Christmas snapshots

Here are a few pictures from the first Christmas morning that Jonathan really "got it". The snowman is a big deal-- Jonathan has fallen in love with Frosty this season and I was SO excited to make him a snowman of his own. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas!

This was the moment we "opened the gates" and let the three little ones run into the living room. Jonathan was overcome and, failing to stop at the tree, just dove headlong into the tree and hit the gifts with the full force of his weight... and then he did it again.

This was the big gift for the little man this year-- a Radio Flyer tricycle!

Do you see all that snow?! It fell all day in a soft whispering cascade. Perfect packing snow too, for snowmen and snowballs!

Here is the Adams' family Frosty in all his glory. You can't tell, but the nose is a long celery stick. Merry Christmas!

I have to tell you what happened today

It is that time of year again. I am getting older, and I must admit the magic is harder to see, but it is still there and it still touches me with cold crisp air lit by sparkling bulbs and pops of holly berry.

I am getting older, and I sometimes try too hard to intoxicate myself with decorations and shopping and chasing after the elusive Bing Crosby song I know must be playing on the radio somewhere. Yet the small surprises of Christmas are always blessing me with their unexpectedness, and why shouldn't this be the case if I am really cherishing Christmas for the sake of the baby born in Bethlehem long ago?

There is a house on the corner of Talmaga and Horsepen Creek and every year I am delighted to find that it is lit up yet again with bright white lights and huge inflatable characters bedecking the lawn. It makes me smile and relax, for it is something about Christmas I can only enjoy and never control, just like the lighted balls hanging from trees in some house I keep passing on the highway but couldn't really tell you how to get to. Much like these dazzling suprises that draw mine and my two-year-old's eyes with wonder that reflects back through his sweet little eyes and turns his mouth into a silent O, we received a small (yet rather sizeable) surprise in the mail today.

The baby now growing in me has my heart around its little finger, or rather its little ten toes. Those little feet and those little toes have a special condition called "Clubfoot", which basically means they are growing a bit funny and will have to be corrected with braces. For an expectant mother this only makes him/her more desirable, for I can't wait to hold my little broken baby. Those feet may look funny but they are precious to me, even more so because of their crookedness.

Reality is that this issue required an extra ultrasound about a month ago, an ultrasound that we just found out this week is costing us a pretty penny that will be untouched by our insurance company. It seemed odd to mind that, to resent spending so much money on a baby I love so much, and I almost wanted to dismiss the thought of it because I am just grateful this baby is coming at all. Nonetheless, being an adult means that Christmas magic is harder to find and that bills are an all too sure bet.

I checked the mail today and saw, among several boring looking envelopes, a large and thick card for Josh. It was his birthday the other day and I selfishly hoped it would be stuffed with something more than goodwill (the holidays are pricey, after all). I picked up the card after he had opened it and shook it doubtfully, nothing fell out. I went back to my chores and when Josh said, "Hey Hannah, listen to this," I certainly wasn't expecting the open letter he held from our insurance company to contain anything other than more financial frustration. So when he announced that we were getting a refund I was more than surprised, but not as much as I should have been. It turns out that due to recent politics we are receiving nearly the same amount from our insurance company that we just had to pay for the baby's ultrasound. My surprise faded into humble gratitude as soon as I heard the amount.

I love that little baby. I love that baby so much that I will move mountains and red tape, and adjusting your financial situation is not beyond Me. I love your baby with a fierceness that will surprise you.

God spoke through a skinny white envelope tonight, and even with our Christmas tree, garlands, holly berries, and lights strung around the house that little envelope held more of His promise than all of my decorating ever could.

Halloween!

We have never trick or treated as a married couple, so this night was a first for our little family of three (and a half). Expecting a short-lived celebration, as Jonathan is characteristically shy, we were happily shocked to see him trot up lawns and knock on new doors and even mutter "Trick or Treat" before hesitantly choosing a piece (or two) of candy from the neighbors. It was quite an event, we traveled in a pack of toddlers and adults from our neighborhood, and watched our little train conductor, skeleton, Buzz Lightyear, cheetah, witch, and more run down the street with loose costumes flapping and jack-o-lantern candy pails bobbing. The night was capped off perfectly with an outdoor party at the Matthews' house around a firepit and complete with hot apple cider and pumpkin pie. The whole evening was delicious...

My little train conductor, with his "James" train.

Gosh, he's so cute I can't stand it!

The first house down, and we're off...

When Josh asked him what he got Jonathan replied, "Sceee, scee..." Translation: "I'm so beside myself with excitement about free candy just landing in my bag that I don't even have words to express myself."

The neighbor boys: Conner as a skeleton and Max as Buzz.

With Uncle Seth!

Jonathan and Quincy Matthews, who is decked out as a lobster.

Good friends:) Ashley Burnett and Paul Travers, the Adams family, Brooke and Jared Matthews.

Grace

Last Friday night I believe I literally melted into my bed. This week has been tiring, for all of the usual reasons weeks become that way, and after a great night of talking and laughing and eating with friends I truly had no energy left to throw away the last straggler paper towel, much less find places for all of the toys or wash the dishes still lingering in the sink. I am fairly certain my body stayed curled in one position all night and that even dreams could barely take hold in the bottomless ocean of my slumber. When Jonathan's cries pierced through the still dark early morning I thanked my yet twinkling stars that Josh was willing to go get him.

A few moments later my bouncing two year old pitter patted into my room amid joyful chatter, so excited he was that Daddy was up to play. He gave me a kiss and then bounded down the hall to wait for his dad. Josh smiled at me, kissed me too, and then padded down the hall sleepy-eyed but and shoulders hunched inside his sweatshirt, his muscles still too tired to accept the fact of being outside of a warm bed. I fell back asleep instantly.

Hours later I finally let my body catch up to my brain and stretched my limbs, watching the sun come through the window and color the parts of the bed where my legs made bumps under the covers. I blinked my eyes and threw the sheets back, letting my skin feel the cool October breeze that washed into our room and invited me to get up. Padding softly down the hall I heard the faint sound of the ocean coming through my son's wall. I paused, confused, as I was at home and not at the beach, and then remembered that his new sound machine must still be on and playing the soft sound of waves.

It was with the gentle loll of waves still in my ear that I walked into a perfectly clean living room-- Josh had cleaned it all, early in the morning and while he let me sleep. I peeked into the kitchen, but it too was perfectly clean. I sighed and sat down happily, in the lap of grace.

Grace, I think, is not only to be found in the words I forgive you, but much more often in the beautiful moments. In those flecks of time where you don't deserve and certainly don't expect beauty, to find it is to rest in Grace. From my extra hours of sleep to the sweet kisses from my boys, to the sound of the ocean in the middle of Greensboro to the welcoming sight of no clutter and clean countertops, I was reminded of the Lord's grace, and grateful for its unbidden entrance.

September grass is the sweetest kind

... "Goes down easy like apple wine. Hope you don't mind if I pour you some, made that much sweeter by the winter to come." ~James Taylor

Autumn is my favorite time of year. I can still peel off my sweater when the day gets warm, but the mornings are crunchy acorns under my bare feet when I step outside, cold toes and the brewing thought of socks and hot tea. Today I am going to put a thick ivory covered down comforter back on my oak bed and I will wear jeans and a long sleeve tee. I will drive with the windows down and the fresh Fall air rolling like a symphony through my tired and lately quite stuffy car.

This Autumn brings more than just the relief of cool air and Pumpkin Spice lattes from Starbucks. This Autumn I celebrate being well, feeling whole and human and more than a sick lag on the couch. As my belly swells with the baby being knitted together inside I am grateful for that gentle pucker and the fact that I am enjoying this little presence por fin. Josh and I were more than ready for another child, but the illness of this pregnancy was unforeseen and certainly not long awaited.

As it is, we have come through a hot, sick summer with pure joy at the thought of who we will meet in March and I even enjoyed a therapeutic stay in the Outer Banks just before the 80s turned to 70s and the hot sun to a deluge of rain!

Here are a few snapshots of what our summer has held. As you can see Jonathan and I are both growing rapidly and Josh is handedly holding us together.

Early summer days, fun in the sun and splashin' in the pool!

A visit to Grandy's house with Charles and Emily.

A little bit of toning.

Not so much toning here... (This is a recent pic, taken about 2 weeks ago.)

What better way to usher out summer than sandcastles with cousins?! Of course, Jonathan liked knocking them over best.

And more swimmin'

In Florida swimmin'

July 4 with Dukes and Chesneys

Jonathan and Daddy in the pool, lovin' being cool.

Aren't they a pair?! Jonathan is already trying to woo the women with books and knowledge... and a surfer shirt.

Jonathan with Katherine Duke. She's always stylin', check out that patriotic outfit!

Jonathan (observe the socks), Katherine, and Cooper Chesney.

Sweaty but happy at the Kirkwood parade-- William's uncle played Uncle Sam.

Jesse, Katherine, and William Duke. Old friends become new neighbors-- I love life's little suprises:)

Jonathan is getting a little toasty, but loving the cars driving by with streamers and horns!

Our first fireworks as a family.

William and Katherine Duke, Curtis and Cooper Chesney, Katie and Annabelle Chesney, Hannah, Josh, and Jonathan. We had so much fun, thank you Dukes!

"Fire Truck, Again?"

I love watching him learn to communicate and enunciate words. Check out his fire truck impression-- it's pretty impressive.

Boy's best friend

27. Casey and Ashley W

Real, patient, raw, unmoving, determined friendships are hard to come by. They are like needles in a giant city sized haystack, and the finding of them is a jubilant and heartwarming feat. It is a feat that takes weeks, and then months, then years and more. Often you do not realize as these diamonds surface, their glitter is lost amid the sparkle of fun and youthfulness that surround them. A pause is required to reminisce and sigh deep in the acknowledgment of their presence.

Josh met Casey and Ashley back in high school, and they all stayed in touch as the boys both went to Appalachian. High school sweethearts, Casey and Ashley had already been married six months when I was whisked away to Greensboro with wide eyes and some semblance of optimism regarding new friendships. The three of them decided we should all get together, and I liked them from the start. Ashley is thoughtful and bright, hard working and compassionate. Casey is rugged and opinionated, brusque and humorous. They are both fiercely loyal and determined to make people feel known and appreciated.

When I first got to know them I was a bit startled by Casey's innumerable stories of hunting, fishing, riding, hiking, and general adventuring. It was part awe and part jealousy-- I hadn't felt the tug of a line or the rumble of hooves in a long time. He seemed to have the somewhat cocky swagger of one who has taken on the elements and done fine for himself, and I figured that his stories would stay his own. Content to enjoy his retellings by the light of waxing candles that burned down long after dinner, I didn't dare ask to be carted along. I didn't have to. When I turned twenty five the two of them asked what I'd like to do for my birthday. With a giddy childlike sigh I intimated my desire to be back on a horse, without lead rope or a carnival in the background. Casey said he'd get on that.

A few months later I was swinging my leg into the saddle for not only a day of riding with Casey and Ashley's friends and acquaintances but trailer light card games and camping to follow. It was one of the most hilarious and memorable days of my adulthood and despite an allergy attack that left me nearly incapacitated I still smile thinking of Casey and Ashley's determination and follow-through to see me enjoy my birthday.

Ashley is the heartbeat of their marriage. Her empathy runs further than skin deep, so when she furrows her brow in concern for you it is reaching all the way to her marrow. She once called me in a frenetic tone of voice asking advice on how to speak truth to a friend. The humility in asking was impressive in itself, but the zeal for her friend was more so. Every time we do dinner together, which usually means they cook for us at our house so Jonathan can fall asleep in his own bed, Ashley comes smiling through the door and immediately asks me what's new. Her eyebrows are raised and eyes flashing, as if daring me not to be genuine in my response. I've long since given up trying to act like everything's just fine, and instead I root around in my brain to come up with all the new, old, exciting, and taxing. She listens intently and then, most graciously, is honest with me as well.

When Jonathan was born Ashley and Casey were determined not to lose our bi-monthly dinner dates. As I felt pretty confined to the house with a new baby's restrictive feeding and sleeping schedule, we started venturing out much less. Our loyal friends were not to be deterred, so they came over for dinner and brought dinner with them-- from baked spaghetti all the way to dessert and wine. When they pitched the idea it was not so much a suggestion as a statement. It was the same one they've been making for the last four years: "We are diving head first into this friendship and into your lives. You can set out the welcome mat or bar the door, but we're coming a knocking either way. By the way, we brought the wine and fresh caught fish."

26. Mrs. Brennan

I love to read. Getting lost in a book is like getting a pedicure, sitting down in a sauna, or laying out on the beach. I can feel the forest breeze pass over me, the salty sea air brush my nostrils, the meadow grasses tickle my ankles, and the welcome of a homecoming embrace. Besides the beautiful scenery and life-giving adventure is the mystery. Any good novel is laced with the mystery of metaphor, allegory, allusion. Mrs. Brennan is the woman who unlocked the door for me to see what I could really suck out of a good book. She showed me that while orange juice is good, sinking your teeth into a pulpy flesh is even more exhilarating.

Mrs. Brennan is a tall, willowy woman with swooping brown hair that was going gray around the edges when I knew her. She had a long and pointing nose and big round eyes that were framed in thick black mascara. When she read passages to us in her gentle yet fervent voice her spectacles sat on the end of her nose and the chain dangled down, curving around her ears and resting gently on her neck. It seemed that everything about her rested gently. She wore long flowy skirts and loose colorful blouses. She had slender feet and a swanlike neck and we all talked about how she must have been a knockout in college. Sometimes we stole glances at the pictures on her desk in the back corner of her room, where we rarely ventured except when we visited after class to check our grades, and a couple of us were pretty sure we saw a photo of a familiar looking blonde beauty with long hippie hair and an eye-catching figure.

The impressions we had in our head of Mrs. Brennan were shadowy at best, she kept her personal life held close like a buried treasure and we hesitated to disrespect her with so much as a question about family or her past. All of us sat around the clustered wooden tables during class and proudly shared our carefully essayed observances and takes on the novels, pausing to look up for her smile of approval. Outside of class, however, we had much more pride in our teacher than in our own literary analysis. She stole the show without so much as an "Ahem" or an "Actually,...". I think she just loved to hear our excitement in discovery and let us have the spotlight. I know she'd read thousands of pages more than we had combined, but she always made me feel like I'd discovered something new, she let me be Columbus and sat back to watch me detail the New World.

I'll never forget holding those paperbacks in my hand, notes splayed out in front of me and next to me my classmates', watching her beckon us further in to the story with rose pink blush sparkling on her cheeks and on her forehead. I always thought it odd that she dabbed that bright pink powder on her prominent forehead, and noticed it especially when her brow furrowed in thought. Now I can't think of her without it. It calls me to remember how I watched her in a sort of mature wonder. Old enough to appreciate that she would stay in my memory, perhaps I was cataloguing her unique oddities and her riveting beauty. Oh, she was riveting. Her eyes were bright and piercing but never accusing. Even when we procrastinated, or just plain failed in our work, she was always encouraging, always pushing us forward like the breeze at our backs. A rudder I suppose, she was like a rudder. She steered our little class ship from the back, gently turning an inch or two to make us steer for a totally different island.

As a teacher and a woman I am so grateful for that year of discovery and opportunity. I love thinking about the work she inspired me to do, the words she taught me to write with the simple and patient urging of her trust. Her gracefulness and wisdom will continue to surface in the pages that I read and treasure for a lifetime. I hope she knows what a wonderful teacher she was for me.

25. James Taylor

I know, I know. He's a famous person and I can't really admire his persona because I don't know it. The thing is, his voice is a memory from my youth, a welcoming hug from the Carolinas, and a reminder that things don't have to change too much in a lifetime.

James Taylor's voice is an even hum, steady like the wind. It dips and rises and cruises through harmonies like a breeze finding its way around trees. "There's something in the way she moves, looks my way and calls my name..." At this part I have to join in and sing with him, trying to match my voice to his liquid sound. It doesn't matter if I can't though, because the steady voice coming through the radio is forgiving and I can let my own jilted vocal stylings mingle with his balanced rhythm.

What I appreciate even more than his soothing voice is his restraint. Both his lyrics and his sound exude passion but lack that over-the-top excess that you hear in so many desperate artists. Don't get me wrong, a little Aerosmith is enjoyable every now and then, but James Taylor is able to express his love, his humor, and his fear in a way that beckons you to listen further rather than scares you away with its intensity. When he sings about his girlfriend who can't do the Cha-Cha, and then teaching her how and realizing she's better than he you pick up on boredom, his pride, the slight humiliation, but all without drama. When he sings "Down in the Hole" you can hear and feel his despairing pain but without the blood draining from your own face or having to clutch your chest in empathetic misery. I so appreciate his respect for the listener. His lyrical restraint allows me to belt out his songs without getting caught in the drama, and his vocal restraint keeps his sound crisp and steady.

Josh and I made our retreat down the aisle to the song "How Sweet it is" partly because I wanted to play music we both enjoy, but also because Taylor's simple appreciation of human relationships is something I can identify with. I love that James Taylor takes the complicated out of music, and instead provides me with a sound I can smile to as I listen, and sing to as I try to shrug off the strains of the day. I love that he reminds me that just looking at the sweetness of my marriage is the best perspective, that the way Josh looks or the way he moves is a raw and precious gift.

24. Kyle F

I was just reading in My Utmost for His Highest about "spiritual sluggishness". Oswald Chambers writes,

"We are all capable of being spiritual sluggards; we do not want to mix with the rough and tumble of life as it is, our one object is to secure retirement... To live a remote, retired, secluded life is the antipodes of spirituality as Jesus Christ taught it. "

Now, my brother Kyle does enjoy retiring. After one of his usual swim practices his muscles are so tired they fall like wet noodles onto the big chair in the family room and he nods off to sleep with his hands just barely clasped over his middle. I like this image of him though, it does not make me think him a sluggard, for two reasons. First of all, he looks just the way our dad looks when he falls asleep in his big chair-- head back and mouth slung open in (sometimes) silent snoring, legs splayed out on the ottoman and hands resting on his midsection. Secondly, Kyle's retiring is out of a necessity for rest and not due to stereotypical teenage sleepaholism.

When Kyle was still a little guy, (though tall and slender even then), my mom explained to him the necessary after-school routine. Once she told him, and little more did she need to: "You can come home and have a little snack, but then you need to finish your homework before you go play."

I honestly do not remember a day of my teen years when my little brother did not come home and do just that. He would chow down on Cool Ranch Doritos, his dark eyelashes framing intently blue eyes, not talking, perhaps lingering a moment at the kitchen table, and then trudge off to his room with his blue backpack slapping against his knees. He would plop down at his desk, flip on the IKEA desk lamp, and complete his homework. Every day.

Kyle was stubborn as a mule, so ridiculously observant and so keen in the memory department that he drove my mother crazy.

"Kyle, you need to eat something healthy, nothing sweet until later."

"Mom, Doritos aren't sweet," he'd answer as he reached for the bag. She'd roll her eyes and have to explain the nuances of common speak, wondering why her girls never thought to throw these literal translations as arguments.

Truth be told, however, it was this keen observance and grasp of logic that has led him to so many smart decisions. When he was young he understood the concept of priorities and therefore honored Mom's suggestions. Nowadays, standing tall at six foot four, the blue backpack that used to slap his knees now fits him like a hamster on a horse's back and his lithe muscles have grown taut and strong with hours and hours in the pool. Unlike many of his cohorts, Mom's and Dad's suggestions still ring true for him and he has been saved the embarrassment and dishevelment so many high schoolers face because of it. He still gets his homework done on time, but even more impressively he doesn't squander his weekends on booze and cavorting but works doggedly to improve his swim times, get time with friends, and collapse on his bed Sunday night atop his finally finished homework.

When I visit my family in Florida I am never the first to stir. Being the mother of a toddler that is nigh impossible, but Jonathan's are not the first feet to pad across the floor. Kyle moves silently, and leaves into the dark of the morning nearly every day for swim practice. Two hours later we are all up with the sun, playing with Jonathan on the floor and sipping coffee in our pajamas. Dad is filling his coffee mug and straightening his tie and Kyle walks in, starch with chlorine and sagging as his muscles bear the burden of his exhaustive workout.

During the school year these workouts are followed by a full day of school, then another workout. He finally comes home around five thirty, opens his books and studies until dinner. After eating enough food to feed a family of six in order to provide his tired muscles with enough protein to recuperate for the next morning's regimen, he heads back to his books until his eyelids fall heavy on his cheeks and his chin sags to his chest. He pulls his full frame from the chair and plods upstairs to catch a few hours of sleep before starting over again.

When it came time to apply for college I was grateful in his stead, grateful that he could finally relax, take college at an even pace and quit swimming so that he could enjoy it. I mourned a bit the loss of his sport, realizing that I would no longer receive victorious texts from my parents after he shaved tenths of a second off his 100 meter races. Then UNC Chapel Hill told him they wanted him... and not just for his flawless GPA. They wanted him to swim, and I thought that was too bad, my little bro was going to take college for the joyride it could be.

A month or so later I was talking to Kyle about the prospect of swimming at university.

"Yeah, I'm gonna do it," he said casually, as if he were deciding between mowing the lawn or not on a Saturday.

"You're going to swim," I replied, and bit back saying, "Why?!"

I knew why. Kyle has observed a lot over the course of his lifetime-- more, in fact, than most people care to notice over the course of many more years than he's got. I knew that he had realized the value of hard work. He may not be a builder or a waiter or farmer, but Kyle has grit. He has stick-to-it, don't complain about it, get the job done grit. What our whole family knew, and the reason we didn't argue with his decision, is that Kyle has already observed the difference between just getting by and digging in your heels. He'll take the latter, and won't care to look back.

There was another side to his stubbornness as a child. He may have driven mom crazy, but then the nights his migraines hit we were all silently impressed, myself awed, by his indefatigable endurance. He would lay quietly and in immense pain until it was too much to bear and his body gave over to intense nausea. Ginny and I never knew of these nights because Kyle was so quiet and resolute. Without waking even Mom or Dad he would take himself to the bathroom and lay there through the pain. He wasn't trying to be a hero, he doesn't see the point in being showy, he just didn't need to wake everyone up so he didn't. The complaining would only worsen the pain, so he handled it.

I look forward to the day he graduates. I look forward to the day he gets his first job, has his first child, and handles his children's pain. I don't so much look forward to his face of victory or the way he will fist punch the air in jubilation, but rather the way he will smile crookedly and almost timidly raise his eyes to accept the cheers and clinking of glass. I look forward to looking back with him on all the things he has endured, for I know that for Kyle they will be many. He'll handle it.

23. Wayne and Gail C

In CS Lewis' book, The Four Loves, he talks about eros love involving two people looking at each other in wonder and admiration, while friendship love involves two people standing side by side and looking out at a shared vision. This, to me, is a challenge. I want for Josh's and my relationship to not only be a mirror but also to be full of searching adventures and shared vision. I married my best friend, and I don't ever want that to change. I know that this will take constant renewal, a lot of communication, and the sacrifice or setting aside of our individual passions along the way.

There is a couple we have gotten to know at our church and they are joyful beneath their white and grey hairs, they have bright eyes that twinkle in sparkling delight when greeting friends. You can find Wayne standing by the double doors to the sanctuary, passing out programs and gripping his friends' arms in salutation or smiling widely at women and children who know him well and whose shoulders relax in his presence. Gail is usually chatting, her petite frame sort of bopping as she animatedly converses with friends. Neither of them seem to stop smiling; it is almost as though they have lived enough life to know the worthlessness of frowning. Wayne laughs in jubilant recognition every time I see him, and Gail always smiles so wide she goes squinty-eyed and asks how I am. I can't help but smile wide myself, and don't stop until I've long passed them.

Wayne and Gail seem to have a side-by-side operation. I love seeing them together, they stand close to each other and their joy radiates in a magnetic field that pulls other congregants to them. They have owned and operated a business together for years and years, so they know the grit it takes to be married to your co-worker. Gail spends many a day with her ailing mother, and Wayne seems proud of her rather than resentful of her time away. Several years ago Josh and I were having lunch with them and Wayne related how his wife takes care of her mother. His eyebrows went up as he told us how hard Gail works to take care of her mom. It made me want to squeeze my then-fiancé's arm as I watched them prove just how long true love could last, and with it a vision to help others in their sphere.

Wayne and Gail are an attractive couple. They are both strong and graceful even though the years they have shared together are many. Wayne's white hair is full and dashing, Gail's grey curls are soft and flattering. They look sharp in pressed cottons and linens every Sunday and Gail wears a rose colored lipstick that sets off her dark features beautifully. No one ever mentions this however; it seems that the Joy that shines through this staid couple leaves a much more indelible impression than their good looks. Their smiles and warm embraces are what linger, their shared vision for compassion and the sharing of the Love that's theirs.

22. Aunt Dotty

Aunt Dotty and her family live in Connecticut and I have spent most of my life below the Mason Dixon line, so our paths have not crossed with any sort of regularity. While many people have left indelible impressions on me because of their nearness and consistent presence in my life, Aunt Dotty leaves a sparkle and smile in my heart that occasionally surface with a cheerful sound of music from inside me.

Truth be told, I don't even know if Aunt Dotty is musical. I'd like to think that all of Grandpa's children inherited at least a smidgen of virtuoso from his wide range of abilities. What I do know is that Aunt Dotty's eyes sparkle like the light on the strings of a guitar in sunshine and that her rosy cheeks remind me of an opera singer and her smile seems to sing on its own. She is bubbly, a great conversationalist, and a ray of light in the Ficker family. I remember sitting on the screened in porch at our old house in Maryland, gnawing on corn and grilled chicken and sweet blueberry muffins while Aunt Dotty sat at our table and updated us on the goings on of herself and her boys: Uncle Richie, Ben, and Andy. These characters that she spoke of made me smile shyly; my older male cousins always intimidated me and incited a spark of adrenaline to either imitate them or flee from them depending on the occasion. I especially loved hearing the stories about Andy's budding chef's career, and was grateful for Aunt Dotty's willingness to stop through town and visit a while.

That, however, was several years before she experienced life's greatest loss. Ben, her eldest, died after a lifelong battle against diabetes at the age of twenty seven. In the same cluster of the hours that constitute a day to most families we lost Grandma, the sweet and gentle soul that had always moored the family to peace and closeness. Those mere twenty four hours wiped out a lifetime, and then another, and Aunt Dotty was left in the cold wreckage of searing loss.

When my wedding day arrived less than a year later I didn't presume to think Aunt Dotty, Uncle Richie, and Andy would come. In fact, I assumed they wouldn't. I barely wanted them to come, knowing that my happiest day would incite so much emotion and the celebration of it would feel like salt to their open wound. How could they watch us celebrate in the same season of their searing loss?

They came. They sat front and center during the reception, and my cousin Andy even came up to me with a huge smile and a fierce hug to say, "Congratulations, cuz." The same rosiness that had always dotted Aunt Dotty's cheeks dotted his. Her warm loyalty, her determined love for family, and her cozy embrace emanated through Andy's arms and features as I hugged him back. I wanted to say something, some small message to share with his parents that I understood what it took to come here (though of course how could I understand) and was grateful, so grateful. That was not what they came for, however, not for more sympathy or for mourning or for gratitude. Aunt Dotty came, she came and brought her men, to celebrate my moment of newness and beauty and commitment. And she came beautifully committed herself, to our family and to my new one, the newness of her loss not inhibiting her from raising her glass to love me.

It's been many years since Aunt Dotty sat down with me over corn and fresh sliced tomatoes, but I won't forget what it took to come visit us, to waylay her travels for a night of shared stories and reconnecting. No matter how many years go by from the day of my wedding, I will never forget the road she took to be there and share in my new story. I am her niece, and I am proud to be so.

21. Emily D

My friend Emily is currently eight-and-a-half months pregnant. She still shows off a cute figure, but I know that those extra twenty-two pounds are taking a toll. Cap off the situation with a blazing North Carolina summer that's leaving everyone in a permanent wilt and I'd say she has a blank check for complaining. Nonetheless, she isn't.

A survivor, Emily is juggling several large balls in the air, these being a well-progressed pregnancy, selling the house her husband is building, writing said house as its realtor, doing the accounting for the family business, and raising a two year old with a mission to destroy planet Earth before bedtime. Occasionally I'll get a call from her and she'll say, almost laughing, "Hannah, can I tell you what happened today? I'm actually going crazy, you may have to commit me before the baby comes."

Truth be told, the stories she has to vent are usually pretty hilarious and so I rarely begrudge the call. There is almost never a time when I feel the need to say, "Emily, you are being irrational," because she really is not an irrational person. Usually I end up sympathizing with her and planning how to console her the next day. This, however, is what I love about Emily: there is no need for consolation the next day. She is the most resilient woman I have ever met. If I call the next day to check on her stress level, she will calmly and laughingly reply, "Oh, I'm okay now. I just needed to vent yesterday."

At this point I raise my eyebrows on the other end of the line because I know that I would not be okay at that point. I would still be shelling out complaints, but Emily just doesn't see the point. It's inspirational. Sometimes when I am frustrated with someone I'll think of Emily and her ability to shrug things off, disallow a grudge when reconciliation or simply forgetting is an option, and I'll channel my own resiliency to mirror hers.

Every time I see Emily I am impressed by her ability to pull it all together. She'll walk into my house loaded down with a diaper bag and a toddler on her hip and, these days, a belly to boot, and yet she still looks fresh and lovely. Her hair falls from her swooped back ponytail in light wisps. It frames her high cheekbones and perfect little nose, lighting around sparkly eyes. It's hard to accept compliments at the end of pregnancy, so I just think to myself how pretty she looks. I think how pretty, and how strong she is. Though a gentle friend and a patient wife and mother, Emily has an astounding amount of fortitude. Behind her picturesque features is a fighter, and a humble one at that.

20. Morgan A

My father-in-law goes by several names. Among these are "Dad", "Dedaddy", "Morgan", "Hun", and my personal dub, "Poppa". Far more than the names he answers to are the hats he wears, which include but are not limited to: husband, father, grandfather, carpenter, should've-gone-pro golfer, electrician, gourmet chef, and salesman. The adventures he holds as memories are too numerous to record in a single biography and it never amazes me when he says, "Oh yeah, we can fix that no problem," for whether the subject at hand is an under-marinated steak or a crashed computer he almost invariably does know what he is talking about.

Last week the family gathered over at Jonathan and Jamie's for one of our now infamous work weekends. We all show up in grubby clothes, every last one of us, but it is always Poppa who really gets his hands dirty. His hands, his knees, his eyebrows, his elbows... he is our ringleader and the one who never quits. This go-round it was laminate flooring among other things, and before we knew it he was off and leading the pack through demolition and refurbishing so that what was once dingy white carpet was rapidly transforming into sleek, almost golden oak flooring. Nevertheless, as none of us can work as fast as he does the weekend turned into a week, and then another weekend, and finally on Saturday two days past Poppa was making the final cut on the table saw. One last cut, and then havoc. His hand went down, the adrenaline of nearly finishing coursed through him, the table saw connected, and five hours later saw him laying in a hospital bed contemplating amputation. No joke.

Of course few of us realized what was actually going on. The call Josh received went something like this:

"Hey Josh, go ahead and start on the front nine. I cut my hand a little bit and I'm just going to run over to the emergency room --"

"The emergency room? Dad, what did you do?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll try to meet you on the back nine after I get a few stitches. Just go ahead."

As Josh and his uncles headed for the back nine, we all got the call that Poppa was headed for surgery. Not only surgery, but the doctor was also prognosticating a half-way amputation of the left pointer finger. Apparently at that point the doctor and my brother-in-law Jonathan watched as Poppa exhaustively raised his hands end on end and curled them as if clutching two glass tubes.

"Dad," Jonathan asked with a chuckle, "are you checking to see if you can still play golf without it?"

"Yep," he said as his head sank back on the pillow, "I think I'm good."

That, my friends, signaled go time. Poppa did not flail about passionately or pitch a pity pit, but patiently accepted his lot.

Poppa is one of those people who has dogged determination and immortal grit, but no frazzle-your-hair stress in accompaniment. He has endured much and is determined to power through more, but the only time I see him lose his cool is during his daughter's basketball games. Unless threatened by lackluster coaching, he never feels the need to flap his feathers about.

You'll be happy to know that he did not lose his finger, which I suppose is due to some excellent doctoring and the willpower of a golfer combined, but I honestly can't imagine a person who could handle the challenge better than Morgan R Adams III. I mean, he was the one who at the age of approximately six stepped in when his father died of cancer and helped raise his younger twin brothers. Of course, his solution to dirty dishes was to throw them out in the snow and bury them discreetly, but I think that so much of his top notch attitude is due to the way he reacted to this first and very hard responsibility. He took it on, did not look back, and never complains about it... ever.

19. Our founding fathers

These are men I do not know to look at. Though their original portraits survive and show their high posture in poses of grace and fortitude, I do not know how they looked telling a funny story. I cannot picture them tucking their children in at night or how the coloring in their faces changed when they stood before armies or Congress or the King of France.

What I can picture is the way sweat would bead on my own arm if I started waking at night between dreams of a new nation and nightmares of bloody defeat. Even more I can imagine the way my stomach would clench into a tight wad at the thought of telling my neighbors I thought freedom could be ours if we fought for it. I can imagine the lift of eyebrows, the aversion of eyes, and the frowning shakes of heads I would receive if I voiced my stalwart disdain for the powers that be... and my desire to overcome them.

I do not know what a hug from George Washington felt like, nor the taste of a lecture from John Adams, nor the grace with which Thomas Jefferson rode a horse across his fields. All I know is the raw excitement in a hug a president gives his wife when he learns he has been elected by his people. I know the passion with which my teachers and parents taught me about our history and our uniqueness, and the feeling of riding a horse through brook and forest and field and pasture... of my homeland.

All I can admire of these men is what they left, and what is written in history books about them. I can appreciate them mostly, and admire the idea of them. In many ways I wish I could glance back in time at their raw humanity, such as George Washington stained by war but riding home to reclaim his farm and his simple life after the Revolution. I'd like to see him again when he realizes the people want him as president, and the humble acquiescence with which I imagine he took up that blazing torch. There is so much to admire in these men that I will never know, and so I offer my gratitude and my commitment to treasure this country in the way they did.

18. Jack V

My Grandaddy is a gentleman. He still stands tall even at the age of eighty-four and you can see the outline of his six feet and change, though the years since Grandmommy died have nicked off an inch or two. As long as I can remember he has been a measure of a man, an example of dignity and humor and hard work much like my own dad.

I remember staying at his house in the summer. When Ginny and I were very small we would wake up early, too excited to sleep, and pitter pat down the hall to Grandmommy and Grandaddy's room. They would roll over with tired smiles and move over so we could hop in between them. We would giggle and burrow in the covers and generally love being with them. Their room smelled like clean menthol and perfume, a mixture of Grandaddy's mouthwash and Grandmommy's sweet clean scented lotion.

When I was a bit older I would wake up and stare, groggily startled by the yellow pattern of the wall paper and the mirror across from the bed, confused by my surroundings. Slowly my head would clear and I'd realize I was at Grandmommy and Grandaddy's. I would let my eyes drift back closed, and then slowly open, happily content to be in one of my favorite places. Enjoying the happy fact of summertime and the quiet creaks of the big old house, I would listen for a while. Soon the door downstairs would open and I'd hear the rustle of paper bags and the thump of his feet. It always impressed me that he was up so early, already dressed in khaki slacks and a button down shirt even on a Saturday, already out taking care of his girls. Smiling, I would climb out of bed and head downstairs for the Bojangles biscuits or powdered doughnuts I knew Grandaddy was carrying.

There were so many moments with my Grandaddy that left me either euphorically happy, like with the biscuits and doughnuts, or awed and impressed, such as his early rising and the fishing. Oh, fishing. We spent so many afternoons on the back of Grandaddy's boat with Uncle John and Dad, drifting slowly against the anchor and patiently dropping the line again and again. The best part was watching Grandaddy skin them and pack them up. His thick muscular fingers worked deftly, wielding his gutting knife with such ease I wondered if I could ever do the same. Then he'd roll them up in newspaper like they were nothing more than vases from Michael's and clean up the mess left on the wooden board. As we walked down the docks he'd wave and say, "Hallo," to the men we passed, exchanging a couple words with each one as he went. When I finally was allowed to go with him to the Boat House I thought I was entering holy ground-- I knew that here, where you could buy beer out of a vending machine and skin and eat fish together with the boys, was where I'd watch them admire him in his element. I felt small and much too much like a girl, but I liked listening to him laugh and joke with these men that so obviously admired him. I felt proud to be introduced as, "my granddaughter Hannah," and puffed up inside like an inflated balloon when I stood next to him at the sink while we both washed crab off of our fingers.

My grandfather is a gentleman who knows how to work hard. He takes good care of things but isn't afraid to use duct tape to fix 'em. He is gentle and kind and firm and strong. Grandaddy loves his family and is loved by his town. He is courageous and loyal and the best damn crab cooker on the East Coast. I love him more than horses and red wine and if someone ever says I remind them of my grandfather I'll know I'm living right.

17. Jeff M

There are some people in my life that inspire me and provide wisdom that wraps my heart in inspiration, but I can't pinpoint why. I can picture their characteristic movements-- a cock of the head in thought or a tightening of the lips in concentration. I can see their eyes, how they glisten and seem to say something in silence. Yet, I can't tell you why it is that I am inspired.

Our pastor Jeff is a man who is sincerely devoted to God and to his flock. He stands at the pulpit in a humble posture, and it always seems to me that he feels it a gift to just be there. Never forceful, he speaks with a gentleness and a softness in his eyes that encourages me to listen to what is there behind his words. When he speaks of Jesus he seems to be at home, as though trudging through the daily grind is foreign to him, but to speak of Jesus is natural and life-giving.

Every Sunday Josh and I sit in roughly the same place, to the right of the sanctuary and close to the front. Jeff's family sits a few rows ahead of us, quietly but supportively in the front row, close to dad and husband. What strikes me is that this man, speaking with such conviction yet such calmness, leads a family whose strength and authenticity buttresses him instead of calls him into question. His wife Holly is smart, a sharp but unaffected woman with a natural beauty and confidence. Her strengths seem only to support him, never to draw the line of comparison, and when I watch her watching him from a few rows behind I am grateful to learn from this man. After all, I can tell even after only four years of marriage for myself that theirs is a tie that binds.

Jeff is a man who seems whole. Does that even make sense? What I mean is that he doesn't seem to be looking for that missing piece, he doesn't seem to grapple with the words that he preaches other than to find a good way of explaining them. This is not to say he is perfect, for surely he is not and will tell you the same, but more to say that I am baffled by his gracefulness. No, not gracefulness like a ballerina: Jeff is strong and rather firm and talks with his hands in a sort of staccato fashion that reminds you the points he is driving home are truth. He is graceful in the way he moves through conversation, not getting hung up on insecurity and judgement, never stopping at self-flattery or false admiration.

He is leading a church plant in this city; Josh and I and a handful of friends are going too. While the adventure is tantalizing, I know that for me it is more a matter of trust. I simply trust Jeff, I trust him and the family that so beautifully and self-assuredly joins him.

16. Deeann C

Deeann is pastel colors. With soft, wispy blonde hair that frames small feminine features on a heart-shaped face, she could be a movie star. She only wears clothes that are soft to the touch, so hugging her is always soothing, like her lack of strong perfume and the tenderness of her lotion-y hands. She has a feminine voice that calms me over the phone just as well as in person, and laugh that sounds like rainbow sprinkles, in the way that it falls down and splashes suddenly with brightness.

My friend Deeann has two children well under the age of three. I like watching her with them for she is always aware, always on top of things, but somehow unharried. She wouldn't say this about herself, but the way she gently bounces Natalie while simultaneously scolding Ben demonstrates the ease with which she manages her sudden new occupation. Her mother's heart has opened in bright huge butterfly wings with the birth of each; when asked if she likes being a mother she will thoughtfully say, "No. I like being a mother to Ben and Natalie."

Her warmth is subtle, a hospitable opening of arms to those who draw near. She does not spend this warmth willy-nilly, but rather reserves it in order to spend with a fervent generosity on those who know her well. It is a gift to be called her friend or family, for we have a unique opportunity to sit at her table and relax in a pastel presence.

Many people show off their personality inadvertently in the way they decorate and dress. No one does this as much as Deeann. Her room growing up was butter yellow; a soft and pastel quilt covered her bed and her curtains matched, mimicking the sun's morning shaft of light. Now her bed is covered in a white matelasse with small coral covered pillows. She likes to dress in cotton candy pink and baby blue and khaki. She looks dazzling in a muted olive green and can even wear white well in dead winter. I honestly think she takes the beach with her wherever she goes.

One day last year I was visiting friends in Dee's area and she offered to have me stay at her house. I was so grateful, for I knew her bathroom would be bright and clean and fresh and her bed linens soft and laundered. One night, late and after the kids were in bed, we sat talking at her oak dining table in the glow of lamps that colored the walls in a soft ivory. I remember how easy it was to be honest with her and let down the burdens weighing my mind. She gently squeezed my hand and looked at me with a sympathetic purse of her lips. Sitting there in the comfort of her home was like returning home for Christmas at college; sweet and welcoming and freeing to feel known.

Beyond her warmth, physical beauty, and inviting decorating talents Deeann is humble. I think it is this in her that allows me to drop my bags at her door and fall happily into her presence. This humility is a warmth in and of itself, an open hand to others' imperfections and an invitation to be real.

Away on business!

My husband told me Monday night that a last minute overnight had come up. Being that business trips have been coming often these days, I asked if the Little Man and I could tag along. He agreed, so 6:30 this morning saw us up and out the door into the wide dark yonder.

Now we are in Wilmington, in a snug little hotel not too far from the beach. I am far too busy cuddling with my boys -- Jonathan is putting Josh and me to bed and stroking our hair to soothe us (and dissolving in laughter because he is allowed to) -- to blog about the next person in My Project. So, I am just letting you know that I am away on business, the business of hotel bathtubs and out-to-dinnering and cuddling on plush bedsheets in a room all our own and watching my little guy careen down the endless hallway clutching his new prized possession Thomas the Train.

Please forgive my absence -- my professional life calls.

15. Ginny E

Last night I was walking back to the living room after putting Jonathan to bed when I heard the cluster of friends gathered there listening as Josh said,

"She just prays like she's talking to Him, it's the coolest thing."

I knew then that he was talking about my little sister because I've heard Josh admire this about her more than once before. Our friends asked what he meant, and I expounded. I explained that Ginny doesn't talk to God like a distant deity but rather as a close friend whom she sees everyday. When listening to her pray you don't know whether to chuckle at her familiar tone or turn away from the intimacy of their conversation. You never can turn away, though, for the urge to listen and learn from this friendship is too great.

Ginny's genuine approach to God is much like her approach to people. She sees people uniquely, finding our their qualities through the scrutinous observation of a writer. When you read her blog you will find it full of interesting characters that make you guffaw with laughter or sigh with sweet appreciation. Ginny's close perception of human hearts has left her with a bevy of friends that range from age eighty something to two. It still astounds me that the English teacher at the high school we attended, the one who shared nothing of her personal life with her students and whom we never saw about town, invited Ginny to travel with her to Ireland when Ginny was in college. That teacher saw what the rest of us were inexplicably drawn to: her genuine passion and vitality for life and the people that color it.

Ginny has hair the color of newly harvested straw and it is curly and bouncy and basically irresistible. She has bright blue eyes and rose colored lips and little tiny freckles that dot her nose. When were were toddlers people would come up to my mom and unabashedly ask to take home some of her curls (Mom refused); they would squeeze her cheeks and basically treat her like a puppy. I was always impressed that she handled it so well; I would have hidden behind mom's legs.

I'm sure I don't need to mention the boys that came calling; her sunshine pretty features were the opening act to her life's adventure that everyone wanted to be a part of. Through our school years, then college, and finally into the precipice that is our twenties, Ginny has continued to have a flock of friends around her. For a long time I thought it was her pretty face, bubbly personality, and appreciation of Jim Carrey films (and subsequent ability to quote them flawlessly). Now I am finally understanding that this all flows from her genuineness. Ginny is real, she is honest and thorough in her affection. She is as authentic as a rocking chair moved by the wind on a brick front porch. Anyone who passes by cannot help but take a seat, unload their burdens, and enjoy the happy sing-song of the summer.

14. The Beckers

Ginny Becker has always had a candy drawer in her kitchen. It is easily reachable and full of everything from Good n Plentys to MnMs. My sister and I were always fascinated by this drawer, mostly because of its accessibility but also because of the beautiful rainbow of spilling reds and yellows and greens and chocolatey browns that caused our eyeballs to pop like little jacks in boxes.

That candy drawer says a lot about the Becker household. A year or so ago I was heading with MomA up north for a home sales conference and a chance to see some old friends in the area. Ginny and Erich were happy to welcome us in, and it was only when we arrived that we realized they had guests coming for dessert and plenty else to do besides host us. Nonetheless, I sat up early in the morning chatting with Ginny in her kitchen, occasionally letting my eyes pass over the nostalgic drawer I knew was full of candy, talking about the latest news and sharing with her my new joys of motherhood. It did not seem to matter that she had been up all hours ministering to her friends or that her daughter and grandkids were on their way over to see her, she still had all of the time in the world to minister to me and dote on my baby boy.

Erich and Ginny started their relationship a gifted English teacher and dedicated ballerina. Leigh came along and the individual colors of their relationship blended into a sweet and wise little girl, soft in countenance and spirited in heart. Then came an artistic and compassionate Katie, a sporty and luminous Sally, and a charming and witty Jonathan. Along came Sam and Gib, whisking the older girls off as bright eyed young wives, and then soon after Parker and Macy, two of the cutest little munchkins in Baltimore County.

I remember when I was little, sitting in the basement of their cozy white house, watching Newsies while my sister had her Childrens' Chorus of Maryland practices. I would practice singing the songs so that I could be as cool as Katie, sure that Leigh would also be proud of my ability to harmonize with Jack and Spot Collins. The Becker girls were always bright stars in my eyes, and in my sister Ginny's too. They were like the rainbows in the candy drawer, shiny and welcoming and surprisingly available to be friends even though we lived far away.

Beach trips were the best. For many years the Ficker and Becker families vacationed together at Sandbridge Beach, and we had so much fun that two other families eventually joined the annual hoopla. It was then that I really got to know Jon and Sally, and every year I saw them become more unique, but still containing the Becker glow that invited people in like a hearth fire and s'mores.

It is a simple thing to invite people into your home. It takes a half hour of vacuuming and a little extra planning with your grocery budget. What is not simple is raising a family that invites people in together, that beckons others with their collective smile and communal heartbeat. The Beckers have spent time preparing a family that is welcoming, and vacuuming has nothing to do with it. As far as the grocery budget goes, I think the candy drawer may play an elemental role. Whether the candy drawer is around or not, I can't wait to be in their midst again.

13. Martha A

At nine thirty last night a bedraggled Martha (to me, MomA) and a worn out Hannah pulled into 1503 Pebble Drive. My in-laws house is large and white with country blue shutters. The right side of it glows in the nighttime, the lights of the kitchen and living room addition glimmering like a Thomas Kincade painting.

After working tirelessly laying floors and painting trim in Jonathan and Jamie's house, together with transporting teenagers to their various camps and toting a toddler from babysitter to babysitter, we were, needless to say, pooped. Nonetheless, as I settled down at the computer MomA disappeared upstairs for a solid hour. When she finally emerged she announced she had finally gotten her teenage son's (now away for six weeks) room into a hospitable condition. As Jonathan and Jamie's bed was piled high with boxes and furniture and clean laundry while awaiting new floors, 1503 offered itself as Bed and Breakfast for the weary workers.

I was dubious, being that I knew the general state of my brother-in-law's room, but when I topped the stairs I looked into the most inviting room that could offer itself out of teenage chaos. I mean, it was immaculate! The air mattress was topped with crisply layed sheets, a folded over blanket, and fluffed pillows. There were two matching towels sitting politely on the corner of the bed. Knowing that I hadn't heard a maid go up there with her, nor a vacuum cleaner (Jonathan was sleeping) I was rather curious as to how this magic had happened. I looked, but Mary Poppins was assuredly not standing in the corner. Letting my eyes pass over the equally inviting guest room where Bill and Candy Gref were staying, I went back downstairs and complimented her on her work.

"Well, it's not perfect, but after they worked so hard I just want them to have somewhere comfortable to sleep," she said with a sympathetic shrug of her shoulders.

I didn't point out that she doesn't ever spoil herself with the same attention for her own room before bedding down, no matter how many hours she has pulled being taxi driver, saleswoman, doctor, nutritionist, cook, and babysitter. I simply didn't think she'd see the connection.

We waited an hour longer before the rest of the troupe returned from working, straggling in like Snow White's dwarves. I thought maybe she'd usher her houseguests upstairs to show off her minute handiwork, but she just laughed with them and offered to serve her mom's famous berry cobbler. After we had collapsed for about half an hour in glorious relaxation and dessert, everyone headed upstairs and the lights went out.

I personally love the leather couches in the living room, so I listened as the lights tick-tick-ticked and the soft pad-pad of feet finally drifting to blissful pillows. As she headed to her own room I asked her, "Do you feel like you're running a hotel, MomA?"

"Oh, I love it," she said. I could hear the tired in her voice, but I could also hear the genuine joyfulness.

The next morning Candy Gref stood in the kitchen stretching before her customary walk. "Martha," she said in a sing-song voice, "the hotel we stayed in last night must have known it was our anniversary. They left a card under the door... and flowers!" She had a twinkle in her eye and MomA just smiled contentedly.

We all smiled then, for we all know that Martha Adams would rather spend an extra $50 on plush towels to lay out for her guests than a cute pair of shoes. We all chuckled to ourselves, knowing that laying out that card and planting those flowers made her just as happy as a five-year-old in a toy store.

12. Ann S

Lily: "but where can we put these?" (markers)
Amy: "um,...maybe in the cretaceous time period."

My friend Ann is walking endorphins; she is a happy pill in cute skirts and polka dot heels toting three children in a minivan. She is the smile on my Thursday morning calendar and I hope I can describe her sunshine personality with at least as much pizzazz as she uses to describe a grocery list.

Ann is the mother of three: Lily, three, Amy, three, and Matthew, two. Yes, she has three children learning to use the potty right now. She has three children with more energy than Sonic the Hedgehog, three children with as many bright smiles and withering frowns as a preschool teacher working overtime. And she loves it.

I direct your attention to the quote above. I opened with this, an update from Ann's Facebook page, to illustrate for you just how entertaining life can be. It is from this spunky woman that I find inspiration to throw myself into the small and miraculous moments of being a mother, to push through the sometimes exhausting marathon of mommy-ing by seeing the sparkle amidst the rough.

Every Thursday morning I head to Chick-Fil-A to meet up with my sister-in-law and her kids, Ann and her kids, and often one or two other mothers toting toddlers as well. One such morning I was sitting in our customary cluster of tables and watched as Ann started detailing the pluses of a portable potty seat with hand gestures and widening of eyes.

"I mean, I don't go anywhere without this thing," she said as she clutched the tri-color plastic object to her chest.

She began pulling it from the grocery bag where it is conveniently stored in her over-sized purse, and as she did her mouth started forming her words with wide, pursing articulation, as she does when she's excited.

"I mean, it was so difficult when I had to take Lily to the potty, unbuckle, take her inside, do the potty thing," she explained rolling her eyes and slumping her shoulders in a perfect imitation of an exasperated young mother. "Then, of course Amy would have to go to... invariably there were accidents, and it was just terrible," she finished with a dramatic sweep of the hands and final eye roll.

"Then I discovered this," and she held up the potty like an Olympic medal, her eyebrows shooting heavenward.

"I highly recommend it when you start potty training."

Finished with her accomplished sales pitch, she relaxes back against the booth, replaces the plastic baggy clad potty topper, and sips her Diet Coke.

I think that at this point I sat in stunned silence, both unbelieving that she was actually willing to let her children have bowel movements in a parked van with only a Harris Teeter bag beneath a cheap plastic contraption as well as fascinated by her zealous advertising. Finally I concluded that no matter how crazy she was for both using and loving this mothering tool, I was appreciated her humor and lack of complaint.

After all, how many mothers do you know who are potty training twins +1 and laughing about it?

Ann does not start her days prepared for the worst. She starts her days with a cute top, a fashionable skirt or flattering jeans, and the cutest shoes. She lets her kids pick our their clothes, tosses them in her gold minivan, and sits in between them all, perched on the backseat console like a mother bird, and conferences with them about good attitudes. She divvies juice, allows them to enlighten her with all of the important issues facing them at the time, (such as the cretaceous time period), and breathes deep as she climbs over books and bouncy balls to get to the driver's seat. Then she fires up the van as she similarly prays to God for liquid energy and an IV.

And she's off, with her portable plastic potty and a sparkle in her determined mother's heart.

11. Tom S

When I worked at a public school teaching Spanish I had a co-worker (and friend) whose door had a small black and white image of a runner pasted on it. Beneath this picture was a quote that said something like, "Whatever you do, do it with all of the passion you possess." I found myself focusing on this quote countless times as I walked into his room to ask a piece of advice, pitch a new idea, or just share friendly banter. It caught my eye so often because, unlike many quotes plastered on doors or bumpers or Facebook profiles, Tom really lives this as far as I can tell.

There was a day early in December when I thought I was the last to leave work. My head was throbbing from the replayed events of the day rolling like an old-fashioned movie reel, I was lonely beneath the awful fluorescent lights that magnified my smallness, and burdened by the constant nag that I could have done more today, I could have done better. When I saw his door still ajar on my way out, I was compelled to seek out some friendly words before finally heading home.

I walked in to Tom standing slightly pitched forward and head bent in concentration over his projector. Curious, I moved next to him and looked down. I saw the songs we had been writing, Spanish vocabulary put to the lines and rhythms of American Christmas carols. Thinking to myself that this seemed a petty reason to stay after hours on a Friday, I asked him what he was about.

"This line doesn't quite work. I'm trying to make it so that it flows better."

Let me dispel your assumptions that Tom is an accomplished musician and lyricist. He is none of the above, and listening to him sing is comical at best. He is a soccer player, runner, and seasoned traveler. Music is nowhere in his repertoire, yet there he was giving his last bit of energy and brow furrowing to the perfection of homespun Christmas canciones.

I myself had filed our hastily written songs away in my Microsoft Word folder, only preparing to bring them out on the day they were to be introduced to students. In my own mind we had spent plenty of time working on them; perfection was a non-necessity.

Tom, however, does not operate this way. If he is going to taste wine he will hike himself out to Napa. If he is going to teach his students culture he will spend every last dime on travel and the perspective it affords. As a soccer coach he is a sweaty participant, as a runner ignorant of pain, as a song-writer he is, if nothing else, precise.

As a new teacher there were many days when I had to reach beyond myself to grasp that illusive ghost called satisfaction. There were many more days when I looked across the hall and through the brightly lit door to find inspiration.

10. Joshua A

My husband is a hot headed red head. He has a fiery temper and staunch opinions. Well informed and witty, he is not one to argue with. You may not know this about him, however, because he is also extremely self controlled and discerning.

Tonight I had started, yet again late in the evening, my tenth blog in the "My Project" lineup. I was tired and anxious to get my inspired thoughts on virtual paper. When my husband leaned over my shoulder and commented that I might want to change the wording in my last typed sentence, I quietly deleted the whole section and closed the computer.

"I just won't write right now. I'll wait until you're not looking over my shoulder," I said coldly and with more than a hint of self-righteousness.

A bit stunned at my dramatic reaction, he backed up a little and apologized.

"I won't make another comment," he said carefully, "I won't even read what you're writing. Go ahead."

I refused.

It was in that moment that both of us realized just how irrational I was being. I decided to ignore this obvious fact and just cross my arms and continue watching TV, my back now stiffly reclined against his chest. Josh decided to relax, keep holding me, and try to enjoy the evening. In fact, at the end of the show he offered to get me my customary glass of ice water to take to bed, (this I also declined), and made a casual mention of the fact that he liked my new shirt.

Now, nearly forty five minutes after our little "issue" Josh is coolly relaxed, comfortable in bed, and so non-plussed as to be almost whistling happily while he piddles on his phone. I think this must be what it feels like to be the "bigger man". In fact, he just turned to me with a victorious smile to tell me that the Texas Rangers have just won their eleventh game in a row, something about the best record in the league...

This is what I love about my husband. Behind that passionate red hair and ferocious opinions on politics and how to play the game of golf, he is the Bigger Man. I hear about it with his co-workers, I watch it with his siblings, and I feel it constantly as his wife. At the end of every day he is my best friend. No matter what has passed between us or what we must deal with tomorrow, he is ever willing to be sincere in an apology and ready to move on to the next topic, the next chance, my next chance.

I might add that he was perfectly right. The wording I had chosen for Blog #10 was a little too strong, and wouldn't really have conveyed the point I was trying to make. He played an honest editor. Perhaps next time I'll tell him so.