Saturday, April 7, 2012


We're putting the house back together after post-flood carpet was installed yesterday. (Aren't you ready to stop reading and hearing about that incident?!)

We're trying to be deliberate about what goes back in the rooms. I predict that will last about four more hours and then everything will be shoved back in. Because Cooper and Katie are growing weary and I'm tired of walking through a cluttered family room and entry way.

Part of being deliberate means going through boxes, which means I'm discovering all kinds of treasures.

Such as:

This Mother's Day card from Steve in 2006. Cooper was still 4. Katie wasn't yet 1. We were living a blissful life. We had never even heard of the word "glioblastoma."

Reading Steve's loving words in his distinctive handwriting makes me simultaneously cry and smile. And makes me miss him even more in this moment than when I woke up this morning.

And this:

A photo taken for the church directory in spring 2006. At the time I hated this photo. I gave it to no one. (I guess that's why it was in a box.) My hair looks weird. We're all looking in different directions. I don't think I did a good job coordinating colors.

And now? Well, it makes me feel enormously foolish for being so vain.

And it simultaneously makes my heart sing and ache.

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