2007. A year I'm certain will be filled with elation, joy, successes, and of course, unexpected turns. All of which I passionately embrace. Here's to a wonderful New Year!

HELLO... Farewell...

This morning I had the sad and daunting task of putting one of my cats to sleep.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, or Wolfie, as we affectionately called him, was a birthday gift from my ex-husband before we were married more than 16 years ago. My ex and I often joked that Wolfie lasted longer than our marriage.

The passing of a beloved pet is never easy. After all, this furry creature, despite his non-human form, was as much a part of our family as any other member.

As I reflected on Wolfie’s 16 years with me, I found comfort in the many enchanting memories he left behind.

He was sweet and loving beyond my expectations. He lived in six homes and four states. He traveled cross-country with his late brother, Schubert, in 1995. He had a Woody Allen persona but could catch a mouse like a pro. His favorite cat food was Fancy Feast, and he adored tummy rubs. During his final year, he spent his days perched atop my desk, fascinated by the keyboard and the cursor moving across my computer screen.

But perhaps Wolfie’s most memorable characteristic was his nightly patrol of the hallway.

Every evening, without fail, he would skulk up and down the hall of our home, meowing a sound that came out remarkably like “Hello.”

This scared the daylights out of unsuspecting overnight guests, and I would have to explain that no, there wasn’t a mysterious stranger wandering the house. It was just Wolfie, making his nightly rounds.

Last night, Wolfie roamed the hallway one final time, conducting his last aria of “Hellos.”

I listened differently this time.

My heart broke as I realized that within a matter of hours, the two of us would be saying our own final farewell.

When morning came, my heart was heavy with what I knew lay ahead. At the vet’s office, I made the decision to stay with Wolfie until the end. It was the only choice that felt right. This was his deepest hour of need, and I couldn’t abandon him simply to spare myself the pain of witnessing his final moments.

Much to my surprise, and enormous comfort, he purred until the very end.

The moment he was gone, grief struck at the very core of me. But almost as quickly, I found comfort in knowing that Wolfie had lived a full, carefree and wonderful life. The pain he had endured during the past several months was gone.

He was finally at peace.

When I returned home carrying an empty cat carrier but a heart filled with 16 years of precious memories, I took a quiet moment to grieve.

As I sat there, my remaining pets, one dog and three cats, began to gather around me. One by one, they drew near. It was almost as though we were collectively mourning the loss of one of our own. There was an unspoken sadness among us, but also a quiet consoling.

It was incredibly touching.

So farewell, my furry friend.

Thank you for 16 years of friendship, silly moments, love, loyalty and undeniable sweetness. Thank you for traveling through six homes, four states and so many chapters of my life with me. Thank you for keeping watch over our hallways and for making us laugh with your nightly “Hellos.”

I imagine the house will feel a little too quiet tonight.

And somewhere in that quiet, I know I’ll be listening for you.

Goodnight, Wolfie.

Oliver With A Twist

Last weekend my son and I found a two week-old baby squirrel in our front yard. Our cat, Chloe, was curled up around him trying to tend to and protect him. At first we thought she had caught the squirrel as her prey and was proudly presenting him to us. Interestingly enough, this was not the case. Chloe, like us, was concerned about our new baby friend and wanted to ensure his safety. It was quite sweet watching her be so protective and maternal.

After several calls to known animal groups and researching the care of baby squirrels on the internet, my son and I placed our new house guest in a deep, open box with towels and a few almonds. The poor little creature was terrified out of his mind, but after a few hours of allowing him to acclimate to his state of the art cardbox box house, he became a little more trusting of us. We were instructed to feed him (oh, yes, it's a boy and a proud one at that) a puppy formula called Esbilac. It's been the cutest thing watching him nurse from the bottle and then wash his little face afterward. I broke down and bought him a moderate cage and some fun treats. We also decided to name him Oliver Twist, given he was technically an orphan. He's been a delight to care for this past week. According to our sources, when Oliver is about eight weeks old, we can release him back into the wild. "The Wild" being our lovely suburban street with high end homes and an ample supply of gorgeous trees to run up and down. Poor little guy.

We're enjoying our temporary house guest. He's been an absolute delight and I can now add caring for a squirrel to my list of accomplishments.

Tending Our Friendship Garden

One of my favorite pastimes is gardening. There’s something immensely satisfying when you can have this wonderful sychronicity with nature that results in a lush, beautiful garden. In the quiet, tranquility of my garden last week, I began to reflect on several of my friendships, their impact my life and vice versa. The more I contemplated my relationships, and the more I tended to my garden, the more a gardening analogy took place.

In tending to our friendship garden we first need to understand the nature of each friend we are privileged to have. Like flowers, our friends come in varying varieties. Once we understand the individual nature of our friends, the better equipped we are to be the kind of friend they need in return.

Perennials
Our perennial friends are always in full bloom, bringing a continued robust beauty and charm to our lives. They exist through self-renewal. Through thick and thin we can count on our perennial friends to be available, day after day. They are delightful, and bountiful by nature. Because of their loyalty and steadfastness, we place our trust and devotion in our perennial friends and they us. We admire and are endeared to our perennial friendships and value greatly their influence on our lives.

Annuals
Our annual friends are those with whom we see primarily during life events (i.e. holidays, weddings, birth of a child, etc.). Our annual friends bring a vigorous beauty when they are present in our lives. We savor their presence and appeal during the narrow window of time we have with them. They add value to our lives, but in small snippets. We love them and look forward to their next blooming in our lives.

Exotics
Our exotic friends are those who bring a unique diversity to our lives. They are bold and exquisitely gorgeous. They teach us to look beyond the ordinary. We see the world through different eyes due to the impact of our exotic friends. Whether they’re of a different culture, sexual preference or mindset, we embrace them wholly. We delight in their ability to provide us with a new paradigm.

Desert Flowers
Our desert flower friends are those who bring a harsh and sometimes barren element to our lives. Our desert flower friends have many redeeming qualities, which is why we put up with their coarse nature, but they are clearly a challenge to maintain. They may have a prickly exterior, can be excruciatingly judgmental or opinionated. They have a harsh exterior due to painful life circumstances, yet they are survivors because they have weathered such incredibly harsh conditions. You admire them for their strength to survive and search diligently to find the tenderness amongst the thorns. Our interaction with our desert friends tends to be limited due to the protective barriers they put up. Yet, we acknowledge that despite their tough exterior that eventually a beautiful desert flower will emerge and we hold steadfast to share in that day.

Weeds
We all have weed friends. These are the friends we politely need to weed from our lives. They are toxic, time consuming in non-productive ways, and highly annoying, altering the overall beauty of our friendship garden. Our weed friends serve no purpose and add zero value to our lives. Weed friends will continually make themselves known in our live, but the sooner we weed them out, the better and more plentiful our friendship gardens will grow.

Our network of friends is vital. For some they are our lifeline. For many they are our families. The types of friends we have in our friendship garden will speak volumes to the nurturing and care we invest in these relationships. What kind of flower would you consider yourself to be in your friends’ gardens? Are you loyal, dependable, and add value and beauty to your relationships or are you toxic, harsh and require meticulous understanding? How we conduct ourselves in our friendships will determine the overall beauty of the relationship. That reminds me, it's time to trim the rose bushes.

Having a Strong Work Ethic

My pastor preached a sermon this past Sunday on "work ethic". This is a subject dear to my heart for several reasons. One of which, I'm a recruiter by trade and look for top talent across the globe in virtually every discipline. Two -- I come from a long line of hard working individuals. My dad worked tirelessly for over 30 years for the same company. The only time he took a sick day was when he had a heart attack and that was only because he was strapped to an operating table and my mom and I had confiscated his keys.

As a recruiter, I have the unique opportunity to speak with scary smart, creative, cutting edge individuals who are shaping the future of our businesses. I love the intellectual stimulus my craft affords me. I get a high of sorts speaking with hard working, innovative candidates and hiring managers, and when I'm able to match the right candidate with the right job opportunity. It's intensely satisfying to know you had a hand in defining someone's career path as well as the future of your client's company.

There is one particular recruiting story that I've always held dear. I was working for a utilities client and had been tasked with hiring about 35 armed guards. These are the dudes with the AK47's. The recruiting process is grueling for the candidates with written and shoot tests to be performed to the highest of standards. The job itself isn't that sexy. The main focus is to stand guard. No laptops, no corporate in-house environment, no desk or cubical space or fancy office; just standing hour after hour, with weapon in hand, guarding the facility.

Several of the candidate's I hired were from the local marine base. These were soldiers who were rolling off their tour of duty. Soldiers who had seen battle, soldiers who put their lives on the line, soldiers who were not afraid of hard work.

One evening I called one of the candidate's to give him an offer. We were paying a whopping $16.00 an hour. Again, this was a former Marine of the United States who had endured battle. When I gave him the offer, he started to cry and it took him a moment to pull himself together. I thought it was due to the low salary, but I was wrong. He cried because he had been praying for a new job. His wife had just had a baby and he wasn't sure how they were going to make ends meet now that he was no longer with the military. He promised me that he would be the hardest working armed guard I’d ever hired and that I would not be disappointed that I hired him. I was humbled and moved by his gratitude. He made such an indelible impression on me that I've never forgotten it to this day. I've made offers in the several hundreds of thousands, with equity, stock options, benefits galore and every kind of perk you can imagine and not seen as much sincere gratitude as I did from this man. Additionally, he provoked me to be a better recruiter and to always keep my work ethic in check.

When I went to bed that evening I was proud to have had a hand in helping this man know that he and his family were going to make it. Yes, I had a part in the process, but he would never have been selected if it weren't for his hard work ethic and stellar military record. He's crossed my mind several times over the years. Usually when I'm on the phone with an MBA candidate who wants $150K base salary with only one year of relevant work experience. I can't help but shake my head in disbelief.

I'm thankful for the examples of hard work I grew up with and continue to come in contact with day to day. As my pastor repeatedly said this past Sunday, hard work is not a curse, but a blessing. I'm thankful I'm in a profession that allows me to witness this on a daily basis. A profession that also keeps me challenged to work hard and give it my all. I have a son who watches everything I do and my work ethic is part of the legacy I'm handing down to him. How I work today will determine how hard he works in the future. In a way, my work today will affect the future. Now that's a great benefit!

The Grand Canyon

My son, Stephen, and I recently took a trip to the Grand Canyon. We try to plan two family vacations each year, and this one was our big end-of-school-year bonanza. Since Stephen is a major train enthusiast, we decided to use this mode of transportation for our journey.

We boarded our Amtrak sleeper car at 6:00 p.m. By 6:04 p.m., Stephen had already unpacked and was practically bursting with excitement in his bunk. It was endearing to watch his exhilaration. As the train pulled out of the station, Stephen was completely charged-up, excitedly exclaiming, “We’re moving! Mommy, we’re moving!”

The train ride from Los Angeles, CA, to Williams Junction, AZ, took about 12 hours. Stephen slept a grand total of 13 minutes and was diligent about waking me every 20 minutes to point out a passing train or grazing cow. I briefly considered Benadryl—or perhaps slipping a roofie in his apple juice—but quickly dismissed the thought, hoping that eventually he’d tire himself out with the sheer excitement of the evening. NOT.

We arrived in Williams Junction around 6:00 a.m., exhausted, hungry, and in serious need of a shower. Once we checked into our hotel, Stephen and I immediately passed out in our respective beds. When we finally woke up—six hours later—we spent the remainder of the day swimming, walking, shopping, and enjoying the sights.

The following morning, we set off for the Grand Canyon aboard a charming, old steamer train. As we journeyed through the Arizona landscape, we spotted cows, elk, and various canyon creatures.  We also steamed past an adorable moose named Elvis. But this Elvis wasn’t wearing blue suede shoes—oh no. Instead, he was donning a lawn chair stuck in his antlers. Apparently, he had gotten it tangled up in some moose mischief at one of the camps and couldn’t shake it free. It turns out that approaching a lawn chair-wearing moose isn’t recommended; it’s best to let nature and the moose work it out in their own time.

Needless to say, Elvis was quite the sight, and his unique "headwear" brought plenty of laughter from all of us.

The local Grand Canyon sheriff made his rounds through each car, entertaining everyone with a lively western sing-along that brought out the cowboy in all of us. It was a moment of pure, unbridled fun.

About an hour into the ride, we were suddenly accosted by a group of train robbers, who burst onto the scene with exaggerated flair. The whole train gasped in mock horror as they demanded everyone’s valuables—though, in true Wild West fashion, no one was in real danger. The robbers, with their bandanas and theatrical mustaches, squared off with the sheriff, leading to a dramatic, bloodless shoot-out right there on the train. The whole thing felt like something straight out of a movie, complete with plenty of fake gunfire and a lot of laughter from the passengers. It was the kind of absurdly fun moment that turned an ordinary train ride into a legendary adventure.

After two days of train rides, a Mitch Miller sing-along, and a staged train robbery, we finally arrived at our destination—the Grand Canyon! We were instructed to carefully climb a small flight of stairs that would lead us to the very edge of the Canyon. With cameras and water bottles in hand, we practically sprinted up the stairs, eager to reach the top. And then, there she was—standing before us in all her breathtaking beauty, color, and splendor.

We had arrived at one of the seven modern wonders of the world. I held Stephen close, and together we took in the majestic canvas before us. I’m pretty sure we both muttered something profound like, “Whoa.”

The moment felt both surreal and humbling. It’s impossible not to be enraptured by the canyon’s immense colors, scale, and grandeur. Stephen and I stood there for what seemed like hours, completely absorbed in the exquisite creation that unfolded before us. Nature’s power to inspire is astounding. She simply is, and in her presence, we are left in awe.

My son and I spent two unforgettable days exploring this majestic chasm, making new friends, and learning about how the canyon came to be. It is said that the canyon does not need man, but man needs the canyon. And it’s true. My son and I needed this time together—time to explore, bond, and slow down enough to truly appreciate the beauty surrounding us. There were countless “Wow” moments, where I urged Stephen to soak it all in and keep a mental snapshot.

One moment stands out above all, the most special of the entire trip. It was during our train ride back to LA, around 3:00 a.m. Stephen was curled up beside me in my (very, very tiny) bunk. Together, we gazed out at the celestial night sky. Thousands upon thousands of stars sparkled and danced in the heavens. The moment felt truly magical. We were in awe of the vast beauty before us. In the stillness of that moment, Stephen quietly whispered, “Wow.” It was in this “wow” moment that I realized I was giving him something special. And it was clear—he had experienced several on this trip.

He then reached over, took my hand, pulled it close to his chest, and with a smile, said, “I’ll never forget this night. Thank you for taking me on this trip.” I was deeply touched by his sincere appreciation for the moment. I too will never forget it. It was special in ways I can’t even fully express.

Throughout our trip, we saw many breathtaking sights and came away with a deeper love for nature—and, more importantly, for each other. They say life should not be measured by how many breaths you take in a moment, but by how many moments take your breath away. Those four days with my son were filled with “take-your-breath-away” moments. Moments that will forever be etched in my heart. Moments that have become tender memories of our time together—moments that were truly, well… Grand.

Is Your Hut On Fire?

I received the following story from a friend of mine. It’s a simple story, but one I think we can all learn from.

The only survivor of a shipwreck washed ashore on a small, uninhabited island. He prayed fervently for God to rescue him. Every day, he scanned the horizon for help, but none came.

Exhausted and alone, he eventually managed to build a small hut out of driftwood to protect himself from the elements and provide a place to store his few remaining possessions.

One day, after scavenging for food, he returned to find his little hut engulfed in flames, smoke billowing high into the sky.

He was devastated.

Everything he had left was gone.

Overcome with disbelief, grief and anger, he cried out, “God! How could you let this happen to me?”

Early the next morning, he was awakened by the sound of a ship approaching the island.

It had come to rescue him.

“How did you know I was here?” the weary man asked his rescuers.

“We saw your smoke signal,” they replied.

It’s easy to lose heart when life seems to be going terribly wrong. In the middle of pain, disappointment or loss, we see only what is burning. We see what we’ve lost, what didn’t go according to plan and what we cannot understand.

But sometimes, what looks like the end of something is making way for something we simply cannot see yet.

The man saw a burning hut.
The rescuers saw a smoke signal.

Perhaps that is the reminder in this little story: we don’t always have the vantage point to understand what God may be doing in the middle of our circumstances.

So, the next time it feels as though your little hut is burning to the ground, don’t lose heart. The smoke rising from what you thought was lost may be the very thing that leads you toward what comes next.

Sometimes grace arrives disguised as the very thing we thought would undo us.

And if someone you know feels as though their hut is burning today, remind them that the story isn’t over yet.

Great Summer Reads

I'm an avid bookworm. I try to read one to two books a week. The following are two Amazing books I'd like to recommend. Both were inspiring, touching and transformed my life in many ways. If you haven't read either of these books, take the time to treat yourself to them. It will be time well spent and you won't be sorry you did.


The Alchemist by: Paulo Coelho

Review by Amazon.com
Like the one-time bestseller Jonathan Livingston Seagull, The Alchemist presents a simple fable, based on simple truths and places it in a highly unique situation. And though we may sniff a bestselling formula, it is certainly not a new one: even the ancient tribal storytellers knew that this is the most successful method of entertaining an audience while slipping in a lesson or two. Brazilian storyteller Paulo Coehlo introduces Santiago, an Andalusian shepherd boy who one night dreams of a distant treasure in the Egyptian pyramids. And so he's off: leaving Spain to literally follow his dream.

Along the way he meets many spiritual messengers, who come in unassuming forms such as a camel driver and a well-read Englishman. In one of the Englishman's books, Santiago first learns about the alchemists--men who believed that if a metal were heated for many years, it would free itself of all its individual properties, and what was left would be the "Soul of the World." Of course he does eventually meet an alchemist, and the ensuing student-teacher relationship clarifies much of the boy's misguided agenda, while also emboldening him to stay true to his dreams. "My heart is afraid that it will have to suffer," the boy confides to the alchemist one night as they look up at a moonless night.

"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself," the alchemist replies. "And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity."


The Kite Runner by: Khaled Hosseini

Review by Amazon.com
An epic tale of fathers and sons, of friendship and betrayal, that takes you from the final days of Afghanistan’s monarchy to the atrocities of the present.

Amazon.comIn his debut novel, The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini accomplishes what very few contemporary novelists are able to do. He manages to provide an educational and eye-opening account of a country's political turmoil--in this case, Afghanistan--while also developing characters whose heartbreaking struggles and emotional triumphs resonate with readers long after the last page has been turned over. And he does this on his first try.

The Kite Runner follows the story of Amir, the privileged son of a wealthy businessman in Kabul, and Hassan, the son of Amir's father's servant. As children in the relatively stable Afghanistan of the early 1970s, the boys are inseparable. They spend idyllic days running kites and telling stories of mystical places and powerful warriors until an unspeakable event changes the nature of their relationship forever, and eventually cements their bond in ways neither boy could have ever predicted. Even after Amir and his father flee to America, Amir remains haunted by his cowardly actions and disloyalty. In part, it is these demons and the sometimes impossible quest for forgiveness that bring him back to his war-torn native land after it comes under Taliban rule. ("...I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.")

Some of the plot's turns and twists may be somewhat implausible, but Hosseini has created characters that seem so real that one almost forgets that The Kite Runner is a novel and not a memoir. At a time when Afghanistan has been thrust into the forefront of America's collective consciousness ("people sipping lattes at Starbucks were talking about the battle for Kunduz"), Hosseini offers an honest, sometimes tragic, sometimes funny, but always heartfelt view of a fascinating land. Perhaps the only true flaw in this extraordinary novel is that it ends all too soon.