Giorgio Armani Designs

Since I need a break from my usual emotional posts, and since famous fashion designer Giorgio Armani passed away today at the age of 91, I decided to compile a list of some of the designer's most beautiful and memorable red carpet looks. 

Armani originally attended medical school in for several years before joining the army in his native Italy. When he left the army, he became a department store sales clerk and window dresser, eventually becoming a seller in menswear, where he learned about both design and marketing. He moved on to a job designing menswear, then became a freelance designer, eventually opening his own office with a partner in 1973, although he continued to design for multiple other firms as a freelancer. In 1975 he opened his own firm and presented both a line of ready-to-wear menswear and a women's line for spring and summer 1976. In 1979 Armani began producing in the United States. In the 1980s he began to branch out into fragrances and cosmetics. He saw the marketing value of cultivating a relationship with Hollywood, pioneering the concept of celebrities wearing designer fashions on the red carpet, and in 1980 he designed Richard Gere's suits for the film American Gigolo. He was also the first high-end design to support the idea of sustainable fashion, and banned models with a BMI under 18 following the death of a runway model due to anorexia nervosa in 2006. 

Armani's designs featured muted colors, relaxed lines, and soft fabrics (often mixing contrasting fabrics like silk and wool), and sophisticated silhouettes. 

Armani's first ever red carpet look was for Diane Keaton at the 1978 Academy Awards. Keaton wore a white blouse, a long full double-layered skirt, a loose-fitting blazer, and a looped scarf, all in shades of ivory, beige, and grey. 

Victoria Beckham wore a 1989 Armani design as co-chair of the 2008 Met Gala. The white, semi-sheer lace gown featured a tuxedo collar, a long center front slit, and narrow drapes in lieu of a train. 

Julia Roberts wore an Armani suit when she won her Best Supporting Actress Academy Award in 1990. The oversized grey suit  featured wide-legged trousers and a thigh-length jacket, worn over a white dress shirt and a charcoal grey necktie. 

Two years later, in 1992, Armani dressed Jodie Foster in a pale lilac tuxedo with baggy silver beaded pants, a nipped-in-waist, and a shawl collar, accessorized with lilac satin gloves. It was the beginning of a 30-year collaboration for the two, with Armani claiming to have rescued her from the Worst Dressed lists. (He wasn't wrong.) 

This 1992 Armani design hit the red carpet in 2025 when Mikey Madison wore it to the Critics Choice Awards. It channeled classic Hollywood glamour with a black velvet bodice and ivory silk gathered skirt and crushed sash, accessorized with black velvet wrist-length gloves with ivory satin cuffs. 

Katie Holmes went "flapper chic" in a vintage 1993 shiny red strapless Armani at the 2008 Met Gala, accessorizing with a long multi-strand necklace, bright blue pumps, and a Louise Brooks-inspired bob. 

At the 1997 Oscars, Salma Hayek accessorized her sleek scoop-necked, figure-hugging white sequin Armani gown with a satin clutch and what else? A diamond tiara by Cartier. 

Red carpet gowns need to catch the eye from every angle, including the back. Charlize Theron's black satin Armani gown at the 2005 SAG Awards included a back opening with exquisite dangling beaded details and a sculpted train. 

In 2007, Beyonce became the spokesperson for Emporio Armani Diamonds fragrance, and she walked the red carpet at the Academy Awards in a pale green Armani gown with a thigh-high slit, a short train, and a floral wrap forming a single shoulder strap. 

One of my personal favorite Armani designs, Anne Hathaway wore this diagonally-beaded silvery-white strapless mermaid column to the 2009 Academy Awards. 

Clare Danes wore a nude crystal-encrusted strapless Armani column with a reverse curved neckline and a short train to the 2010 Emmy Awards. 

Armani could design geometric as well as sleek silhouettes, as proven by the sculptural blush pink gown worn by Jennifer Lopez at the 2010 Academy Awards, which featured a folded-over strapless neckline and a large gathered accent at one hip.

Armani also designed avant garde fashions, including this futuristic gown worn by Lady Gaga at the 2010 Grammy Awards. The gown featured a bell-shaped skirt that was cut away at the front and encircled with stiff loops that continued up the bodice and over one shoulder. 

In 2013, Jodie Foster stunned in a midnight blue crystal-embellished Armani column with criss-cross satin straps. 

Jessica Chastain's beaded copper gown from the 2014 Academy Awards landed her on all the Best Dressed lists. The custom gown had a simple, sleek silhouette that clung in all the right places and formed a graceful puddle on the floor. 

Nicole Kidman wore a cobalt-blue Armani gown to the 2018 Academy Awards. It featured a deep sweetheart neckline, a slightly flared skirt, a broad front slit, and an oversized bow detail at the waist. 

Cate Blanchett appeared with the designer himself at the 2019 British Fashion Awards wearing a sparkly champagne-colored sleeveless Armani gown with a full skirt, a satin belt, and a frothy feather neckline. 

Anne Hathaway wore this stunning white empire-waisted Armani column at the 2022 Cannes Film Festival. It featured an off-the shoulder wrap that fell into a narrow rectangular train. 

Zendaya wore this stunning pink and grey one-shoulder Armani design to the 2024 Oscars. The silk gown featured a beaded palm tree design. 

Another of Armani's sculptural designs, Demi Moore won a 2025 Best Actress Golden Globe in this metallic gold trumpet gown with swirled bodice detailing. 


Armani's designs were always beautiful, always classic, and always flattering, and he leaves behind quite a legacy of both runway and red carpet looks that will continue to pass the test of time. 

It's Not How You Finish, It's How You Start

Let me begin this entry with a confession: My house is a mess. 

This is not even the messiest room. The sink is full of dirty dishes because I haven't emptied the dishwasher. The toilets need scrubbing. There is definitely toothpaste in all the sinks. There is dust and cat hair on every flat surface. Housecleaning has simply not been my priority of late. 

My priority of late has been getting out of bed. Taking a shower. Brushing my teeth. Making sure my kids have what they need for school. Feeding everyone. Running an occasional load of laundry. Keeping up with the bills. The most basic of basics: Sleep, food, hygiene, shelter. To say that I am struggling to find motivation is a huge understatement. It's hard to get started with anything, because every task feels so overwhelming. And if I can't finish it, why start it?

Because it will eventually need to be finished, that's why. Because starting something is exactly that: a start. The laundry piles and dust kitties won't get smaller, the grass won't get shorter, the paperwork won't get easier, the bathrooms won't get cleaner. Starting those tasks doesn't mean they'll go away, but it will keep them manageable for those moments when I do have the energy and the motivation to work on them. 

And the funny thing about getting started, especially when you're struggling with grief or depression, is that it makes it easier to keep going. Since it was comfortably cool this morning, I decided I would tackle mowing the back yard after the kids went to school, before I took a shower. I told myself that if I ran out of steam, I could skip the far side of the yard that isn't really visible, which made it easier to make myself start. And guess what? Not only did I finish the whole back yard, I mowed half of the front yard as well. 

And since that looked so good, I emptied the dishwasher and filled it up again. It was so nice to have a semi-clean sink that I kept going and hand-washed the oversized pot lid that doesn't fit in the dishwasher and scrubbed the cookie sheet that had been soaking for a day or two. The kitchen is still kind of a mess: the stovetop needs scrubbing, the crumb catcher of the toaster needs to be emptied, there are a few pantry items on the table that have yet to find their way into the pantry. I won't be finishing this task today. 

But I started. 

Momentum is a beautiful thing. And emotional momentum is an even more beautiful thing. Both grief and depression tend to feed off themselves, creating an emotional downward spiral that's difficult to break out of. But if you just start, sometimes that momentum will move you out of that spiral. Doing just part of what needs to be done can inspire you to keep going. And if you don't keep going? So what? You still did something. Now there's less to do. You took a step in the right direction. 

Looking at my "to do" list, I don't know how I'll ever finish it. But at least I can start. 

I Put It Away, Then I Got On With Things

Last Labor Day weekend marked the first event my husband and I participated in together as "Band Parents." Our son had joined the high school marching band, and they needed parents to volunteer at parades, competitions, and football games, to help with uniforms, serve as chaperones on the buses, and march alongside the band to help clear the way and provide water to the students. We dutifully showed up at the school and were given our official nametags and bright blue polo shirts with the band's logo on them.  

Today, I chaperoned solo. It occurred to me last night that I needed to find my polo shirt, which presumably had been hanging in my closet since the end of last marching season, and my nametag and lanyard, which....honestly, could have been anywhere. So when I got up this morning, I went through all the shirts in my closet and didn't find it. But occasionally clean laundry gets put away in the wrong closet, so I started going through my late husband's shirts, and I found his polo shirt hanging neatly, with his name lanyard carefully hooked around the same hanger. And I realized that he doesn't need it any more, so I should return it to the school. 

Doesn't sound like a big deal, right? And at first, it wasn't. But as I laid the hanger on the kitchen table with my purse so I wouldn't forget it, it suddenly hit me. Putting that shirt back in the uniform closet was a definitive statement that he was gone. He would never march in another parade, take another photo of his son in uniform, drum along with another cadence, ride another bus back to the school, pass out another water bottle. We would never again reminisce about our own marching band days or laugh at our nerdy high school selves. We wouldn't be going to band parent meetings together. I would be doing all of those things solo. 

None of those things are hard to do alone; I'm perfectly capable of doing all of them myself. I have done them all myself, on occasion. It's not the same as figuring out how to maintain the pool or who to call to turn off the irrigation system or mowing the lawn. It's the knowledge that part of the fun of all those activities was doing them together, and that part of my life is over. 

I will admit that tears were running down my face as I drove towards the school with his shirt and lanyard on a hanger next to me. When I parked the car, I took a moment to pull myself together, wiped my face, blew my nose, and brought the shirt inside. I hung it in the closet with the rest of the shirts, took his nametag out of the plastic sleeve, and returned the lanyard to the designated box. And then I took a deep breath, and marched out of the closet to start my pre-parade duties. I put it away, then I got on with things. 

It occurred to me later in the day that this could be a healthy way to deal with all of the reminders of him that I will come across over the coming weeks and months: cry over it, put it away, then get on with things. Dwelling on them isn't productive, hanging onto them only prolongs the pain, and life keeps moving along, so I'd better get on with it. 

Letting go of things isn't easy for me. I have definite packrat tendencies. But when I do finally let go of things, like weeding through my craft supplies or donating clothes that no longer fit or giving away toys that my kids have outgrown or tossing 200 of the 500 twist ties that have accumulated in the kitchen drawer, it feels really good. It feels like a weight has lifted from my shoulders. It feels like I can breathe a little more freely. 

Letting go of reminders of him will be a little harder. Okay, a lot harder. But I have the memories, so I don't need the stuff. The stuff just holds me back, keeping me in the past, in my grief. Maybe, just maybe, letting go of the stuff will let me move ahead to the future, out of the grief of loss and into the joy of memories. 

I just have to put it away, then get on with things. 

His Children Are His Legacy

This week, I sent both of my children off to high school. I took the traditional "photos on the front steps" and posted them on Facebook like the proud mama that I am. Several friends commented on their resemblance to their late father. It reminded me, once again, that his three children are his legacy. 

I can claim no credit for his older daughter; she was 15 when we got married and living with her mom on the opposite coast. He had raised her for the majority of her childhood, though, so being a dad was a large part of his identity, and his influence showed in his daughter's personality and choices. She was smart, polite, ambitious, and confident. Getting to know her reassured me that this was a man that I wanted to have children with. 

As co-parents, we were a good team. He was more forceful and disciplined; I was more soft and nurturing. He taught them to deal with the practicalities of life; I taught them to be empathetic and compassionate with people. Together, we built a good foundation and taught them to be generous, kind, ambitious, respectful, and hard-working. They may still be young, but they are good people, and I am proud of who they've become. 

But the teenage years are difficult, and important, and parenting teens can be intimidating even with a partner, never mind without. I am aware that these are still formative years, and each of my choices will have an impact, even more so now that he is not here to balance me out. I feel the pressure of carrying on his legacy. 

Will I know how to guide them through the choices they will have to make over the next few years as they think about preparing for college, choosing a college and a major, and moving into their independent young adult years? Will I be able to give them the same wise advice he would have? Will I be as savvy about providing for their future, about giving them a solid financial foundation, about preparing them for life on their own? Will they be able to live up to his expectations? 

I don't know the answer to any of those questions, although I do know that the next few years will look and feel very different than they would have if he were still here. But he's not, so all I can do is continue to do my best to guide them into being the successful people I know they can be, to follow in their father's and their sister's footsteps. And when I'm not sure what the answer is, I can always ask them,. "What do you think Dad would do?" That's always a pretty good answer. 

Good Enough

Yesterday, I sent my youngest off to her first day of high school. Today, I sent my oldest off to his first day of sophomore year. In keeping with tradition, they held signs and posed for photos on the front steps. 

 

But the difference was that this year the signs were a little less fancy and the photos were a little less polished. Because they were always a "Dad thing." Dad knew how to print a document with a fancy border and elegant text, and he had a photographer's eye that avoided shadows and lens flare and always had balanced composition. This year, it fell on me. I did the best I could, but I'm not Dad. 

My signs had a simple, rectangular border and a basic font without any shading or highlighting. I apparently picked a color that wasn't dark enough to show up really well in the photos. The photos are framed so the kids are a little off-center, the steps not exactly horizontal. There are weeds visible at the foot of the stairs. I deleted a bunch of the ones where they're both standing up because they have such a significant height difference that I either cut off the top of my son's head or I zoomed out so much that it just looked weird. 

But I got it done. We have photographic evidence of their first day. Years from now, when I put together the whole series of "First Day of School" photos, there won't have to be a gap. The difference in quality might be noticeable to some, but there won't be an absence. 

Except there will be an absence. We will always remember, when we look at these photos, that this was the first big moment when Dad wasn't there. When we had to carry on with normal life even though it was far from normal. When Mom stepped in and did her best, but it wasn't quite the same. 

I expect there to be a lot of moments like that in the future: Not quite the same. When they graduate from high school, we won't have the standard photos of Mom and Dad framing the beaming graduate. But we'll have photos, and although it won't be quite the same, it will be good enough. When they get married, Dad won't walk my daughter down the aisle or give my son "manly advice" and a fatherly slap on the back, but I'll be there. It won't be the same, but it will be good enough. When they buy their first house, Dad won't be the one sabering champagne to celebrate, but one of us that he trained will be. It won't be the same, but it will be good enough. When they become parents, Grandpa won't be there to hog the baby, but Nana Pott will have plenty of cuddles and lots of stories of the amazing, funny, wonderful, loving grandfather that they never met. It won't be the same, but it will be good enough. 

Nothing will ever be the same. But I think it just might be good enough. 

Take Good Care of Yourself

When my husband died, one of my closest friends, who had lost her own husband very young, told me it must be harder for me than it was for her, because I had children. I disagreed, because without my children, I don't think I would have bothered taking care of myself. All I wanted to do for those first few weeks was curl up under the covers of my bed and hide from the world, from life. But I couldn't, because I needed to take care of my children. And in order to do that, I needed to take care of myself. 

Self-care is one of the hardest parts of grief. Self-care takes thought and energy, two things that are in very short supply while you're grieving. Fortunately, I was surrounded by friends and family who reminded me to take care of myself and who took care of me when I couldn't do it myself. 

If you are grieving, or struggling with depression or other issues that make it difficult to take care of yourself, here are some things I found it helpful to remember. 

You need to eat. 

At first, anything you can stomach is good. I couldn't manage eating actual meals for a while, but having snacks that people had brought visible in the kitchen reminded me to eat when I could, and keeping a variety on hand meant that I could often find something that appealed. Food had no taste to me for a long time, so I looked for snacks with an appealing texture: yogurt, pudding, creamy soups, hummus, milk shakes, mashed potatoes. In those early days, nutritious value took a back seat to simply getting calories in. Later on, I worked my way up to comfort foods: pasta, pizza, pot pie, cinnamon toast, PB&J sandwiches. Eventually I worked in more protein in the form of grilled chicken, summer sausage, deli roast beef, grilled cheese sandwiches. Do what works for you, but make eating a priority. 

You need to sleep. 

This is one of the hardest parts of self-care, because you can't always control it. I was almost two months out before I got anything like a full night's sleep, and even that was interrupted. Sleep when you can, even if it's in the middle of the day. If you're wide awake at 5:30am, get up and watch the sunrise, then go back to bed and try to get another hour or two of sleep. If it's 8:30pm and you're nodding off on the couch, go to bed. You're going to wake up early anyway, so try to squeeze in a few extra hours earlier in the evening. Don't be afraid to speak to your doctor. My doctor offered to write me a prescription for a sleep aid to use in the short term. Especially if you have trouble falling asleep because you can't turn off your thoughts, a sleep aid can help break the cycle of anxiety. A rested mind is often a less anxious one.

You need to practice personal hygiene.

I found it very hard to care whether I'd brushed my teeth, or washed my hair, or shaved my legs, or taken a shower. I was like a glassy-eyed zombie, stumbling through my day doing only the most essential of tasks. But I found that when I forced myself to take care of my body, I felt more human, more ready to interact with the people who were trying to help me. Looking into a mirror and seeing an unwashed face with dirty, messy hair and fuzzy teeth was disheartening; seeing clean, brushed hair and teeth helped me feel ready to square my shoulders and face the world. Also, a long, hot shower is a good place to cry with impunity. Speaking of which...

You need to let yourself cry.

Different people deal with grief differently, but I think that at some point all of us need a good cry. For me, at first I was frozen, and then once things had sunk in I was afraid to let myself cry for fear that I wouldn't be able to stop. But I've found that deliberately finding times to cry, in safe places or with safe people, relieves a huge amount of pent-up stress and anxiety. The best place and time that works for me is in the morning before my kids get up. I get a cup of coffee and sit either on my front porch, where I can watch the sun rise, or near the window with my birdfeeders, and let myself cry, with tears simply pouring down my face. There may be times when you find yourself crying at a memory, like something you find around the house; or about some bureaucratic tangle you're dealing with; or a specific anxiety like finances or household management; but it's healthy to have a good, nonspecific cry now and then. Let it all out without worrying that it's messy or snotty or you're making disgusting noises. Talk out loud if it helps. Let out all those pent-up emotions. 

You need to take care of your mental health.

Everyone has different resources, but most of us have access to friends, counselors, therapists, books, podcasts. Looks for resources that work for you. Crowdsource recommendations. If you have access to an EAP, take advantage of it. If your medical insurance covers a therapist or counselor, make an appointment. If you attend a church, speak to your pastor. Consider joining a grief support group, either in person or online. Explore your options, and find what works for you. But don't let your mental health spiral out of control. Work on managing it before it becomes a problem. 

You need to take care of your physical health. 

See your doctor regularly. The stress of a loss can exacerbate existing conditions like high blood pressure, heart problems, digestive issues, autoimmune diseases, etc., and it can bring on new conditions. Address these issues promptly before they become a problem. I have chronic health conditions and my doctors were incredibly supportive and helpful in making short-term changes to make sure that problems with my physical health didn't affect my mental health, and that they didn't worsen due to the stress I was under. I hate taking any more medication that I absolutely need, but sometimes a short-term prescription is healthier than powering through a situation. Work with your doctor to find what's right for you. 

You need to ask for help.

Asking for help is very hard for me. Even letting people help is very hard for me. But people genuinely want to help. The people in your life, your family and friends, are grieving as well, and you're actually doing them a disservice by refusing their help. People who love you are hurt by seeing you hurting; let them help to ease that hurt any way you can. Accept help when offered, and don't be afraid to ask for help when you need it. Let friends bring you meals, even if you feel like you can cook. Let someone drive your kid home from an event, even if you're free to pick them up. You have so much on your plate that you can't do everything, even if you can do all the parts of everything. Use the time you save by accepting help to take a breath, to take a shower, to take a moment to organize your thoughts. Accepting help allows you to do some of the needed self care on this list. 

You need to put yourself first sometimes.

Especially if you have children (as I do), and especially if you are a people pleaser (as I am), it can be difficult to give your own needs priority over others'. For quite some time, I felt like I had to accept all the offers to go out for coffee and to go for a walk and to participate in some activity or other. And I genuinely wanted to accept them all, both for their sakes and for mine! It was lovely to have friends who were happy to talk, listen, or just sit quietly together, and I know it made them feel better to see for themselves that I was doing okay, all things considered. But I'm an introvert, and despite enjoying the company, there was a point when I was simply all peopled out. So I decided to take a few days and let myself be a hermit. I gave myself permission to say "no" to everything and to refill my emotional tank through solitude. And as a parent, I needed to be very careful that I was supporting what my kids needed, but not at the expense of my own emotional well-being. Instead of taking on the emotional load of figuring out how to get my son to a gathering of friends, I told him he was welcome to go, but he needed to figure out his own transportation (he's almost 16; this was something he could absolutely handle on his own). I worked in several volunteer positions, and I told one of them that I just couldn't do it any more. I felt guilty that I was letting them down, but it was simply too much. And I felt a huge sense of relief after I stepped away. It's okay to make yourself a priority. 

The bottom line is that you need to take care of yourself, so that you can take care of whatever and whoever you need to be responsible for. And if you're struggling to take care of yourself, find people around you to help take care of you. After all, you're the only you you've got. 

Our Love Story, Part 2: The Courtship

Our first few dates, in the month of September, were mostly dining out. I discovered that he appreciated good food and good wine, and I learned to appreciate both, as well as good service. He taught me how to taste and appreciate good wine, and how to pair it with food; he taught me to be unafraid of trying new dishes; he taught me that the best "pairing" for both good food and good wine is good company. 

I spent many late-night post-date hours talking to my roommate about how things were moving along and how right it all felt. At the time, she had also begun dating the man she would end up marrying, so it was a lovely time of both of us looking forward to the future with men we had come to love unconditionally. And even better, the two men enjoyed each other's company, so we were becoming a foursome as well as two pairs. 

He and I knew very early on that we had something special. We decided to try a restaurant that neither of us had been to before, a fondue place called "The Melting Pot." It featured a multi-course menu of salad, cheese fondue, entree fondue, and dessert fondue, and had a seating option called "Lovers' Lane," which featured small tables for two where the diners are seated next to each other and share a "cooking style," the flavor combination in which all the food is cooked. They also had an excellent wine menu (although terribly cheap wine glasses, which gave us a giggle, since we felt like we were drinking nice wine out of hotel water glasses). 

We were there the first time we told each other, "I love you." It was the first time I had told anyone other than my parents that I loved them. It was a pretty big deal. The Melting Pot would later become our go-to restaurant for both my birthday and often our wedding anniversary (spoiler!). It always held very special memories for us. 

In early October, my roommate and I hosted a party, and a mutual friend asked me how the online dating was going. "I think I've met The One," I told her. She immediately turned to my roommate and asked, "Does she say this every time?" My roommate, slightly stunned, replied, "She's NEVER said that before!" I knew. We all knew. 

The next step in our relationship was a surprise trip to New York City for my 39th birthday in November. He wrote up a whole schedule of "39 hours celebrating your 39th!" We went to see a Broadway show; we met his brother and sister-in-law, who lived just outside NYC; we went to a lovely French restaurant; we had drinks and watched cabaret acts at Don't Tell Mama; and we visited Tiffany's, where we drank champagne and tried on engagement rings. 

November also meant it was rehearsal time for Christmas shows. For the past decade, he had performed in the annual Christmas show put on by the regional theater he had mentioned in his profile. I was somewhat intimidated to audition for the group, but he had told me, "If I do the show and you don't, I won't see you for almost two months. So if you don't do it, I won't do it." I couldn't be responsible for him missing the show, so I took a deep breath and auditioned. It turned out to be the beginning of a wonderful part of my life and the birth of friendships that would carry my through the decades ahead. He informed (not asked!) the director that we would need to be paired in all the couples numbers, which was fortunately not a problem because we were both the tallest in our sections, so it was a natural pairing. As I settled in to the women's dressing room, it was clear that he was well-liked among the cast, as I was gently challenged as to how our relationship was growing, and I felt that I was clearly being evaluated, but also that I had met with general approval. 

We had touched on the idea of marriage during our NYC trip, but we had further discussions about how our marriage would work before we made it official. We agreed that I would be a stay-at-home mom while our children were small; we discussed how we would handle finances, parenting, church, education, housekeeping, extended families. We were both old enough and experienced enough to know what we wanted and what questions we needed to ask, and we both were giving the right answers. We were ready. 

But there was one more thing: we needed to meet each others' families. And more importantly, I need to get his daughter's approval. He told me straight out that he wouldn't even ask me to marry him until he'd gotten her blessing. So I went to a concert and met his parents, and he had dinner at my mom's house and met my mom and sister. The lighting fixture in my mom's dining room began flickering, and when he not only offered to fix it but was tall enough to fix it without needing a ladder, my mom was as smitten as I was. And at Christmas, when his daughter came to visit, we spent some time together, then he took her to a daddy-daughter dinner and asked for her blessing. He told me later that her response was, "Dad, if she makes you happy and you love her, I love her." He came home and told me, following it up with, "So, is it driving you crazy knowing that your ring is somewhere in this house?" It hadn't been, but it was now!

 

Our Love Story, Part 1: The First Date

I am what you might call a late bloomer. Like, a LATE late bloomer. By the time I graduated from college, I'd been on a grand total of TWO dates, one of which was in 7th grade (a bowling date during which I scored a 27, ouch) and the other of which was a "Pick a Date for Your Roommate" during which my poor roommate despaired of ever finding anyone willing to go out with me (shout-out to Tedd, on whom I had a horribly embarrassing crush, and who was a complete trooper despite being totally uninterested in me).

Over the course of the next 15 years or so, I went out on a blind date or two, and even had a (very) short-lived long distance "relationship" that lasted a month or two. But never any kind of serious relationship. It wasn't until I turned 38 and got an invitation for my 20-year high school reunion that I stopped and realized that if I was ever going to have a husband and kids, I'd better get moving. That particular ship may not have actually sailed, but it had pulled in the gangplank and was tooting the horn. If I wanted a man (and biological children) in my life, I was going to have to do something about it, and SOON.

At the time, I was living with a roommate who was a little older and had done a significant amount of online dating, so with her encouragement, I decided to join match.com. I made a deal with myself: no matter how it went, I committed myself to a year of really working at the "dating game." I approached it like searching for a job: I spent time doing my homework by looking to see what (who) was out there, I continually tweaked my own resume (profile) to make sure it reflected who I really was, I thought seriously about what I was looking for, and after every date, I updated things to improve my chances. 

I chatted with a lot of guys, and I met a few in person. One of the most important things I learned was that just because someone is nice and you enjoy their company, doesn't mean they're right for you. Another important lesson was that - again, like job searching - you need to be evaluating them and not just trying to get them to choose you. I dated a couple of guys for a few months, and they were lovely but they just weren't quite what I was looking for - and I wasn't quite what they were looking for. 

But then. There was a guy I had noticed who looked very nice, who had a teenage daughter that he obviously adored and who was involved with community theatre. But before I had a chance to connect with him, someone else asked me out and I ended up dating him for a few months. So when that guy broke it off with me, I looked back at theatre guy and decided he was worth checking out. 

We spent a few weeks exchanging emails and decided we'd like to meet in person. Before we did, we agreed to exchange our real names, not just our cute profile names (mine was "Oolie," his was "Hphil"). We didn't admit it to each other at the time, but that exchange nearly ended things right there. His real name was Herb. Herb?! Total nerd name. My real name was Sandy. Sandy?! Same as his mom - AND his ex-wife. But we both decided we could get past it, so we planned our first date. 

We did have one quick phone call before we met in person. He called me from his car while he was bringing one of his cats to the vet, so I got to enjoy his deep baritone voice accompanied by offended caterwauling from the back seat. There were a lot of giggles during that call, a few of them due to the cat, but mostly because we were both delighted that we enjoyed each other as much on the phone as in emails. So we scheduled a casual date. 

Now, I'm not dumb, and I know that meeting with a strange man can lead to trouble, so I planned ahead. First of all, I channeled my inner Sherlock Holmes and deduced that between his mention of the city of Waltham and the term "regional theatre" as opposed to "community theatre," he must have worked with the (then) Reagle Players. I immediately emailed a couple of friends who I knew had done shows with Reagle, saying something like, "I've been talking to this guy, he seems really nice, but I'd love it if someone could confirm that he's not secretly a psychopath." One of my friends immediately got back to me with a glowing review: "I've been to a cast party at his house, it's lovely, HE's lovely, I've met his mom and his niece and nephew and sister and they're ALL lovely. You should totally go out with him." (To this day she takes credit for bringing us together, and it is well deserved.)

But beyond that, I had an escape plan for the actual date. Any time I met a new guy, I always told my roommate exactly where and when I was going, and we sometimes planned a mid-date phone call so I could have an out if necessary. In this case, we had agreed to meet for a drink in the afternoon, before I was due to crew a performance of a show called Dearly Beloved at a nearby theater. She would call a little while into the date, and if I needed to bail, I would simply say, "Oh, there's a disaster at the theater and they need my help NOW? Sorry, gotta run!" and then I could get outta Dodge with minimal questions. 

So I pulled into the parking lot of Joe's American Bar and Grill in Woburn and sunk down in my seat, stealthily scoping out the other cars to see if he was there yet. Pretty soon, a classy green Mercedes sedan pulled into the lot and a cute blonde wearing a polo shirt and khakis, with a pair of sunglasses perched jauntily on his forehead, strolled confidently inside. Always a good sign when a) he drives a decent - or at least clean and well-maintained - car, and b) he looks like his profile pictures. So I waited a few minutes and then followed him inside, where he was sitting at the bar, having just ordered a cocktail. (I had no idea at the time that his standard "Tanqueray martini, very dry, up with a twist, shaken hard" would become such an integral part of my life.) He immediately stood up and greeted me with a handshake that turned into a quick hug. I was not a big drinker at the time, having grown up in a teetotaling household, but I knew to order my favorite: a Cosmopolitan. What I didn't know was how to answer when the bartender asked what kind of vodka I wanted. No one had ever asked me that before! I'd never even heard the term "house vodka," and I didn't buy vodka by the bottle so I had no idea what brands were obnoxiously pricy or embarrassingly cheap. The bartender seemed to recognize my deer-in-the-headlights expression and began listing off brands: Grey Goose, Absolut, Skyy, Stoli - Stoli! I recognized that one, and hoping it was reasonably middle-of-the-road, opted for that, hoping Herb hadn't noticed my discomfort. (Spoiler alert: He had, and would revel in telling that story to everyone we met for the next 18 years.) 

Fortunately, once we got over that initial hiccup, the date went swimmingly. In addition to our shared love of musical theatre, we discovered we were both French horn players, and even that I played in a group with - and was friends with - his cousin, and that he had been to a number of concerts that I had performed in. We also discovered that we had a number of friends in common, and were amazed that we'd never met before, although we determined that we must have been in the same room on multiple occasions. When my "escape phone call" came through, I blurted something like, "Yeah, everything's good? They don't need me early? Great, see you later," and hung up to continue hanging on his every word. 

When at last it came time that I really did need to leave for the theater, he asked hopefully, "Are there still tickets available? Can I come see the show?" I was thrilled to share that there were, so he followed me to the theater. In the lobby, he went to the ticket window and I opened my mouth to explain that I needed to help set the stage, and that I couldn't come out during intermission because there was a major set change, and that I needed to help strike for a while after the curtain fell, but before I could say a word, he told me, "I know you have stuff to do. I'll wait for you after the show - but take your time. I know the crew has a lot to do." I floated into the green room thinking, "He gets it!" I remember leaning back against the door as a few friends crowded around, asking how it was. I smiled and said, "I like him. I REALLY like him!" and then we all squealed like Beatles fans. 

After the show, the cast and crew planned to go out to a local Chili's, so of course I invited him, not sure if he'd accept. He looked at me and said simply, "It's Saturday night, I just went to see a show, of COURSE I want to go out with the cast!" He and I ended up splitting the corner of a large table, with my roommate on one side of him and her boyfriend (also a dear friend of mine) on the other side of me. They both fired a series of questions at him, determining whether they thought he was worthy of dating me or not. He took it all in good humor, his eyes frequently twinkling at me as he answered their probing questions, directing many of the answers more at me than at them. I was, in a word, smitten. We parted that night with another hug and a promise to get together again soon. 

And soon meant soon. He called me the next day, asking me out on a "real date," this time for dinner at the "Gourmet Room" of a nearby restaurant. I was impressed by how swanky it was (little did I know that this would turn out to be the lower tier of swankiness of our future restaurant adventures). We spent the evening making up stories about the other diners we could see - a group of lawyers vying for partnership positions, a dysfunctional family reunion, a bunch of tipsy college alumni - and introducing me to good wine and how to enjoy it. We had our first kiss in the parking lot, and I knew this was going to be a good one. 

To be continued...

It's Nothing, and It's Everything

This morning started well. I woke up in the early morning hours and heard my beloved owls hooting in the backyard. I fell back to sleep for a few more hours, so I had gotten a decent night's sleep. It was a lovely morning, sunny and cool. I got up, patted the cat sleeping in my bathroom sink, got my coffee, filled my birdfeeders, watched my backyard bunny hopping around. It was a good morning. 

And then I started to cry. 

I don't know why. I hadn't had a sudden memory or thought, I hadn't suddenly remembered some task I didn't know how to do, or some new bureaucratic snag to add to my to-do list. I just, completely out of the blue, felt so very sad and empty and overwhelmed and lonely. 

Sometimes grief works that way. Sometimes there's something specific that sets you off, but sometimes it's really nothing. Or maybe it's really everything. 

I've been looking forward to school starting next week, giving the kids a schedule, a structure, a routine, things to do all day instead of just hanging around at loose ends. I've been counting the days since my husband's death, waiting for his final death certificate to arrive so I can start dealing with all the red tape, making calls, filling out forms, scheduling appointments. 45 days passed. 60 days passed. I was supposed to have gotten it in "45 to 60 days." I'm worried that the "deadline" has passed and I'm still waiting. I'm looking ahead to the change of weather, knowing there will be a whole new round of things to do around the house to prepare for the cold weather: close the pool, turn off the outside spigots and irrigation system, arrange for snowplowing services, make sure the furnace is working. 

It's a lot. It's...everything. It's not just one thing that sets me off, it's the weight of everything.  

I keep using the phrase "eating the elephant" to explain how I'm trying to deal with things. You know, "How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time." Do just one task, solve just one problem, do just one thing. But every now and then, you feel so full that you're sick to your stomach, and then you look up, and there's still an awful lot of elephant there. 

I wish I had some lovely resolution to close with, some words of wisdom to explain that now I'm okay and things are fine and everything is just ducky. 

But I'm not okay, things aren't fine, and everything is definitely not ducky. I'm still sad and empty and overwhelmed and lonely. I'm still terrified of how much elephant I have left to deal with. I'm still frustrated and furious at the bureaucracy I have to untangle. I'm still worried about how I'll deal with everything. Yes, I have lots of help and support, but it still falls on me, and it sucks. 

This feeling will pass at some point, I'm sure, or at least it will lessen. But right now, it totally sucks. And I hate it. 

But I'm going to let myself wallow for now, because it's okay to do that. Wallowing is cathartic. Wallowing for a moment will eventually make me feel better. The need to wallow will pass. It's nothing. But right now, it's also everything. 

This Was Just a Moment in the Woods

Much to my husband's chagrin, I have always been a fan of Stephen Sondheim musicals. (He was...not.) I often find Sondheim's lyrics to be particularly moving and heartfelt. Some of my favorite lyrics are from the song "Any Moment/Moments in the Woods" from the musical Into the Woods. Here are some of my favorite passages:

Days are made of moments, all are worth exploring
Many kinds of moments, none is worth ignoring
All we have are moments, memories for storing

This was just a moment in the woods - Our moment
Shimmering and lovely and sad
Leave the moment, just be glad for the moment that we had
Every moment is a moment when you're in the woods...

Must it all be either less or more, either plain or grand?
Is it always "or"? Is it never "and"?

Just remembering you've had an "and" when you're back to "or"
Makes the "or" mean more than it did before

Life is, indeed, made of moments, some good and some bad. Grieving highlights those moments, emphasizing them, heightening them, and often flipping back and forth between good and bad with a speed that literally knocks the breath out of you. 

Yesterday I went shopping at Costco. This may sound like a routine, everyday event, and in some ways it is. Except that my husband and I frequently used Costco runs as an opportunity to spend some couple time together, like a daytime date. When he had a midday gap in his schedule, we'd take advantage of being able to shop during the quieter weekdays. In the car, we'd chat about his job, the kids, whatever was going on in our lives. We'd talk through vacation plans, catch up on news of extended family, review our weekly calendar. When we got there, he would grab a cart from the parking lot and "ride" it by jumping on the back and letting it careen, full-tilt, through the lot, often pretending to be out of control, flailing his arms and screaming comically to make me laugh. 

I'm at the point where that memory was able to make me smile, despite a little bittersweetness. It was a good moment. 

But then I got to the bakery section, and I saw that one of the employees was a long-time acquaintance. I didn't know if he'd heard about my husband's passing, and I couldn't bear to have him ask about him and have to tell him the bad news. I took the coward's way out and skipped that section. It was a bad moment. 

I bought a bag of birdseed - a 35-pound bag of birdseed. I never used to have to lift the heavy items; my job was to steady the cart while my husband did the heavy lifting. As I struggled to get the giant bag under the cart without the cart rolling away, I had another moment. Another bad moment. 

I was able to stay composed all the way until I got to the checkout, when I noticed the cashier in the next lane over. This particular employee bears a striking resemblance to actor JK Simmons, known for Broadway, television, films, voiceover work, and commercials, most notably commercials for Farmers Insurance. Whenever we saw him, we'd nudge each other and quietly sing the Farmers Insurance jingle: "We are Farmers, bum ba-dum bum, bum bum bum," and then we'd giggle. So without even thinking, I started to sing the jingle. And realized I was singing it alone. And that he would never be here to sing it with me again. 

I barely made it to the parking lot before I burst into tears. It was a bad moment. A very bad moment. 

But then I thought about the lyrics, "just be glad for the moment that we had," and "just remembering you've had an 'and' when you're back to 'or' makes the 'or' mean more than it did before." I tried to focus on not the loss, but the love. I tried to embrace the joyful memories of spending time together, of enjoying and celebrating even the mundane moments in life like shopping at Costco. 

What a gift it was to be a part of such a special "and." He and I, together, were the best "and" I could ever hope for or imagine. I had the gift of nearly 18 years of being part of the most wonderful "and." That is something to be celebrated. It was a time filled with so many good moments. 

Enough good moments, in fact, to carry me through the bad ones. "All we have are moments, memories for storing." I have stored many good moments in my memories, moments I can call on to remind me of the joy I had as an "and." 

The bad moments only exist because the good moments did. I couldn't miss our Costco trips if we'd never made them. I wouldn't miss having cocktails on the porch if we hadn't spent so many lovely evenings enjoying them together. 

I wouldn't feel a pang looking at our beautiful pool if it didn't evoke the joyous memories of designing it together and spending so many evenings relaxing next to it together. 

I wouldn't get a pang looking at his Scout hat if I hadn't seen him wearing it on so many trips with both of our kids, picturing his proud, beaming face under it. 

When I think ahead to my children's weddings and realize he won't be there to give away our daughter or pass on some fatherly advice to our son (bad moment), I can remember how joyful and proud he was to be part of his older daughter's wedding (incredibly good moment). 

When I have a bad moment, I will be glad for all the good moments that we had. And eventually, the "sad" will be outweighed by the "shimmering and lovely." But for now, there is still a lot of sad. 

And that's okay. Because it's still only a moment. And moments pass. 

Just be glad for the moment that we had.

The Owls are My Sign

Many people believe that seeing a cardinal is a sign that you are being visited by a loved one who has died. For me, cardinals are much too common in my yard for them to feel like a special sign. But I do have some avian visitors who have come to feel like a connection with my late husband: owls. 

Although I've never actually seen an owl at my house, I have heard them with varying frequency in the five years we've lived here. I'm enough of a "bird nerd" that I keep records of the different types of birds that I hear and see, so I can get a sense of their patterns and seasons, and the first time I heard an owl here was in spring of 2022, not quite two years after we moved in. It was a barred owl, the kind that hoots, "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for yoooouuuu???" We often heard barred owls at our previous house, so it was a fun, familiar sound. We also frequently heard them when we went camping, and it was not uncommon for my husband or I to wake each other up in the middle of the night on a camping trip or even a night at home and whisper excitedly, "Listen! The owls!"

In the summer of 2022, we heard a screech owl here for the first time. When I was growing up, the Boston Museum of Science had a screech owl aptly named Spooky, and that's where I first learned the sound of their eerie call: a haunting, falling, trilled "HOOOooooooo." Again, I was delighted to get a visit from this charming little owl. 

In the spring of 2023, we got our first visit from a great horned owl. Their hoot pattern is harder to describe in words, but once you've heard the rich, "Hoot hoooo, hoot hoot" or "Hoot hoo-hoooo, hoo hoo" pattern, you're likely to recognize it again. Another interesting thing I've noticed about the great horned owls that doesn't seem to be true of other types of owls, in my experience, is the variety of their voices, with some deeper and others much higher. It is a lot easier to recognize pairs of great horneds "chatting" back and forth than with other owls because the individuals have such distinct voices. 

Once we discovered that the owls occasionally called in our yard, we always tried to keep the windows in our bedroom open at night so we wouldn't miss a sound. There was something special about lying awake together in the dark, holding our breath and listening intently for them, giggling with delight when we heard them, often even grabbing each other's hand with excitement when we heard them. 

Over the past two months since his death, I have spent a lot of time lying awake in the dark. Maybe that's why I've been hearing the owls more frequently over the past couple of weeks. But every time I hear them, it makes me think of him. For just a moment, I imagine that he's lying next to me in the dark, silently holding his breath so we don't miss a single quiet hoot. I hear the higher-voiced owl, perhaps the female, calling out a questioning, "Hoot, hoo-hoo, hoo hoo?" and the deeper male voice responding with a reassuring, "Hoot hooo, hoot hoot," coming from a bit further away. 

I like to think that he's close by, even though I can't see him, reassuring me when I question my ability to manage as a single mom, to take care of the house and the kids, to unravel all the red tape that comes with the death of a spouse. An owl feels like an appropriate symbol for him, with his deep voice, quiet wisdom, and unruffled calmness. As the weather grows cooler, I suspect that I'll hear the owls less and less, but I hope that as time goes by, I'll need his reassurance less and less, as I find my way and slowly master each new task and check each bureaucratic item off my "to do" list. 

But for now, I'll keep listening for my owls.

A Reflection on Women and Compassion

My church has a women's social group called "Girls Gather" in which women of all ages (from young kids all the way up to senior citizens) come together every couple of months for a fun outing or a learning experience or some kind of gathering that allows us to spend time together getting to know each other outside of church. We've done everything from a paint night to learning to make pie crust to a bowling night to a knitting/crocheting/crafting day. But in the summer, we try to gather for a pool and snacks party, and this afternoon I hosted that gathering at my house.

We had put this date on the calendar months ago, before my husband passed away, so of course the organizers asked if I still wanted to host, reassuring me that there were other people willing and able to host. But I wanted to host as a thank you to all the women of the church who had been so supportive to me and my family over the past few months. 

Part of the gathering is always a brief devotional intended to provide spiritual encouragement and/or growth, and to explore what it means to be a godly woman. I asked to share the devotional this month, and the words below are based on what I shared. 

When I was thinking about what I wanted to focus on in my devotional, I thought about the idea of compassion, and I used the parable of the sheep and the goats from Matthew 25 as a "jumping-off" point. Here is an excerpt of the parable, from Matthew 25:34-40. 

"Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’"

This parable is all about practical help. But it is a particularly compassionate kind of practical help. “I was sick and you looked after me.” “I was in prison and you came to visit me.” Not “I was sick and you healed me,” or even “I was sick and you sent for the doctor.” Not “I was in prison and you baked me a cake with a file in it,” or “I was in prison and you hired an attorney to file an appeal on my behalf.” The sick person isn’t being healed, and the person in prison isn’t being freed. They’re still sick and in prison, but they’re not alone. This practical help has a sense of compassion, of emotional healing, and of personal connections. To me, this feels like a very female kind of practicality.

In my experience, men are generally practical in a very problem-solving way. When you tell a man you have a problem, he wants to fix it so there isn’t a problem any more. When you tell a woman you have a problem, she wants to fix it so you won’t be hurt by it any more. It’s a subtle difference, but it’s a very important one.

Over the past two months, the women of my church have shown me and my family, over and over again, the kind of feminine compassion that is spoken of in this parable.

When they saw that I wasn’t hungry but I needed to eat, they fed me. When they saw that I wasn’t hungry but that my children needed to eat, they fed us. When they saw that my heart was sick, they came to visit me, or sent me a text, or gave me a call, or invited me for coffee, or brought me cocktails. Or they brought me their children. Or some flowers. Or simply a listening ear or a shoulder to cry on. When I was a stranger that they didn’t really know but they knew was hurting, they not only brought me dinner but they stayed and talked. And more importantly, they stayed and listened.

I don’t know what the actual origin is of the expression “Being the hands and feet of Jesus”, but the women of my church have been it to me and my family. They didn’t just pray for us and wait for God to meet our spiritual needs, they reached out to meet our physical and emotional needs. Don’t get me wrong: the prayer of a righteous woman is powerful and effective and we could feel every one. But the most “Christian” thing that anyone in my church did was to look at us, really look at us, and think, “What do they need right now?” And they did it. They didn’t do it to solve the problem; it was not a problem they could solve. They did it because they loved us the way that Jesus loves us, with hearts full of compassion and a desire to take away our pain.   

This experience has been the ultimate in sisterhood. I have many wonderful men around me who are helping me so much. One of my brothers-in-law catered the reception at the funeral; my other brother-in-law fixed my broken screen door and wonky kitchen cabinets. One of our Scout leader friends brought over a whole troop of BSA Scouts to weed my overgrown front island. My dear, long-time friend, the man who gave me away at my wedding, has talked me through multiple computer issues. They’ve fixed stuff. But it has been the women in my life, the women in my church, who have helped to to fix ME; to heal my heart. All of their practical help has come with a heart connection. Not just offering prayers, but asking what they can pray for. Not just bringing dinner, but asking if I’d like a visit as well. Not just inviting me for coffee, but spending time getting to know me, honestly wanting to know how I’m doing.

If men and women are made in the image of God, I think we’re the ones who got God’s compassion. Matthew 9:36 says, “When Jesus saw the crowd, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” Micah 7:19: “You will again have compassion on us; you will tread our sins underfoot and hurl all our iniquities into the depths of the sea.” Isaiah 30:18a: “Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; therefore he will rise up to show you compassion.” We are the children of a compassionate God.

The Bible is full of exhortations for us to show compassion to one another: Ephesians 4:32a, “Be kind and compassionate to one another”; Colossians 3:12a: “Put on then, as God's chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts;” 1 Peter 3:8: “Be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble.” 1 John 3:17: “If anyone has material possessions and sees a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them, how can the love of God be in that person?” Romans 12:15: “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.”

With the exception of Jesus, most of the people in the Bible who are noted for their compassion are women. In Acts 9, we meet Dorcas, also called Tabitha, who “did many good things and many acts of kindness,” and who made clothing for widows, who all mourned when she died. In the book of Joshua, Rahab was called out for her kindness and compassion to the two spies sent by Joshua. Ruth, in the story of Ruth and Naomi, showed compassion for her mother-in-law, refusing to leave her alone in her grief over her two sons, even though it probably would have been easier for Ruth to return to her father’s house. In the book of Acts, a wealthy woman named Lydia opened her home to Paul and his fellow missionaries, offering them hospitality, kindness, and compassion. In Romans 16, Paul commends a woman named Phoebe for “helping many people,” in other words, for showing compassion.

Compassion is a gift that I think women have been given in a very special way. And women having compassion for other women is an even more special and unique connection. So I want to thank every one of the women who reached out to me for the compassion they have shown me and my family over the past months, but I also want to challenge them to continue to find ways to show compassion to others, especially to other women who are lost without Christ.

I would like to close with a prayer written by a pastor named Rich Bitterman. 

Dear Heavenly Father,

I come before you with a heart full of gratitude and love, knowing that you are the God of compassion, comfort, and refuge. Your word reminds me of your unwavering love and care for your children. I am reassured that when I cry out to you, you hear me. Your promise to deliver me from all my troubles fills me with hope and trust. Lord, in my moments of distress, when my spirit is crushed and my heart is broken, I feel your presence drawing near. Thank you for being close to the brokenhearted and for saving those who are crushed in spirit. Your love is my strength. I praise you for being the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort. During my trials, you provide me with reassurance. You comfort me in all my troubles, and I am grateful for the peace and strength I find in you. May I, in turn, be a source of comfort to others, sharing the comfort I have received from you with those who are in need. You are my refuge and strength. You are ever-present, always ready to help me in times of trouble. Lord, thank you for being my safe haven, my source of strength, and my constant support. In you, I find peace and security. Heavenly Father, I entrust my life to you, knowing that you are my refuge, my comfort, and my deliverer. May your love and grace guide me in all my days, and may I always seek to be a vessel of your comfort and compassion to those around me.

In Jesus’ name, I pray. Amen.

The Fairies Don't Live Here Any More

The more time that goes by since my husband's death, the more I have become aware of all the small things he did that I never even had to think about. For example, I never thought about getting the oil changed in my car; whenever the display reached "15% oil life," a new Valvoline sticker would magically appear on my windshield and the display was back to "100% oil life." The Car Maintenance Fairies had apparently paid a visit. 

The Car Maintenance Fairies were always busy, handling tasks like filling the gas tank, renewing the inspection sticker, paying the excise tax, detailing the interior, having the car washed. I never had to ask about it, or even think about it, it just happened. But yesterday my car's dashboard flashed "KEY BATTERY LOW" every time I got in the car. In the past, the Car Maintenance Fairies would have taken care of it without my even having to say a word.

But the fairies don't live here any more.  

Now it's my responsibility to notice when something needs doing, to figure out how to do it, and then to actually do it. 

The Bill Paying Fairies don't live here any more. 

The Take Out the Trash Fairies don't live here any more. 

The Pool Maintenance Fairies don't live here any more. 

Neither do the Modem-Resetting Fairies, the Grill Master Fairies, the Furnace Maintenance Fairies, the Contractor Coordinating Fairies, the Vacation Planning Fairies, the Money Making Fairies, the Social Life Coordination Fairies, the Remote Battery Changing Fairies, the Christmas Light Hanging Fairies, the Irrigation Management Fairies, the Spam Detection Fairies, the IT Assistant Fairies, and any of a dozen other Fairies. 

I don't think I was really aware of quite how many fairies lived in my house. 

I mean, I knew my husband did a lot, and I was grateful for everything he did for me. But as Joni Mitchell sang, "...you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." Even when you think you do. 

I miss the fairies. 

Done is Better than Perfect

When I began working as a seamstress and costumer for a high school fine and performing arts  department, with limited hours and an even more limited budget, I quickly adopted the mantra, "Done is better than perfect." Stage costumes are rarely seen up close, so when you need to crank out 100+ matching pieces, you learn to take shortcuts, leave bits unfinished, and ignore minor mistakes rather than redo them. It's better for everyone to have a decent costume than it is for half the cast to have a fantastic costume and half the cast to have nothing. 

I have definite perfectionist tendencies, so this was a concept that was difficult for me at first. I wanted each student to have a beautiful costume that they loved. And let's be honest, I wanted people to know that I was talented. But what was most important was not any one actor or my own ego, but the cast as a whole. The big picture was best served by getting it done, not getting it perfect. 

I am having to remind myself of this concept lately. There is a lot I need to get done. Like, A LOT a lot. I can't do it all perfectly. And ninety-nine percent of the time, it doesn't matter if I do it perfectly or not. The neighbors will not picket my house if my lawn is not mowed in perfect parallel lines. My guests will not recoil in horror if I forgot to dust the side table or there's a smudge on the bathroom mirror or there's an unwashed dish in the sink. My kids will not rebel if I feed them burgers instead of the promised pizza because I forgot to make the dough. The lawn is mowed, the house is reasonably clean, and the children are fed. That's the important part.

It's hard to admit that I can't to it all perfectly. There may be times when I can't even do it all poorly. But I need to remember to give myself the same grace that others have given me, the same grace I would give to others in my situation. 

Once again, I am so grateful to friends and family who have stepped in to fill the gaps when I fall short. People who have fed my family, weeded my garden, fixed my screen door, given me technical advice, taken over my volunteer responsibilities, offered rides and coffee dates and prayers and shoulders to cry on. Words cannot express my appreciation for your help in getting it done. 

And done is better than perfect.