My Rambling Thoughts

September 11, 2001, began for me with a phone call. I was still asleep when my oldest daughter, Suzanne, called from New York. She was crying. “Mom, a plane hit the World Trade Center.” I was still trying to wake up and understand what she was saying when my mind went somewhere strange, but very real. I had just discovered the Left Behind book series and had recently read the first book. In it, at the moment of the Rapture, an airplane crashes into a tall building. So when Suzanne called me from New York that morning and told me an airplane had hit the World Trade Center, that was honestly my first thought. The Rapture. It sounds strange now, knowing everything we know about what happened on September 11, 2001. But in those first moments, none of us knew. We were trying to make sense of something that simply did not make sense. And for one brief moment, my mind reached for the only reference it had. I immediately called my husband, Joe, who was at a client site in Sacramento. It was n...

​ This is probably going to get some negative comments, so let me start here: I do not know all the details of the Lindsay Clancy story, and I do not want this thread to become a debate about whether particular decisions were right or wrong. None of us were there. And I’m guessing almost no one reading this has ever killed their own child, which pretty much eliminates us as experts on what happens inside the mind of someone who does. I have shared pieces of this story before. Technically, it isn’t entirely my story, but there is no one living today who would be harmed by my telling it. When I was 10 days old, I died. My parents had separated after only two years of marriage, and my mother and I were staying with her father. His girlfriend was visiting that day. The story I was always told was that she walked past my crib and saw a pillow covering my face. She pulled it off and began CPR. An ambulance came. I was pronounced dead. Thankfully, somebody didn’t give up. And 68 years la...

​ Yesterday we started packing the house I’ve lived in for more than 30 years. Joe and I built this house when our oldest daughter was just 3 months old. We moved in three months later. We brought our second daughter home here. When we married, his four amazing children became my children too, and this house became home to five kids over the years. Now, except for our youngest, they’ve all grown up and built lives of their own. These walls have seen birthday parties, Christmas mornings, Thanksgiving dinners, Friday night pool parties, band kids taking over the house, homework at the kitchen table, laughter that echoed from room to room, and probably more pizza boxes than I could ever count. They’ve also seen the hard things. This is where we fought Joe’s cancer for eight long years. It’s where we celebrated every good scan and cried through every bad one. It’s where I came home after his funeral. Even today, there’s a  bathtub where I completely broke down.  Years later, t...

I have a serious question about something I honestly thought we all learned somewhere between finger painting and nap time. I completely understand that people think differently, vote differently, eat differently, dress differently, worship differently, and see the world through different experiences. Honestly, that’s one of the things I enjoy most about people. If every one of us agreed on everything, life would be incredibly dull. What I don’t understand is the need to call each other names. Stupid. Idiot. Moron. Ignorant. Fill in the blank with just about any insult you can think of. Really? We survived potty training. We learned not to eat the paste. We figured out how to stand in line without shoving the kid in front of us. Somewhere along the way we even mastered “please” and “thank you.” But apparently, “Don’t call people names” didn’t stick. I’ll admit it. Every now and then I’ll read a comment online and actually say out loud, “Who raised you?” Then I catch myself...

​ Fifty years ago, I was a high school senior getting ready to graduate during America’s Bicentennial. At 18, life felt like it was just getting started. I had a great boyfriend, talking about marriage. He was joining the Navy, and I was filling out college applications. The future felt wide open, and I couldn’t wait to see where it would take us. That doesn’t mean 1976 was perfect. It definitely wasn’t. America was still trying to recover from the Vietnam War. People were shaken by Watergate and the resignation of Richard Nixon. Inflation was high, unemployment worried a lot of families, the energy crisis had disrupted daily life, and the Cold War was always there in the background. But here’s what I remember most. In my little corner of the world, life still felt hopeful. The Bicentennial wasn’t just something on the calendar—it felt like a big deal. Small-town parades filled the streets. Mailboxes were painted with patriotic scenes. Flags were everywhere. Store windows were deco...

​ I’ve been thinking about the tragic story of the woman in Florida who lost her life after entering a pond and being attacked by an alligator. I’ve been to Florida more times than I can count. I’ve traveled all over the state, visited Gatorland, and even stopped at one of those small alligator farms near Lake Okeechobee where they raise gators for visitors. If you’ve ever been to one, you know exactly what I mean when I say they’re loud… and they have a smell all their own. But here’s what stands out to me. For more than twenty years, every single trip to Florida came with the same warnings. “Stay away from the water.” “Don’t walk your dog near the edge.” “Never assume there isn’t an alligator.” The signs are everywhere. The locals repeat it over and over. It almost becomes background noise because you hear it so often. This woman’s death is heartbreaking, and my heart truly goes out to her family. I don’t write this to blame someone who can no longer tell her side of the stor...