Trusting My Heart

Halfway through 2015, I discovered that I could leave a heart imprint in my flesh if I pressed down on my charm hard enough, and I found myself doing it a few times every week--on the underside of my chin, in my neck, on my sternum, but most commonly on my right thumb.

I couldn't sleep last night. That never happens to me.

I looked at the ceiling for a long time, wondering why sleep wouldn't conquer my consciousness. As I lay there in bed, I absentmindedly reached for my necklace and squeezed the heart charm between my thumb and index finger as I had so many times over the past year. I felt the metal embossing the familiar heart within a circle onto my flesh. I used that time there in bed to retrace my goals for the past years--balance, think outside the box, act  and . . . and I couldn't even remember the word I had chosen for 2014. (After checking my blog this morning, I remembered it was the unsuccessful choice of "refine" that boggered me down.) In that moment, my mind traveled over this past year and the journey I began in January to change my heart. How did I do? Had I succeeded? Am I different now? How many times did I actually ask myself the question I posed twelve months ago--"Where was my heart today?"

To be honest, the last few months have been so hard and I have been so consumed with holding everything together at splitting seams that I forgot about the state of my heart--whether I was being kind or turning my heart to God or pumping blood through it during exercise or measuring my breath against its constant beat in savasana. I have neglected the necessary fuel for my spirit--prayer, scriptures, exercise, service to others, chores around my house, yoga, mindful eating--and my answer in that moment of reflection was that focusing on my heart is not quite complete. I was glad to get that answer, because while I have chosen a new word for 2016 and have started thinking the direction I need to go, I have not wanted to remove my talisman from my neck quite yet.

Now I know that I won't. I'll just be adding to it.

Goodbye, 2015. I saw much in your 365 days. I saw tragedy and sadness and pain and death. I saw triumph and joy and healing and mighty, mighty miracles. I close the book on you with gratitude for what you taught me, regrets of where I fell far short, and resolution to improve my heart this next time around.

I released my charm from my grasp, felt for the familiar indent in my thumb, rubbed it until it disappeared, and slipped into sleep.

Heart to Heart

My word for 2015 is heart. You can read more about that goal here. 

We planned to stay home for Thanksgiving this year. I had a turkey thawing in the fridge and was sitting down to make a grocery list when my phone pinged with a text alert.

It was Brad's mom, Janie.

"I was wondering if you guys could come for Thanksgiving? Greg gets 4 hours to come home. :) Pretty short notice for ya all and you probably have plans, but I'd sure love it and Greg would too. Dan has 2 turkeys we're roasting up. And I'll make cherry pies. Pleeeeease come."

How could we say no? 

We didn't.

The Thanksgiving dinner dishes and extra tables and chairs were quickly disappearing. Leftover turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce were tucked in their cozy refrigerated bed, waiting for the next day's much anticipated sandwiches. Family was scattered around, some running with cousins, some waiting for the gluttony to wear off a bit before indulging in pie.

Greg sat dressed in his familiar jeans and sweater, watching the family bustling all around him. I don't remember what errand I was completing, but when he invited me to sit next to him on the couch, I immediately detoured to his side.

That's when it happened--the conversation I thought we'd never have again.

I didn't care what we talked about, to be honest. Mostly we talked about graduate school and why he had stopped short of completing his dissertation. He never regretted abandoning his Spanish PhD because the work completed in the Ivory Linguistics Tower "never helped anyone." He spoke of initially finding his career path as a way to provide for his family and the fulfillment he has found in helping other families prepare for their futures.

Then he listened to me. He asked what I hoped to accomplish and why. Unlike his own graduate studies, he saw the positive in my ideas. He cut through the academic crapola and focused me on the fundamental reason I want to return to school--I want to help people. In his mind, this motive justifies the whole experiment. Suddenly, I saw things more clearly than I have in weeks. We talked dissertation possibilities and the time commitment necessary to write one. I confided in him my concern that a doctorate would take too much time away from my family. His answer resonated with me. "I guess you'll never know until you dive in, will you?" He commended my desire to help others and assuaged my worries. "I've never known you to do something halfway. If anyone can manage it all, you can."

And then it was time for pie.

Pie is important on Thanksgiving. Pumpkin pie. French silk pie. Coconut cream, apple, cherry pie. All lined up on the counter next to a freshly whipped bowl of sweetened cream and a tub of vanilla ice cream.

Our conversation may have ended, but that moment and that conversation still swirled in my head. Just a month earlier, Greg was facing his toughest struggle--recovering from an aneurysm and subsequent stroke. Full recovery was such a slight possibility, it would be miraculous. And there we were just forty days later, sitting on the couch discussing education and theses and theory like those forty days in the hospital hadn't happened. Sure, there are some changes in him. Forty days in the hospital snatched 33 pounds from his body and the color from his skin. The aneurysm and stroke stole some of his fine motor skills. But I had spent twenty minutes on the couch sitting next to a living, breathing, walking, talking, processing, interacting miracle. And I knew it.

Janie bustled by me, thrilled to be serving her family in her home with her husband on the couch asking for a slice of pie. Before she could pass me, I reached out and hugged her, with tears running down my cheeks. "I never thought we would talk like that ever again. I'm so thankful." Her eyes moistened as she squeezed me tight. "Me neither."

And then it really was time for pie.

Heart--The Last of Their Kind

My word for the year is 

heart

You can read about it here.

Something about chickens appeals to my Idaho country girl roots--their bucolic combing of the grass for tasty morsels, their noisy laying rituals, their not-so-friendly fights over the best tidbits when the scrap bucket dumps into their pen.

It was my routine. Take a scoop of chicken feed from garage or grab the scrap bucket from its spot next to the kitchen sink, then rattle it around as I crossed the yard to the pen. As soon as the girls would hear that, they would start squawking, running from wherever they were to greet me.

Something was off, though. The backyard was quiet. None of the girls ran to greet me. Strange. I wasn't prepared for what waited just inside the gate.

Feathers everywhere. Soft, downy, russet belly feathers. Long, dark tail quills. A few small black and grey feathers mixed with so many of the red.

Then I saw the pieces. Heads with glazed eyes. Wings severed from bodies. One random claw pointing skyward.

All five of my girls were gone, and I stood there with the now-purposeless cup of feed in my hand, shocked speechless.

With the full cup still in my hand, I returned to the house for a large garbage bag and a shovel, then I somberly scooped pieces and parts as my shock was slowly replaced with questions.

It must have been a cat. That's the only answer I could find. Growing up in farm country, you learn from an early age that life is tenuous and fragile and fraught with experiences like this. There's nothing you can do but be sad for a moment and move on. And wow, was I sad.

After disposing of their bodies, I returned for a final look at the nesting boxes. Four brown eggs and one green one--the last of their kind, and the last small gifts given.

_______________
This last month has been hard. One of the hardest I've had in a long time. Brad's neck injury. Greg's hospitalization. Kids struggling with school or friends. So much sickness--the fever that wouldn't leave. And then my feathered girls' gruesome fate brought it all to a head. That's when I cried, right there as I sat on the garden wall with a cup full of eggs in my hand.

Hard isn't even the right word. My heart had been heavy almost every day with some lingering worry or some new problem entering on the horizon, and now it was overflowing.

I've been driven to my knees more times in the last month than any time in recent memory. And what is the state of my heart?

I found comfort in Matthew 11:28: "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

While I have been heavily burdened with fear, worry, stress, and fatigue, I have felt God's hand assisting me. I still see joy in my hard days, and I know that all will be well. I may not know the end, but He does. And during days like these, there is comfort in that knowledge.

_______________
Craigslist has laying hens available. Maybe I will be ready to replace my girls soon. But not yet.

A Heart Full of Love

I was so busy editing pictures and recuperating from our July adventures that I completely forgot to reflect on my goal for the year.

Ever since we returned from our adventures and our family regrouped, I feel different. Different about my family and different towards my family.

All I want to do is be with them. Surround myself with them. Listen to their stories problems more carefully. Call them and text them whenever possible.

I am a little less selfish. A lot more patient. A little less correcting. A lot more loving.

My heart turns to them more fully and I see them almost for the first time. I see their goodness and their humor and their talents and their amazingness. God gave me an amazing family. Wow. Where have I been?

While there are still minutes and days full of strife and trouble, it all seems more trivial and temporary than before.

I don't know what changed in me, because I don't think anything miraculous happened to them. They are still the high energy, loud, crazy, often-disobedient-but-still-good people I've always mothered. I can't explain the change, but I pray these glasses I'm now wearing--glasses that have changed my view of them--are permanent.

Chicken-Hearted

Chickens.

They aren't very smart and get into trouble.

They can be picky eaters and picky sleepers.

They can make trouble and make messes.

And we found out they can get mean.

And I found out that I care about them more than I thought.

This is a chicken story, in two parts.

PART 1

Our feathered girls have always been nice around and accommodating of kids' attention--except for once.

One hen decided to establish a clutch of eggs in the top right roosting box. Every time someone would go out to feed or check for eggs, she would noisily inform the seeker to mind their own business, thankyouverymuch. I knew we needed to get to those eggs before they rotted, and when I consulted the work chart, I asked the child whose weekly assignment was the chickens to get the eggs out of that box.

To say that Lily detests the chickens is putting it mildly. She's a little afraid of them and mostly annoyed by them. They smell and they take time and they tangle your steps when you upend the feed bucket. Reluctantly and loudly, she protested all the way out the door and back again. She tried, but that hen would not move, and Lily was done trying.

Hyrum is our chicken whisperer, and he quickly volunteered for duty. He disappeared out the door, but in less than a minute, his shrieks could be heard by those around the dinner table. I could tell by the cry that he was really hurt, not just pretending to be. He rounded the corner to the kitchen from the back door and blood was dripping from his face and he was gasping for air between his deep, painful sobs. I quickly grabbed a rag from drawer and tried to determine where all the blood was coming from and to piece together what happened.

Hyrum had tried to move the chicken, but she had fiercely defended her nest with her most powerful weapon--her beak. Before he had a chance to react (or to even think that he was in danger, since they had always been his pets and receptive of his affection), the chicken pecked his face. She made contact with the inside of his nose, leaving only a small mark inside one nostril but aggravating the inside membrane, like an unknowing child who picks until blood replaces booger.

He was lucky. I knew that. No lasting mark and no lost eye and no permanent damage. Except--fear. Now he is afraid, and that makes me sad.

PART 2

Our feathered girls have a new enclosure. Six-foot tall rebar-enforced screen and latching gates have finally foiled their escape plans. As long as the kids remember to latch the gates when they finish their chicken chores, chickens can't destroy Brad's yard any more.

At least, that's what we thought, until the irrigation came down the first time.

When I closed the side gate on that irrigation afternoon, headed to kindergarten to read to the kids, I saw Sista (of our five chickens the only one that isn't red, so I know it's her) in the alley behind our house. How did she get out??? I thought she must have gotten through coop's gate without Brad noticing during the whole irrigation thing. I didn't have time to put her back in the coop, but I quickly chased her through the gate into the yard, where she was waiting after kindergarten story time.

And I promptly forgot all about the escape until two weeks later when irrigation day came around again.

This time, the irrigation came down in the night. When we woke up, the yard was blanketed with glassy water, and Sista once again was missing. I had the boys check the alley for her. She was nowhere to be found--only muddy chicken prints desperately left all along the back fence.

All day we searched for her, and she never appeared. It surprised me how much I cared about one lousy chicken. I mean, she was just a chicken, right? With her gone, that meant no more green/blue eggs mixed in with the brown, and that made me a little sad. Why?

She was just a chicken.

The next morning, after the kids had gone to school and I was taking out the trash, guess who wandered into the yard through the front gate, acting like nothing was out of the ordinary after having spent a night away from home?

Sista.

Guess who was strangely relieved and happy at her return?

Me.

I saw myself in these two chicken stories.

No matter how ornery we are or how lost we get, God still loves us and wants us to stay safely in the coop with our family. Sometimes we peck back and think we know best, resisting His efforts to convince us our way is not best for us. I can't imagine how sad it must be when we wander off and can't get back home. I'm a lot like these chickens of mine. Ornery and lost sometimes, but nothing makes me happier than getting back to my own bed in my own house where I have my family and I'm safe.

Weird to learn life lessons from chicken parables.

Shot Through the Heart (at Target)

"What does your necklace mean?"

Normally, Target employees are polite but not very chatty, but she had been making conversation for the past few minutes as she scanned flip flops, tennis shoes, and a $9 copy of the second Hobbit movie.

I've worn a necklace to remind me of my New Year's resolutions for 2 1/2 years now, and this is the first time a stranger has ever asked me if it means anything.

Subconsciously, I reached to my neck, sandwiched the small heart between my left thumb and forefinger, and slowly moved it back and forth on its chain.

What does this heart mean? Had I forgotten? Why did I feel a twinge of guilt from this question? How could I summarize what it was supposed to mean to me in just a few sentences to a complete stranger?

"It reminds me to keep my heart in the right place," I responded.

"Cool. That's cool. Have a great day."

I haven't been working too much on my heart lately. The pendant dangles close to my heart and I rarely acknowledge it's there--usually only when it gets tangled in my earring or if it hits me in the nose while I'm in downward dog (it's the exact size as my nostril and if it lodges just wrong . . .). I'm hoping that the end of kids' school, my graduation, and a little more latitude in daily schedules will get me back on track.

My goal for the month of June will be to remember why I wear a heart around my neck and not just inside my chest--"both universal and specific, both spiritual and physical."

And if you see me around, feel free to ask. Next time, I hope to have a better prepared answer.

Heartfelt

April 2015 

The month our dream of a cabin realized

The month my dream of a master's degree materialized 

The month my dream of a kind heart imagined and collapsed 

In hindsight, setting such a lofty goal of performing all of my actions with kindness during the month filled with the most (albeit positive and happy) stress was unwise and doomed from the start. 

I had the worst parenting moment of my life--a moment that, when I watch that DVD in the sky, I will hide my eyes and beg for forgiveness and a merciful fast forward. Not all moments can be Parents magazine-worthy, and my expectations of such disappeared years ago, but I cringe when I think how far I fell from that kindness goal. 

Since, I have been much better. Much calmer. Much kinder. 

And May 2015 stretches before me. 

The month we will retreat to the cabin whenever possible

The month I will walk a commencement

The month I will refocus my heart on kindness

And reap the blessings of forgiveness and second chances. 

Whole Hearted

My word for the year is 

heart

You can read about it here.

I have a confession to make.

It may have been obvious to you. I like to think not, but I deceive myself more often than I admit.

My attention has been distracted from my blog in the past few weeks.

Mr. Van Gogh and I have something in common. (It's not the art thing, that's for sure. And it's not the ear thing--promise.)

I have put every drop of everything I have to give into finding my path after graduation: Is it teaching? Is it advocacy? Is it a doctorate? Is it . . . What is it?

I don't know where to go or what to do with myself.

I found out that I can't teach at a public school (even with a degree in curriculum and instruction) without a teaching certificate. Earning a teaching certificate would require another 18 months and a second master's degree. Is that what I want? Not really. I could teach at a charter school, but is that what I want? I don't know if I want to be tied down like that.

I have worked tirelessly to convince MPS that change in their gifted education program is necessary to keep up with current practices. I seem to get nowhere with them, but I'm ever hopeful that on one occasion, just one thing will crack their shell and they will be ready to implement change. Until that time, I don't know where else to go or what else to do. It's a very discouraging place to find myself.

I looked into getting my doctorate. I love the idea of staying in academia and completing some long-term research relating to the effectiveness of gifted education--tracking students from kindergarten through graduation and on into college to see what really does work and what is a waste of time and resources. Unfortunately, the program that intrigues me most is in  . . . Connecticut. UCONN. Home of Renzulli and McCoach and other leading scholars in the field. Yeah. My family wouldn't be too thrilled to move to CN for a year. I might be up for the adventure, but then the question still lingers: What will I do from there? What will a doctorate give me that would be worth the investment?

I've researched it out. I've thought about it. I've put out feelers and sent inquiring emails. I've prayed about it. I've tried to force it on a few occasions and tried to pull back on others.

Nothing is coming. No answer.

Honestly, I have put my heart and soul into my work, and I have loved what I've received in return. Now where do I go from here?

I'm a bit lost.

Suggestions?

February Heart Beat

February has been a month of turmoil for me.

So many decisions.

So, so many decisions.

Cabin design, allergies, graduation. 

Is it really time to reserve my robes?

Sick kids, busy kids, confused kids. 

Is this the best choice for them?

Housework, schoolwork, future work. 

Is there something more for me out there?

My heart has been full of busyness, yet it has lacked gratitude and focus. I don't know exactly where the paths are leading right now, and that disquiet makes me uncomfortable.

Patience. Persistence. Perseverance.

One day at a time.
One decision at a time.

In my heart, I will know what I need to do.

Felt

Heart Day

Valentine's Day--

The Heart Day in my year of ♥ resolution and focus.

Brad and I escaped to a local hotel last night--did some shopping, saw a movie (not that movie), ate Japanese food for dinner and read the newspaper for breakfast like couples without kids do for Valentine's Day. That time alone with him reminded me how lucky I am to be me. To have him in my life.

He doesn't love it when I fawn over him here in cyberspace, but I couldn't let today pass without giving him a little recognition. He doesn't get enough of it, I'm afraid. A family of a million kids usually isn't very appreciative of a dad who works all day then comes home and takes them to the park for ice cream on a random Wednesday night. A wife who buries herself in textbooks and blog posts often neglects to thank a husband who helps with baths and bedtimes and bends over backwards to maker her happy.

Brad has bought our kids little heart-shaped boxes of candy every year for Valentine's Day as long as I can remember. I decided this year to add my own tradition to his. I wrote personal valentines to each of my younger kids and hid them under their pillows when Brad and I got home today. I wanted them to know how much I love them, why I love them, and what about each of them is so lovable. Lily's tenacity and Micah's kindness. Hyrum's humor and Evie's love notes.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Dear Self,

This photo has nothing to do with my post. I just liked it. And it's my blog.

It's been quite some time since the sugar monkey has reared his fuzzy little head around here. Brad was commenting at dinner the other night that I need to bring him back for a visit.

Have you missed him?

I haven't. Not that he hasn't been hopping up on my back still. I just haven't written about it.**

I've been participating in a healthy lifestyle challenge since November, and I have to say that I am finally learning what my body needs and what my body only thinks it needs (and later, I hate myself for my bad choices).

A few weeks ago, I wrote myself a sort of health manifest--a concrete list of NOs and YESs to remind myself what I really want for myself. I was going to keep it private, but Brad saw it on the counter in the bathroom, and he thought I should publish it here. I thought about it, and publishing it has two positive side effects: 1) It keeps me even more honest with myself, and 2) It could possibly lead someone else to make a similar list for themselves.

So, I'm posting my list today, with a giant disclaimer and no small amount of hesitation.

This list is mine, and mine alone. I took a lot of time thinking about my own personal eating issues, my own personal exercise routine, and my own personal needs before making this list. It was enlightening and helpful for me to be this honest with myself. This list is not intended to be universal or to fit anyone else. I invite you to make one of your own. It's empowering to articulate your weaknesses and your strengths. Just having it all written out and not floating around in my head has made this list meaningful to me.

To be honest, I haven't done every one of these things every day. I have been making mistakes, but the last point on the NO list and the last two points on the YES list have come in handy more than I thought they would. I'm learning that forgiving myself is one of the toughest challenges I face daily, and I'm learning how to do it.

That in itself is a huge step in the right direction.

So, before I chicken out, here's my letter to myself. I hope it leads you to a place where you can better understand yourself, too.

**If you would like to read more posts about my sugar monkey, type sugar monkey in the search window in the side bar. There are plenty of posts there.

Shining Bright

She did it. There's nothing stopping her now.

Where The Heart Leads

That's what I've been trying to do this past month--listen to my heart, and follow where it leads.

I had days where I didn't hear anything. Not because there was nothing to hear, but because I don't always know exactly how to listen.

I had days where I listened closely and I could hear the whispers. A quick text or phone call. A hug for a child. A prayer answered in an unexpected way.

I've spent much of the month pondering this question:

"How does God speak to me?" 

I came to the conclusion that He speaks to each of us differently, and learning to hear is one of life's greatest quests. It takes practice. It takes work. And most of all, it takes time.

That's what my heart needs--a little more training time. I'll keep working on it.

Farewell, Christmas Cheer

Can you find yours?

I walk by this spot multiple times a day. I often stop and look at the faces of the people I love ,and that short moment makes me smile. Kids will come to play and find their picture on the door, and they know they are an important part of our lives.

So many people don't send Christmas cards any more--Facebook, email, busy-ness all have contributed to the decline. I want you to know that we savor every single one we get. Exclamations of "Wow, their kids are big!" and "They moved this year." and "I remember them!" fill our home each Christmas season. Thanks for taking the time to send these to us. We love them, and we love you!

It's time to take down the Christmas cards. Until next year.

That's Amore!

I made pizza one night. It was an ordinary night. There was dough. There was sauce. There was cheese and pepperoni and ham and pineapple and even a few vegetables. Offhandedly I commented that we should have a pizza night every week. Then it was done.

I had good intentions of following through with that offhanded comment, and we had pizza the next Saturday night, but life got in the way the next weekend, and then it was the holidays and we had a houseful of people and commitments and commotion.

I forgot about weekly pizza night.

The first weekend after all the company was home, Hyrum asked if we were having pizza on Saturday "because it's a family tradition." I agreed, and once again, out came the flour and oil and sauce and toppings.

As we knelt in prayer as our family that night, Hyrum thanked Heavenly Father "for our family and for our family traditions." Until that moment, I hadn't realized how important that Saturday night ritual had become to my littlest boy--how this small act unites our family every week. How it shows him that I love him.

You can bet that we've had homemade pizza every week since. In fact, I'm on my way into the kitchen right now to make the dough.

Listen

With thoughtless and impatient hands

We tangle up the plans the Lord hath wrought.

And when we cry in pain, He saith,

"Be quiet, child, while I untie the knot."

--Unknown

"Turn the water off and get out, please."

"I can't! There's water and soap in my eyes! I can't!" Her stomping frustration splattered the shower door.

The falling water and little wet body stood between me and the faucet. "Evie, I have my clothes on and I can't reach the faucet. It's right in front of you. You can do it."

I stood with a towel in one hand and the shower door in the other, and as I watched, her insistence that she couldn't turn off the water intensified.

"I know you can do this. It's really close to your hand. Just move over a little bit. A little bit more. Lift your hand up."

She passed the point of listening to me. Tears had rinsed her eyes of the offending soap, but she didn't notice. Her whole world was unrelenting water and a malicious mother who could make it all go away--but wouldn't.

And then . . . her hand suddenly connected with the lever, and the water was off. I had been right all along. The faucet was within her reach. She could turn it off herself.  I stepped into the shower stall, scooped up my strawberry-scented daughter, rubbed down her dripping hair and body with a well-loved froggy towel, and hugged her close to me.

Even as I participated in this scene, I felt apart from it. I saw it all through different eyes. I am so like Evie. I cry and bluster and fight and amplify problems and sometimes give up, even though God is on the other side of my frustration, eagerly hoping I will listen for the help He is offering me. Hoping I won't give up or tangle up the problem any worse. And just like Evie, I am so unaware of how close the solution is. I don't even realize that it only takes a tiny bit more effort--just a few moments more--to be at peace.

2015 Word of the Year

It's that time of year again.

The time of new starts, crisp mornings, and fresh calendars. A New Year--a gift for all of us.

That gift is 365 brand new days, full of possibility and change. Days gifted to us to fill however we want. Twenty-four hours each day, 365 times over.

My focus on refine didn't turn out like I had hoped at the beginning of 2014, but in the end, I know I learned much about myself, about others, about forgiveness and repentance, and most importantly about Jesus Christ.

I thought about where I want to go in 2015, how I want to focus my efforts, and what word I should choose that could guide me throughout the year. I didn't want to make the same mistake as 2014, where I slogged through most of the year trying to find my footing yet feeling directionless. I know my weaknesses. I know where I struggle the most, and I know where I need to improve.

I thought about spiritual goals, health goals, service goals, family goals, and school goals. All of these are interwoven inside me, inseparably connected. I want to create lasting change in me, change that is written upon my soul.

My word for 2015 is

heart

The heart has long been used as a symbol representing the spiritual, emotional, moral, and intellectual core of a person. As the heart was once widely believed to be the seat of the human mind, the word heart continues to be used poetically to refer to the soul.

When I read that, I knew I'd found my word--a word that can be both universal and specific, both spiritual and physical. A word that can adjust throughout the year.

Even though I love what the word heart represents, I've always found the ♥ symbol to be kitschy and juvenile. Frankly, I've avoided using it very often and it's not something that I associate with my "self." No ♥ T-shirts or jewelry. No ♥ notepads or prints. Rarely any ♥s included in letters or written in chalk on the sidewalk. It has never been who I am. It is time to adjust my thinking a little bit.

I have a few ideas floating around my mind. First, I'm going to take the month of January to do precisely this:

The primary question I want to ask myself at the conclusion of each day of 2015 is, "Where was my heart today?"

I'm taking the month of January to listen to the whisperings of my heart, what I need to learn, who I need to help, where I should focus my energy, how I need to pray.

Happy New Year to you all. May you fill 2015's days with joy.

♥