The Prayer

What is a prayer? It is something I did not know I'd need. Until my mother prayed for me and it spoke gently to my childhood. When my mother tucked me in and she would stroke my hair and sing a lullaby. The one that said that I might die before I wake. Which was reason enough to pray. Then came the list. The list of things I was grateful for. My stuffed bear named Noel. Our dog Kai. But there was one prayer I never said out loud. For God to keep my parents together.

God doesn't always answer our prayers by giving us what we want. Prayers are reserved for God to answer with the miracle of what we need.

I know He heard my mother's latest prayer. On the day I could not see the life in front of me. When I hit rock bottom on April 25th. The day after my birthday, I wondered if I should live. Wondering how it could be possible to endure such agony for forty years more. But then my mother prayed. She knelt beside my bed and held me in her arms. I convulsed in a pain so deep you could not reach it with earthly hands. I turned inside out that day. The day she saw my naked soul. And tried to clothe it with grace.

My mother prayed for me to walk. To be released from pain. She said this prayer in silence. The kind of prayer with tears that well because your heart has overflowed. So I worry that she feels God has not heard her yet. That her belief in miracles might be fractured. So I try each to convince her that I feel God's will is done. Because I feel I have found what it is I need.

Yes, I wish I could walk like before. That I could be normal again. But God must have known that what I needed more than anything else, was a sense of peace. So I could be strong. And see the world for what what it still is, not what it used to be. Since my mother prayed, I see the nature below my feet. The blessings I can touch. And the gifts that I can see.

I can only imagine God heard her ask for me to be set free. But what kind of free? So He answered not with what she wanted, but with what I needed most. He cradled my heart and made it whole between my mother's heaves.

I know her prayer was answered. Because I soar within my mind. I dream of walking with our children and loving my husband with all that I can be. I can see an end someday to pain. I can envision accepting my limitations and learning a life that's new. I know that life will go on. Just not as I had planned. But who says that life was more meaningful before - with more blessings than what this new life will bring?

I thank God for my mother's prayer. He answered it for me. Because he knew the kind of miracle my new life would need.

The Work I Loved to Live

My career was a dream. It has been a year since I have looked back at my life as a photographer. Losing the ability to work has been more difficult than the loss of my leg's mobility, the debilitation of my shooting arm, or the pain. I have only fond memories of my travels around the world. I was the luckiest girl to have a career built as a wife and mother who ached to contribute to our family's support. To be an example to our children that being financially independent as a woman can be empowering, and an honor.

Photography will always be a part of me. I still see life through a lens - even without a camera in my hands. Life is still about capturing imagery. But now I do so with my mind.
It took one second for life to change. When the electric hatch on my car's tailgate came down into my skull. Blood rushed from my scalp as the corner of the tailgate dug down into the bone. In football you would call it a stinger. My head throbbed from being stung like a linebacker. The one that didn't want to leave the game for fear of missing something important. Who didn't want to admit he was hurt as bad as he was. But the blood confessed for me. The towels my daughter wrapped around my head were soaked. The skin split beneath the touch of my fingertips as they searched for the valley of the slaughtered lamb.

Emergency room, CT scan, and staple in my head.

I never imagined I would one day be the girl in a chair. With a stair lift, and scooter my kids think are cool. Surgeries and endless procedures are my job now. But just because I can no longer work my dream job, it doesn't mean I cannot love the dream I lived.

When Humor Heals

~ 2009 Email during my visit with my dearest dearest girlfriend during her chemotherapy treatments. ~

"To Our Circle of Friends,
After a pathetic attempt at cancer humor with our friend (which she has since forgiven me ) I couldn't stop thinking about how twisted this cancer experience can be at times.

It's ironic that around here, cancer humor abounds. Humor acts as a tool for all, perhaps a survival mechanism. The irony amazes me. We laugh throughout the day at the ridiculousness that is this disease. That that damn shot cost so much could have been a Burken Bag. That life is so much easier without hair. That 'mastectomy' means perky new boobs and a future in Playboy. "Please, nurse, can you just give my friend one more bag of fluid in her IV cuz I've got more editing to do".
Oh yes, and the silliness that her husband was relieved she didn't have bone cancer as well, cuz Lord knows her head is big enough already with all the attention! Yes, breast cancer was enough thank you very much.
The fact that she can't eat sugar because it causes cancer. I guess at $20,000 a day for chemo that's why they pass around a platter of sugar cookies from Ralph's bathed in Pepto Bismol Pink frosting with twitching pastel sprinkles.

The cancer center: We call it The Calico Palace: it looks like a geriatric brothel. With walls that match the frosting on the cookies, and birdhouses in the bathroom. Words are etched on the wall meant to inspire, such as:

PATIENCE: to get through 6 hours of IV listening to the patient next to you snore due to the overdose of Benadryl.

PEACE: reflected in the streaming Kenny G ensemble endlessly looping like a nail salon where everyone around you is named Kim or Tiffany.

HOPE: why hope? Isn't Cancer a disease you attack, fight? Tyson doesn't go in and hope to win. He goes in with guns blaring and eyes afire, claws are out and even takes an earlobe to rid the demon from the ring. This is how cancer should be fought. We don't "hope" she gets through this. We know. We believe. We trust. We assume. I want to reach up to that wall and scratch out Hope. Cancer needs a bigger word.

In addition to the said décor are 23 porcelain angels with feathered wings surrounding the ceiling on a ledge above the chemo chairs. Not the most comforting visual when the last thing you want to focus on is Heaven.
And then, there's the wig collection in the back of the room. A dozen manequin heads each dressed in perfect hair. I think we need to develop a messy wig. Nobody but a desperate housewife has perfect hair and even that ended by season 3. Then there's the Pepto-pink waiting room, that was decorated by one of the doctor's wives who evidently suffers from cataracts. Magenta boas act as a window valance dancing in the wind under an overhead fan. Instead of flowers on the mosaic coffee table made from shattered walmart tea cups, sits a fake birthday cake made out of fabric and pillowed candles.
Then there's Nurse Jackie with
the finesse of a bull with a pulled groin. It was she who opted to inform Lou of the "little spot that lit up on her hip bone during her scan" during her first round of chemo right after they plugged in the IV. That: not funny.

So life around here is never boring. And it IS life, filled with awareness of every little moment. Grasping every opportunity to undress the irony that snickers beneath. Perhaps this is because what is bad, is already so looming and unfathomable that each moment of humor is like a hatchet chipping away at a berg.
It is so like my friend to be in her position, yet be worried that others might worry. That any emotional burden is placed on anyone else due to her circumstance is a burden she carries in her heart. But she is re-framing her worries with a sense of humor as an energy source.

It is not going to be an easy road from here on out. Her system has been so pure and healthy that it is more sensitive now. This morning is a little better, however in a couple of hours we will venture once again to The Calico Palace for her $7000 injection to boost her white blood cells. With the cost of treatment she'll be sweating diamonds by the time chemo is done.

This is just the beginning of her journey, as I follow her down this path, her journey stays lit by the fire in friends' souls - breathing her forward.
In her eyes there's a glow, a knowing, that all is going to be fine. That The Calico Palace will be either a distant memory, or a launching pad when her porn career takes off and she's 80 years old doing book signings next to the mosaic coffee table with the fake birthday cake.
Stay strong sweet girls, as we hold her in our prayers, it's this circle which embraces and protects her.

Peace & Light,
N a snuggle to all...
Mic"

Follow-up: My friend is currently four years clear and cancer-free. Her courage and approach to healing helped lay the groundwork for my own personal challenge and the challenges our circle of girlfriends have all had to face over the years. Every day I pray to be half the woman she was during her treatments. Our friendship is one of the greatest blessings in my life. And for that, I am eternally grateful. Even to the angels with feathered wings that sit above a sign called, Hope.

The Wish

Yesterday, I made a wish, because I felt quite bold. It was my first day out that did not involve a doctor, or sedation. I did not sign my name in robotic form or disrobe with an awkward finesse reserved for sloth couture. I did not ask for a receipt to submit to insurance, or directions to a bathroom down a hall. There was no handicapped entrance or a secretary who liked my chair.

It was Fourth of July. My spirit was uncaged in our friends' backyard, the breeze alive against my skin. We reveled in the innocence of our youngest chasing butterflies with a decapitated pool net. Reclining by the pool, I looked up into the towering tree overhead that was pregnant with grapefruit. Wondering. How God would make them fall. And where.

The BBQ lit a smoke that crawled above the grass. Sunflowers prayed in a vase over ketchup, mustard and salt. Life was bursting with stillness. Water sprung from kicking feet, rainbow droplets landing on my legs.

The sun shifted behind an infant hawk. Its clawed wings taunting it not to set.

I felt the urge to test my left leg in the water's hold. The one I cannot lift in open air.

My husband helped me sit on the edge. My legs submerged within the summer's watered cave. Bracing myself with hands flat to the rounded edge, I raised my right foot to the top with ease. My skirt tasting the chlorine-I closed my eyes. The water infused within my skin, memories of a different time. When my legs could kick beneath a glistened sun.

I looked at my foot. And how much I wanted her to rise. So she could feel the warmth above the glass. I wished for her to sense the smoke that danced above the grass. I pressed my thigh into the ground. I held my breath into the wish and pushed it thru my toes. Answered by stillness.

My shoulders sunk and eyes welled. My husband's arm around me. Our friend stood in the water and held my feet in his hands. A peace connected somewhere in the middle of me. It's okay, they said. And I knew they were right. Because what mattered was not if my wish came true, but that I wished at all.

As the day came to an end. The hawk gave in. But not me. Because I know that tomorrow, I can wish again. And someday this wish might come true.

July 4th - A Love Story

Life is about destiny. Our country was predestined too. It rode its own tide, unsure of where it would land. But in its innocence was the purest of fate.

July 4th is a special holiday around our home. It is a day of love stories about my husband and I, but for my country too.

My love for America is one that will never end. A connection so deep, there is an unearthing of my soul at the very idea of its loss. It is a love born through open eyes. It flourishes when set free. It conquers evil to defends its roots, and lays peaceful when God is at work. My love for my country is not my own. Which makes me love it even more. It rushes through veins of open land. Gifting homes with possibility. Granting man liberty to dream.

Some may not believe she is thriving. Or that that freedoms writhe within her soil. But in my America, she has never been so full of possibility - Because I believe. In her. In who she was. In who she wants to be. A country of her children wishing for one thing. To be the lift within her wings. To be filled by the air she breathes - that fills her lungs and makes her want to sing.

So I will love her this Fourth like I have never loved her before. Dancing to the rhythm of her heart beneath my feet. And thank her for withstanding the burdens that have been placed within her soul.

Fourth of July is a day to fall in love with our country - all over again. As we all have grown, and our faces have changed, the essence of goodness is always the same. And there stands a greater love than could ever be before.

When Wounded Are Seen

Photographs of wounded warriors from the Vietnam War are not common. Due to today's medical advancements, those who would have died in Vietnam due to their wounds, are now surviving often severe burns, loss of limbs, or even a face. Fifty-thousand Purple Hearts beat within our country's core from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. It is our responsibility to help connect our younger generation with our returning wounded. To engage civilians with the needs of this generation of veterans, so it is automatically assumed that our veterans are a part of our country's genetic code. The first step in providing a supportive environment for our returning wounded, is to enlighten our youth as to who these men and women are, and how to tell if an individual might be a disabled veteran. I was able to practice these efforts by creating a Power Point presentation on the Signs of A Wounded Warrior and speaking to schools with wounded veterans.

I happened to be in San Antonio to attend a military medical conference when I was asked to photograph a photo instrospective on wounded warriors for a non-profit.

With camera bag in tow, I stood at the door of SSG Henline's home. Four-tour Iraq War Purple Heart Recipient.

Henline opened the door. His face a suggestion of the man who had entered the Army so many years before. It is important to note that when discussing Henline and the troops in this story, I refer to them as soldiers as these men are Army. Accordingly, I refer to soldier gender as 'he', but the reference is for women as well, as the he/she conjunction can be disjointing at times.

I am sure I stared for a moment. To soak him in. The brain reacts when it registers an image it cannot complete. Like when a child's head cranes to see a wheelchair passing by.

Henline's greeting was grand. His dogs, Duke and Charlie, announced my arrival. I entered a blast of air so cold my sweat evaporated to a chill.

Burn patients must keep their home around sixty-five degrees. If burned severely enough, a person will lose the ability to perspire. So cooling is essential to their comfort and survival. Especially in the blistering Texas heat.

Henline wore a black t-shirt with white lettering - 'GOT BURNS?' - and eyes that twinkled like a cat that just ate an emu. We proceeded down the hall to the living room.

Photos adorned the walls. Each frame filled with his beautiful wife Connie and their children.

Explaining that someone was "blown up" may sound harsh. But there's no nice way to say that someone planted a bomb under the road and it exploded under your legs. So many wounded just say what it was. Blown up. Because they were.

But Henline still smiles. He didn't for a while. And he still has days where his skin is not his. When he passes himself in a mirror and is reminded of that day.

We sat at the kitchen table, waiting for soldiers to arrive for their portrait sessions. I was just a gal from California with a camera. Didn't matter what I had done before. It would never compare to what had been done to them.

Henline brought out an album of his last tour in Iraq. I saw what he looked like before. I wondered what it was like for him to see himself as he was. Without the burns. Lips and skin that needed to be shaved. Two arms. But he did not seem to be concerned. He had things to laugh about. Jokes that needed to be told. That was when I noticed the softness behind his scars.

Henline is a professional comedian. The kind that makes you blush in Vegas. When you have been blown up, there's little else to fear. So, he lives without the rusted anchor that keeps so many from living their dreams.

As the soldiers arrived one by one, I could sense their uncertainty of my intent. They were trusting me simply because Tempered Steel, Henline, and RAW warrior Bob Ehrig had asked them to. I set up my black back drop in the doorway, and went to work. Every soldier was young and handsome. Some more visually battered. But all were scarred inside.

There was Jacob with his mother, her arms around his chest. Jose with his father. Justin with his wife and toddler, Andy with his newborn child, scarred hands against virgin skin. And Bob with his head bowed into the tips of his fingers as his weathered arms prayed for peace. The day became a cathartic blend. I left a part of myself in Texas that day, in Henline's home, and I never want it back. The part that didn't know their stories. That hadn't touched their scars.

I fully expected that each soldier might leave once I finished his portrait. But soldiers don't leave when their brothers are still there. It is a brotherhood. An opportunity to bond, reliving a kinship that kept them alive when others so badly wanted them to die. Such gatherings are rare, and so can go long into the night. The drinks, the jokes, the tears. Tears do fall. Because it is a language they understand.

A soldier's family and friends did not see what he has seen, and will most likely never feel the depths of his pain. They do not react to the night, when cars backfire, or fireworks curl him into a ball. A soldier returns to the states where he loves his family and wishes they understood. But in order to understand, they would have had to have been where he was. And he wouldn't wish that for the world.

In between portraits, Henline showed me around his home. He shared his t-shirt collection with humorous sayings; A tool in his chest of ice- breakers. He modeled his prosthetic arms like Fabio. One hand rotated, another was a hook. All would make a teenager roar with awe. We toured his children's rooms, so freshly decorated it seemed Extreme Makeover was just there. His office walls held framed clippings of his recovery and stories on his comedic career. He was still technically enlisted, and not yet a veteran. But a warrior he was. Every day of his life.

Then, he took a phone call. And I was left alone. With Duke and Charlie. Walking the hall and absorbing his family's history along the stairs.

It was then I saw the poems. Framed and lined at attention on the wall. Written by him to each member of his family while he was in Iraq. It was at that moment, Henline became something more. More than a wounded warrior who fought a battle and found his soul. He became more than a man who lost his arm and embraced a calling. He became a husband and a father. As I read each poem, I imagined him laying on his bed in Iraq at night with a small light to lead his pen. I imagined his eyes wet with love for his wife- a connection to his children- so strong they could feel the words as he wrote each arc of a letter with his hand. These poems to his family were framed in this hall, because he almost did not come home. Days after he mailed them from Iraq, his Humvee ran over an IED. It was his fourth tour and he wasn't even supposed to be in that seat. He took the place of another soldier that day. Perhaps it was salute of destiny's hand to a man it knew could carry the burden, and be a vessel for changing so many lives that he would do it all over again.

If you ask Henline why he is so positive. How he can get up each day and make people laugh. He will tell you it is because he knows, with all of his heart, that he is now able to create more positive change in this world than that man who blew him up, will ever cause harm.

After photographing wounded troops from all branches of service across the country, the photo introspective unveiled at The Ronald Reagan Presidential Library on Veterans Day 2011. Henline was the keynote speaker.

I stood back and watched as the crowd gathered before each print in reflection, explaining heroes to their children. Henline watched.He told me that for the first time in their life, since that day when their life changed, they could feel eyes upon their soul. And that for once, beyond their scars of war, they were seen.

ALONE
When the busy day comes to an end
And she has cried all her tears out
on the phone to a friend

She tucks the kids in
and kisses them goodnight
She tells them not to worry
everything will be alright

She lies down and wonders
if she will be the one left all alone
If he will be the one
that wont make it home
But she never shows her fear
when they talk on the phone

During the madness of an aggressive fire fight
Another friend fades away
by the end of the night

Thought of his children
crying in pain
Because of his choices
can drive a man insane

The fear is hidden deep
with in his eyes
The truth comes out
with every tear that he cries

He writes in his letters
that daddy will be alright
Even though he almost lost , his life that night

He doesn’t want his wife
to raise the children alone
But he never shows his fear
when they talk on the phone

By Robert Henline March 2007 Iraq

What Is Chronic Pain

For months the burning sensation over my spine and limbs was an enigma. Until it was diagnosed by my doctor as a part of the injury to my neurology. This is fascinating and explains it perfectly.

Out of Ego's Way

The gloved hand holds down my calve. I feel the tip of the needle enter its tenderness. My face buried in the pillow. Electromyogram (EMG). A synonym for water-boarding in the world of neurological testing.

EMG's can tell you whether nerve issues are coming from your spinal cord. But mine pointed in the direction of a neurological disease. The kind with letters as names.

Something happens when you hit a wall. You're chin digs in. Your eyes point to the sky. And you are forced to see something new. A sky with a sun shining down on lost hope.

Then I met a doctor, who I hope will be, the final stage in what has been an exhaustive journey of discovery.

My ex husband has wanted me to see him for months. But my ego got in the way. Perhaps it was the Taurus in me. Stubborn. But my two older children were persistent. They would come back from their dad's house and tell me that he asked about my progress. Another time he sent a message through them as to what he thought I should do next. But I still wasn't ready to bend. Even though he was in one of the most highly acclaimed practices in the nation. I couldn't get out of my own way.

Last Friday my phone rang. The voice was professional yet kind. She was calling from this new doctor's office to set up an appointment. That my ex had requested. With every test result possible sitting in a Brookstone bag in the corner, I gave in. They fit me in for 10am Monday morning.

Ego affects some when we're conflicted. As though it is the last string tied to our identity. I was resisting my ex husband's help because of our history. When history was perhaps the one thing that could finish this puzzle as to the loss of mobility in my leg and weakened limbs. My neck that collapses like an egg timer at twenty minutes. If you ever want to cook something just sit me in a chair and as soon as I whimper, it's done!

I am a difficult case. He listened. And I was heard. He nodded. And his thoughts were full. He pulled it all together, and placed the final piece of the puzzle into place, a piece of the sun.

The goal now is to attempt to calm my nervous system. At the moment I resemble a pixie chick with Parkinson's. Tweettt.

There is rarely a cup of coffee that doesn't end up on my chest. Applying lipstick has become an Olympic event. My left leg drags like Quasimoto. And I have night sweats. I am so hot.

If they can calm my system, we will attempt to regain muscle and stability in my neck and limbs.

If this does not help, we will be looking at another neck surgery to stabilize C7-T2.

I don't know where I will be six months from now. My goals are simple. To hold my head up. And be the girl I was before.

I will have weathered a storm the last year and a half only storm chasers have seen. And I will know that it is not only the body and mind that must be tended to, but a healing of the self. The ego. I am humbled. And grateful for being shown how blessed life can be if you let down your wall, lift your chin to the sky, and see something that before, you never thought could be. The letting go, of me.

The Guncles

Today the Federal Defense of Marriage Act was struck down. Prop 8 was dismissed. The shifting sands of bigotry are filtering through a system of opening eyes. Gay rights is not just a movement I support. It is a story that lives within my heart because my best male friend is gay. This is our story.

---

I had left the party and forgot to pay for my auction item. So I walked back into the courtyard and ran into a couple. Two men standing close to one another. Something happened we can't explain. We started talking and that was the beginning of a friendship sent from John Edwards. Not the politician. That would be bad. John Edwards the psychic. That's why I was going back into the party. To purchase the basket of DVD's and tickets to his seminar. If I hadn't forgotten to pay and returned to the party, I never would have run into the couple who would become my children's Guncles. Their gay uncles. 

Terry and Phil were fresh from Seattle. With raindrops still on their shoes they'd arrived in sunny Southern California. The party was at Eric Close's house, he was starring on Without A Trace at the time. It was a fundraiser for Africa Foundation (USA) that Phil's best friend Wendy Wood was heading. The evening was in support of building a school in Africa. We began talking about my mother's foundation event that weekend in support of wounded warriors with Rebuilding America's Warriors and immediately Terry was in. He showed up the next day and has been supporting our efforts ever since.

So here's the Kevin Bacon of it all. The first wedding I ever photographed was at Eric's house. It was his brother's wedding. Eric was the Best Man. I shot the wedding on a Saturday. On Sunday Eric called and said he loved the images I had sent his brother and wanted to show them on Martha Stewart during his appearance on Tuesday. He did. So my first wedding was on a Saturday and three days later they were on Martha Stewart because of Eric. Then my whole world changed. It's funny how one moment can change your life. Like when I met The Guncles. In the same place that changed my life. 

Phil's partner was Terry. Terry had just left a six figure job in Seattle to come with Phil to LA to follow a dream. Phil is a mortgage broker, but also an incredible singer and screenwriter. Terry had been in Corporate at Starbucks in Seattle and immediately became my most over-qualified assistant ever. He wouldn't accept payment, so I snuck Pottery Barn gift cards in his pocket at the end of the night after a long wedding or Mitzvah. Every job, no matter how large or small, became a play date with my friend in a sandbox. Like little kids, we giggled in the corner about something inane, then put on our work faces and continued through rigorous shoots knowing we were a team and nothing could bring us down. Until finally my spine did it for us. 

Job after job he would watch me through the evening. His hand on my shoulder and that look in his eyes. That he knew it was happening again. My back was giving out. But we still had the first dance and speeches to get through.  He would bring me water, sit me down. Give me a random hug. Because that's what friends do. Every job was an adventure. Every drive home was an animated recap of the day, complete with anthropological analysis  of guests. The brides and grooms were never the problem (barring one particular groomzilla). I was the luckiest photographer in the world to have the couples I did. It was the guests that could make me cry. And I did. Especially if I was having a difficult night physically, there would be one dismissive tone or remark that struck my heart, and made me wonder why I shot events. Then Terry would be the one to take my hand and gently remind me that I was meant to do what I did. That he believed in my work as an artist. I never thought of myself that way. But he did. And that was all that mattered. 

As my spine broke down more and more, I felt myself giving less. Feeling more vulnerable. My skin thinned with every job. And I realized my days were numbered as a wedding and event photographer. I'd built my business to a six figure salary of my own. A rare feat for my field. How do you walk away from a job that takes you from Cabo to Venice in five star hotels to shoot imagery? You walk away, when you can't walk anymore. When your best friend looks in your eyes and sees you're not there. 

December 26th, 2011 was my last event. I drove home with the numb exhaustion that comes after heaves of tears. I called my husband. I was done. The pain was too great. My right arm electrocuting me as I drove. My lower spine filled with razor blades. It was time to reassess. Stand back and know that life will go on, even if I stop. 

I stopped. Terry and Phil were always there, showering our children with visits and treats. Flowers after my surgeries and cards filling my days with gratitude. 

Everyone has a story. Terry's is a book in its own, but really not much different than mine. He'd built a career, a life, that to others was success. He had a wife, a son. Married for 20 years, he finally broke down. His world came to a halt. He could no longer carry the burden of pretending that everything was ok. He came out to his family and his co-workers that he was gay. His world shattered and expanded at the same time. He met Phil, moved to LA, has a loving relationship with his son and grandchildren, and works at Cast and Crew, one of the largest payroll companies in the entertainment industry. 

To wrap up the Kevin Bacon, Eric Close now stars on "Nashville". My husband was Production Supervisor of Season One. Perhaps they are even paid by Terry. Who knows. But the circle of our friendship is one we no longer question. That besides my husband, my best male friend is an example to my children and myself of how good a person can be. He's the person who passes out a ten dollar bill randomly just to make someone smile and wonder why they don't do that too. His hand still remains on my shoulder, even if I'm not shooting events any longer. We are both embracing our lives of discovery and thanking John Edwards for the serendipity of our friendship. 

Life is a twisted mass of random connections. I am grateful for mine in all its convoluted glory. And for our Guncles.My children gave them a rainbow prism this that hangs in their kitchen, in the hopes that whenever they see the colors dancing on the walls, it will remind them of the joy they've brought to my family's life. Every family should have Guncles. And every friend should have a Terry, who holds your shoulders so the weight of the world has no place to go. Who turns you away from the raindrops on your shoe and shows you the rainbow in the sky, reminding you that life is magical, even when it stops.

 The Guncles at Emma Jane's Family Dance

This Will Touch You To Your Core

Through any troubled days I may see, this song lifted me today in a way I cannot explain. I hope this changes your day too, and reminds us all there is still hope for our world.