Robert's Letters from Home

I received so many letters from my family when I was in college. This one (circa 2001) definitely stood out when I found it in my shoebox the other day. Robert writes:

"It's weird down here without you."

When I read those words, I couldn't help but laugh to myself. It is so ironic that we are in opposite positions now. I am the one at home, he is the one away. I am the one dealing with the "weirdness" of his absence.

"The other day I set a place for you at the table and a few days before I couldn't find you."

Ok, that part put a tear in my eye. I wish that my absence had not brought him pain (or confusion?)

"I also found myself humming a song you used to play."

Robert, every day I hum that darn Safety Dance song of yours.

"Peter [the parakeet] says fffttttssss (HI!) The bunny gives me a bite thats for you. Petey also sends a gift I do too."

The fact that he was looking for something in the house that was familiar to me was very sweet.

"P.S. The gifts are in the envelope."

The gifts.

This is an example of something I would not have to hold on to, if Facebook had been founded earlier. For some reason, I cannot see myself finding comfort while Robert is away, by just reading his social profile over and over. Not very personal. Through this letter, I can relate to his own sadness and apply it to my own, knowing that college eventually ended and I moved back home, and someday he will be back as well. Until then, thanks for the letter, brother. You'll never know how special they were to me when the pains of homesickness were sometimes overbearing. I only hope that I can start giving you the letters from home that you need to know that you are loved. Although I'm not sure that George-hair would make it past customs.

Letters from Home

I've caught myself thinking more than once in the past several weeks (shocking, I know) about networking websites and some obvious losses that society has taken as a whole. Don't get me wrong- facebook, gmail...they're all great. But because of them, we are living in such a dynamically different world than we were as little as 5 to 10 years ago. And I miss it.

I remember the days when I'd call my friends, several times a week. I'd call to chat, catch up, ask advice from, etc. And I'd get those phone calls back. But what is the point in chatting, when you have gchat? Or catching up, when you can read their statuses? And advice? Well, I could definitely still use that.

And the one I miss the most. Letter-writing. During my Junior year in high school, I had a best friend who lived in a different area code than I. Do teenagers today know what that means? She lived long distance, and I got punished/money taken from allowance if I called her and talked longer than 10 minutes each week. The obvious solution? Letter-writing. I wrote her a letter every single day that year. And she did as well. It was so beautiful. I still have that shoebox full of those letters and photos, and the last I heard, so did she.

Writing letters to friends when I was in high school and college solidified the friendships that I still have today. There is something that can be said for another person who is willing to sit down and take an hour out of their day and write to YOU. The time it takes to write a letter, the patience it takes to receive one in return, the penmanship, the white-out, the photos included, even the $0.41 sacrifice; all of these were proofs to my adolescent self that someone cared enough about me. And how fun it was to prove that I cared enough in return.

I found an old shoebox the other day. It was filled with old letters that I must have collected that were dearest to my heart. There was about 20 years worth of letters from my grandparents, now deceased. Another 20 years from my other set of grandparents. There were cards from friends and family alike. I sat there and read each one of them. Then I made a scary discovery. They stopped abruptly in late 2005.

In late 2005, I signed up for Facebook.

I don't regret using social media sites, and I will continue using them (though not as much as I have been). I want to somehow find that balance again between just "keeping up" with people, and truly showing loved ones that I care- something other than a "poke" or a "like". It will be hard, because, like I said, I already know how these people are doing, I see their statuses. Likewise, they know how/what/where/why I am doing.

All I can really say, is thank God that Facebook was not around when I was in high school / most of college. That shoebox in my closet would be empty. I wouldn't have known what my grandparents were doing in Florida. I would have never been taught that lesson about having my allowance taken away. Most importantly, I wouldn't have ever gotten a letter from my brother...

Divine Reunions, Part I

I was in an absolutely miserable state when I began high school.

I was at a new school. A school that was a 2 hour ride away (1 hour to the bus stop, 1 hour on the bus.) The high school had a total of 13 kids in it, and we were all taught in the same room. Our history and science classes all taught me things that completely contradicted my faith, and the teachers actually stood at the front of the classroom and condemned people like me. I was miserable. I had no friends, no teachers that liked me and had lost all hope for high school being anything like High School Musical. I soon became physically ill with stress.

My own misery stemmed from one thing: a fantastic, glorious 3 previous years at my old school. To have the two opposite experiences back-to-back was just unfair for my pre-pubescent, hormonal self. I cried nearly everyday. "I miss 8th grade. I miss my old friends. I miss Jennifer."

Jennifer and I were inseparable, best friends in 6th-8th grade. We sat next to each other in our classes, we were always partners, and she even made me go to my first dance. At the end of 8th grade, she moved to a small town that I had never heard of. We both went our separate ways and gradually lost touch. But I felt the pain of her absence nearly every day during the first year of high school.

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Shortly after my husband and I were married, dreams started quickly developing over where to purchase our new home. We wanted the feel of a small-town. We could not afford Northern Virginia, nor were necessarily pleased by its crowds. But we didn't want to be too deep into central Virginia where we could not commute to Northern for jobs. After nearly a year of internet-researching, I told my husband:

"I want to go scenically-drive through a small town called Culpeper. It's south of here. The houses are adorable and oh-so-within budget."
"Hmm...."

"Did I mention they have incredible mountain views?"

"Let's go!"

After almost another year of house-hunting and waiting until the time was right, we moved. What an exciting moment to finally be a home-owner! The first thing that I decided to do before the ink was dried on our closing papers, was to give the house a good scrubbing from top to bottom. To get that "previous owners" feel out of the house. To make it my own home.

I grabbed my sister Julia and we ran to Walmart. (She's an expert on cleaning supplies, where I always thought windex solved everything.)
As we were perusing the cleaning aisle, I heard a familiar voice from years back. One that I had longed for so much as an adolescent:

"Emily?"

I turned around.

"JENNIFER!!!!"

The joy I felt exploding in my heart could not be described. After all of those young years of praying and pleading with God...."I'll never ask for anything again!...ever!", He finally led me to her. That tiny town that I was so attracted to, was the same tiny town that she moved to back in '97.

And guess what? She never left. In fact, she's married to a Culpeper boy and has a three year old daughter now. A daughter that is determined to beat me in Chutes & Ladders one of these days.

Why is it that years after we give up hope that God is listening, He turns around and says, "In my time, child, not yours."

It's beautiful.


(POST-EDIT): In case you were wondering, I switched high schools after 4 months of being miserable. After that, high school rocked, sort of like a musical.

I love Jim...

...And here's why. A Top 10.

(It's been a while since I've gotten all mushy-gushy.)

10. I am very prone to getting down on myself over my own out-of-my-control weaknesses. When this happens, the first thing he says is, "It's Ok, don't worry about it." Suddenly, if it doesn't bother him, it no longer bothers me.

9. He lets me have the big, comfy living room chair-and-a-half each night when we watch tv.

8. He asks me everyday if I have written a new blog yet.

7. Whenever I feel like putting on an impromptu concert of the latest song in my head, he tells me that I am American Idol material. Sometimes he even turns it into a duet.

6. He knows how close I am to my grandparents, and makes it a point to drive me the 9 hours it takes to visit them, several times a year.

5. I want to play the violin, take photography lessons, oil paint and scrapbook. He turns off the tv to listen to me play, he bought me a camera and my first lesson, he surprised me with an easel, and he's building me a scrapbooking room. He's never told me that I take too much on or that I have too many hobbies.

4. Last month I shrunk all of his sweaters. When I came clean about using the hot water on the washer and high heat on the dryer, he just laughed.

3. He traces a cross on my forehead before bed each night.

2. He cooks me dinner each day.

1. He chose me to be his wife.

"People-All-Around-the-World, Join Hands!" OR Why to Never Leave your Wife Alone at a Wine Festival.

I was in a car accident two weeks ago. Not minor, because I am currently car-less. Not major, because, well I am here. Long story short, I have a cute sedan that I get to drive around in the meantime. It gets me to and from work, has a cute horn and free satellite radio. Heaven.

If you have never had the pleasure to listen to satellite radio, know this: it is incredible. I used to think that the main attraction was "commercial-free music"- when it is really so much more. There are 50 bagillion categories and 100 times as many channels. (That's 5000 bagillion for all you non-math minors.) In my humble rental, I have the ability to program my top 15 favorite. I only have this rental for 3 weeks, so I knew the choice could not be taken lightly. With satellite radio, you don't choose your favorite radio stations based solely on music or genres, rather you go with life memories.

Do I want to remember the days of driving to Grandma & Grandpop's house in Dad's old 1979 Ford pick-up? That would be The Roadhouse, the 80's country music station.

What if i want to be taken back to that moment when I got my first walkman and would sing Ace of Base as loud as I could in my bedroom with the door locked? 90s on 9.

And how about revisiting that time when my husband first learned his hardest lesson as a newlywed to date: Never leave your wife alone at a wine festival? Well that'd be 60's on 6 of course.

So that was my first chosen preset. 60's on 6, with Mike Kelly as the afternoon DJ. It only took about 4 songs into my commute home that evening when I was taken back to that day. Back to the day that my husband rarely discusses, my friends were unfortunately absent for, and was probably the highlight of a select few privileged middle-aged mens' lives. Read on if intrigued. Stop here if you've had enough.

It was September 2008, and my 2nd favorite VA annual event was approaching. (My favorite is of course WMZQfest.) The Virginia Wine Festival. Hundreds of wineries, all-you-could drink tastings, and one entrance fee. My friends and I made plans for the event weeks in advance. We'd mapped our route, figured our plan of attack but then fell short of ever executing. You see, the morning of the wine festival, as I sat at my mirror placing every strand of hair perfectly on my head, I got the first text. Then another, and another. Everyone bailed. It had rained the night before and the ground was wet, muddy and so-not-worth-it. The truth was, the clouds were breaking and the sun was shining. We'd be drinking anyway, so I was not concerned about mud. My husband and I decided it would be worth it to go by ourselves, since the crowds would be smaller anyway.

We arrived at the festival in the early afternoon. It turned out to be a perfect September day. Skies were blue, wine was pouring. Life was perfect. That was, until my husband got a phone call. It was his office, and although it was Saturday, since the festival was right around the corner, he had to run into work and check on something.

My husband quickly bought me a smoked turkey sandwich with some extra-carby bread to soak up whatever had been recently thrown into my belly. He then instructed:

"Stay here, I'll be right back."

I'm not sure how long it took until he was out of sight, but I jumped up and made my way towards a stage where a band was about to perform. I kept my distance, cautious of the music they might be about to play. I looked around at the lack of crowd. There was a middle-aged hippy standing on a folding chair, yelling out her request. I saw a few children dancing a ring-around-the-rosie-esque ballad. Then a man came on the stage and introduced the band: The Original Rhondels. That's when all ladylike grace that I had been born with had vanished.

The music started. I was in a hypnotized trance.

People all around the world!!!! Join hands!!! Let's start a love train, a love train!

I shoved my way past the dozen or so people socializing in front of the stage and got to the front. I danced. I sang. I displayed my empty wine glass proudly above my head and swung around in circles.


All of your brothers over in Africa- Tell all of the folks in Israel and Egypt too-

Never has a one-woman show ever made such a spectacle. And never had a bigger fan showed up at The Original Rhondels concert before. And let me tell you, The Original Rhondels were loving every minute of it.

After a few more verses, a trombone player made his way to the front of the stage to do his solo. It was about this time when my husband had finally found a parking spot after returning from his errand. I let out a "woo!!!" to the trombone player; Jim searched the spot where he had left me. I screamed out "LOVE TRAIN!!! I SAID LOVE TRAIN!!!"; Jim looked across the field in my direction. Jim was a mere seconds away from learning his lesson.

The trombone player whipped out a washcloth. Not any washcloth, but one with the band's name proudly printed on it. He wiped it across his forehead (something I'm sure was totally hip in the 60's) and then HE THREW IT AT ME. Buzz.kill. There I was, looking guilty as ever. An empty wine glass, standing not in our "stay here" location, with a sweaty washcloth in my hands. Double.Buzz.kill. Jim didn't stop laughing the entire way home.

And neither did I, on my way home the other night from work, when "Love Train" came on 60's on 6, XM radio.

The Original Rhondels

Spring is in the Air...

I want to be ready when it arrives.

The Gift of Punishment

My In-Laws gave me the best gift that I could have ever asked for. Ever.
(Besides birthing, loving, nurturing, and raising their son into the man that he is today.)

Punishing their son.

All parents have their own method of punishing their children. Their hopes are generally that their methods are beneficial while being effective. Take for instance the punishment of removing television from a young child's routine. It's beneficial for the parents because instead, the kid picks up a book. Effective, because you know there's no way in heck that child will never disobey again.

I hope for my husband's parents' sake that their efforts were effective. But were they beneficial? Absolutely.

As a child, my husband was punished by being put into an apron (at least this is how I like to imagine it), put into the kitchen, and told to cook.

Ah, what a genius idea! If I had even had the slightest glimpse into my future as a child, I would not have spent all those sleepless nights lying awake wondering: "How will I succeed at being a wife someday? It takes me nearly 3 hours to cook breakfast now? Will feeding my future husband ramon noodles merit heaven when I die? Will I spend the rest of my days in jail for failing to feed my groom?"

It didn't matter. And if I had known that, I would have slept better those 15+ years. 1,675 miles away from my sleepless self was my husband, as a child, being scolded for that practical "joke" he had played on his sister. And because of it, was cooking a feast. And more than just preparing food, he was being molded into the man who would become my husband. (And sparing me from murdering through malnutrition.) I tell you, God sure knows what He's doing when He inspires parents on how to punish His children.

And I am so grateful that my husband was a bad child.


Wouldn't you be?

11 Things to Do on a Snowed-In Day

1. Wake up, shovel the driveway.


2. Enjoy a hearty-breakfast.
3. Take an after-breakfast nap.


4. See if it's worth going outside to relieve yourself.

5. Take in the scenery.
6. Make sure your picture is coming in clear!

7. Don't worry about the mail- it's not coming.

8. Relax, you're not going anywhere for a while.

9. Shovel for the 11th time.

10. Make a hearty dinner.

11. Enjoy that hearty dinner.

An Update on the House

We got our living room furniture, at last!

Our Old Town vs. Our New Town

Speaking of PickleBob's (see previous post), let's start there.


Old town: PickleBob's
New town: Sonic (within a 20-minute drive of course.)

Old town: Mountain View Highschool
New town: Mountain Views.

Old town: 15 miles to Buffalo Wild Wings.
New town: 15 seconds to Buffalo Wild Wings.

Old town: Residents argued against Disney.
New town: Patrick Henry argued religious freedom at town courthouse.

Old town: Jiffy Lube Live!
New town: Real Jiffy Lube

Old town: Cupake Heaven

New town: Knakal's Bakery

Old town: Ponds

New town: Lake Pelham

Old town: Regal Cinemas

New town: Cute Cinemas!

More to come. Also, this spring I am going to do a pictural tour of Culpeper! Stay tuned!

The Curse (and the Blessing) of the George-Hair.

My dog sheds. A lot.

I'd always known that he sheds an abnormal amount of hair, but I never knew how it added up on a floor within a matter of hours. That is, until I was gifted with 2 stories of wall-to-wall of Brazilian Redwood floors. My, how that brown fur clashes against the red.

We've been in our new home for about 3 weeks now. It's been an adventure; a wonderful, pinch-me-I-am-dreaming adventure. But then there's the occasional con that creeps along. One internet provider to choose from. Not being able to pick up on the "Southern" lingo as fast as we thought we could. No Pickle-Bob's. The way George's perpetually shedding fur ends up on the hardwood floors, moments after they have been vacuumed and polished.

Since George is the closest thing that I have to a child at this moment, I've "happily" and "patiently" accepted his messes. I've focused all maternal instinct on keeping his trail as nonexistant as possible. If this means concentrating on cleaning only the floor 3 times a week, then that's what it means. But when the last amount of floor polish has finally dried, and I see him making his way into the living room only to scratch and shake- I can't help but scream. Yes, I have decided, that the equivalent of one quart of dog hair that I vacuum up each week is a curse in my life; one that I cannot escape from.

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I got a call from my brother Robert a few days ago. His calls are special as he is a soldier stationed in Germany, and a newly wed adjusting to married life. He had called to tell me about the blessing of the George hair.

Let me back up. Since Robert left for the Army in March of '09, the discovery of a George hair on any personal item had been cause for celebration. Robert was very close to George, and we sometimes wonder if he misses his family or the dog more. Since Robert was actually slightly offended that we did not fly our dog out to California so that he could participate in his wedding ceremony, I offered the next best thing. As he was straightening his tie and lacing up his shoes that morning, I looked down on my own dress and saw it: a George hair. I handed it over to Robert. After wiping the tears away from his eyes, he quickly explained to me the significance of the colors of the fancy military pins on his chest, and that the further towards the heart they went, the more important they were. That's when he placed the hair right there, right above his heart.

So 3 weeks later, Robert had news of a blessing.

Before Robert was married, he was living with a roommate. As they were packing up their things to move, an argument ensued over the ownership of an X-Box Live headset. Clearly, according to Robert, they were his, as they were a gift from Jim and I for his birthday. The roommate argued otherwise, eventually winning them into his own possession. Always wanting justice to reign in every situation, Robert could do nothing but hope for a sign.

A few weeks went by, and Robert was babysitting for this now ex-roommate. He stumbled across the headset and began examining it for any sign that it was his: a nic, a mark, anything. That's when he found it, the sign he'd be waiting for: There, in the mouthpiece, clear as day, was the ever-distinguishable, George-hair! That was all the justice that he needed.

I will most likely head home tonight and vacuum. It has been two days afterall. But instead of cursing each and every hair that I find in my path, I'm going to laugh. What is considered a burden for me, is grown out of my favorite animal in the world, and is considered a blessing to a man serving his country overseas.

"Go Forth and Blog"

There's always a comical reaction in the media when the Pope delivers any sort of public message.

Which is why- when Pope Benedict XVI came forward last weekend and recommended that young priests become familiar with new media and ways of reaching out to youth- I sat back with my bag of popcorn and began to peruse the internet's headlines.

"Pope encourages priests to become more like Perez Hilton!!" (I don't make this stuff up, folks.)

[I don't think that's *quite* what his Holiness has in mind. But I have been known to be wrong in the past. (Once or twice.)]

The Pope's message could not have come at a better time. (The Holy Spirit is funny that way, eh.) There has never been a time in history that Americans have been more reliant on modern technology. Laptops, Blackberries, iPods, iPhones... all never further away than the back pocket. Most of us could communicate instantly with almost anyone anywhere in the world, if we desired to. The Pope knows what's goin' on.

Upon hearing his Holiness' message, I could not help but think about myself and my own blog. I absolutely love to write. When I started this blog almost two years ago, I did so to share a story, the story of my life. I intended that story to cover joys, struggles, the emotions surrounding each, and how the mysteries of the Lord's will is drawn out of our every action. I knew that I needed to get at least one message off my chest, but I was having a hard time putting it into words. And that came to me in the form of a song:

"There's no better place on earth than the road that leads to heaven--
No better place to be."

And thus my blog was born.

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Post-Edit.

My husband's birthday is next week. I recently asked him what he'd like, and the first thing out of his mouth was:

"For you to blog. More."

How could a gift that's intended to be for him, be such a gift to myself? I was beyond flattered, and every insecurity towards writing "publicly" immediately vanished.

"I love what you have to say, and you have a gift for saying it."


After much struggling to put this post into words, my wonderful husband wrote this as an inspiration:

"Emily and I were talking about the Popes message challenging Priests to “proclaim the Gospel by employing the latest generation of audiovisual resources -- images, videos, animated features, blogs, Web sites..."

This got us thinking about Emily’s blog and what a wonderful way of sharing the Gospel to those around us that blogging can be. Should we not strive to be more holy? If the Pope is calling the Priesthood to use more modern ways to proclaim the Gospel, shouldn’t we?

By no means do I think we are all called to post a daily blog about the day's readings and Gospel. But, maybe, we can apply the message of St. Francis, “Preach the Gospel at all time, use words when necessary,” to this modern way of communicating.

Share your life with your friends and family who cannot be near you, let them know of your joys and your sorrows, and let them see how the Lord is working in your own life."

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So here it is- my blog. My New Years Resolution and my husband's "birthday gift". I will go forth, and I will blog.

A Toast to Robert, on his Wedding Day.

Robert, for as long as I can remember, you have always had to take everything one step further.

In fact, this lifestyle of yours dates all the way back to the day of your birth.
You were not just born, but you made your grand entrance on Mom’s birthday.

And as you entered into those pre-school years, you were often on stage performing with the Wee-Woozles or Haymarket Baptist, and you’d be the one exaggerating all of the hand-motions and wailing your arms to the songs; all while the audience was ignoring their own children and in stitches over your personal performance.

Playing at home or Lake George where we spent every summer was no different. How many times did you insist on playing “who-could-scream-the-loudest”, or “who-could-walk-the-furthest-into-the-neighbor’s-with-the-scary-dog’s-yard”?

And how could I forget about “The Incredible Hulk Incident”? While shopping in Walmart one day, instead of just walking past that set of “Hulk” arms on display that you could slide your own arms into and instantly look strong, you had to try them out for yourself. You slid those babies on, approached the nearest innocent employee, flexed your arms out in front of you and let out a ferocious roar, loud enough to have shoppers stop dead in their tracks.

There was even that time when I was a senior in High School and you were in 7th grade. It was one of the few years in our lives that we happened to be at the same school at the same time. I remember sitting in Latin class and hearing you sneeze from the next classroom over. Your “choo” was so loud and exaggerated, it lasted about 20 seconds. And as I recall, you were dismissed from Mr. Flook’s class for the remainder of that day.

Yes, Robert, you have always taken everything one step further.

Which is why, when you came home one afternoon years ago, and told me that you had found someone special, someone who you really really liked and you wanted to know how to impress; and was it too soon to take her out?—someone who emulated Mother Mary and gave you that overwhelming desire to become more like St. Joseph—I waited. I waited for that one step further that you were going to take it. That’s when I heard:

“Oh yeah. Did I mention she is Alessandra’s best friend and roommate?”

All joking aside, I watched your relationship with Julia blossom. From the very beginning, you knew deep down inside that she was the woman who would become your wife. Her patience made you want to become a better man. Her gratitude has made you want to work hard to provide for her. Her love of children, especially her nieces and nephews, is preparing you to become a father when it’s time. Her perseverance in schooling has you wanting to persevere as well. And your mutual willingness to sacrifice for the other has brought you both to this point.

Robert, I want to take this opportunity to thank you. Thank you for your wonderful example of a true Christian man. You spent years serving the church with the altar boy robe on, and made it through Knighthood, the highest ranking of altar boys. Again, you did not just serve, but you took it a step further. The same applies to your current vocation. You knew you had to find a job and soon, if you were going to ask Julia to be your bride. So instead of submitting a resume to careerbuilder.com and waiting, you went straight to the army recruiting office and began a daily workout routine. You were accepted into the army and made a commitment to serve your country while providing for your wife. You took it one step further.

Thank you Robert, for the brother that you are to me. It is such an honor to be your sister. Words could never repay the unconditional love that you have shown to me over the past several years. You have taken your vocation of “brother” one step further. You’ve stood by me when I needed it the most. You’re there to console me when I’m sad, as well as there to celebrate when I’m happy. And Julia, you have been like a sister to both Jim and me from the moment when Robert first brought you home. It’s been like stepping inside of your own siblings’ shoes and experiencing what it’s like to have you as a sister. You have called Robert to be the person whom he has become. And from getting to know you over the past few years, you also, take your responsibility as God’s daughter one step further. You hold your family in the highest regard. You and Robert are a true example of Christ’s love for his church.

And finally, Robert, although they cannot be with us physically today, know how truly proud Grandma and Grandpop are of you. Pray for their intercession always, for we both know that their marriage was not only a great earthly example, but a heavenly gift from God to us to emulate.

In fact, if they were here today, I know that they’d both be taking credit for your inherited gene of taking everything one step further.

To Robert and Julia: cheers.

Over the River and Through the Woods

Today I took a little drive.

I was on my way to our new house, and instead of staying straight on the highway, I made a very familiar right turn.

A right turn that had been made hundreds of times in the past, but not for 10 years.

A right turn that would always be made on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, in years past.

I stopped by my grandparents' old house.

There was about a foot of snow still left on the ground from last week's blizzard. And as soon as I made that turn, there was no going back.

Over that river, and through those woods.

The neighborhood had barely changed. There were a few tree-forts added, a couple of newer cars in driveways, but that was about it. The same last names appeared on mailboxes. The same fences lined the road. That old cow complete-with-udders mailbox was still there. Rusty, but there.

I finally made it down the long winding road to Grandma & Grandpop's old house. 7521. Same mailbox, just painted differently. I hesitated for a moment. The snow lining the drive was so welcoming. I decided to turn into the drive, to get a better view of the house. I drove about half-way up the drive and just sat and stared.

The boxwoods were still lining the driveway and path to the house. I was grateful, Grandpop worked hard to plant and maintain those. The porch looked the same, just different furniture and perhaps a new railing. It was beautiful. I could practically smell Christmas dinner cooking in Grandma's double oven. A turkey and a ham. I caught myself looking twice swearing that I saw a few of my cousins as children running across the front yard chasing each other. It was then when I felt the warm tears run down my cheeks.

I felt as though I had every right to drive up the rest of that driveway. Why shouldn't I? These were my memories. My grandparents owned this house first. It was my cousins that grew up here. We spent every Christmas here for nearly 20 years. This wasn't someone else's house now. I should just be able to walk right up to the door, ring that familiar doorbell, and give Grandma that apple pie I'm holding. I should be able to go inside and place my gifts underneath of that Christmas tree. I should be able to sit at that childrens' table that is set up in the kitchen.

But I couldn't. It may be the same house, but it is no longer the same home.

Grandma, Grandpop, Uncle Mark...they all lived in that house. And they have all passed on to eternal life. And for some unknown reason that cannot be explained in this lifetime, those days had to end. But I will forever hold their beautiful, sacred memories. The memories of the moments that happened within property boundaries of this house.

And for now, I can drive and visit this sacred spot whenever I desire.

I liked the house better when it was green.

Love Remembers

A dear friend of mine recently asked me:

"When did you first know that you were in love with Jim?"

The question caught me off guard and made me stop and think. When did I first know that it was love? It seemed like love from the very beginning. I took it, ran with it, and never looked back. The question would call for me to retrace my steps.

We met in early September, 2005. We started dating in early November that same year. It was somewhere in between, as I remember, when I first knew that not only did I love him, but he was going to be my husband.

Our dating life took a traditional path early on that continues into our marriage today. We never spent alone time together, we watched movies with friends and sat on opposite sides of the room, and we went out on dates with groups. I was happy at the time (and looking back) that that's the way it was. It gave me a chance to see how he interacted with others. It gave him the opportunity to pursue me.

It was one of these date nights when I realized that I was in love with him. It was rugby date night. Each member of the team asked a girl to escort him to a night of fun in Pittsburgh. We went to an Italian restaurtant in downtown Pitt, and then went ice-skating. It was at dinner that night when my rush of emotions took me completely off guard. There we were, a group of about 60 of us, about to dive into the delicious pastas and mouth-watering chicken that had just been served. At this moment, Jim stood up at the table we were at, and said "Gentlemen, it's time to pray."

I can barely even remember what words he spoke as he asked the Lord for His blessings. I was just sitting there, head bowed and hands folded, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Here I am, in the midst of wonderful, Christian people, with a man who is pursuing little unworthy me, and he just asked everyone to pray. My heart took over what my mind couldn't figure out, and became in-charge from that moment on.

Ever since then, I have often been subtly reminded of that moment through the actions of my now-husband. The corned-beef feast he made for my birthday that same year. The reminders to say my rosary. The insistence that we give to the church each week, even when it's hard. The willingness to drive me 9 hours to Lake George whenever I feel "home-sick". Holding my music for me when I play the violin at special events. Turning our bedroom into a special Christmas-wonderland last year when I was sick. The list goes on and on. It amazes me what one prayer spoken in Pittsburgh several years ago, has foretold.

Merry Christmas, my love. Thank you for that prayer 4 years ago, and thank you for the gift of you.


**Let it be noted that at least 3 other couples who got together that rugby date night have since married, as well. Thank you for that prayer, Jim.