This is where I talk about the books I read and the books I write. It's also were I explore, record, and share the life that is my legacy.

Hope {Moments in May}

I’m enjoying this challenge from my friend Julie – she calls it Moments in May. What a lovely idea!

Today’s suggestion is to share a journal entry. At first I thought I’d share an entry from the past, then I went down to the pond – because I needed to. My heart and mind were all tangled up in some stuff.


I took my coffee, Bible, and journal with me. I went hoping for something really good. And I got it.

God started blessing me with these words found in Psalm 18: 1 & 2

I love you, Lord, my strength.  The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.

The tangle was still there, but these words flowed from my heart into my journal . . .

I love this place. The pond, the scent of plum blossoms on the wind, the trill of the red winged blackbirds, the song and splashes of the toads, the flutter of the butterflies, and the shimmer of the iridescent dragonflies as they hover. And the wind as it dances through the branches and dried grasses. 


Watching, listening, breathing it comes. Into my tangled heart, full of stress, worry, and sorrow, it slips gently in. Beautifully illustrated by the Creator here and then there. In the flowers blooming in the midst of the tightly twisted vines that I love, but seem to represent the mess inside me sometimes.


My cinnamon flavored coffee tastes delicious and breathe in big, and watch and listen a little more. The work of the day is waiting for me, but for right now, I will rest just a little longer. And it seems as if the toads sing louder and their song makes me smile.

On the way to the house, I stop again. Because the tree buds are now becoming small leaves, and I can’t pass them by. Their beauty draws me in.


A little bit farther and I stop once more. Because blossoms have a way of captivating me. As I take pictures I often wonder – what is it about these things that captivates me so? Today I listen to the whisper in my heart and realize that while I am in creation, I see it. Hope. In the possibility of the apple blossom buds, in apple blossom bouquets, and funky blossoms whose names I don’t know yet. In the future leaves and fruit. And for a little while, I’m free from the clamoring of the world at large. The world I care for deeply and pray for, that is so full of chaos, pain, cruelty, and hopelessness.


And I hope. Not the wishful thinking kind, but the kind that is full of expectant confidence in God. 

And as I finally turn to go, I stop yet again. To hang out with this little guy. And to breathe and pray for me just a little bit longer while he buzzes from blossom to blossom.


It’s time to go back. The dogs need a walk and lunch. I do too. And it’s time to check back in with the words of my work and the concerns of my world. And now, I am far more ready than before.

Until Next Time,


P. S. Do you journal?

May Day! {Moments in May 2015}

I’m delighted to be part of my friend, Julie Saffrin’s, 2015 Moments In May Challenge. (It’s not too late to join if you’d like to!) I’ll post some of my moments here on the blog and others on Facebook and Twitter. This is going to be fun!

May Day 2015

May Day brings back memories of decorating paper cups and adding pipe cleaner handles. After filling the little cups with candy and a note that simply said, “Happy May Day!” we put our cups on cake pans and we were off. We carefully placed the cup or cups where the opening door wouldn’t knock them over – there were techniques. Then, we’d ring the doorbell and run, hide, and wait to see who answered the door. We took these little treats to our friends and to some of the widow ladies mom knew would enjoy a May Basket.

For us, the best part was having permission to ring doorbells and run!

And it was fun hearing someone at our door and getting similar, almost anonymous treats, because if I was really fast, I could catch someone running away.

And for me and Mama, it was about flowers. And buds. She’d take me on walks to see what was happening on the bushes in the yard and neighborhood. On warmer years, the lilacs might be starting to bloom and share their fragrance. Other years, the buds were there, but tightly closed against the chilly temps.

Later, I usually ended the day drawing flowers and dreaming of warmer days I knew were on their way. May Day hinted at the good things to come. School would end for the year, and then there would be a trip on the bus to visit the grandmas, fireworks with the family on the 4th of July, and in between riding miles on our bikes and playing kick the can with the neighbor kids until after dark.

Today I took a walk in the woods to celebrate this May Day. And instead of candy, I discovered blossoms – my favorite kind of treats – because really – May is all about the flowers. For me, it always has been.

Until Next Time,


In the Valley of Brokenness {A Legacy Post}

Author’s Note: This post is not me whining. Or stating my pain was worse than anyone else’s. It wasn’t and isn’t. I’ve stood at the bed sides of others whose pain I cannot comprehend. This not a comparison competition. This post is simply me sharing this part of my journey because it’s part of the legacy that is my life. 

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Me & Conner – You can see I’m not quite me in this pic, but isn’t he darling?!

Eight years ago, on Jon’s 50th birthday, I rode in the back of an ambulance. I had no idea a slip on a wet restaurant floor would change our lives the way it did.

We’d gone out to eat with close friends to celebrate. We enjoyed our food, talked a lot (we’re all really good at that!), and laughed out loud. A movie was next on our agenda. They followed the ambulance instead. Because when I stepped onto the beautiful granite floor, I slipped and fell. The shiny stone was wet, and there was no yellow warning sign to warn me.

On the way down I remembered reading about a girl who had died when she hit her head on a similar floor. I tried to catch myself and thrust myself forward hoping to catch myself. That sort of worked until I landed. My foot slipped again in the water. I felt something give and my leg looked funny laying on the floor completely unresponsive to my brain’s command to move. It was then that I knew I was broken.

I needed to get out of the way, so I slid my way across the floor on my bottom to a wall. When I got there, I was soaking wet. The floor wasn’t just wet; it was one big puddle.

Jon wanted to help me up, but I asked him to have someone call 911 instead. The tone of my voice was calm but certain. Someone from the restaurant asked me why I wanted them to call 911. I told her to look at my leg. She stepped back and dialed her cell phone. A stranger leaned down and said, “I told them someone was going to get hurt on that wet floor. In a few minutes, you are going to be in more pain than you can imagine.”

He wasn’t kidding.

So much of that night is crystal clear. My husband and friends guarding my leg so no one would accidently bump it. The other customers raised eyebrows. The manager finally putting out the yellow sign. And silently worrying about my soaking wet bottom because I didn’t want those who were coming to help me think I’d wet myself.

They didn’t. The floor hadn’t been wiped up, and when they stepped in, they looked at me, then the floor, and walked carefully. When they looked closer at my leg, they knew.

In the ambulance, I watched Jon following in his car, and I prayed for an excellent doctor. For me and for him. The paramedic worried I was in shock because I wasn’t responding to the pain the way he expected. He said, “You have an extremely high pain tolerance.” Since I’ve always considered myself a bit of a wimp, his words surprised me. I felt the pain (it was brutal), and my insides were shaking, but I was gifted with something greater; calm in the chaos surrounding me. It came and went because I’m human and broken bones hurt, but that night I was mostly good.

After x-rays that required morphine, I met my doctor. Michael Torchia and his team. They would attempt to set it, but were sorry because I’d eaten they couldn’t give me enough meds to knock me out. The leg was too damaged to set after the attempt besides morphine I was introduced to the oxy-drugs.

All the bones in my ankle were broken, and my shin bone was split up the front. When I saw the x-rays, I almost threw up. All I could ask was, “Am I going to walk again? And could I please just get a cast and go home?”

The answers were yes and no. Walking would happen, but going home was out of the question. I was in the hospital for two weeks. My surgical team told me my recovery would take a while. It took almost eleven months.

Here are a few of the things I learned:

  • Some surgeons believe in miracles. Mine said so every day. God has said yes. Dr. Torchia was the best.
  • Bone pain is bad, and sometimes you can’t hide that.
  • Prayer comforts like nothing else.
  • Bones are amazing, and it’s true – we are fearfully and wonderfully made. Most of the time bones heal and are stronger than before.
  • Morphine and the oxy-drugs were not my friends. Instead of the anticipated high, I hallucinated on the first and dropped into the depths of despair on the other two. I ended up on Advil, preferring pain to that.
  • Gratitude fills my heart when I remember how our parents and friends were there for us. And that my brother is a man of prayer and the way five-year-old Gracie still wanted to be around me.
  • Physical therapy works, but man it hurts. Do it anyway. Pre-medication is wise. Because I did what the doctor and the therapists said, I have greater recovery. I did what he told me too because he knew bones and all the inner stuff better than me, so when he told me I could do something, I could.
  • God sent me a roommate I needed. She had broken her hip and said on our first night sharing the space, “I sometimes sing myself to sleep – I love hymns. Will that bother you?” She was a blessing every minute we were together. She went home long before me, and I missed her greatly. After she left, after a very different replacement, I had the room to myself, and I sang hymns in the night because singing helps.
  • When you’re in the hospital, it’s okay to have a stuffed animal to sleep with no matter how old you are. And at home when you’re alone, and you just need someone to hold close and to catch your tears. Stuffed critters can be trusted with everything. And you can hug them hard, and it’s okay.
  • Healing takes time. Often, a lot of time. Waiting to heal takes the kind of patience, and I had to choose to trust the One who was once again knitting my body together. The first time was in the creation of me, and this time was in the healing. He did a great job both times.
  • When I thought I couldn’t, I could. Despair is a nasty enemy that I had to banish intentionally. Daily. Sometimes moment by moment. Until near the end of my recovery.
  • I learned to let my husband help me when being independent wasn’t wise or possible.  I was a burden, and that’s just the way it was. Not wanting to be one or worrying it about it made it worse for both of us. So I surrendered to the truth of it, and we did much better.
  • Crying when I was alone helped. So did sleep. Sobbing was okay too – I didn’t do this a lot, but when I got home, I did it some in loud, quick jags holding on to my stuffed dog. But that was the first thing that passed as I healed.
  • Pain caused me fear and anxiety. I wondered what kind of person I’d become if I didn’t heal. Prayer was essential. In the deepest days of pain, I muttered, “Please, God,” a lot.
  • Praying for others helped.
  • We were in the process of moving 2 months after the break. I packed with Jon’s help. Moving is hard. That move was harder, but we did it without divorce. Jon is a very good man.
  • Being in a wheelchair is hard even when you know it’s temporary. People treat you differently – sometimes they ignore you, and even talk about you in front of you as if you aren’t there.
  • I was non-weight bearing for several months. That meant when I was alone, I needed a commode beside the bed. It doesn’t take long for a house – even when it’s clean to smell like a nursing home. Ugh. But it was temporary – a fact I still thank God for when those memories cross my mind.
  • Riding in the backseat with pillows behind me and under my leg was good for me even when getting there was rugged. So was the coffee Jon always stopped to get me.
  • Wheelchairs can be fun. In time, they meant trips to Target, Barnes & Noble, and Red Lobster. Going out was hard, but not going was harder. I got good at managing mine while Jon pushed the cart. Once, in an aisle by myself, I did some spins. For fun. Because I could. It was almost like twirling.
  • You can take showers sitting in a lawn chair, using a garden hose, in the garage. And these showers feel amazing.
  • Walkers aren’t just for old people. They can, in fact, become a bit of security that is hard to let release. Pink is a nice color for them.
  • My boot-cast was another thing I had to let go of. When the doctor told me to take it off and walk to the car without it, I shook all the way. Then we had a coffee and celebrated. That was also my last appointment with him for several months. He was part of my security detail, and it was hard not to see him. I still hated the x-rays, but progress reports were good.
  • PTSD is real. And it happens to people who get hurt badly for the first time when they are 49. And it requires medical help. TV and music (other than my own almost whispered singing) created a static like chaos in my brain. The nightmares were horrible. I heard things that weren’t there. I was hyper-vigilant months later when I walked – afraid I’d fall again. If anything looked wet, I was terrified. It was rugged, and I felt shame. My phycologist and physiatrist were the best. The medications did the same thing here – instead of lifting me out of the place I was, they made it worse. So, I used SamE, and it helped. And I talked to my doctors about the hard stuff, learning to cope, and slowly recovered. Mostly.
  • I still do my physical therapy exercises because they still help.
  • Having a place to go where you feel peace is important. Jon would push me in my wheelchair to this spot between the pine trees. I spent hours praying, reading, and writing in my journal here.


I found God’s tender comfort between these straight trucks and gentle boughs.


And peace.

  • The greatest (and most beautiful) lesson of all was, the absolute certainty that God was with me every second in the valley of brokenness. He assured me in His Word, the tender care of my husband (I cannot tell you how wonderful it felt when I got home and saw our bed freshly made in the dining room or how wonderful it felt to rest there in his arms!). He showed me in the words of my miracle believing doctor and his dream team, the faithful prayers of our parents, in the tears of my mom as she sat beside me and asked God to heal me, in the kisses my dad gave me on the top of my head (that’s his way), the lavish care of our friends, and even in the tear-absorbing stuffed dog my mom gave me.

Where am I eight years later? I have several pieces of metal in my ankle, but over 90% recovery of the ankle. Although osteoarthritis is in many of my other joints, that one isn’t involved yet. The only loss I experience is going down our steps, and that may be partly fear although I didn’t fall on stairs. I’d like to gain more use of it, but the ankle doesn’t bend quite the way I want it to on the way down. I still find myself watching where I’m walking, and a wet floor can cause severe anxiety, but mostly I’m good and always I’m grateful. Even in the stress of putting one foot in front of another on freshly washed floors, I realize again how very good things are and whisper prayers of thanksgiving.

Not because I’m great, but because He is!

Until Next Time,


Reflecting On Proverbs 31 {A Pondering Post}



For a long time I struggled with this chapter in the Bible. This woman wasn’t just good – she was perfect. Whole books have been written on these few verses telling believing women about how to become her.

As I strove to be her, I lost me which wasn’t God’s  plan for me at all. 

And all the while I tried, something inside me resented her because she was flawless and I’m so very flawed.

In the world of TV moms she was like Claire Huxtable and I was Roseanne Barr. (If you’re too young to remember them. . .there’s always Google!)

This poem is the record of my journey into this passage with God. We went deep and wide as I studied it sometimes word by word begging Him every step of the way. Because I wanted to be a virtuous woman, but feared I wasn’t worthy of the calling. Afraid I never would be.

Along the way, God wooed my frightened, hurt, even angry heart with His tender love. And helped me understand, but that took time. Because fear clouded me from seeing. And the strict, stringent voices of humans clamored loudly in my wounded heart nearly blocking out the quiet voice of the One who had much to teach me, and love to give me. But He was patient and kind as He healed my bruised heart. And this happened.

 Author’s Note: When this was written my mom hadn’t left here for heaven and Grace was a baby – she’s now a beautiful teenager.


Reflections ~ A Poem

Mirror mirror on the wall,
I don’t look like this woman at all!

It’s hard because I don’t come close,
To this woman who can boast…

She is the fairest in the land…
And works willingly with her hands.

She’s up while it is still the night,
And You know – I prefer sunlight!

Her man is known by the good she’s done,
Only wisdom and kindness leave her tongue.

I have a feeling she’s tall and thin…
And Lord – look at me – with my double chins!

When I compare her to me,
Disappointment is all I see.

I know she’s not really real –
She’s a godly mother’s perfect ideal…

At times I wish of her I’d never heard…
But she’s included in Your Holy Word.

So to ignore her seems to me unwise,
Let me see her from Your eyes.

And Father to be honest I confess…
Although it causes me some distress…

I’m not sure who you want me to be…
Please set the woman in me free!

The poem stalled for a while and then this came.

God is it okay with you…
If I enjoy my cowboy boots?

If I prefer leather to lace…
And little make up on my face?

Can I eat out and be virtuous still…
Is laughing out loud part of your will?

Sometimes I want a hot cup with sweet tea…
Others a sturdy mug of strong black coffee.

One moment I might listen to Perleman’s strings…
And the next the deep rumble as Johnny Cash sings.

Lord I love roar before Old Faithful’s spray…
And the whisper of love from sweet Baby Grace.

The winds as it wraps invisible arms around me…
And falling acorns from our old oak tree.

I love watching the birds who eat in our yard…
And call of the owl from the woods in the dark.

I enjoy the smell of good perfume…
And the scent of a wild rose in bloom.

I love my husband’s hands and eyes…
And iced tea – super-sized!

And lunch with Mom at the Crafty Mouse…
Or when my girl friends come to my house.

I love whale watching and puppies breath…
And mystery stories that scare me to death.

I love watching Roman Holiday…
The Lord of the Rings took my breath away!

I don’t mind thunder in the night…
It reminds me of Your power and might.

And then there are the kids You gave me to love…
For them I cannot thank you enough!

Someone sang – I’m woman hear me roar…
But I’d rather hear You knock at my heart’s door.

Studying Proverbs 31 was pretty rough…
Still, You’ve taught me some important stuff.

I guess I’ll end this poem the way it starts…
I’m glad for the way you’ve changed my heart!

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
This woman’s not so bad after all!

She doesn’t intimidate me anymore…
And no longer scares me to my very core…

She’s a model of valor, courage, and love,
These words come from God above.

I want to be a woman of God…
Not so focused on my bod.

But seeking Him – my all in all…
And saying yes to His call.

Listening for His still small voice…
And daily making Him my choice.

I’ll pray for the fruits of His Spirit to be…
Evident in my life for others to see…

Oh mirror I want to be His salt and light…
A woman who praises God day and night.

Instead of them seeing just me…
A woman as flawed as she can be…

I long to reflect His Son to the lost…
Dear Jesus who willingly paid the cost.

Until Next Time,



The Day I Met Jesus {Testimony & Book Review}

joyanddadDad & Me on our way to the Father-Daughter dance in 1974.

Author’s Note: I don’t do book reviews on this site very often. I put them out on Linkedin. But this book took me back to the most important time of my life ever. The day I met Jesus.

I was fifteen and the devil was advancing on my soul. 

For a long time I’d been asking questions at my church, but not getting answers. The adults I asked, who I thought were religious experts squirmed when I asked things like, “Can I know God?” and “How do I live like Jesus?” One day I really blew it when I asked, “Why don’t we dunk ‘em? Jesus was dunked.” Most Sundays I served as an acolyte and subbed on the ones other kids couldn’t make it. I helped with the little kids and from time to time helped the basement church ladies set out treats. I wore ashes on my forehead and didn’t wash them off the next morning before school.

I loved it all.

In my drawer were pins for perfect Sunday school attendance, my confirmation stuff, and a Bible with a picture of Jesus on it with children – some on His lap. I wanted to be that close to Him. These were my religious treasures – proof of my salvation.

And it was all good. . .except for the questions that tugged at my soul day and night. And the longing in my heart for more.

After a long discussion about why they didn’t want to answer my questions – the most popular answer being I was only a child and the answers to those questions were beyond my comprehension. I was ticked because I figured fifteen was old enough to know stuff. At home, I told my parents I didn’t want to go back.

They agreed.

But I was lonely for church in that homesick kind of way.

So one day I stood in my bedroom with the turquoise and rust walls and shag carpet. With my eyes wide open (quite a bold thing in my day) I stood in the middle of that room and talked to God. I asked Him if He heard the prayers of teenage girls – because I knew He was busy with the big things in life like wars and famines and plagues. Then I asked Him if I could know Him – not just about Him and if I could would He please send me someone I could trust to show me the way.

And there was my sin. They weren’t big things yet, but I had a feeling sin was sin. My soul hungered to be free from them and those I felt were on their way. I was on that kind of personal precipice.

I was a sinner seeking God’s amazing grace.

A few days later a man came to our door. He was a pastor. When I asked him my questions, he had answers that came from a knowing place in his heart. He didn’t just know about Jesus – Carl Calloway knew Him.

And God had answered a teenage girl’s prayer.

Not long after, I came to the place where like so many before me, I not only heard the Gospel, I believed it with my whole heart and soul and I met Jesus.


In the book, The Day I Met Jesus, I had the great joy of reading the fictional diaries of five biblical women written by Mary DeMuth. And after each diary entry to study the Word of God more deeply led by Frank Viola.

I left each chapter feeling like I knew them. The Adultress. The Prostitute. The Samaritan. The Bleeder. And Mary of Bethany. Women I had very little in common with until I read about them in this way. Where in the presence of their stories, God gently reminded me about my day. My prayer. And His answer.


Because somewhere along the way the book became about six stories. Theirs and mine. I sat at His feet, felt the hopelessness of the accused, walked on the road with Him, touched the hem of His garment, and dried his feet with my hair.

If you’re a seeker, this book is for you. If you’re a sinner, this book is for you. If you’re a believer in need of fresh infusion, this book is for you.

Because Jesus is that kind of Savior. And this book is full of His amazing grace offered to them, to me, and to you.

Until Next Time,


Click on the book cover to buy the book from Amazon. It’s available as a eBook, print book, and audible book.


This Thing Called Dancing

It happened in the 7th or 8th grade. Modern dance. In gym class. A sort of dream come true and a nightmare in the making.

It was the seventies, and this was the kind of free-spirited thing that sounded so cool. I knew what cool was – that elusive quality some kids had and kids like me didn’t. But this – this made perfect sense to me. It was something I knew I could do well. Of course, I assumed this kind of dance was brand new, but soon learned it was old. Which somehow made it even better.

The teacher said we could be part of a team and pick a song and pick our moves. Two friends from Elementary school were in my class, and we decided to be a team. We chose the theme song to The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. One friend wanted to be the bad so she would wear black tights and a black leotard to match her hair. The other wanted to represent ugly although with her red hair and purple leotard she was anything but. That left me and good. And white. Mostly.

I was young, slender, strong, and ready to dance.


We practiced as often as we could, and all of us loved the way we could get lost in the music – still always aware of each other, and in sync with our own dancing like never before. This was not a school mixer where the three of us stood on the sidelines.

We were wallflowers transformed.

To me, modern dance was this funky mix of ballet and any move that felt right. Besides words, it was personal expression at its greatest.

The teacher invited our parents. Having an audience could have made me nervous, but it didn’t. It wasn’t about me. My friends agreed. The most important thing was the music and moving. I felt like a graceful flower in the sunshine dancing to the song and rhythm of the breeze.

People sitting on folding chairs lined the gymnasium wall. I caught my mom’s eye right away and saw her smile. She sat with my team’s moms. Yeah – this was going to be good. Mama would see me at my best. Sort of.

I danced my heart out and felt like I’d nailed it. My short performance was me hitting the home run instead of striking out every time someone handed me a bat. I’m so not kidding.

The applause for our routine was louder and longer that it was for the others. We couldn’t believe it. The other kids and the women smiled like they meant it. When we were dismissed to greet our guests, I ran into my mom’s arms for the ultimate well-done hug.

She held me close and whispered in my ear, “That was beautiful, but honey, you’re wearing black underpants.”

Yes. I was. And to make matters worse they were the bikini kind.

My outfit was my dad’s white Sunday shirt, white tights, and white undergarments. Because good didn’t wear a leotard. Good was all innocence and all white. Good had to flow in modest purity.

And then there was my version. Ufda.

Mama wasn’t angry, ashamed, or being mean. She was preparing me for the not so nice comments that might come, and she knew I didn’t want them to remember me that way. Besides she knew I’d rather have her tell me than anyone else.

The truth was unavoidable; all those watching saw my costume malfunction when I jumped and reached like never before.

And never again.

Gym was my first-hour class so I had a whole day to worry about what the other moms and kids were thinking and might be saying. About what my gym teacher thought.

All day the girls teased and the guys who heard said typical gross stuff trying to sound all manly and accomplishing only to sound like goofy teenage boys. I wished I could get up the nerve to ask the nurse to send me home sick, but decided to stay hoping they’d be done with it that day.

My teachers commented publically on what the gym teacher told them in the teacher’s break room. About my grace and beauty as a dancer and my natural ability and my talent.

My cheeks were red-hot, and I almost cried each time. They thought I was humble, but I was afraid they would mention my unmentionables. They didn’t. But I couldn’t appreciate their kindness humiliated as I was by my accidental bold badness.

Mama did all she could to ease my shame and fears at home. There were hugs. Kind words. Cookies. And so much love. By bedtime, I was exhausted but sleep evaded me as I wondered over and over again how something I had meant to do so right had ended up being something else.

From then on, I danced in my room. Alone. Where it didn’t matter what I wore. Eventually, the dancing stopped.

Until lately in the fall stage of my life.


I dance alone in a windowless room where no one but God can see me. I don’t dance for Him like some do, and I don’t believe He minds. I’m pretty sure the One, who created me gets me as I move gently to Itzak Perlman (yes, you can dance to Tchaikovsky), Andre Rieu, Kenny G, and others.

The years of enthusiastic leaping and exaggerated reaching are over. My moves are so gentle they might not be called dancing at all, but the other day I threw in a twirl. It was unexpected and may not happen again although I was so delighted I giggled. Like the girl I used to be. It felt that lovely and for a second almost young.

These days, although it might still matter in the secret places of my heart, cool isn’t even a consideration. The grace, talent, and agility have been replaced with caution because I don’t want to get hurt. Even a hop gone wrong could be dangerous. And that twirl? After the giggle it scared me, and I was trying to figure out how to explain any potential future injuries to Jon and the paramedics. I decided on, “I took a wrong twirl.” Yeah. I know.

But this thing I call dancing feels so good, so right, and so me. Because it is.

Until Next Time,