Red Writing Hood: The Letter

*Post inspired by the TRDC Red Writing Hood prompt about a forgotten letter. "You or your character find a forgotten letter or card from someone important in your life--whether good or bad.  What does it say?  How does it affect you or your character?  What is done with it?"

I know this is late coming, but this is the fourth installment I've posted from my Novel, The Exception. I'm hoping to reveal a little more each week. Oh, and I cheated this time. It's actually closer to 700 words. Sorry, I tried. I had to cut a lot, add some things, and move things around so it would make a little more sense.

That aside, constructive criticism is welcome!

Here are the other excerpts, in chronological order (this one fits somewhere between "The Guardian" and "The House"):

The Guardian

The House

The Encounter

“I picked up your mail,” Paul called from Elanor’s kitchen.  “It’s on the table.” 

She sighed.  Paul might have been an Adonis by every definition, and every woman might label her lucky to call him her fiancé, but there was still something missing, something not right.  He was still fuming from the argument that had transpired on the bed, of that she knew.  But it was her birthday, so tonight he acted like he’d moved past it.

She sat on the couch, where he’d demanded she stay, and heard cupboards opening and closing from the kitchen.  She hated surprises.  Especially birthday surprises.  She stood and walked to the dining room table, blowing out a scented candle on the way, and started thumbing through the stack of mail.

Most of it was junk, but she froze, just as she did every time she saw the envelopes.  Another letter from Hugh, her former name still scrawled in his handwriting…haunting her.  Sighing, her face heating, she crumpled it.  Before she could toss it in the waste basket, Paul appeared and took it from her hands.

“Whoa, what’s this?”

“Paul, don’t,” she begged, trying to take it from him.

They stared each other down a moment, his eyes narrowing.  “What are you hiding from me?”

“I’m not hiding anything.  It’s just a letter from an old foster parent.”

He straightened the envelope, reading the addresses.  “A foster parent with your last name?”

“Graham is not my last name.”

He rolled his eyes.  “A foster parent with your old last name?  Who’s Hugh, Elanor?  What aren’t you telling me?”

Just when she was about to reply with another false excuse, she saw behind his shoulder, into the kitchen.  It was a birthday cake, elaborate and detailed, and just small enough for the two of them.  Her eyes immediately burned.  “What’s that?” she unevenly asked, pointing to it.

He twisted, then sighed.  “What does it look like?”

“I thought I told you before: no cakes.  You knew that.”

He ran his hand through his hair.  “It’s a cake, El.  It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me!”

He studied her a moment, her eyes glistening.  “It’s one thing to change the subject, but I’ve worked hard to make this night special for you.  Where’s the appreciation?”  He threw the crumpled envelope on the table.  “I don’t know what’s with you.  I’ve tried to get past your weird quirks, El, but I just don’t know…”

Inhaling unevenly, she withdrew.  “What are you saying, Paul?  Am I too nuts for you?  Is it too crazy that I don’t like birthdays, or even birthday cakes?”

“Oh, let’s not forget all the other hang-ups.  The house I wanted to buy was vintage, Elanor, and a steal.  And I had to pass it up because it had hardwood floors?”

“I’m sorry if those things remind me.”

“Remind you of what?”  He sighed, calming himself.  “All you have to do is open up to me, El.  We could work through whatever shit’s in your past.”

“We can’t work through anything.  I just want to move on, I want to forget certain things.  Is that too much to ask?”

His eyes turned somber.  “How can you marry someone you can’t even share yourself with?”

She tightened her jaw, her eyes rewetting.  “You know me, Paul,” she lied.

Glancing at the letter, his upper lip curled over his bleached teeth.  “No.  I don’t.”  He walked toward the door, grabbing his jacket. 

And he was gone.

Later, Elanor’s eyes found the blasted letter on the dining room table, suitably crinkled.  She picked it up, the course wrinkles satisfying against her fingertips, and noticed something different than usual.  On the front, in Hugh’s sloppy handwriting, it read, “Please don’t throw me away.”

With heating skin she huffed, revisiting her determination from nineteen years before, when she’d vowed to never play the fool again. 

When she’d disowned Hugh as her father. 

Hoping he could feel it, with both her fists she balled it into the tightest wad she could crumple—putting all her hatred into it—and threw it into the trash, her eyes burning from ancient betrayal. 

She would never read his words, never know what lies filled his many letters.

I just might lose it.

I've never taken part in Shell's PYHO (Pour Your Heart Out) Wednesdays, but I figured I should today. Before I explode. And this will be my last post for a short time, since we are leaving for Idaho tomorrow! Woo-hoo! If I get the chance, I might blog from there, but I'm not counting on it.

It's just been one of those days. You know, the kind where you've procrastinated things all week and decide that you'd do it all in one day--one day before you leave on a ten-day vacation? Or the kind where your kids are unbearably cranky, extra whiny, extra bratty, and cry at the drop of a hat? Those kinds of days suck on their own, but to have them both on the same day is just downright annoying.

I admit that the procrastinating is my fault. I've always been really good at that. I always think I'll have plenty of time in the future to get certain things done, and I'm wrong. Every. Time.

So instead of getting things ready for our trip this week, I've been using my few minutes of free time here and there to rewrite my first manuscript (the one I don't really consider a manuscript at all because of how absolutely horrible it is). I've always loved the characters, but felt a little ashamed of the story, and even more ashamed of the writing. So, I thought, why not rewrite it all, start from scratch?

It's something I just started doing for fun, because of the fact that I'd written it off a long time ago, but now that I'm back into it, and I'm seeing that it actually has some promise with the way I'm rewriting it, it's been hard to step away. It's been hard to find that balance, as it usually is when I'm into something I'm writing.

So that little thing I decided to do for fun has now turned into a passion that fills nearly every moment of my free time, which isn't much. And between that and a screaming baby (which I explain below), I have been a procrastinating whore.

It's a problem. And the first step is admitting it, right?

Anyway, I'm suffering from the consequence today. Here I am, with a massive to-do list and three kids that are driving me BONKERS.

It took me an hour just to fold laundry. Yes, an hour. Because my two-year-old's favorite thing to do is laugh when I pull my hair out and scream destroy a good ol' pile of freshly folded laundry. Twice.

And cleaning up the toys in the family room and their bedroom? Well, that was a two-hour job. After gathering all the puzzle pieces and having the kids put them together again, Josh also decided it would be fun to act like the spawn on Satan throw them all in random directions when I wasn't looking, including, but not limited to, behind the couch, behind the TV, on the shelf, and in the laundry (which was still destroyed at this point).

He also got a kick out of the fact that when I finally got their room clean an hour later (it was absolutely horrific, I tell you) and I put him in timeout, he locked himself in and destroyed everything I just cleaned while I begged from the other side of the door for him to unlock it. (After that episode, I messed around so much with the lock that I accidentally broke it disabled the lock on their door to prevent future episodes.)

And perhaps the most horrifying of all is that I have an almost-six-month-old who is the most high-maintenance individual I have ever had the pleasure to encounter. And people, I promise I'm not over-exaggerating this one. I am literally at my wit's end. If there is anyone out there who has a baby like this, any pointers will be helpful!

The constant soundtrack to my day (unless I am holding him) is a high-pitched scream that makes my head hurt. He cries ALL. THE. TIME. And I don't know why. I love the baby to death--really. He is so cute and fun and when I'm holding him, he is pleasant and happy and oh-so-kissable.

But I put him down and it's like I'm dealing with a starving, neglected, raging demon. (Those of you who are judging me for my word choice, come to my house for an hour and you will share the same opinion, I promise you.)

There is something about that screaming that not only hurts my head, but makes me grumpy, on edge, and triples the stress in the air. It makes me not want to do anything during the day (which is why I procrastinate in the first place) because listening to that in the background is torture. It's in the background to everything I do. EVERYTHING.

Doing the dishes: screaming. Sweeping/mopping the floor: screaming. Bathing the two older boys: screaming (and of course the crying from my older kids because they hate water). Giving my older kids lunch: screaming.  Disciplining my older kids: screaming. Dealing with an unruly, whiny child: screaming. Trying to unlock the children's door while pleading and nearly crying myself on the other end: screaming.

And it's not just the screaming that's getting to me, but the nursing, too. I've never enjoyed nursing with Luke. Never. And that is really sad to me. He's a miserable nurser. He squirms and fidgets the whole time, not to mention claws. I have scratches and abrasions all over my boobs, ribs, and chest because he doesn't know how to lay calmly when he eats. I have to use one hand to hold the boob in place (it comes out if I don't, thanks to the pulling, the squirming, etc.) and the other to try and keep his hands down.

And part of his behavior is out of habit, I think, since in the first few months of his life he suffered with my over-active letdown problem. But now it's just irritating. And it saddens me to say that I can't wait until he's older, when I'm ready to wean him.

So, you may be asking to yourself, why is she blogging if she has so much to get done?

And the answer is because I want to. Simple as that. I needed a break, the baby is asleep, and it's quiet.

Ah, that quiet.

And I'm tired. I'm tired of a fussy, needy baby, and I just want him to be happy. So there's my venting for the week.

And I just want to add that as I type, I can hear Josh throwing all the toys out of the drawers in his room again. For the third time. After the two hours his mom has spent cleaning it. He is supposed to be asleep.

And I'm just too tired to care now. It's why I don't clean on a usual basis.

Did I mention I'm tired?

Dear awkward, naive, sixteen-year-old self...

You know how you've always liked to write long, meaningful letters? Well, here's what one from the future looks like:

It's been quite a crazy and rewarding twelve years. You actually ended up where you hoped you would be: the wife to a wonderful, supportive, and faithful husband, and the mother to three fantastic children. It was all you ever wanted, really, since you could never put your finger on what you actually wanted to do with your life.

But even though you got what you wanted, be aware that you veered pretty far off the course to get there.

And you know what, past self? Though those certain obstacles and "bad" decisions in our life delayed the rewarding outcome, don't regret them. Because all our mistakes and life experiences--difficult and joyous--have made us who we are today. And we are pretty proud of that.

So, live life. Make the mistakes you will at one point regret. Because without them, you won't have a full understanding or appreciation for the Savior and His atonement. You won't have the life experience and character you now have. And you might not even have the open-minded view you now own.

One thing to look forward to: You realize you're pretty healthy after all, even after the Epstein Bar and depression episodes. You have a great immune system and can actually handle sleepless nights with a tinge of grace.

You love to run (imagine that), and you actually have your own sense of style. I know, that's hard to believe, isn't it? But you now know how to match, what styles do and don't fit your body type, and you only wear what makes you comfortable--not what you think you should wear.

Plus, there's a great show called What Not to Wear, from which you've learned a few helpful lessons.

Though you'll still have a hard time with it, you will learn how to say "no" to people and be slightly less of a pushover. Only slightly though. Maybe in twelve more years from now, forty-year old us will say it's not a problem at all.

You're not a singer, like you always wished you could be. In fact, your singing glory days were in high school, unfortunately. You haven't even sang in church in years, though you wish to. But you do still have that embedded passion for music. It still moves you in a way that nothing else can. Be proud of the fact that that's always been inside of you. In fact, don't feel embarrassed about any of the things that move you.

Despite your fears of what kind of a mother you'll be, especially because of your distaste for children, know that you will actually be a pretty great mom. There will be times when you won't feel like it, but you are. And you will love them without even trying. You'll love your kids, you'll actually know how to wear the mommy pants, and you'll be proud of it.

And you're proud to wear the wife pants, too. Sometimes they're old, dirty sweats (more times than we care to admit), and sometimes they're a little more appealing. Sexy even. I know, it's not a word in your vocabulary yet because you can't comprehend such an idea, but you will learn it's just one more thing that makes you, you.

Don't be afraid of intimacy, in any light.

And don't be afraid of sex. I know, you will blush when reading this because you aren't very open-minded about the idea, but that will change. There's nothing to fear. And it's actually pretty great.

Your husband loves you a great deal, and believe it or not, he finds you pretty desirable. He even claims he is the luckiest man in the world. And though you will not understand or believe him, take in his compliments.

Oh, and enjoy your smooth stomach while you have it. Because one day, after children, there will be nothing there but saggy, stretch-marked skin. But you will also be grateful because of what those scars have earned you. Your children are your life. And though they take on some of the traits you hate in yourself, you love it in them.

You will learn how to cook. Don't be so afraid of it. Your husband will give you all the pointers for a good foundation when you get married, and from there, you'll teach yourself. And half the time, you'll actually be quite decent at it.

Now, here's something you might not want to hear: you are still strangely proportioned, physically awkward, and uncoordinated. I know you hoped and daydreamed of one day growing into your long arms and legs, and maybe even getting better hair and a longer neck. But it doesn't happen.

In fact, sometimes you will feel even more uncoordinated than you once were. And you'll blame that on the beautiful children. You will hear this a lot in life, but it's true: pregnancy and raising children makes you scatter-brained.

Did I mention you have amazing, beautiful, strong-spirited children? Three boys, who will drive you nuts but make you feel like the most important, blessed girl on the planet. And that list you made with all the qualities you want in a future husband? You got them.

Well, all of them except the height. You don't marry someone tall. Sorry.

But his strengths will more than make up for it. He will see in you what you will still be struggling to see in yourself years down the road. And you are still very in love three children and eight years of marriage later.

So don't fret so much over the boy who broke your heart. No, he is not your future husband. No, you don't really love him. Yes, you will be happily married one day. And no, the cares and stresses you are experiencing now are not the most dire problems you will ever experience.

Don't worry so much about what other people think, please. The girls with Abercrombie & Fitch plastered to their perfect bodies don't know crap about what makes a girl special.

But you do. You know your divine heritage, and that you are a special, beautiful daughter of God. You know this. So please remember it, and let it fill you with confidence. Enjoy yourself and stop worry about the little things!

Oh...and pay better attention in math. We both know it's not our strong suit, but that doesn't mean you don't have to try.

And, confused, self-conscious girl: you will find your passion someday. You might not find it until later in life, after you've had your first child, but be aware of it. Recognize that your love for literature, English, poetry, and art stems from your destined purpose to write.

Yes, you are a writer. And it will be hard for you to call yourself that sometimes, because feeling inadequate is what you're best at, but you are a writer. Even without a degree, awards, or published work. Finally, you will find something you're good at, something that makes you feel special and passionate.

And thanks in partial to something called "blogging," you will be able to let your voice be heard. You will be able to pour your heart out and say what you really mean. You will find just who you are.

You have a lot to look forward to. Soak up every memorable moment in your life. Soak up the love that comes your way, and learn what you can from the hatred. You will be proud of who you become. You will realize one day that you wouldn't trade a thing in your life. And you will find yourself thanking God everyday for the path He's put you on and the people He's blessed you with in your life.

The things your future self is most proud of:

• The beautiful creations that are your children
• A happy, healthy family life
• You've written three novels
• You gave childbirth naturally (with no pain medication) to two of your children and now feel like you can accomplish anything as a woman

Lastly, love yourself. I can't say it enough. Love yourself even when all you can do is hate yourself, because you will need all the practice you can get for later in life, when you realize you never really did. So throw me a bone, sixteen-year-old me, and just love yourself.

Love,
Slightly-less-self-conscious, twenty-eight-year-old me

*Post inspired by the Lightning and the Lightning Bug Flicker of Inspiration prompt, "A Letter to You."

Write a letter to yourself at age sixteen. What might you tell your sixteen year-old self? Would you warn yourself not to make a certain mistake? Would you ask yourself to treasure being young? Would you tell yourself how much you've changed?

Gratitude

Thanks, for the idea, Allison! Check out what she's grateful for at Mama Wants This. 

I figured I needed a little gratitude on this blog. Especially since my last post generated comments like, "Someone's having a bad day..." and "Are you serious?" My mom even asked me if I really drank margaritas. I laughed. No, I don't really drink margaritas, or read romance novels.

I just write them.

(Again, a joke. Kind of.)

So, besides the givens, like my family, here's what I am especially grateful for this week. It's the little victories, right?

• Matt Nathanson's song, Little Victories. Pun intended.
• Josh saying more words and making communication that much easier. He's even started putting two words together!
• Reassuring comments from his speech therapist on just how great he's going. Plus, she says we are her favorite.
• New recipes.
• Air conditioning.
• The news that we will be going to Idaho next week, therefore getting me out of Bagdad.
• Ashley sending William home. Seriously, grow up, little boy. (Bachelorette is my guilty pleasure. No matter how irritating Ashley is.)
• The accumulated seven hours of sleep I had last night--almost double what I usually get.
• The sprinkler, because it gets Sam outside for hours each day. And I loooove the break love that he can get time in the sunshine.
• That Josh is even thicker in the chest than he was last week. It makes snuggling and hugging him SO much fun! He's my little football player.
• My Mag07 came in the mail. Maybe I will actually get to enjoy eating again!
• One of my manuscripts was returned by mail, meticulously edited by a friend.
• Chubby, rolly baby thighs.
• Master Chef, because it has inspired my husband to want to learn to cook something really well. And that means I might get a night off cooking.
• Oreos.
• Finding cute matching shirts for all three boys at Target...ON SALE!
• That the bug man sprayed our attic. One more obstacle for scorpions.
• Luke's screechy velociraptor laugh.
• A husband who is understanding when he gets home from work and it looks like nothing has gotten done.
• The mom and writing blog communities, and all the wonderful posts I get to read every day, from wonderful, funny, talented people that make me feel not so alone!
• Baby feet.

Red Writing Hood: Life...in a flash.

*Post inspired by this week's TRDC Red Writing Hood: "Flash Fiction can be fun and a real challenge. This week focus on the words and the strength of each to contribute to your story. Write a 300 word piece using the following word for inspiration: LIFE."

Flash Fiction. Eek. Not sure if this fits all the plot elements that are supposed to be creatively fit into flash fiction, but here's a pretty good short story within my story (The Exception) using "Life" as the inspiration (in 292 words, to be exact).

In past posts from this novel, Elanor was an adult, but as you'll see from this excerpt, Sam was with her as a child as well.

For the other two posts about Elanor, Sam, and even the protagonist, Jamie, click here (Happy Non-end) and here (Beauty Downfall).

Elanor’s seven-year-old stare was intent.  “I know you’re him, Sam—our guardian.”

Sam paused, stunned she knew so much.  With her hand still in his, they stopped walking and he looked down on her, into the eyes he’d do anything for—even if it meant living a miserable eternity as an immortal.  He’d never thought of himself as a guardian, only someone put in place to oversee.  But the gnawing reminder of how he’d veered off that course once before made the title seem fitting, even in his failures.  And now he was doing it again.

“Are you an angel, Sam?”

He chuckled.  “I don’t think so.  Not the last time I checked, anyway.”

“What are you then?”  Her freckled brow pulled together and her pink, full lips nearly pouted.  It was her traditional display of frustration and he tried not smile.

“I know you trust me, Lanor, so do you think you can keep trusting me, even though I can’t tell you everything?  Just know that I will always be around to make sure you’re safe, because that’s why I’m here.”

She lowered her eyes, and her shoulders.

He put his finger under her chin and raised it toward him.  “And it’s not because I don’t think you’ll understand.  It’s because I don’t know how much I’m allowed to tell you.  But I know that because you are so grown-up, you will understand that.  You will know that sometimes, that’s the way life works.”

Her eyes softened, his words lifting her shoulders.

“Besides,” he lightheartedly continued as he started forward again, “don’t you think the secret makes our friendship extra special?”

She smiled again, the beginnings of another tooth slowly filling the gap from a month ago.  “Yeah,” she dreamily replied.

Keep your unsolicited advice to yourself.

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "List 10 things you wish you could say to strangers who share unsolicited advice about your parenting skills."


Beware, all. Remember, this post is things I wish I could say. So they might be mean. But that's why I don't say them. I also thought it was funny that after I made this list, I realized that a lot of this stuff is centered around Walmart. I guess that's when I get the most unsolicited advice.

1. "What are you looking at?" Yes, I notice your daggers when I'm walking through the store with a baby, toddler, or child (or all three at once) throwing a temper tantrum. You don't have to say anything, because your old, judgmental eyes say it all. What do you want me to do--beat them? I would, trust me. I'd spank those little bums in public if I knew I wouldn't get reported to child services. So instead, my threats of spanking them "when we get home" will have to do.
2. "Yes, high fructose corn syrup is bad!" I know you think that because we had it when we were little and we're all still alive that it's okay, but they didn't have the research they did back then. It really is one of the worst things we can ingest into our bodies (and I know because we have done research and know the effects). And I want my kids to be healthy. I know, I'm horrible for letting him miss out on pop-drinking at age two. He just might have to go to a support group for it someday.
3. "Wait...where's your kids? Oh yeah...YOU DON'T HAVE ANY!" So until you do, please stop acting like you know anything about what it's really like to have and raise a child. I promise you, they're not that easy to control.
4. "My kids watch TV. So kill me." You say they might end up mindless, ADD children, but I say that my son learned his ABC's from Brainy Baby videos when he was fourteen months old and learned how to count to ten in Spanish from Dora when he was eighteen months old (Though I do loathe Dora). So, no, I don't feel guilty for using the TV as a babysitter when I'm in desperate need to get something done. Like dishes, or showering, or laundry. Or sitting on my back porch with a margarita and a romance novel. Ha!
5. "No, ma'am, my baby isn't hungry. No, ma'am, I'm not neglecting my child." So maybe only the first sentence applies, but when my baby is crying hysterically and you ask me if he is hungry, isn't that what your saying anyway--that I need your helpful prompt to remember that I have a baby in need of me? Lay. Off. He's tired, sick of being in his car seat all day (because to go anywhere we have about three hours of driving time), and basically cries every time I'm not holding him. So if one more old maid in Walmart asks me if my baby is hungry, I'm going to punch you. Okay, maybe not. I'll probably just smile and shake my head, but know that inside, I want to punch you.
6. "Don't talk to me until you do your research." Because I promise you, I have. And I know I'm doing what's best for my children. Even if that's different than what's best for yours. Even if that means you think they're disease-infested, germ spreading children because they're on an alternate vaccine schedule.
7. "Yes, dummy, breast is best." I don't judge anyone for their decision not to breastfeed, and I understand not everyone can--heck, I couldn't breastfeed my first child. So don't tell me I'm not doing what's best by nursing my child. Because, really...your argument sucks. Other than your claim that I need to put myself first and take care of me, and get more sleep at night so I can enjoy my children more during the day, you have nothing to back it up. And I'm sorry I put my baby before me. I'm a mom. I nurture. I nurse. That's what me and my boobs were made for, and that's how I love it. So, lost sleep, sore nipples, and all, I won't stop. And going off of that...
8. "Since when did you become a lactation consultant?" Yes, I have tried everything, and I mean everything, to nurse my baby (speaking of my first). That includes countless nurses, grandmas, aunts, and three real lactation consultants. And everyone was stumped. I spent hours and countless hours up in the night and meeting with people to try to get my baby to nurse. He hated it, no matter how many tears I spilled and how many prayers I prayed--so I could be the mom I wanted to be. So I didn't feel like a failure. In fact, after six weeks of constant refusal from him, I pumped all day, every day, until he was six months old, just so I could feel like I was doing what was best. So do not tell me that you have the magical solution. Because I guarantee I've heard it and tried it. And no, they will not just give in when they get hungry enough. I promise you. And I will not let my child suffer from malnutrition. Just because your babies were good nursers doesn't mean everyone's baby can be.
9. "Talk to me when you have a fussy, high-needs baby." Until then, don't even pretend to know what it's like. It's great your children are angels, sleep when, where, and how you want them to, and are happy laying by themselves, but letting my baby "cry it out" isn't going to change a damn thing. No, I did not make him this way by "loving him too much." My kids have been high maintenance since the second they came out of my lady parts. Baby, they were born this way.
10. "You're right...I am too stupid to realize my child is danger!" Thank you so much for telling me he might fall out of the grocery cart. I don't know what I would do without your eyes. After all, I'm just a mindless breeding machine with a baby wrapped to her chest, a child sitting in the front of the cart, another child in the back, and every other inch of space occupied with groceries. 

Oh wait...I just realized my child is standing because I told him to.  

Because I don't have four arms and can't push two carts to carry all the millions of groceries I buy, and because of those millions of groceries there just isn't enough room for him to sit, and because I live an hour and a half from the nearest Walmart and have to stock up on groceries on the rare occasion I get to go, and because I have to make these long, obnoxious trips to town by myself, and because I don't want my kids to run away from me in the grocery store (I swear, if I did let him out of the cart, he'd be gone in a second)... And because, because, because...

I do what I can. Even if that means one of my children will stand in the back and hold on. 

But what do I know? I'm just a mindless breeding machine.

Whew. Felt good to get that out.

Wordless Wednesday

So maybe it's not exactly wordless, but because I don't have a long, gushing story this time, I'm not calling it Wordful Wednesday. There's not really much I have to say about this picture. The caption says it all.

And my heart swells when I look at it.

This is my most favorite picture I have ever taken, of Sam and Dave about two years ago.

Love, love love.

"Lead me, guide me, walk beside me; help me find the way..."