Letter #9 of 52: Rainbows and Road Trips

Beauty seen is never lost, God’s colors all are fast. –John Greenleaf Whittier

Sparrows danced joyfully on the telephone wire. The blue, cloud-dipped sky sparkled with radiant light. The fragrant floral arrangements spilled abundantly over from their sturdy vases.

We who had come for her memorial service were seated in this light-filled atrium, embraced by the beauty of the world around us as we celebrated a life lost suddenly and unexpectedly. When her best friend spoke, she shared indelible memories that the two neighbors created together-family vacations and weekend outings, antique treasure hunts and entrepreneurial endeavors, Starbucks tete-a-tetes and conversations about life.

Just the week before this memorial service, Peggy and Renee had promised each other that they’d open a new chapter in their lives, a time for reconnecting with old friends, those who had shared volleyball bleachers and elementary-school hallways. The friends whose lives, like your own, become consumed by family commitments, returns to the workplace, and family schedules that erase the hours for spontaneous coffee breaks or hour-long phone calls. Renee told us how Peggy would want us to reach out to our friends and family, to rebuild and strengthen those bonds. And how we should all find time to explore the world outside of our front doors.

With that call to action playing in my always-cluttered head, I phoned my parents on Thursday night and asked if I and at least one of my kiddos could come visit–make the five-hour trip south to reconnect. The answer was: “Come on.” We hadn’t seen each other since our family Christmas celebration in mid December. While I cherish my gene pool’s annual gathering, we’re an expansive crew so one-on-one time with any family member is practically impossible. My parents (AKA the grandparents) are in especially high demand.

With a “yes” tucked in my back pocket, our spontaneous trip to Edenton, North Carolina was on. Twelve-year-old, Cady, decided to come along. Just the two of us. I picked her up early from school on Friday, directly from my own half-day at work, and off we went. She pulled out her book, and I cranked up Jaime Grace, Matthew West, and Royal Tailor, quickly cycling through the CDs and then happily stumbling on Christian radio stations, AirOne and K-Love.

I was in a driving groove; my mind quieted. With my tinted Oakleys shielding me from the waning sun’s intense glare, I began to see the colors.

The fire-engine red tin roof on the white clapboard farm-house, a photograph begging to be taken. A brown and white paint nibbling at new growth inside the split-rail fencing.

The rusty orange clay soil, bumpy from tilling earlier in the day, its powerful scent temporarily invading our four-wheeled sanctum.

Daffodils, dressed in rain-slicker yellow, prancing carelessly in perfectly aligned, VDOT-planted rows.

Alien green fields aglow with grassy spring abundance. Cady and I couldn’t get over the vibrant verdant color, deciding it was nature’s reply to Astroturf.

Pale blue skies, dotted with marshmallow clouds that hovered effortlessly over the landscape, showcasing the colors, both God-breathed and man-made, that rested in fields, along roadsides, and in front yards.

Gray and white and chocolate horses, in paddocks along the route. A trio of chestnut and white calves romping in a meadow. Black-speckled ponies conversing in the pasture.

Indigo, violet and orange, stacked one on the other, pressing against the salt marsh as the sun painted its finale across the fading skyline.

Traffic delays and Burger King stops notwithstanding, we pulled into Mom and Dad’s just after dark, honking loudly and repeatedly to announce our arrival. We had a marvelous weekend, beginning with a golden yellow macaroni and cheese dinner. A rambling Scrabble game, aided guiltlessly by an Ipad dictionary app. A father-daughter bike ride. A mother-daughter-granddaughter shopping trip into town. Two Saturday meals out–Nothin’ Fancy Cafe for lunch and Tommy’s Pizza parlor for dinner (both delicious). On Sunday morning, we drove the 20 minutes back into town for the early morning church service, made earlier by Day Light Savings Time’s arrival. Then back to the house for a quick breakfast of pancakes and bacon before getting back on the road heading home.

I’ve seen my fair share of rainbows–even a double and inverted–but this weekend, I was blessed to witness God’s promise one striking color at a time. Red cardinals, boxing with one another for space at the feeder. The first bluebird of spring, perched on the highwire, undoubtedly searching for a place to call home. A metallic blue cruiser, carrying my 77-year-old Dad and Senior Olympian, along his daily four-mile trek (his ever-so-slightly winded daughter puffing alongside). Seven tan Scrabble tiles, lined up to spell URINE, and the shared laughter of three generations as our word choices grew ever more challenging.

It was a weekend lavishly colored with love.

Letter #9 goes to my parents, who on less than 24-hours notice welcomed us with outstretched arms.

I think now is the time to embark on more spontaneous adventures. Put down the must-dos and pick up the want-to-dos. Let’s get going people. God created a colorful masterpiece for us–step outside of the lines of your life and experience a new kind of rainbow. One you build color by color, moment by moment.

Peggy, thank you for all the moments we shared. Even now, you inspire me. I will get out and experience the beauty of this wonderland we call home. You, my friend, are deeply missed.

What a privilege to be here on the planet to contribute your unique donation to humankind. Each face in the rainbow of colors that populate our world is precious and special.–Morris Dees

Be blessed–and be a blessing,

Martha, LoudounCrazyMom

P.S.–In honor of rainbows and road trips, check out this recipe: Colorful Vegetable Fajitas.

Click above for this week's inspirational tune: "You Lead" by Jaime Grace

Letter #8 of 52: Being 12 is Be-You-tiful

Since love grows within you, so beauty grows. For love is the beauty of the soul. –Saint Augustine

Raise your hand if you’d trade your perfect-fitting, designer-label jeans to be 25 again?

What about 18? Could I convince you to step backwards for 24 hours to be a newly minted adult once more?

Now, give me a show of hands if you’d willingly leap into the body of a 12-year-old tomorrow. Not so fast, eh?

My beautiful daughter, Cady, fourth of our five, celebrated her 12th birthday on February 24. It was a fast-paced, fun-filled night. The archetypal middle-school celebration with cheesy rounds of pizza and bowls bursting with gummy bears, M&Ms, and Twizzlers. There were squeals and shouts as the girls challenged one another to Just Dance 3 showdowns. And scampering feet treading rambunctiously up and down our basement stairs.

Megan applies eye shadow to Cady's lids.

Cady, Megan, and the birthday beauties show off their Mary Kay-enhanced natural glows.

Happy Birthday to our beautiful 12-year-old!

Perhaps best of all, there was another mom here, my Mary Kay consultant, Megan Bennett, whose makeup expertise was the highlight of the night. Ten girls, fresh-faced and naturally beautiful, sat wide-eyed and listened as the cosmetics queen bequeathed her skin care know-how during a one-hour makeover session. It was pure preteen bliss.

But as all veteran 12-year-olds can attest, being 12 isn’t exactly easy.

Being 12 is being humiliated by every word or sound uttered by your completely embarrassing parents.

Being 12 is feeling awkward, like nothing fits properly. The legs are too long. The skin randomly erupts with imperfections. The hair is too curly or too straight or too short or too long.

Being 12 is wanting to believe all those amazing things your parents and teachers say about you, but listening instead to the voice of self-doubt blubbering on endlessly in your brain.

Being 12 is never feeling good enough. Or fast enough. Or smart enough. Or popular enough. Or beautiful enough.

Being 12 isn’t easy. Which is why Letter #8 of 52 went to my beautiful, taller-than-average, fleet-footed, creative writing, basketball-and-soccer-playing 12-year-old, Cady. My Cady (pronounced Kay-dee), named after Elizabeth Cady Stanton (writer, mother of seven, and famed suffragist), doesn’t know how incredible she is at 12, when her world seems impossibly challenging. But I do.

Being YOU, at any age, is beautiful. I am proud of who you are, Cady my Lady, and of who you will become.

Being a kid in this hurry-up-and-grow-up world is ridiculously difficult.

Click above for this week's inspirational tune: "A More Beautiful You" by Johnny Diaz

We Moms (and Dads) need to take a few minutes to tell our mini-mes that they are BEAUTIFUL, and that we adore them exactly as they are–even while they roll their eye-shadowed eyes in tween exasperation. Eventually, say by the fashionably mature age of 47, the voice of Truth will prevail (most of the time).

Be blessed…and be a blessing.

Martha, LoudounCrazyMom

Cady's lipstick-shaped cake--in hot pink and lime green--was an easy evening undertaking. Cady made two cakes. Mom cut the shapes, and Cady iced to perfection.

Help bless a Cystic Fibrosis patient with a lung transplant.

I’m sharing this because I have an 18-year-old daughter with cystic fibrosis. Please share this blog if you are so moved. As my pastor says, there is not a shortage of money or people willing to help. We just have to connect the two. I will forever be a CF mom, and am awed by the courage of every person who lives their life battling cystic fibrosis.

I have sent an email to the bank, and am waiting for confirmation and direction about where donations can be sent. More info when I hear…

Be blessed–and be a blessing,

Martha, LoudounCrazyMom

Blue Scholar Blog

We need healthcare reform, but we need to save Lori Jo first.  I ran across this picture on my Facebook news feed and I just had to do something to help, so I’m posting it here on my blog.  D-rock Deeds Originally posted this last night.

LISTEN UP FACEBOOK FAM, I have been trying to raise money for my band to tour cali/germany this year threw a kickstarter program, instead of donating money for that( ILL GET THERE ONE WAY OR ANOTHER) i want every-one to donate what ever they can to help my friend Lori-jo get her lung transplant we are trying to raise 25,000 dollars to save her life,LORI-JO means more to me then my music carreer or tour,so TOO ALL OF MY FAMOUS ROCKER FRIENDS THAT ARE WELL OFF U KNOW WHO U ARE!!! PLEASE DIG DEEP AND HELP US RAISE THE MONEY IF U CAN ONLY…

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Letter #7 of 52: Russell Up a Smile

A warm smile is the universal language of kindness. — William Arthur Ward

One person, with one heartfelt gesture, has the potential to define another person’s day.

Rustle (rus-tle) transitive verb

1.  to cause a rustle
2.  to obtain by one’s own exertions—often used with up 

Russell (russ-le) proper noun

1. exceedingly friendly cashier at Leesburg, Va, Bloom grocery store
2. unofficial goodwill ambassador who exhibits stand-out, small-town charm

           

Meet Russell, Bloom's benevolent one-man welcome committee. (real photo TK)

So I started my last blog with the intention of writing about Russell, but my meandering mind couldn’t stumble past the first paragraph about my unhealthy obsession over American Idol. And as it turned out, I needed to write that blog entry…for me. If you, dear reader, stopped and reflected on your own electronic idols, excellent. If you thought that blog was hogwash, let me introduce Russell.

I don’t even know Russell’s last name. Fact is, he doesn’t know my first or last name either. But that’s insignificant mush, my dear friends. Russell is, hands down, the world’s most genial grocery store clerk.  As long as we’ve lived in Leesburg, VA, Russell has been the face of first Food Lion, and now Bloom (same building; upgraded interior and prices).

The Leesburg Bloom is where Russell greets his friends.

Russell is tall and lanky, and the jolliest soul to ever scan a can of beans. It could be pouring down rain outside, or the store might be teeming with customers cramming in a last-minute grocery dash on their way home from work. Doesn’t matter. Russell, when he spots a familiar face entering the store doors, cheerfully shouts across the registers or aisles, “Hi, friend. How ya doing tonight?” I might have had the worst day possible. Doesn’t matter. It’s Russell to the rescue, his kind, irrepressible spirit instantly erasing the irritations and frustrations that happened outside those Bloom doors.

I adore Russell. He makes something so ordinary, the simple act of saying hello, quite extraordinary.  His job isn’t life changing; but his radiant attitude is. Every moment of his workday, Russell is making the world a brighter, more amicable place to be. Letter #7 of 52 goes to my friend, Russell.

If you live in Leesburg, and Russell makes your day when you stop into Bloom for a couple of essentials, show or tell him: with a little note; a bag of M&Ms; a $5 gift card for a little food (I do know Russell likes to eat); or maybe just a spoken thank-you.

Let’s rustle up a community-wide thank-you for Russell, our town’s ebullient ambassador.

Is there someone where you live who makes the world a better place? Let them know, with a brief handwritten note, like I am delivering to Russell, or with words of praise, doled out lavishly.

Be blessed—and be a blessing!

Martha, Loudoun Crazy Mom

Click above for this week's inspirational tune: "Show Jesus" by Jaime Grace.

Idol Worship & My American iLife

“You shall not make idols for yourselves or erect an image or pillar, and you shall not set up a figured stone in your land to bow down to it, for I am the Lord your God. Leviticus 26:1

I must come clean. I am somewhat (okay, wholly) addicted to American Idol. I plan my life according to its airings.

When the eight o’clock hour hits, I Velcro myself to the sofa, darting upstairs at commercial time to give a rapid-fire, two-minute good night to my littlest guy, Sean. My husband, enabling my sad addiction, puts Sean to bed solo on American Idol nights (two a week). But alas, Sean voiced his irritation (disappointment) last week with a comment that stung: “Mom, when you watch American Idol, you never say goodnight to me.”

Bad mommy. He’s painfully correct, of course. I nestle in for my one-hour celebrity-wannabe indulgence, a vapid American distraction, and, in doing so, I willfully relinquish the bedtime stories and the wacky singing that’s been a hallmark of our goodnights. I hand over 15-30 minutes of mother-son bonding to a forgettable reality show. It is time for some priority realignment.  (Besides, we do have TiVo—so I can always sink into my sofa after bedtime.)

My guy is eight. Still a youngster who doesn’t mind his mom smothering him with kisses (provided it is out of sight of same-aged onlookers). He tolerates me rapping The Cat & The Fiddle nursery rhyme  (unlike the other five, who slump down in the car seats or turn up the volume on their iPods.). He still enjoys snuggling up with me or his Dad and saying our special prayers. He never forgets to pray for the soldiers and their families. Sean is a cool kid to hang out with, and I am trading my hang-out time for television trash.

This week, I am buckling down and getting back to the basics: bedtime rituals matter. American Idol does not. Who even remembers the past contestants, or, for that matter, any winners beyond Carrie Underwood and Kelly Clarkson.

Are you like me? Is there an idol in your life that is usurping family time? Facebook? Gmail? The Bachelor or Bachelorette? Are you constantly plugged in, tuned in, paying homage to some screen somewhere in your house, car, or office?

Do you sit in the stands to “watch” your child’s game but miss the goal or basket or run because you had your head bowed to text messages and emails? Guilty as charged. Guess what, our kids are watching us. They notice how much we miss, even if we don’t.  My beautiful, charmingly honest daughter Cady called me and her Dad out on that—“I always see you looking down at your phones.”

Pocket the cell phone. Stash the iPad or iPod.

Get back into the game of life. 

Mike and Sean do fist pumps for our Steelers.

Our kids want to play. And be read to. And snuggle. And be cheered on from the sidelines.

American Idol, meet TiVo. I will see you when I see you.

I have my own reality show to star in. 

Be blessed–and be a blessing!

Martha, LoudounCrazyMom

PS–Later today, I’ll hunker down in front of this screen again to tell you about my Letter #7 of 52. Right now, I need to get myself dressed for Sean’s midday basketball game, which I intend to watch in its entirety. 🙂

Cady presents her Mother's Day creation -- chocolate-dipped strawberries.

Song of the Week--Control by Royal Tailor

Letters #5 & #6: To the Beautiful People

The King is enthralled by your beauty; honor him for He is your Lord.  Psalm 45:11

Bryan in the recovery room (yes, he gave his approval for this post).

CNN chatters in the background. The elevator doors open and close periodically. There is a constant hum from the nearby vending machine, the sound broken only by the occasional voice.

I am sitting in the surgical center waiting area. My middle child, Bryan, 14, was rolled into the surgical suite about an hour ago. I kissed that handsome kid’s forehead, and let the two surgical nurses whisk him away for two hours of sinus surgery.

It isn’t often that I am given two hours to do nothing more than sit. Most days, I am on my feet from before sunrise to long after sunset. Someone’s schedule—either mine or a child’s—dictates nearly every waking hour. Except for today.

I’ve read People magazine from front to back.

I scrolled leisurely through my emails.

I wrote two handwritten letters—each composed expressly for beautiful people.

And now, I’m typing away on my husband’s MacBook Pro, oblivious to the quiet activity that envelops me.

The pages of People were filled with the world’s beautiful most people. Heidi Klum. Kate Middleton. Angelina Jolie. Emphasis on the world’s, as in the media-hyped, society-defined, PhotoShop-enhanced beautiful people.

Truly beautiful people don’t necessarily wear makeup, or a size two. They might wear surgical scrubs and a comforting smile as they wheel a nervous 14-year-old away from his worried mom.

Beautiful people light up a room, usually unbeknownst to them. They pour out their love of life, and of others, with an emotional charge that could power Manhattan.

Beautiful people get in their car and drive three hours—not realizing until two hours into the trip what their exact destination will be–to comfort a disintegrating best friend whose hospitalized daughter has just been diagnosed with cystic fibrosis.

Beautiful people lift you up with praise, challenge you to adjust your point of view, acknowledge your pain, and listen without questioning.  Beautiful people give generously, of their time, their wisdom, their encouragement. Beautiful people know what’s important—faith, hope and love. And they know what isn’t: the superficial fodder that obstructs our vision into the soul of another.

Handwritten letters #5 and #6 go to two beautiful people—my college roommate and beloved friend, Cathy, the one who jumped into her car and found me crumbling in a hospital hallway. And the other is written to my eldest daughter, Shelby, who loves me, organizes me, encourages me, challenges me, and motivates me. My 18-year-old girl is a whirlwind of energy and generosity—in spite of that damned cystic fibrosis diagnosis.

Beautiful people check me out at Wegmans, Kohls, and Rite Aid. They take my drive-thru order at Chick-Fil-A or McDonalds. Beautiful people answer phones, fix cars or furnaces, or teach children. They steal away for a night out to celebrate 27+ years of friendship. Beautiful, gentile, patient, uplifting people are all around me. And today, I see them not in the pages of People or Us, but in the pre-op room. Lynette. And in the recovery room. Erin. And in the neighborhood, getting my youngest son off the bus while I sat in a surgery recovery room. Christina.

Thank God for the beautiful people.

Be blessed—and be a blessing,

Martha, LoudounCrazyMom

Click for this week's inspirational tune:"Beautiful" by Mercy Me.

Day 32. Tender love is the secret.

Words of encouragement. God, do I need those. Especially today, frustrated by the hoops I’m having to jump through to get my daughter, Shelby, in for an endoscopy. Life is already difficult enough when you live and breathe every moment with cystic fibrosis. Why do the insurance companies and doctors’ offices twist the knot in my stomach even tighter? Deep breath, Martha.

So I get home today, and my daily reminder from God is waiting in my inbox. It is perfectly written, and perfectly timed. God knows just how to reach each of us, where we are at any particular moment in time. It’s a song on the radio. A phone call from a friend. A smile from a stranger. The last-minute doctor’s appointment that opens up when you’ve given up all hope. God’s steadfast love rushes in with what we humans call “a God moment.”

Maybe you need a God moment today, and every day from here forward. Sign up for Reminders from God, a little sustenance from heaven to pull you through, encourage you, love you.

Reminders from God

Reminder from God – Day 32 

“Tender Love is the secret. Love those who you are training, Love those who work with you. Love those who serve you.”

Letter #4 of 52: Sweet Child of Mine

We love because He first loved us. 1 John 4:19

Cullen

At three, he spent endless hours on our Naperville, Illinois, basement floor, meticulously constructing elaborate Lego vehicles.

At seven, he collapsed into unexpected tears when his sugar-cube igloo–a first-grade project–refused to take the shape he envisioned.

At ten, he stoically listened as we shared his big sister’s life-altering diagnosis, knowing full well he, too, would have to be tested for cystic fibrosis.

At eleven, he spent 12 consecutive days away from home, having the time of his life at Summer’s Best Two Weeks camp. I limped through, missing him terribly. (This summer, four of our five will head to SB2W--our youngest, Sean, for the first time.)

At fourteen, he evaded human contact, disappearing into his bedroom for hours, his teenage body hijacked by hormones, growth spurts, and mood swings.

Now sixteen, he fascinates me with his computer acumen, the ease in which he navigates the worldwide web and its universe of possibilities. He is bright, witty, artistic, athletic, well-mannered, and is a die-hard fan of Christian rapper, Lecrae. He engages in conversations again, and says “yes” far more often than “no.” My boy has returned, and he is moving closer to manhood with each passing day. That’s heartening, but it tugs at my heartstrings, too.

Letter #4, a store-bought card with my handwritten message, is this mother’s love letter to the eldest of her three amazing, equally adored sons.

All they need is love. Love is all they need.

Tell a child you love them today. Write it down, so when you’re not present to tell them, your handwritten letter will be.

I am a mother of five–so in the weeks ahead, I will compose letters to ALL of my cherished children. (Got that, Cullen, Shelby, Bryan, Cady and Sean? ;))

Be blessed–and be a blessing!

Martha, Loudoun Crazy Mom

Click for this week's inspirational tune: "This is the Stuff" by Francesca Battistelli

What a Bunch of Crock — Chicken Tortilla Soup Disappears!

Things disappear around our house. My Jeep keys. The school ID that gives me side-door access on rushed mornings. The carefully hidden boxes of Hot Tamales I convince myself no child of mine will ever unearth. And lately, my crock pot fixings, like the widely popular Rombach favorite, Chicken Tortilla Soup.

Okay, it’s true. I am in the midst of an intense love affair with my crock pot. Its shiny silver and jet black exterior says high-tech gadgetry, while its simple two-temperature controls whisper, “I’ve got ya, girl. Do not sweat dinner tonight.” I found London Broil on sale at Bloom, but didn’t have a clue how to cook it rapidly and tastefully so that my brood would have dinner before the evening basketball dash.

Google, I love you. You are the yin to my crock pot’s yang. I plug in my search term and within seconds, an endless list of recipes tumbles out before me, with color photographs that send my taste buds into overdrive. That London Broil was melt-in-our-mouths delicious last night, teamed with baby carrots, onions, a flash-of-the-whisk marinade, and brown rice. Simply work-night perfect.

This afternoon, when I arrived home about 1:30pm, I knew exactly what would fill my crock pot passion tonight: Chicken Tortilla Soup. I had all the ingredients in the pantry–except fresh cilantro, which I did without. I zipped downstairs, retrieved the family pack of chicken breasts, put a pot of water on the stove top and got the chicken boiling while I pried open cans and dumped ingredients into my beloved crock pot. Within 30 minutes, the crock pot was heating to HIGH, and I was off to walk the dogs, my chicken breasts swimming patiently in the pool of cooling water. Four hours later, dinner would be cooked to crock pot perfection.

So here’s the crock pot recipe du jour, Chicken Tortilla Soup I.

I pulled it directly off allrecipes.com, which is a site I head to often as it lets me adjust the number of servings according to my needs. We are a family of seven–four of whom are skyrocketing teens–so I plugged in a serving size of 24. This should deliver two dinners and a few school/work lunches to boot. I didn’t have fresh cilantro, so I added cumin instead. Also, keep in mind that white hominy is found in the canned food aisle. I used the Goya brand. The first time I made this soup, I searched the dry goods aisle for hominy. No luck–so I substituted chickpeas, and the soup was equally wonderful. Rather than type out the recipe, just click below and jump immediately to allrecipes.com to adjust the recipe to your family’s servings needs. 🙂

*Want to make this recipe gluten-free? Just drop the tortilla chips. Our gluten-free daughter feasts on this soup at all hours of the day.

Chicken Tortilla Soup

fhttp://allrecipes.com/recipe/chicken-tortilla-soup-i/detail.aspx

Okay, back to making beds and vacuuming. My favorite sister is coming to stay tonight.

Be blessed–and be a blessing!

Martha, One Loudoun Crazy Mom

PS–I only have one amazing sister, you silly goose. 🙂

Letter #3 of 52 Handwritten Missives: A Top 10 List

Lists.

They are ubiquitous, used to quantify or qualify seemingly everything in the world. Think Letterman’s nightly Top Ten.  People Magazine‘s World’s Most Beautiful. Fortune Magazine’s Wealthiest Americans. The New York Times Bestsellers List.

Personally, I classify myself as a habitual list maker. While admittedly I do not like having a laundry list of odd jobs to tackle,  I do enjoy the sense of accomplishment that accompanies crossing off one of those pesky tasks. I did it. I completed a task. At that instant, I am a success. Yeah for me. When I worked in the publishing field, I never left my office without my yellow legal pad stacked with tomorrow’s to-do list.

I use lists to get things done, and sometimes, I use lists to spell out something entirely more important. Like the 45 Reasons I Love My Husband. Or the 75 Reasons I Love My Mom (written for her 75th birthday). Or the 16 Sweetest Things About My 16-Year-Old.

So today, with lists on my mind, I am employing the universality of a list to write Letter #3 of my promised 52 handwritten letters.

Today, my handwritten, postage-stamped-and-mailed letter takes the form of a top ten list:

The Top Ten Reasons You Make the World a Sunnier Place.

1. You always answer the phone with joy in your voice, a warmly spoken welcome that says you have time for me, you are listening.

2. Your smile lights up the office. It’s always there, no matter the weather, or the time of day, or the business at hand.

3. Regardless of how long your own to-do lists may be, you stop what you’re doing and greet me by name.

4. You know my family, and each child’s name–even those who aren’t in your school yet. How do you do that…for all of us?

5. You are incredibly dependable and so respected. We parents can always count on you to know the answers, offer solutions, and provide support.

6.  Your desk is proudly cluttered with all kinds of handmade treasures, many of them given with love by students or their families.

7. You love your job. Abraham Lincoln said: “Whatever you do, do your best.” Every day, you do your best, for all of us. Thank you.

8. You are God’s loving presence in a government-owned facility. Yes, there is a Constitution-mandated separation of church and state, but We the People can show our faith in every little thing we do and say. And you do–praise God.

9. You are fun-loving and good-humored–you make me laugh with your witty comebacks, and that inner happiness is catching.

10. You are gracious, kind and giving, and a treasured blessing to all who cross your path. Thank you for being unforgettable you.

Now it’s your turn.

You might know the intended recipient of this list letter. In fact, you may have someone similar in mind for your own letter. Go ahead and make a list. A top ten list. A top five list. A list of the 20 things someone does to make you smile or feel loved.

Make a list that makes a difference.

Use Letter #3 to encourage, appreciate, or celebrate. Imagine your child or spouse finding just such a list tucked under their pillow tonight, or in the car seat tomorrow morning as he or she heads to work.

Okay, so back to my own to-do list. Write blog: check.  Write letter: check (as soon as I get off here–just need to put it in ink). Make chicken noodle soup for dinner:…..coming up!

Be blessed–and be a blessing,

Martha

One Loudoun Crazy Mom