Making intercessory prayers for our children is a privilege. It’s a tool from God to assist us in the high calling of rearing our offspring, which takes tremendous amounts of grit and grace.

Every time I returned from a hike, Roxie was sitting at her guard post, halfway up the stairs where she can see out the large windows that flank the stone fireplace. No one was getting away with anything on her watch.

I met this amazing young woman, Sarah Thebarge, at a writers’ conference in Portland a couple years ago. She taught a coaching class entitled “The Healing Power of Your Story”—eight hours spread over three days with in-depth instruction, writing exercises, and critique.

The antagonism has risen to a new level. After we housed and fed and entertained my daughter, son-in-law, three of the grands, and a grand-dog for five days—five days—we started finding tiny plastic ducks. Everywhere.

Our time with family in Hawaii this year unfolded at a slower pace—partly because there were only two couples instead of four. Which allowed for time to read on the beach. And time to leisurely journal on the balcony to the crash of waves.

Dan and I stepped off a flight that originated in Maui onto a tarmac covered with snow. One day we were wearing flip-flops. The next day, Dan was shoveling the fluffy white stuff.

I love Central Oregon in the winter.

My first husband, Gary, lived with an expiration date. He was diagnosed with late-stage disease that had metastasized. The experts gave him two years because he was relatively young and in good shape and because prostate cancer is slow growing. But he blew way past two years.