|Lisa Roberson is my oldest friend. And I mean that in the most literal sense. Not only were our parents dear friends, she and I were born in the same hospital (in Wise, Virginia) three days apart. We lay there beside each other in that nursery in 1959 and I swear, have had a bond ever since. My heart felt such gratitude when she generously offered this story as a comment on my post about time and the loss of my dear cat, Tiger. I asked her for permission to share it with you, here. I am so glad she said yes.
My weekend was illuminated by one of God’s brightest lights, Lynne Huff Grout. In a lovely and unassuming way, sweet Lynne reminds me of the greatest lesson of all:
There is only love.
30 Days of Grace II
Have you seen Black Swan? Dis-Tur-Bing. And so I was more than a little surprised last year when I woke up the morning after watching the film to see a white duck floating on the pond behind our house. That orange-billed creature was particularly conspicuous because it swam solo, unobtrusive and isolated, amidst flocks and flocks of Canada Geese. My heart ached a little as I watched. It was as if the entire Goose Kingdom were throwing a party and the little duck was not invited. Worse yet? Invited, but mocked.
This scene was repeated over and over through the winter, but eventually time passed, and the geese moved on. Not the white duck. He (she?) stayed, taking up residence here on Bickley’s pond, paddling about, hanging around, making a home.
Still I worried about it, that friendless duck.
Then the mallards arrived. And over time, the three formed a sweet little group that makes me smile every time I see them cross the lake.
To love, all kinds.
Today is my birthday.
I woke up giddy because I knew the day ahead held this great promise: I can wear my new cowboy boots to church.
An unusual thrill, I know, for a woman who is now fully into … ahem… middle age. But then I’m quite sure you’d feel the same if you saw these fine kicks, chosen by and given to me for my birthday by my sweet husband.
I love him for choosing a gift that is such an outrageous indulgence—an indulgence not just because they are really nice, but because there is simply no way to rationalize such a purchase. You see, I already own brown cowboy boots. In fact, I own four other pairs.
There. I said it. Five pairs of brown cowboy boots.
(My dear friend Teresa Coles will say you need only consider the CPW — Cost Per Wear. And I will certainly wear the heck out of these boots.)
He knows about the boot collection, my husband does, and still he presented these. As practical as he is, I know he did it simply because he knew it would make me ridiculously happy.
I love a love like that.
30 Days of Grace