The Monologue “A cello is not a cool instrument. Definitely not like a guitar or a piano or even a trumpet.” My tall son, his voice deep and loud, spoke those words on a stage last Friday. These two sentences were the opening of a 200-word monologue that he’d been given to perform on the […]
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Welcome to Mountaintop Mondays, a day reserved for briefly posting something wonderful, helpful, or perhaps the humorous side of our lives. There is always something to be thankful for, and it’s encouraging for me to take stock of these gems every single day. How about you? Today Micah is beginning a week-long theater camp, Acting
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Loud crystal drops are calling to me in the dark stillness of my bedroom. They echo, over and over, striving to pull me out of a deep slumber, although it doesn’t take long for me to open my eyes. I loathe their annoying persistence, and yet, I am grateful at the same time. I chose
It’s a sunny afternoon in the middle of May, and I’m in a conference room at Micah’s high school. There are about eight of us seated around a rectangular table–a couple teachers, a counselor, a developmental disabilities advocate, an assistant principal, and one traveling school nurse. Micah sits at the head of the table. He
Hello! So glad you stopped by! I’m so excited that this blog is finally live! It’s been my long-time dream to create one, but to be honest, I’ve always been a little intimidated by technology and didn’t feel confident enough to give it a go. But several months ago, a friend gave me the encouragement
Micah and I sit beside each other in chairs along the wall in the bright, sunny middle school office. The friendly young counselor peeks her head around the hallway and invites us into her private space where we sit at a small round table. I’ve become acquainted with her during the last three years. In
Please wait for the host to start this meeting. I’d stared at this familiar screen command while sitting in my tiny home office, built-in white bookshelves on both sides of me, then looked out the window above my desk. It was early spring, and the grass had started to turn from brown to green, our
December 24, 2009. That date is Micah’s diaversary, a term people who have (or love someone with) type 1 diabetes call the date they were diagnosed. It was also, for me, the beginning of a long period of mourning for the life we had–for the life Micah had–before all the needles, test strips, and insulin.