No one likes to watch their parents grow older. In my eyes, my dad was always strong. When I was a kid, Dad used to throw me up on his shoulders while he walked through the hilly pastures on our farm. Yep, he was a farmer, which meant long hours of hard work. He also worked a full-time job in town. So, as you might guess, he wasn’t one to sit around.
 
Which is partly why it’s so tough for him today.    
 
In addition to being 83 years old, my dad has congestive heart failure. He often feels tired and weak. He can’t walk very far without running out of breath or experiencing chest pain. He hates not being able to do much, but his doctor has warned him about putting too much stress on his heart.

I understood his frustration. There were so many things he could no longer do. 

Then a few years ago, God gave him a new opportunity.
 
One night, while he and Mom were at a restaurant, they heard live music coming from a nearby party room. The tune seemed familiar to dad, like something he’d heard as a child.
 
When dad was a kid, his parents used to invite friends and neighbors over for dances. They pushed all the furniture against the walls and anyone that owned an instrument played it. They always played upbeat music--a combination of bluegrass, old-time folk music and square dance tunes. My grandpa played the harmonica. Dad hadn’t heard anyone play that kind of music in years. Until that day at the restaurant.   
 
After dinner, Mom and Dad poked their heads inside the party room. A small group of musicians with a variety of instruments sat in a circle. Someone played a guitar. Another played a fiddle. There was a banjo, a harmonica, a hammered dulcimer and a mandolin. When the group took a break, Dad asked if they knew a particular song that my grandpa used to play. 

“Do you play?” Someone asked.

Dad shrugged. “I’ve played a little over the years--just for fun.” Dad usually played for his own enjoyment or maybe to entertain a grandkid.

The man tossed Dad his harmonica. “Play something,” he said.
 
Normally, Dad would never consider playing someone else’s harmonica. “It’s like using their toothbrush,” he says. Against his better judgement, he played a quick tune.

The guy smiled. “We play every Monday night. You’re welcome to join us.”
 
Dad laughed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t play in public.”

Actually, Dad had played the harmonica once in public—a long time ago. It hadn’t gone well.

He was seventeen years old when an older boy named Ronnie talked him into playing the harmonica for the school talent show. He was nervous, but got through it. He finished the song and hurried off the stage. But Ronnie met him at the door with a grin.

“Hear that?” Ronnie motioned to the crowd that erupted with applause. “They loved you, Marvin! Go on back out and play an encore.”

Dad had no desire to return, but he took a deep breath and did as he was told. This time, when he reached center stage, he panicked. Never in his life had he seen so many eyes staring back at him. His mind went blank. He needed to play something, but couldn’t think of one single song.

His legs trembled and his mind raced. Finally, he played some little ditty and ran off the stage. It wasn’t anything special, but Ronnie must’ve thought so.

“Hey, Marvin, how’d you like to play in my band?”

Dad knew about Ronnie’s band. They made good money and wore fancy clothes. They drove nice cars and always had pretty girls hanging around them. It seemed like a good deal.

Dad ran home to find my grandpa’s harmonicas. As he rummaged through a dresser drawer, his mom (my grandma) walked in the room. 

“What are you doing?” She asked. 

“Looking for harmonicas.” He swiped his hand under some T-shirts. “I’m going to practice with Ronnie. He wants me to play in his band.”

Grandma frowned. “Oh no you’re not,” she said. Those boys play in taverns on school nights.”

Dad was disappointed, but honored Grandma’s wishes, assuming he’d probably be too nervous to play in front of people anyway. 
 
So … who would’ve guessed that SIX decades later, Dad got a second chance to play in a band. This time, he took it.

Today, at 83 years old, my dad has conquered his fear of playing in public. He loves getting together to play music with his friends, often three nights a week. It lifts his spirits and gives him something to look forward to. “And the pretty girl I’ve been married to for nearly 60 years always comes with me,” he says.

My dad's story is a good reminder that no matter what your age, God can give you new opportunities to enjoy your life.

The modest little group of musicians have played in many venues for various occasions. Restaurants. An art center. Community picnics. Farmers markets. Birthday parties. Charity auctions. Retirement centers. Nursing homes. A wedding. A funeral.

Strangely, they’ve never played in a bar. I think my grandmother would approve

“Merry Christmas! Come in!” Grandma wiped her hands on her apron and hurried over to greet us.  I took a deep breath, enjoying a wonderful whiff of turkey and apple pie. I stomped the snow off my shoes and kicked them onto a nearby rug. Four pairs of well-worn sneakers caught my eye. Ugh. A wave of anxiety rolled through my stomach. Just great. They were already here.

“They” were my cousins – and the only part of Christmas I didn’t enjoy. Being the youngest – and the only girl among six boys – wasn’t much fun. Especially for a shy, quiet five-year-old girl like me. Sure, I was used to my older brothers’ antics, but my cousins were a whole ‘nother level of overwhelming. How I dreaded seeing those rowdy, rambunctious boys.

A freckle-faced cousin raced by, his arms outstretched while he sang to no one in particular. “Come on and zoom!” He spun around like an airplane making a crash-landing. I stepped behind Mom’s legs. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen him act weird. I thought back to summer, when Grandma took a picture of all the grandkids together.

“Okay, line up! Little ones in front!” Grandma squinted into the camera. Then she huffed and motioned to the front row. “Matt, scoot closer to Sheri.” Matt was a few months older than me and not much taller. I noted the space between us.

“Scooch closer!” Grandma repeated. I took a side-step toward Matt. He took a giant step away. Heat crept up my cheeks. What was his problem? Did he think I had cooties? He glanced my way, then crossed his arms and crinkled his lip.

At that moment, I was certain of three things. I didn’t have cooties. I didn’t want to stand near him either. And most of all, boys were just plain weird. Watching him “zoom” through the kitchen confirmed it.

After the dinner dishes were washed and put away, everyone gathered in the living room for presents. My grandparents always gave each of us a gift. The cousins also drew names for a gift exchange.

I sat down by the tree. Across the room, one of my cousins took a running start and, as if sliding into home plate, plopped down beside me. Another boy promptly tackled and wrestled him to the floor. I moved closer to Mom.

I picked up one of my presents and carefully turned it over. What could it be? It was too small for a doll. Maybe it was a bracelet. Or a new outfit for my Barbie. I ripped off the paper and felt my jaw drop. I stared down at a small metal car.

Why would someone give me a car? I looked up at Mom. She raised an eyebrow and gave me the look – the look that reminded me to be polite – even if someone gave me a gift I didn’t like.

My aunt crouched down beside me. “I’m sorry, Sheri. I couldn’t remember whose name we had drawn. I figured, chances were good that we’d picked one of the boys.”

Suddenly, my aunt’s eyes widened with startling enthusiasm. She took the car and pretended to drive it through the shaggy green carpet. “Varoom! What do you think? Maybe you have a doll that would like a new car?”

I offered a weak smile. I knew it would never work. That car was way too small for any of my dolls. Even Barbie would be embarrassed to drive a cracker-box like that.

Over the next year, my aunt remarried. This meant I got a new uncle and two more cousins. Both of them boys, of course.

Now after Christmas dinner, eight boys crowded around Grandma’s dining room table. They worked hard, building roads with strips of flexible, orange tracks. When construction was finally complete, a race track spanned the entire length of Grandma’s table. Then the chaos began. The boys jumped up and down. They shouted. They made silly noises like they were revving up their engines. The more the cars flipped and crashed, the louder they became. I gathered my dolls and disappeared into another room.

By the following Christmas, I’d heard that an uncle had remarried. My mind raced on the way to Grandma’s house. How many boys would be there this year? I looked down at my new baby doll in my arms. Thank goodness I brought her along. At least I’d have someone to talk to.       

Like always, Grandma met us at the door. I took one step inside and the shouts and commotion of noisy boys already echoed through the house. They were probably in the living room. I followed Mom to the kitchen. A lady I didn’t recognize stirred something at the stove. She greeted my mom, then looked down at me. She must be my new aunt, I thought, tightening my grip on Mom’s pantleg.

Suddenly, the lady stepped to the side – and that’s when I saw her. A little blonde girl about my age, peeking out from behind her mom’s leg. My new cousin. She held a doll in her arms. I couldn’t help but smile.

Finally, after all these years, Christmas at Grandma’s was changing for the better.  

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Here it is. The whole story about how I met their father. And truthfully, it wasn't love at first sight.  

It didn’t take long for the news to spread among my young, female coworkers. My friend pulled me aside in the breakroom.

“Did you hear? We just hired a new guy and I guess he’s like twenty.”  

I shrugged. “Why should I care? I have a boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend you’re breaking up with.” Rhonda smiled. She knew me well.

The last thing I needed was a new boyfriend. Life was fine the way it was. I went to college during the day, worked in a call center at night, and spent my free time hanging out with friends.

As I walked back to my cubicle, a shiny, new nameplate caught my eye. Oh goody. The new guy. I read his last name. “Zeck.” What a weird last name.

The next day, young Mr. Zeck joined our department, wearing faded Levi’s and a gray T-shirt. As usual, the day-shift people left and our work environment relaxed. We cranked up the radio. Eric Clapton belted out a catchy tune.

On the other side of my cubicle, the new guy tapped his pen to the beat of the music. I sighed, hoping he’d realize how irritating he was. Unfortunately, he didn’t. Instead, he tapped louder. Then he kicked into double-time, beating his desk with a pen in each hand. Seriously? Was he trying to annoy me? I pushed back my chair and stuck my head around the corner.

“Do you mind?”  

He froze mid-tap and looked puzzled, as if wondering why on earth I interrupted his brilliant drum solo. He leaned back in his chair and raked a hand through his thick mop of hair.

“Nope. I don’t mind.” Then he smiled, revealing the most perfect teeth I’d ever seen.

I knew one thing. This guy was going to drive me nuts.

Thankfully as the weeks passed, my annoyance diminished. A little. He still drove me nuts, but he also had a knack for making me laugh. Maybe he hadn’t made a great first impression, but once I got to know him, we became friends.

One day, I stood in front of the breakroom bulletin board, scanning the announcements. Curt stood beside me.

“You going to that?” He motioned toward a flyer for the company Christmas party.

“Thinking about it. You?”

“Maybe.” He popped open his Pepsi. “You bringing your boyfriend?”

My senses heightened, but I kept my tone cool. “Nah, I don’t think so. Mostly because we broke up.” The spark in his eyes made me wonder. Was he just curious, or was there more to his question?     

On the night of the Christmas party, I spotted Curt, wearing a purple dress shirt and black pants. Dang, I thought, he cleaned up well. We spent the evening talking, laughing and singing along with our favorite songs.

When the music slowed down, I wondered if he might ask me to dance. The thought didn’t seem to occur to him. Time and again, slow songs came and went. Finally, by the end of the night, I’d had enough. I leaned in and shouted over the music.

“So, here’s a question. Are you ever going to ask me to dance?”

Next thing I knew, I was on the dance floor. My arms rested on his shoulders as we swayed to the music. Maybe it was the overwhelming scent of his Old Spice, but I felt lightheaded.

What was going on? Did I actually like him? Did he like me? And when did he become so stinkin’ good looking?

At the end of the night, he offered to walk me to my car. We stepped outside into the crisp night air. The parking lot lights shined down on the glistening snow. It was beautiful – the perfect backdrop for a guy to tell a girl how he really felt about her.  

Then without warning, Curt belted out a long, evil laugh. He scooped me up and carried me straight toward a pile of snow. I kicked my legs and pretended to hate it. “Stop it. Put me down.”

“You know,” he said, swinging me around, “if I wanted to, I could toss you into that snowdrift.”

“You are so annoying. We’re both going to fall.” I tightened my grip around his neck.  And that’s when I realized, it didn’t matter. Because I was already falling.

On Monday, Rhonda was full of questions. I assured her we were just friends. We had a lot of fun, but he’d had plenty of chances to speak up if he “liked” me. So, our relationship continued as usual. Curt took pleasure in provoking me. I tormented him back.

In our department, we staggered our dinner breaks. I always envied Curt. He lived only a few blocks away with his parents. This meant he had what every college student longed for: free food.

“Must be nice,” I said, clutching my Big Mac. “I wish my mom would make me supper every night.”

“It is.” He grinned.

A few nights later, Curt passed by my desk while I was on the phone with a crabby customer. I finished the call, tossed my headset on the keyboard and exhaled. That’s when I noticed the dinner plate on the side of my desk.

I pulled back the foil. Holy moly. Homemade beef and noodles. Buttered mashed potatoes. Sweet corn. A fresh-baked dinner roll.

Rhonda ran over to my desk. “Are you kidding me? Why doesn’t he bring all of us food like that?”

From the other side of my cubicle I heard his response. “I’m not trying to impress all of you.”

My heart leaped a little. Was he joking, as usual? After all, he’d never given me any tangible reason to believe he wanted more than friendship. And then came New Year’s Eve.

Not-so-coincidentally, we both planned to be at the same party – and I knew the perfect way to finally figure him out. If he kissed me at midnight, he obviously liked me. If he didn’t, he just wanted to be friends. Unfortunately, around 11:30, he ruined my plan.

“I need to go somewhere,” he said, “but I’ll be back.”

What? I looked down, trying to hide my disappointment. Now I’d never know how he felt. I was tired of this. Tired of wondering. Tired of--

Interrupting my thoughts, he leaned in and kissed me. I stared back, stunned.

“Just In case I’m not back by midnight.” He had the cutest smile. And I had my tangible sign.

Maybe Zeck is a weird last name, but it’s been mine for the past 24 years. Curt still makes me laugh. Over time he has also perfected his air drumming skills by tapping on steering wheels, kitchen tables, and sometimes even my leg during long car rides.

It doesn’t bother me anymore, but I don’t tell him that.

Curt slammed the door and tossed his keys on the counter. The expression on his face said it all. Frustration. Discouragement. Disappointment. I’d seen it every Friday night for weeks.
 
“There’s another week without a paycheck,” he said.
 
“Surely things will pick up,” I said. “What about that couple looking for a house? How’s it going with them?”
 
Curt pressed his hands against his temples. “That deal fell through. They couldn’t get financing.”
 
It seemed like everyone struggled with finances these days – including us. For our family, it began a couple years ago.
 
After sixteen years at the same company, Curt was considering a career change. He liked his job but wasn’t sure he would ever reach his ultimate goals at the company. He was a Type-A personality, constantly pushing himself toward more challenges and responsibility. Someday he hoped to be in a position to help make major company decisions.
 
Quitting a perfectly good job was a big decision. We prayed about it. We asked for advice from friends we respected. Finally, we decided to go for it. Curt quit his job and began his new career in real estate.

Four months later we learned that his former company had been bought out. We felt like we had dodged a bullet. Many folks lost their jobs.  
 
Curt’s first year in real estate went well. Business was good and he enjoyed the new challenge. We needed to move closer to his office, so we sold our house, moved into a rental and made plans to build our dream home. We were excited about our new adventure. Until the following year – in 2008 – when the economy crashed.
 
At that point the real estate market came to a standstill. Our excitement turned into anxiety. Week after week my normally upbeat husband came home discouraged. Now here we were again, another week and no paycheck.
 
I squeezed Curt’s shoulder. “You’re a hard worker and a smart businessman. Things will turn around.” I tried to sound confident, but inside, I worried. And those worries multiplied in the upcoming weeks.
 
It wasn’t easy, cramming our family of five into a tiny rental house. Most of our belongings were packed away in storage. The kids missed our old home and struggled to adjust to a new school. And then there was the stress of building a house.
 
We had broken ground and started construction earlier that year. Now we worried if we could even afford it. Each time we met with our builder we made changes to cut costs. We held off on finishing the basement. We decided against a three-season porch. We waited to finish the landscaping. I tried not to complain, but it was hard to stay positive while our dreams slipped away.

One Sunday morning I was in church by myself. Curt was upstairs teaching Sunday school. Our girls were in their classes. The worship service began and song lyrics flashed onto the screen. I opened my mouth, attempting to sing, but the words felt lodged in my throat. I thought back to life before Curt quit his job. We were doing fine financially. Our kids had felt safe and secure. Life was comfortable. Then everything got messed up. We did what we thought God wanted us to do. We took a leap of faith. And for what? Now we could barely pay our bills and my husband felt like a failure. Why did God lead us into this heartache?
 
A few days later, we decided it was time. Time to swallow our pride and dust-off Curt’s resume.
 
“It’ll be fine,” I’d said, giving him a hug. “Someone with your education and experience won’t have trouble finding a job.” But we both knew it wasn’t that simple. In this economy, companies weren’t even hiring.
 
But even before Curt had the chance to start his job search, something amazing happened. Curt got a phone call from a local insurance company. Apparently, someone who had worked with him at his previous company had given them his name. They had a job opening and asked if Curt would be interested in submitting a resume. Curt interviewed for the job and the rest is history.
 
The day after we moved into our new house, Curt headed off to work at his new job. That was ten years ago. Today, he finds his position as Chief Information Officer very rewarding.
 
God knew the market was going to crash. Nothing surprises Him. But even when things don’t go as planned, He can also work everything out for good. He holds every single day in His hands. We just need to focus on today and leave the rest to Him.

I wiped my sweaty palms against my khakis and glanced at the dashboard clock: 7:58 AM. Across the parking lot, a young woman carried an armful of books and headed toward the front doors. Should I go in? Registration began at 8:00, but the first speaker didn’t start for a few more minutes. I’d wait. Right now, conference attendees were probably mixing and mingling, sipping their lattes and discussing their latest novels.
 
I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel, trying to ignore the annoying voice inside my head.
 
Writing for the church newsletter doesn’t make you a writer. Anyone can write for a church newsletter.
 
I watched a couple more conference-goers weave their way through the parking lot and disappear through the front doors. My stomach flip-flopped. How did I get myself into this? Instantly, I knew. It began several months ago, when my pastor preached a sermon I couldn’t ignore.
 
It was a time of transition in my life. After ten years of full-time motherhood, my youngest had started kindergarten – and I felt lost.

You might look like a fool. Others will discover you have no idea what you’re doing. You could fail.
 
So, I ignored the dream, tucking it away – until the next Sunday morning.  
 
“How many times do we limit ourselves because of fear?” My pastor’s eyes scanned the congregation. “How often do we miss what God has for us because we fear rejection and worry too much about what others might think?” I fidgeted in my chair. How did he know I’d been struggling with fear?
 
Over the next several minutes I scribbled down notes and words of encouragement. But I’ll never forget what he said as he concluded.  
 
“If you believe God put a desire in your heart, don’t let feelings of fear stop you.”
 
I caught myself nodding in agreement.
 
“It’s okay to be afraid,” he said. “In fact, it’s normal to feel fear. Just don’t let fear control you. Trust God with that fear. God will walk with you through your fear.”
 
I wrote down three simple words and underlined them as my pastor spoke.
 
“Do it afraid.”

Over the following months those three words became my motto as I stepped out of my comfort zone and into the wonderful, yet overwhelming world of writing. I began reading every book I could find on improving my craft. In time, I worked up the courage to submit articles for publication – and had lots of practice learning to cope with rejection.
 
Meanwhile, the relentless voice in my head worked hard to discourage me. But I didn’t give up. “Do it afraid,” I said as I pushed myself to write another article. “Do it afraid,” I thought as I emailed a magazine editor. “Do it afraid,” I said as I signed up for a writer’s conference.
 
And afraid I was.
 
My heart thumped in my chest as I walked into the first workshop of the conference. Like the new kid in a junior high cafeteria, I searched for a seat in a room full of strangers. But those awkward feelings didn’t last long. By the end of the workshop, I felt at home. The speakers shared valuable tools for improving my writing. They also challenged and inspired me to persevere.   
 
Perhaps even better, I formed new friendships. Meeting other people with a heart for writing energized me. These were my people. As someone who does her best work secluded in her office, it was nice to know I was not alone. Especially when I realized I wasn’t the only one with an annoying inner voice.
 
In the months after the conference, I continued to follow my pastor’s simple, but powerful advice. I joined a critique group, entered a writing contest and signed up for another conference. Each time I pushed myself, my confidence grew. Eventually, doing it afraid led me down a path to publication.
 
Today, I am still pursuing my dream. When insecurities creep in, I remind myself that the only way I can truly fail is to quit. Being successful is more than hitting a bestseller list. Real success is doing what I love. I may have sweaty palms and butterflies in my stomach, but I will succeed when I keep doing it afraid.  

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Have you ever experienced this scenario? You have a thought—and you intend to verbalize that thought in a clear, concise manner. But somehow, as the words leave your brain and travel to your mouth, there’s a glitch—and your words come out completely wrong. If so, this post is for you.

This happens to me far too often. When my girls were young, I blamed it on “Mommy Brain.” Someday I’ll probably call it a “Senior Moment.” For now, I’ll stand firm that I’m a writer—not a speaker.
Anyway, a few years ago, I suffered through one of those dreadful moments. I’m not sure it was an all-time, most embarrassing moment, but it definitely ranks among the top ten.

At the time, Curt and I were building a house and facing the monumental task of picking out lights. One day, while browsing at a home lighting store, “mother nature” gave me a call. I left the girls with Curt while I searched for a bathroom.

After finishing my business, I washed my hands and reached for a paper towel. Nothing. I looked under the sink and peeked into a cabinet. Still nothing. I shook my wet hands and returned to the store.

I found Curt and the girls talking with a salesman. As I approached, Curt looked up. “Oh, this is my wife,” Curt said. The salesman extended his hand.  

Immediately, a thought crossed my mind. I can’t shake his hand; I still have dripping wet hands from no paper towels in the restroom. But when the words left my mouth, they came out all wrong. 

“Sorry,” I said. “I can’t shake your hand. I was in the bathroom and there wasn’t any toilet paper.”

Wait! What did I just say?

The salesman’s jaw dropped along with his hand. Curt busted out laughing. My girls looked horrified. I wanted to crawl under a table. 

“Paper towels! Paper towels!” I blurted out. My face burned hot. “You’re out of paper towels!”

Years later, my husband still teases me about it.

So how do you recover from a moment like that? You can do what I did: gasp in horror, turn bright red, and kick yourself for being such a dork. I also never returned to that store.

Since then I’ve had plenty of practice handling embarrassing moments. Usually, it’s after I’ve tripped. (Thank you, multiple sclerosis.) How do I respond? There’s the ever-popular, “Another one bites the dust,” or my personal favorite, “I’m not drunk, I just have MS.”

I’ve also found the following techniques work beautifully:

1. Change the subject. Pronto!
   Your first instinct may be to find the closest exit and make a break for it. But in that moment, the best thing you can do is take a deep breath, dust yourself off and move on. The sooner you push past an awkward moment, the sooner everyone else will too.  
   
   
2. Keep it in perspective.
   In the whole scheme of things, how much will this one little incident affect the rest of your life? Not much. Who cares if that salesman went home and had a good chuckle with his wife at my expense? I’ll probably never see him again. Besides, he probably needed a good laugh. You’re welcome, mister.
   
   
3. Laugh at yourself.
   Seriously, nobody’s perfect. People say and do dumb things ALL the TIME. Laugh at yourself, and that embarrassing moment will lose its power over you.  
   
   
4. Commiserate with a friend.
   If it continues to bother you, call a good friend. (Don’t call my husband; he’d probably still be laughing.) Call someone who loves your dorky-little-self unconditionally. Share and compare embarrassing stories. You should feel better in no time.  
   
   
5. Blog about it.
   Yep. That's right. If sharing my own humiliating blunder can help even one person overcome their own face-reddening awkwardness, it was all totally worth it. Sort of.       

 
How about you? Would any of you dare to share your embarrassing moment with the world? How did you handle it? Do tell! I may need some advice.

It was shaping up to be one of those weekends. Two kids had important activities they were required to attend. Taylor had a volleyball tournament in Indianapolis. Closer to home, Madison had a music contest on Saturday. Curt and I decided to divide and conquer. He’d take Taylor. I’d stay with Madison.

Then the snowstorm hit. Yep, I know it’s the end of March. Welcome to Illinois.

At first, I was bummed. (We could’ve gone to Taylor’s tournament!) Then I looked on the bright side. I would be home ALL weekend – with nowhere to go on Saturday!

My mind raced with all the glorious things I could accomplish. First, I’d start reading a book that’s been patiently waiting for me on the top of the pile. Then, I’d write. I had several nonfiction stories brewing. Or I could work on my novel. I’m still trying to figure out my characters. Maybe I’d start plotting. Also, a whole weekend would give me plenty of time to dig into spring cleaning – even if it did look more like Christmas outside.

But somewhere in the midst of my plans, I realized something. I had an entire weekend with my 13-year-old ahead of me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a whole weekend alone with this kid. Who knew if it would ever happen again?

I thought of my firstborn, away at college. And my 16-year-old, who will be a senior next year. I’ll always have stories to write or housework to do. But I won’t always have a 13-year-old all to myself for the entire weekend.

So, what did we do?

We watched chick flicks like Steel Magnolias and The Help. (Who doesn’t like a reminder that they are “kind, smart and important"?) We played with the puppy. We baked chocolate chip cookies. We slept in late. Wore pajamas all day. Took naps.  

And, thanks to technology, I watched Taylor play volleyball at her tournament. I can’t say I had a productive weekend, but I can say this:

It was practically perfect.    

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I’ve always been a little envious of my fiction-writing friends. They can twist and turn their stories in whatever direction their imaginations take them. If the plot seems boring, they can change it. If a character is annoying, they can kill him. Meanwhile, I am stuck in my factual, nonfiction box, only allowed to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. 
 
Don’t get me wrong. I love real-life inspirational stories. But every now and then, I’ve wondered what it would be like to create my own cast of characters, throw them into a story and make them come to life.

Every month I gather together with a small group of writers. Many of them, fiction writers. I love hearing their creative ideas as they brainstorm their stories. They make me shake my head and respond with the following six words:  

“I wish I could write fiction.”

Inevitably, their faces would light up. “You can!” They’d grin, obviously hoping I’d join them on the other side.
 
But I knew I couldn’t.
 
I had zero story ideas. And if, by chance, I ever did think of something book-worthy, I wouldn’t know how to begin … or end ... or what to say in the middle. So, I put my dream on the backburner.   
 
Months passed and turned into years. Then one morning I woke up with a small spark of an idea. Interesting. I went about my day. Then came another idea. And another.

I stood in line at the funeral home, waiting my turn to express sympathy to my friend. What would I say? She had just lost her husband. No words seemed right. I desperately wanted to say something … anything … to help. I quickly dismissed every thought that came to mind.
 
No, I can’t say that. That sounds so cliché. 
No, that sounds like something from a Hallmark card.
No, that’s too upbeat … maybe she’ll think I’m making light of her pain.
No. No. No! 

I hate being at a loss for words.
 
As a writer, I spend a great deal of time thinking about words. I love finding the perfect word to describe a thought. A feeling. A setting. On the other hand, there’s nothing worse than wracking my brain and fumbling to find words. That’s when I dig out every writer’s best friend: a handy little thesaurus. But every thesaurus in the world couldn’t give me the perfect words to help my hurting friend.
 
I hugged her and whispered those two worn-out words everyone says. “I’m sorry.” Then I told her I’d been thinking of her. And I’d be praying for her. I know there’s power in prayer, but as I looked into her eyes, my words felt inadequate. 
 
A couple weeks later, I saw another friend who’s been going through her own serious struggles. Connie has a brain tumor. It has changed her looks. And it has changed how she speaks.
 
Connie was always so quick-witted and proficient with words. She wrote beautifully. But her words don’t come easily anymore. Even within a few minutes of small talk, I could sense her frustration. As if, the words are there, but they’re just beyond reach.

Suddenly her expression grew serious. “I’ve been thinking about you, Sheri. How are you?”
 
I shook my head and smiled. Unbelievable, I thought. With everything she’s been through – and she was thinking about me.
 
I told her I was doing well, but a little nervous about an upcoming MRI.
 
I’ve had an MRI every year since I was diagnosed with MS. One year I had a reaction to the contrast dye. The technician gave me a shot in the arm, slid me into the machine and walked out of the room. Suddenly, my stomach rolled and my mouth watered, signaling to me that I needed a bucket – now. I called for help and prayed she’d get me out of that machine in time.
 
But I wasn’t just nervous about throwing up. I was also nervous about the test results.
 
“When’s your appointment?” Connie asked.
 
“Monday at 1:00.”
 
She squeezed my arm. “I’ll be praying for you.”
 
On Monday I arrived at my appointment early. I filled out the paperwork and waited my turn. Suddenly, my phone buzzed.

She remembered.
 
Connie hadn’t said a word, but I knew ... she was thinking and praying for me at that moment. It meant more to me than any eloquent words she could ever speak.
 
As the technician slid me into the MRI machine, I thought of my friend who had lost her husband. Maybe it was okay that I never found the right words. Maybe it’s impossible to wrap messy emotions into a neat little package. Maybe sometimes, there really are no words.