A Snag in the Fabric...Deemed Necessary

Adoption. Strong word. The dictionary defines adoption as: the act or process of adopting a child. Seems cold. Perhaps unfeeling. Becoming a parent to another person's child. Simple court proceeding. But yet in reality, it is so very much more than that. Adoption is so complicated. It is complicated for the child, the adoptive parent, and even more so for the biological parent.
A lot of people think of the newly formed family. They think how lucky that new parent is to have the child they have longed for. They look at the children as truly blessed to have these new parents who can give theses children all that they need and all that they long for. All of this is true. All of this is a miracle. However, there is a snag in the garment. A flaw. A small minute thread that if pulled too hard, will and can unravel. There was this life. This entity. A family that came first.
Whether children are adopted from a foreign country, the foster care system, or even right from birth, there is still someone who came first. Someone whose existence is sometimes brushed under the rug, not acknowledged, torn down, belittled, deemed insignificant. Biological parents. The one major flaw in an otherwise perfectly woven family. Necessary. But sometimes frowned upon.
But life for our children, our adopted children, life could not exist if not for these parents. And just as every adoption is different, so are the lives that our children lived before they became part of our family, added to our quilt, wrapped in love, and stitched in as if the snag were not there, but it is. And fortunately, it always will be.
Our attitudes about our children's biological parents has always differed somewhat than those who have never adopted. Not only do we acknowledge their existence, but if the law permits, we welcome their participation in our children's lives. This attitude also extends to any biological family members who want to participate in our children's lives. Why? You might ask? Why would you want to complicate your children's lives, your family's bond, your very delicately balanced woven life? The answer is pure and simple. Love. Love for our children and there need to have a relationship with people whom there will always be a natural bond. Love. Love for a parent, whom, for whatever reason, had to give their child/children up for adoption. Love. Why would you not give your child every option to to be well balanced, whole, and have a clear idea of who they are and that they are loved? Love. The love of a parent whether adopted or not, is to provide their child with stability. And does that love not permeate and override my need as a parent to place a territorial flag into my children and declare them mine, solely mine? Love. A love so deep that I as an adoptive parent can look into my children's heart and feel, literally feel, their need for me to love their biological parent. My acceptance of who they were will only facilitate who they are ante and who they are yet to be. Love. The single most significant element that can heal any wound, any misunderstanding, any flaw.
I am not bragging. My love for my children's biological parents does not supersede my right to protect them or keep them from further harm. But it does give me the insight to see and know, first hand, that the role that a biological parent plays and has played in a child's life, is much more than the womb or the sperm donor. That parent/parents is the reason my child exists. They could have chosen adoption. The could have chosen parenthood. They could fail miserably at parenting itself, yet still love their child beyond measure.
Why is that important? Why do I even care? Because I owe all that I am, all that I have, all that Imy life is to theses parents. I owe them my respect. I owe them my friendship. I owe them my prayers. I owe them my love. I owe them a place in my child's life because, quite frankly, they gave up their place for me. I will never forget that. Nor will I ever take their role lightly. Nor will I ever talk bad about them, defame their character, or in some cases reveal their inability to raise their children. It serves no purpose. It does not help my child. It does not help me. My ability to love my child goes beyond my need to judge people for whatever reason cannot parent their child.
Where does this leave me? What does it mean? Love. It means that I answer a thousand questions about who my children are. It means I paint a picture of love and longing. It means I show them that they were wanted. They are needed.mthey did matter. It means I give them something that perhaps the other parent couldn't give them without me. Security.
I guess what I am trying to say, is that in a world where people use children as pawns in a custody battle, where they forget about the other parent, and brush them under the rug, in search of this precious perfect family, I embrace the truth. The truth that we all, biological or not, cannot always control life's events. That children need their pasts to grow into their futures. That perhaps, just perhaps, my love for them is not threatened by their need to love and understand who they were and who they are.
And so, I pray. I pray for the biological parents, their relatives, their friends. Anyone who touched my child in any way. Am I a saint? Never, I do reserve the right to control any relationship that I or the courts deem harmful to my child. However, ego aside, I love. Pure and simple I just
Ove.

Let's Just Sew Another Day

When I was a little girl playing with my dolls and sewing them clothes, I wanted so much to grow up and be a mother. To have a family of my own, with a husband who adored me, and a big red house was all I thought that happiness could possibly hold for me in this life. But, I hadn't counted on God. I hadn't counted on His many blessings. I had not counted on Grandchildren.

I know I have written about my Grandchildren before, and I probably will again, but Grandchildren are the most beautiful, I mean beautiful, blessings of all. They make all the wrongs right, all the rights completely wrong, and all the other things unimportant. my Grandchildren are so very precious, humorous, and completely irrational and I love them to pieces.

Motherhood was oh so hard, busy, a virtual race against the clock to get as much done as I possibly could in a twenty-four hour period, and somehow pretend to be alert and on top of everything. It was headaches and tired, but it was also elation and highs. I loved being a mother to my children when they were growing up, but truth be told, I was a worried mess. My trust in God grew slowly in those years and I wasted a lot of time trying to solve life's problems instead of just letting Him do what He was meant to do.

But with these Grandchildren...ahhhh...no worries. They look at me and expect nothing but pure fun. I can blow bubbles. Go for walks. Take them to the river to throw rocks in. We can go for an icecream cone and then get donuts. None of the Rules apply to me because I am not the parent. I am just the Grandmother. My rules are to enjoy, make them ecstatically happy, and then send them home with their parents and promise to never do all those unhealthy things with them again. Ha! Ha!

In just one day, one day of Grandmotherhood, I experienced...

Watching them dig a huge hole in my back yard for worms. Never would I have let my children escavate our backyard with sticks, silver spoons, and Poppy's tools. But the Grands, now they can dig a whole in my potted plants if they want to. My favorite conversation..."Grammie, I telled them I guess I don't wike too touch them worms. Make dem stop putting dem on my hands. Dem is filfy!"

Taking them for a walk and throwing rocks in the river. Throwing sticks in the river. Wanting to throw theirselves in the river (it is April). The delight of each stone making a kurplunk noise as the threw their tiny treasures in and yelled, "Watch Grammie!" As if I'd never witnessed this miracle and then realizing I was excited as they were.
Hearing them fighting from upstairs and watching Cullen come crying down the stairs and yell, "Melia called me a BITCH, Grammie,! Dat is naughty!" And trying not to peel over in laughter at the seriousness of the situation!

Going to the donut shop and keeping them from licking the glass case because they wanted to taste everyone. Getting our donuts and eating them in the living room in front of the TV and licking our fingers and dipping in milk and slopping everywhere...favorite line..."Can I have the one with the FRINKLES? Grammie, can I?"

Walking and picking up sticks and pretending we were on an adventure and protecting ourselves with our great weapons! Finding rocks and trash that seemed to be needed and thrust into little pockets so that a mother could wash it later. Explaining what a dead bird was and why we cannot pet it. Favorite...Being thrust back onto the sidewalk because, " Grammie, you wasn't wooking bofe ways!"

Eating icecream and parading downtown with their superman faces, walking on everyone's curb, and triumphantly yelling, "Me first!" to become the leader! Taking ourselves to the gazebo and laying under the benches and watching them scrambled as I whispered, "Oh, ahh, watch for spiders!"

Blowing bubbles, tasting them, chasing them, spilling them, and eventually making plans to live in a giant bubble and eat donuts to our hearts content! You have never lived until you have blown bubbles with your Grands. Favorite moment, " Sissy, stoles that bubble from me! I was sabing it and her popped it!"

A picnic dinner on the front porch, complete with a blanket, spills, ranch dressing everywhere, and stealing others chips every five seconds, while watching the neighbors look at us in utter jealously! Each Grand telling stories to each other and laughing while various food ran outta their mouths and onto their clothes. Funny..."when I was just little, I would have picnics ebrery day!"

And my favorite, looking out at the garage and watching in awe as a robin built its nest on the outdoor light...the oohs and ahhs...and plans to,"get up dere and help dat birdie get dem babies safe!"

And finally, as dusk broke and the y all went home or to bed, holding my littlest Granddaughter Brielle, and having her hold my hand for dear life, snuggle and smile as if I hung the moon...feeling her heart pound on my chest and watching her coo in delight as I whisper promises of love and devotion because her , " Grammie love her Honeypie!" I

Folks this IS what life is about. Not the money. Not the activities. It is about the joy in evey childs eyes in every moment of everyday. It IS about spilt milk, pee on the back of the toilet, and dancing in the rain on a warm day with the mud all over the house. 

So next time you get the chance to color the zoo on your wall, or chew up cookies and see how far you can spit them...I'd advise you to throw caution to the wind and do it...it may just be the best day of your life!

The Eye of the Storm

It amazes me sometimes how fearful small children can be of storms. The bright lights and loud noises that they often ooh and ahh and praise over, suddenly become horrific in the dark during a storm. Although I am never afraid of a storm, I am sometimes afraid of the devastation to which it can sometimes lead. So during a storm, I am very alert and protective of my children and now grandchildren.  Storms, like life can be very precarious, and certainly we must protect ourselves from both, with fervent prayers and supplication...

When the kids and I first moved to New Mexico, we were all alone in our huge adobe house. I was all  they had to protect them, since Tim was away finishing a home in Michigan. It was hard sometimes doing everything by myself and making all the quick decisions. But in a way, I relished it as I was closer to my children more than ever before. We seemed to begin to work as a family unit, rather than just getting by. It was the first time we melded into a family.

The storms in New Mexico were fierce. The thunder was so loud and the lighting shot across the sky from one side to the other. In the daytime, it was magical. But in the evening, it was a frightening mess. On one such night, the storm began, and I got up to open my bedroom window so that I could listen to the rain and be lulled back to sleep. But just as I would drift off, one by one my children would come in, and we would rearrange and scoot to make room for the next child. They began to giggle and tell stories. Lastly, my oldest son Jeff came in, he looked at me sheepishly and smiled,"I can't let you sleep in here alone unprotected. I gotta come in here and take car of you all!" and he clinmbed into bed with us. And we all huddled closer together, finally drifting off to sleep. The closeness, the need to feel secure, the Oneness of it all.

 It was a memory that still burns in my mind. The loud storm, the children coming in one by one, looking for safety and security in my big, warm bed, looking to me to comfort them. Ironically, that is how I feel about our Heavenly Father. Sure, during the day, I am tough, I can handle all of life storms. But then gradually one by one We come to Him for protection, knowing the He is safe and warm. We cuddle next to His promises asking for comfort and answers, until we too can fall asleep forgetting our storms.

I have no real purpose for writing this. There is no huge epiphany here. Just a gentle reminder that life storms are not quite as frightening and overwhelming as we sometimes make them out to be. We need to be mindful that the dark, the thunder, the massive lightening is only as scary as we allow it to be until we turn it over to God and allow Him to make peace over it...Mark 4:39

Embroidering the Piece

Motherhood has been a life long career for me, at least active motherhood has. It has been a beautiful,  amazing experience that has given me so much joy everyday, that I would not change it for the world. However, as a young mother, I made many mistakes. I sought perfection in myself, my children, our home, and our lives. Sometimes my choices were so unrealistic that I  caused a lot of calamity in a family that really existed purely on the chaotic. Our lives were wonderfully magical, but also overwhelming at times. I was so busy that  I seemed to see the necessary than the unnecessary most days. With eight kids running everywhere that the world mandated, I found my best efforts were needed just to keep them fed, clean, and on time. Oh, don't get me wrong, I "got" my kids. I connected with them, but a lot of special moments were not magical because I simply couldn't relax and let life get a little crazy.
However, with our last child I am much more relaxed. After losing a son to suicide and facing two brain surgeries back to back, my life has become anything but busy. I enjoy every minute of this child's life. I notice all her world, her growths, her changes.  And so every milestone has been a remarkably big deal to me. I watch her. I hover over her. I adore her very breath. But to be fair, this was a child we almost lost both before her birth and after she was born when she became ill with meningitis, so I cherish that I even have her at all. She is my baby. The youngest Burd baby. Our last hurrah...But today, today she became something much more, she became my friend.
With all the other girls, friendship came gradually. Their trust in me as their confidante, was slow and gradual, after a series of unconscious testing, that I somehow made it through, I unknowingly their past. But with Katie-Grace, Katce, I have been her primary caregiver, warrior, bodyguard, chief cook, and boss exclusively her whole little life. So her need for me in any other capacity, was never warranted. Until today.
We sat in the car and made our way to the dentist. She chatted up a storm. She  never really had anything important to say, she rarely does, but she still can "talk water up hill". As I listened to her  banter, I watched her, and I realized that she was growing up. She was attempting to solicit knowledge and asking all sorts of questions. We began to actually have a real grown up conversation. We  laughed and she became very lively and funny, her little eyes dancing as I chuckled at her genuine humor.
We reached the dental office, and the hygienist came out taking us each to different rooms. I started to speak about having her in a separate room, but Katce quickly grabbed my hand, squeezed it, looked in my eyes, and said, "Bye Momma!". She hopped away and left me all by myself to get my teeth cleaned. I listened to her all through the cleaning, talking away to the tech, and I wondered what dark secret she was betraying. She waltzed in some thirty minutes later, was very polite, and waited before she interrupted to speak or even jump on my lap. Instead of me watching over her, she watched over me. The dentist checked us. Told us we were cavity free. Talked about braces, to which Katce wiggled up her nose, and we left. She smiled courteously to the staff, held the door for me, and to the car we went.
And still, still I was dumbfounded at the change in my child. Her maturity level had blossomed overnight. I just kept studying her as I pulled into the store parking lot. I helped her out, but she did not want me to lift her. I reached for her hand and she took it, but more because I needed to know she was safe. She did not cling to me. She pushed the cart with me, never asking to get in. Her eyes flitted from one rack to the next as she picked out clothing for me, matching up outfits and assuring me, these were the ones that would make me look spectacular. I just kept marveling at her. The change, the softness, the maturity of this nearly nine year old girl. And then, then, it happened..
"Momma, do you see this Momma? Do you see this beautiful dress? Wouldn't it look good on me?" She stood holding up a lovely spring maxi dress to her chubby frame.
"Yes, Baby, it is gorgeous! Would you like it?" I asked. Her eyes lit up as she nodded and we began to shop for just her. We rummaged through the racks and she gave me opinion after opinion of what she liked and didn't like. She managed to know exactly what she wanted and for the first time, I did not shop for my child, she shopped for herself. We waltzed the store and I marveled at her maturity and knowledge of her tastes and distastes. I wondered where this would all lead. Was I losing my little girl for a teendom already?
 She reached up high above her head  and grabbed the perfume bottle and smelled, " Ummm, Momma, sniff this?"  I bent over and smelled a soft feminine smell of faint cotton candy. " Could I get it Momma? Can I?" I stammered a little and was about to say no, when it hit me, it hit me like a ton of bricks. This child, my little girl was bonding with me. Not like a mother and daughter bond, but a woman to woman bond. And my answer, my answer would forever change our relationship...I studied her face, her earnest little girl face, ready to grow up and smell pretty and be part of this woman's world. I hesitated...still, she was still very much a little girl. I reached for the milder smelly lotion. But when I held it and we sniffed it, I saw defeat in her eyes. I saw my  little girl fighting to be a young woman and I was standing in her way of growth because it was I, not her, who needed this youngest child to never grow up.
 My heart began to pound and my eyes misted with water, "Okay, Baby, you can have the perfume, but..."
"Oh Momma, you are the bestest Momma ever....now I will smell like Timara and all the other girls. I will be pretty! Oh Momma thank you so much!" And she flung her pretty little self around my body and gave me a hue hug.
 She never heard the "rules" for her perfume use... she only knew that now she had taken the first step to being very grown_up. She chattered all the way to the car clutching and fingering that perfume bottle. she sniffed it and studied it as if it were her whole life. and I watched her and studied her in the same way...My baby...my last child...number nine...was growing up. But instead of being frightened, I reached my hand over the console, took her small chipped polished hand, and murmmered ever so quietly, " I love you Babygirl, my Katce, this has been the best day...thank you for being my friend!"
She looked up at me and nodded, her glowed as her eyes glistened with threatening tears, " I love you too...Hey Momma, can we go to McDonald's?" well my babygirl may have taken her first step into womanhood, but we weren't there quite yet, and off to McDonald"s we headed...

Sewing Prayers

Everytime I sew, it is so therapeutic. When I am overwhelmed, I sew. When I am excited, I sew. When I am creative, well, you get the picture...And sometimes, like today, I want to completely sew and shut out the world. I want to immerse myself in the whirring sound of the motor and the needle humming to forget what lies ahead...I want to sew and pray...pray and sew...
Today, I will watch a family, say goodbye to their loved one and I will ache for them. I will ache because I want to take away their pain, wrap my arms around them, whisper calm scriptures in their ears. For one beautiful, beautiful young woman, there will be pain, so much pain that I have prayed constantly that she will be able to live through it. For today, today she will bury her sister. A sister with whom there were many struggles...
Since my sisters were lil girls, I have struggled to protect them. I have raced to beat the Boogie Man to their door. I have helped our mother feed them, clothe them, and drag them through life lessons. I have loved them. Cried with them. Laughed with them. Adored them. But never, never have I had to bury one of them.
There is a bond between sisters that is sometimes spoken, but more often not, that no matter what we say, what we do, or even what we don't do, that with sisters, we can always take it back. But sometimes, just sometimes, Life kicks us in the teeth with this horrid, unexpected death. And we forget. We forget that about our bond. We forget that our earliest playmate will always love us for ever. We forget that unlike marriage the binding ties between sisters is forever. And so, we are filled with misplaced guilt that overrides our rational thinking allowing the devil to have a field day inside our minds as if suffering a loss is not huge enough. We allow it to destroy our self esteem and not concentrate on the joy of the bittersweet memories. We allow this horrid, nasty guilt to betray that sacred, unspoken bond with our sister and promise to take our very sanity and self esteem in the making.
But, it is there. That bond, that sisterhood is still there. How do I know? Because, my sweet fellow sister, I watch you. I watch you softly, quietly sift through her pictures. I watch you masterfully mother her children. I watch you welcome fellow mourners with whispers of hope. I watch you quietly gaze at her casket, reaching out to make sure her hair is tucked by her face just so.
Please, please do not let this guilt eat at you. You are okay, you and your sister. She is watching you now. She is proud, so proud of her Lil Sissy. She knew she could count on you to plan, to please, to pray...She and God watching you, loving you, eagerly awaiting you to let this devil created guilt to leave so that they can ease you through these moments through her Valley with gentle, splendid love.
Your bond is still there little one. It is just a bit quieter, more tender, and easier to maintain. Love her today, but more importantly, allow her to love you...because in the end she needs you more than she ever has...you are no longer lil girls playing dolls, you are her only link, the only one who can give to her children and family here on earth. She would want that. But more importantly, she would want you to be happy, joyous, and safe as you continue your journey to meet her when you get Home...

Sewing a Life of Memories

It is so necessary when a loved one dies, for us as humans to keep something tangible of theirs to remember them by. Recently, our youngest daughter lost her great, great Grandmother very rapidly to cancer. It was quick. By the time Grandma R. Found out, the cancer was well advanced and throughout her body. She chose not to fight.mshe was exhausted from many years of just living life. And so after a short battle, she succumbed to life after death with our Lord Jesus Christ. It was sad. It was hard. A family so closely knit, losing there matriarch. Their most beloved hostess.
When the family came to me and asked me to take some of Grandma R's clothes and make thirty or so memory pillows, I readily agreed. As I opened the box of beautiful shirts and ran my fingers ove the different fabrics, it occurred to me that these items represented much more than fabrics to be used for the family's heirlooms. These shirts represented Grandma R's life, her loves, her style. In essence, just by looking at her clothes, I could readily tell what kind of woman she was.
The shirts were very simple. Yet each one was cut with an open neck, a sure sign that she was not closed off. There was a femininity to them, some small,flair of intricate beauty, leading me to know that she was particular about what she did and paid attention to detail. And finally, the fabric was soft and pastel in color, which I assume was why she too could say what she meant with a flair for the quiet wisdom that come when a woman has lived a long life.
As I began to cut the fabric and make the shirts into pillows, I wondered, "What kind of memorabilia would I leave my children. Would they too be able to take my precious items or clothing and have great keepsakes? Would they know and remember who I truly am by the things I have left behind as Grandma R. had? Would they look at my sewing machine and remember the hours I sewed to buy their school sports shirts, their shoes, sewed their prom dresses, tuxedos, and articles to sell? Would they look at the jewelry, and see the simple, cheap dollar store finds that they bought me as small children and know that I wore them proudly because my children had bought them? Would they open my treasure box and finger each item I saved as a memento of their love, and know I cherished these objects of glue and macaroni above all else. And finally, would they open my Bible, picture me in the Word, and know I spent many days on my knees praying for their wars and welfare?
I hope so. I pray that at the end of this life my children see a woman, imperfect as she was, who loved her Lord and her family more than life itself. I pray they see a woman who was content with second beat so that they could have firsts. I hope that my memories leave them feeling safe, souns, and loved. But, Imdo not know for sure. I have not been perfect. And so, I will spend more time allowing God to perfect me. I will sew a little longer. Read a little more. And pray a little harder. I will continue to live my life with a legacy in mind for them that will last a lifetime when I go to meet my Maker.
So, my question is, what kind of a memory pillow will be made for your family? What treasure box of memories will you leave behind? Will the good, outweigh the bad? Will they remember your love and commitment both to you and God? Will your perfection overcome the imperfections? I know, deep huh? But in the end when we leave this earth, all we really have is a lot of stuff  with attached memories. And I pray, in the end, my children will finger my objects, look into their hearts, and have beautiful memories in their souls ...until we meet again...

Grandma R. with her namesake Ella

Sorting the Fabric...Thanking God for the Dale Thompson's in Our Lives

Sometimes God communicates with people through His word. Sometimes He communicates with people through circumstances. For me, God has always communicated through signs. Sometimes these signs are huge, demonstrative sightings that overwhelm me so, that I cannot even speak. Others times the signs come to me so softly and quietly that I cannot help but look up and smile. Today, my sign was soft and quiet. Although the giver never even knew God was using her, I knew and God knew, and really, that was enough.
Ever since I was a small child, I have loved red birds, especially in the winter when they sit on the back drop of the silvery white snow. Because they seem to appear more readily in winter, I seem to miss them and their beauty much of the year. And so it is no wonder that I readily identify these beautiful animals as gifts from God. However, it wasn't until much later, when I was worried about one of my children, that I knew for sure that these amazing birds were God's way of blessing me...they were His signs for me.
God, I prayed silently as I rocked back and forth in my rocking chair...where is he? Is Jeff okay? It's so awful out. I do not know where he is. I do not know if he is safe in this storm. He will not answer my calls. Oh Lord, I am so frightened for him...and I dropped my head in my hands and began to sob. Please Lord, if he will not call me, Ii I do not know...how will I ever fall asleep and get some rest? Will you give me a sign...something that I will recognize as You telling me he's okay...I just need to know...I love him so very much... I prayed and prayed all through the night as the wind whipped snow and ice everywhere. I rocked and I prayed. Prayed and rocked. And still no answer. Where are You God? Where is Jeffy? Is he okay? Suddenly the phone rang, "Mom, it's me...I just wanted you to know that I am safe and that I love you. Okay Mom?" Jeff said quietly into the phone as we talked briefly. "Don't worry Mom, I can take care of myself..."
I listened intently to the short conversation, so very grateful that he had called. I hung up the phone, stood up out of my chair, turned around, and looked at the big lilac tree out the big picture window. There sitting on snow covered branches was a tree loaded with red birds. many, many red birds...so many I could not count them. And that is when I knew...my sign...the red birds were my sign. God wanted me to know that He had specifically answered my prayers for Jeff. The red birds' presence told me so.
And that was only the beginning. If ever I was worried. If ever I didn't know what to do, God would send red birds my way to know that all was well. And send He did. Now I know it sounds silly. And I know that no one will believe it. But I do not care. Because a sign meant for me from God only needs to be believed by me.
If we had a long night of sickness, I would rock that child next to a red bird on the window sill. If I had to make a heartfelt apology that I didn't want to make, the red birds would be on the rock outside the window dancing at me when I was done. The red birds became little blessings between me and God letting me know that we were all right, He and I, that I was following Him the right way.
When my son killed himself and I lay my head on his tombstone in desperate tears to fix the situation, God sent a red bird to sit beside me and reassure me that it was okay. When I was told I may die of a brain tumor and I walked into the bathroom to sob by myself...it was a red bird that sat in the small bush outside my window and refused to leave, no matter how hard I cried. When I dodged to miss an animal in  the road and almost went into the ditch...two red birds dove in front of the car at the very moment I opened my eyes to see that we were okay. So you see, the red bird has become a life saver in many ways...
And today, today when I have been missing my son so much, wondering if I am making the right decision to walk away from a job and customers that I love in order to get stronger in health..I received a knock at the door. A knock that I was not expecting, from a woman who has never been in my home, and in her hand, she held a red bird. "I found this in my mother's things and I thought of you and how much you love the red birds," she said smiling as she handed it to me. I put the shiny red bird in my hand. I stroked it's smooth exterior. I could hardly believe what I held.  I wanted to jump for joy. I wanted to tell her what that small statue of a red bird meant to me, but I could not. I was too overwhelmed to speak of it. But I held it. I did not put it down. I merely thanked her and made small talk and showed her my home.  Later, as I watched her leave, I looked up at the treasured red bird now sitting in a place of prominence in my home, and thanked God for this gift and the woman who brought it to me. Even though she may never know what that red bird meant to me, I will know that God knows how He used a beautiful woman with a sense of timing and wisdom to answer my prayers of insecurity. He used her to tell me that yes, I am doing the right thing staying home and that Jeff will be alright in heaven. And if I will not take the time to look out the window on a rainy day for a red bird, that He will send one to me, with friendship and love...