Last week Lynn Rush wrote a post on her blog about The Noticer, a new book by Andy Andrews. She took the challenge to highlight five people who have influenced her life, and then challenged us to do the same.

A few days later, Jason, whose site one of my other frequent stops in blogworld, posted the same thing. Yesterday, Tracy Keck, who also has a great blog, did the same. Anne mentioned it to me via email, too.

Good ideas get around like this, I think.

We are all in some respect products of our environment, shaped by the people and circumstances in our lives. The choices we make in life are filtered through the lenses of faith and conscience, both parts of ourselves that God strengthens and magnifies through the presence of others.

In other words, we need each other. And the easier it is for us to realize this, the better off we’ll be.

It’s in that spirit that I give my contribution:

1) My wife goes first, no doubt about it. Before her, I was a bumbling, confused, pie-in-the-sky dreamer. Now I am a bumbling, confused, pie-in-the-sky dreamer who is loved, and that makes a world of difference. Not only does she laugh at my stupid jokes and endure my occasional relapses into adolescence, she encourages me to always reach a little further and dream a little more. She’s my angel and my heart, and she believed in me long before I did.

2) My parents are the original Odd Couple. My mother’s family was Amish/Mennonite, and my father’s was Cherokee/Redneck, yet they both managed to fall in love and stay that way for almost forty years now. Both grew up poor, but it was the sort of poor that leaves you both hungry and thankful at the same time, and neither has ever forgotten that. They will do anything in the world for you, no matter who you are or what you look like. Their pictures will never grace the covers of magazines and their names will never be famous, but when they pass from this life to the next, the church will be filled with ordinary people whose lives they touched in ways innumerable. I can only hope to be so fortunate.

3) My children have taught me more about life and God than anyone I’ve ever known. You’re never prepared for what kids can do to your heart and how utterly helpless you are to do anything about it. They have awakened in me an excitement and curiosity for life that I thought adulthood had surely erased. They tell me that when they grow up, they want to be just like me. I tell them not to bother. Because when I grow up, I want to be just like them.

4) To this day I don’t know Allison’s last name, mostly because I was too shy to ask and partly because we only spoke once for about ten seconds. But God introduced us just as we were both living our lowest moments because we each needed what the other could give, and I’ll never forget her. And if you want to read that story, it’s here.

5) And last, there is one unnamed boss (who will continue to be known as such. Because you never know who’s reading your stuff, right?) I had after high school. He was the embodiment of everything I wanted to be (read: rich and successful), but it didn’t take me long to realize just how sad his life was. All the money made him paranoid, all the success made him lustful for more, and the end result was little more than a pitiable human being. But he taught me something very valuable, and that something is this: if that’s what being rich does to you, then you’re better off staying poor. Which goes to show you that not everyone who influences you for the better needs to be a good influence.

There’s my five. There are more, of course. Many more. But that’s enough to keep the train moving down the tracks.

Your turn.

A neighbor down the street has been busy for the last month or so easing his son into what is perhaps the biggest step toward adulthood that a young person can take—getting a driver’s license.

It’s been rough going, the father told me. And maybe a little disappointing, too. Because where his son has been the epitome of intelligence, responsibility, and maturity before, he is now managed to transform himself into a negligent, childish idiot. His words, not mine. Though I do understand what he’s feeling. My father was like that when he taught me how to drive.

The driver’s license is an amazing thing. We don’t have many rites of passage in our culture. There are few elaborate ceremonies to mark the going out of Child and the coming in of Adult. That laminated piece of paper with our picture and vital statistics is as close as we get.

I’ve seen the two of them in the evenings, driving up and down the road with varying degrees of success. The boy always has a look of sheer joy plastered on his face. The father looks as though he is sharing a ride with the Angel of Death. It’s quite comical, really. Until I pause to think that in ten years or so, I’ll be doing the same thing.

The behind-the-wheel part of his son’s education is being supplemented by a little classroom work, too. His father has come up with what he calls the Rules Of The Road. Principles that, if heeded, will keep his son both out of trouble and the hospital.

The Rules are taped to the steering wheel of the battered Ford truck that will soon become his son’s primary mode of transportation. They are also hanging from the refrigerator in the kitchen. And tacked onto the wall beside his bed. There are also pop quizzes.

I gave my own pop quiz to the boy yesterday. Tell me the five rules, I said. He rattled them off like a soldier relaying his orders:

“Be safe because there’s a lot of danger. Keep it slow because there’s always a speed limit. Pay attention because you could wreck and end up in the woods. Check your mirrors because you should always be mindful. Watch for signs because if you don’t obey, you’ll end up in front of the judge. Don’t be impaired because you should always drive at your best. And enjoy the ride,” he said.

This is serious stuff. And I think it’s working.

This boy may not be able to parallel park and will likely never be able to find third gear, but he will follow The Rules. A plus for him, I think. Because following them won’t just make him successful on the road. It’ll make him successful in life, too.

Take rule number one, for instance. Be safe. There is a lot of danger in life. Some of it sits and waits for us to stumble upon it, and some of it is out there trying to find us.

Or keeping it slow, rule number two. We’re always in a hurry, aren’t we? Always trying to get somewhere to do something so we can go to another somewhere to do something else. Better to slow down. We miss too much by rushing along.

What about paying attention? Good advice for the drivers around here, since there are a lot of country roads with potholes and ditches. Don’t watch where you’re going, and you’ll find yourself in the woods. Keep your mind on things that don’t really matter in life, and you’ll likely find yourself in the woods, too.

Checking your mirrors is also important. Since we tend to associate with those whom we share common traits and values, the friends we have and the company we keep are mirrors for ourselves. So, too, are our children. They come into this world as a blank slate, and for the first years parents are the ones who hold the chalk. What they become is often our own self-portrait, just miniaturized.

And as there are plenty of signs on the road—Stop, Yield, Merge—that if disobeyed will and you in front of a judge. But there are plenty in life, too. Warning us, helping us, keeping us safe. Heed them and all will be well. A good thing to keep in mind, since we’ll all have to stand in front of the Judge one day.

Driving while impaired is never a good idea. When driving, that means no alcohol or drugs. When living, that means no hate and fear. Because those things impair us, too.

And then there was rule number seven: enjoy the ride. Put there by his father because he wanted to end things on a high note, and put here by me for the same reason. Because following The Rules isn’t designed to make things less fun, but to make us more happy.

Enjoying the ride is the boy’s favorite rule, by the way.

Mine, too.

“We are earth!” she says.

I’m standing in the local Starbucks, getting the stink-eye from the cashier. She doesn’t like me, this woman. She told me so. “I can’t stand people like you,” she had mumbled under her breath a few moments before.

“Please?” I try once more, looking at my cup. “You mean you don’t have any?”

“I’m trying to save the planet here, sir,” she answers. “We’re all in the circle of life. What happens to the earth happens to us, you know.”

Circle of life? I think. What is this, The Lion King?

“I thought you were just making me some coffee.”

“Well, I did,” she answers, scooting the cup toward me.

I’m beaten. I know this. Knew it the first time I asked her. And I deserved it, too. This is what I get for driving to Starbucks for a four dollar cup of coffee when I could have just made my own at home. But some days are just made for a venti caramel macchiato, regardless of the consequences.

My mistake was going out the door ignorant of the fact that it was Earth Day. Had I realized that, I would have definitely stayed at home. Because Earth Day is when many of the normally sane people you meet during the day turn crazy. Much like the lady behind the register at Starbucks.

And this whole thing began well enough. She smiled asked what I’d like, and I’d smiled and gave her my order. She smiled and made my coffee, and I smiled and said thank you.

But then I couldn’t find a sleeve to put over my cup.

“Excuse me,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to have any sleeves laying around back there, would you?”

“We’re requesting our customers not use sleeves,” she said. “Since it’s Earth Day and all.”

I failed to make the connection. “Why?” I asked.

“Because it’s better for the Earth.”

“It’s better for the Earth if I drink my coffee without a sleeve?”

“We’re trying to reduce our carbon footprint, sir. I’m sure you understand.”

“Sure,” I answered. “Absolutely.”

But then I tried picking up my coffee, which she had brewed to a temperature of about five thousand degrees. No way could I make it back to my truck without the plastic cup melting to my fingers.

So. It was either find a sleeve or stand there and wait for it to cool down.

“Ma’am,” I said. “You sure you don’t have a sleeve around here? This is pretty hot.”

“Sir, we’re really asking that you try and make due. It’s a little sacrifice to make for what we’ve done to our planet. I mean, let’s face it. The world would be better off without us around polluting it. A lot of our customers are bringing their own sleeves now.”

So now I have to bring my own sleeves to Starbucks? I already have to bring my own bags to the grocery store. Keep this up, and I’ll have to buy an even bigger SUV to haul everything around. What’ll they say then?

With little options available, I waited.

“Happy Earth Day, by the way,” she said, wiping down the counter in front of me. “I love Earth Day. It’s so…spiritual.”

“It is?” I asked her.

“Sure. You don’t think so?”

I tried picking up the cup again, then let go when I heard the sizzle on my fingers. “I guess it’s good. Important, maybe. But not spiritual.”

“But we’re all made to be spiritual creatures.”

“Yes.”

“Then you should feel a spiritual connection with Earth.”

“Why?”

At which point came the “We are Earth” comment.

So here we are, her and I, together yet separated. And by more than a simple counter. By the way we see our world.

I agree with her in this way: we are all made to be spiritual creatures. Whether we choose to believe so or not. But her thoughts ended there. Mine went further.

More than merely spiritual, we are special. Part earth, yes. Also part divine. Blessed with a spark of God that we may either kindle into a burning inferno or a tiny ember. Put here so that we may know and love Him, that we may know and love others, and that we may be good stewards of his world.

I love Earth. Love its mountains and its seas. Love clean air and clear water. I reduce and reuse and recycle. Not to show my love for Mother Nature. To show my love for Father God.

This lady in front of me is wrong. We’re not a little lower than the earth.

We’re a little lower than the angels.

I touch my cup one more time. No sizzle.

“You’re right,” I tell her as I leave. “We are Earth. But we are also so much more.”

The toy store downtown is one of those mom-and-pop deals that you can get lost in, the sort of place where you can find things that Toys R Us would never think of stocking. Good things. Great things. Things that really, really make me wish I were a kid again. Which makes shopping there both a pleasure and a curse. A pleasure because there is so much I’d like to get my kids for two weeks of chores well done. A curse because I can’t make up my mind what to get them.

So, there on a Wednesday during lunch, I wander. And in my wandering I happen to spot a Longaberger basket sitting atop a wooden display of toy soldiers (Toy soldiers, I think to myself. My son would love some toy soldiers).

In the basket is a pile of those long, thick pretzel sticks. The sign above them says PLEASE TAKE ONE.

Given the fact that it’s lunchtime and I’m hungry, that’s exactly what I do. I take one and munch while I walk. Through the Legos, the building blocks, the books, the dolls. Through the Tonka trucks and coloring books and Play Doh.

And I am back to where I started. At the basket of pretzels.

Still unsure of what to buy and still hungry, I decide to restock and take another trip around the store. I reach into the basket for another pretzel. And as I bite it, I see something out of the corner of my eye.

Standing beside the stuffed animals about four feet away is a little boy. Sixish, not much older than my son, and staring. At me. He holds out one fist and raises his index finger.

One, it says.

I wrinkle my eyebrows, unsure of what his attempt at sign language means.

One, again.

“What?” I ask him (which actually came out as “Wamp?” because I hadn’t swallowed yet).

“You took two pretzels,” he says.

“So?”

“You’re only ‘posed to take one.”

“Who are you” I ask, “the pretzel police?”

“It’s what the sign says,” he states, now using his index finger to point. “Mama said the sign says ‘Please take one.”

I look at the sign, then back to him. “No,” I answer, “the sign says ‘Please take one.’ There’s a difference. It’s all a matter of emphasis.”

“What’s empkasis?”

“Never mind,” I say.

“You shouldn’t have taken that pretzel. Mama says God watches us.”

My mind takes a sudden detour to those old Disney movies, where the older, bigger kid was always accompanied by Jiminy Cricket, Mr. Disney’s version of a conscience. I’m starting to think this kid is my Jiminy Cricket. Or maybe just aggravating. I haven’t made up my mind yet.

“Your mama’s right,” I answer, wondering where in the world his mama was. “But since God knows the sign says ‘Please take one,’ I think I’m in the clear.”

“Please. Take. One,” he corrects.

There we stand in the middle of the store, staring down one another like two gunslingers in a Western wondering who would draw first.

PLEASE TAKE ONE. An invitation to me, a rule for him. Which was right? I’m not as sure as I was a few minutes ago.

How do we decide who is right and who is wrong? Easy.

Go ask the owner of the store.

“Excuse me,” I say to the nice lady behind the counter. “I was wondering if you could shed a little light on a problem this youngin’ and I are having.”

She perks up and joins us, happy to have something to do.

“We were wondering about this sign here,” I say. “Is it please take one, or please take one?”

The owner gives us both a strange look. “Well, I’m not sure. No one’s ever asked.”

“It’s preyin’ on our minds, ma’am,” the boy says.

“Preyin’,” I add.

“If you’d like a pretzel,” she says, “please take one. If you’d like another, you can take one, too.”

Excellent.

“Can I have a pretzel?” the boy asks.

Situation resolved, the three of us part ways. Him to his mother, who had been preoccupied with the books, the owner back to the register, and me to finish my shopping.

Funny, I think, how three words led us this far. But I am sure of this: if two people can disagree over something as simple as pretzels, it’s no wonder why we disagree over the important things even more—politics and God, right and wrong, war and peace.

Who’s to know which is right and which is wrong? Or even if there really is a right and wrong? How do we settle our differences, put away our prejudices, and find the truth?

Maybe, I thought, we should all do what that little boy and I ended up doing.

Maybe we should all go the Owner of the store and see what He says.

A father seldom thinks things through before asking his children what they want for their birthday. He just says it. He thinks their answer will be an easy one. A new doll, maybe. Or the latest action figure. But what he does not consider is that their answer may be something utterly different and much more difficult than having to run to the store the next day and plop something down in front of a cashier.

I learned all this over the weekend. “What do you want for your birthday?” I asked my daughter. Her reply?

“A sleepover!”

So. My wife and I played host to three six-year-old girls last night. Having such young children sleeping at your house and away from theirs for the first time was something for which I admit I was not prepared. For the screaming and yelling, yes. And the mess, absolutely. I was even prepared for the dent that some tiny body part knocked into the living room wall.

But I was not prepared for Curly Sue. Not one bit.

Susan was her given name. But the dark brown locks of hair that adorned her head demanded a temporary nickname. Curly Sue had never spent more than a few hours away from her parents. The likelihood of her actually staying the entire night was slim. But she was determined. Curly Sue stepped through our front door with a pillow, a sleeping bag, and a knapsack full of toys. She was there to stay.

All went well that evening. Until bedtime, that is. Then things began the sort of downward spiral that can happen when you have a house full of little girls.

It started with goodnight prayers. Girls in a circle, taking turns praying for mommy and daddy and for God to make their stomachs quit hurting from all the popcorn. When it came time for Curly Sue’s contribution, though, there was only silence.“Do you want to pray, Susan?” asked my wife.

A tiny nod.

“Okay, go ahead.”

More silence. Then, five words: “God, I wanna go home.”

Uh-oh.

Four phone calls to her mother later, and Curly Sue decided to be strong and stick it out. She didn’t want to leave her friends, but she didn’t want to stay, either. Could everyone go with her back to her house? she asked.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t having fun. Curly Sue said she was having much fun. She loved our home and having her friends around, and she really loved all the popcorn. And there was so much to do! But as much as she was enjoying herself and her surroundings, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t where she should be.

“It’s just not home,” she told me.

The girls were asleep by eleven. By one, Curly Sue had appeared at our bedside twice. “I wanna go home,” she said. Both times.

Instinct woke me at six thirty when I rolled over and found no one beside me. I got out of bed and walked into the living room in search of my wife. I found her and Curly Sue in the rocking chair by the window, gazing out into the evaporating night.

“Just wait a bit,” my wife was telling her. “The sun’s coming, you just wait and see. And when the sun comes, it’ll be time to go home.”

Curly Sue smiled. Me, too.

Because I, too, am a little visitor in a big place, and I miss home.

Oh, it’s wonderful here. Beautiful. I have fun, I’m around people I love, and there’s so much to do.

But it’s just not home. No, my home is somewhere else. Somewhere on the other side of this life. Somewhere perfect.

Like her, I’m torn. I want to go home, but I don’t want to leave anyone here, either. I want everyone to come with me so we can all have fun.Some days, many days, I like it here. But there are days when the weariness of this world weighs on me. When I long for the day when laughter won’t be so fleeting and hope won’t be so hard to find.

Those are the days when I seem to sit by some unknown window and gaze out, trying to will the darkness to fade and the light to shine.

Because I know that when the Son comes, I can go home.

One day God sat upon His heavenly throne and looked down upon all He had made. All the galaxies of all the universes were in His sight. Some were spiral, some flat, some round, but each were wondrous in their size and beauty.

He saw comets whisking about, their tails long and shiny. Suns burst with incredible brilliance. Black holes churned. And He saw the secret places where no eyes but His own ever roamed. Everything turned in a silent celestial dance that many could ponder but only He could understand.

He saw stars of all shapes and sizes—huge red ones, medium yellow ones, small white ones. And around the stars were worlds innumerable. Some hung peacefully in the blackness of space. Others teemed with strange and wondrous life. And God saw that it was all good and wonderful and perfect.

Then the eyes of the Lord settled upon one small galaxy among the millions, then upon one yellow star among the billions, to one pale, blue dot.

Of all the worlds God had created, the blue dot was the most beautiful in His eyes. It was a world of unsurpassed beauty, of churning oceans and majestic mountains, of soaring birds and graceful animals.

But there was something more there. Something far more valuable. For God had made oceans and mountains and creatures on many other worlds and in many other galaxies, but only in this one place, only upon this pale, blue dot, did God fashion beings who carried within them a part of Himself.

Man and Woman, the Lord called them. It was God’s love that gave them life, and it was God’s love that gave them the choice of whether to love Him back. But they chose unwisely. Now, the very ones God had created had forgotten Him. His children had lost their way. And more than that, they had lost their faith.

The pale, blue dot that was once so pure was now nearly ruined. There was war and bloodshed, hate and slavery, pain and suffering. And as the Lord listened, the cries of the people echoed throughout all of heaven. The smile that was upon God’s face began to fade. The cherubim who circled the throne in constant song stopped then, their wings lowered. Slowly they turned to face their Lord, astonished at the sight.

For God, Creator of all, had begun to cry.

Then with a powerful voice He called out, “Michael, come!”

The mighty doors of the throne room opened as Michael the archangel, commander of the armies of heaven, appeared. His clothing shone brighter than the brightest star, and a golden sword hung from his side. As he bowed before the Lord his wings stretched outward, so large and majestic that they seemed to touch the very corners of heaven.

“What is Thy wish, my Lord?” Michael asked.

“Michael,” God answered, “the time has come. Go forth and bring to me the soul unlike all others. Bring to me The One.”

At those words the cherubim again burst into joyful song, for they knew all of heaven had waited for this moment since time itself began. Michael’s smile was lit with the radiance of a hundred suns. “As you wish, my Lord,” he said, drawing his massive sword in salute.

Michael left the presence of God and searched throughout heaven. He walked along the golden streets and by the crystal sea until, finally, he had found whom God had requested, whom God had called The One. The two of them journeyed back to the throne and bowed before the Lord.

“My child,” God said, “do you see the pale, blue dot below you?”

“Yes, Father,” replied The One.

“No world is more precious to Me. And none of the souls I have ever created are more loved by My heart than those whom you see walking upon it. And yet they have forgotten how to live. They have forgotten that they share one Father, and so they quarrel and hate. Their words maim the heart and their actions destroy the soul. They think not of their neighbors, but only of themselves. Yet My love for them is such that I will not forsake them. They have cried out for My help, and I will answer them. I will send them you.

“You must go and take their form. You will grow to walk among them, and you are to help them remember how I would have them live. Teach them to love one another. Show them that they can have joy. And above all, tell them that the life I have given them is not a curse, but a blessing. Their lives upon the pale, blue dot are short and their days are few. Tell them that they must never take their days for granted, but use their time to ease the burdens of others. Tell them not to worry. Tell them not to fear. Tell them that the Lord watches over them, and that His love is great.

“Take care, My child, and be strong. You will be tempted to speak as they speak and live as they live. Resist those things. Remember instead that the pale, blue dot is not your true home. Your true home is here, with Me. Be gentle with others. See in them yourself. See in them Me. Grow in wisdom.

“Let the light I have put in you shine forth and do not forget your purpose, for you will suffer greatly. You will feel the pains of loss, and you will journey to the depths of sadness and despair. These things you must experience, for they are shared by all. Only turn to Me, your Father. I will comfort you in your anguish, I will laugh with you in your joy, and I will bless you abundantly.

“Go now, My child, and make haste, for you are the answer to their prayers. Do not forget Me. Remain strong and courageous, and remember that I look down upon you always.”

With that the precious soul rose up and stood upon the edge of heaven. All the angels gathered there in silence as Michael took The One by the hand and together descended to the tiny, blue dot…

***

How does the story end? I can’t say. I don’t know.

Because, you see, the story is still happening.

Because you are The One.

And right now, this minute, all the angels stand upon the edge of heaven, and watch…

The saying is that time goes by fast when you’re having fun, and I’ve been reminded of that here lately. Believe it or not, it’s been six months since I first started this blog. Seems longer than that in some respects. I feel like I’ve known some of you for a lot longer than that. But it sometimes seems so much shorter than that, too.

I’ve posted 159 blog entries since then, which I figure amounts to two or three books (a good thing to keep in mind if my other two don’t get taken soon.) In honor of making it this far, I’ve decided to give myself what amounts to a little vacation. So this week’s theme is going to be Family Favorites, courtesy of my wife and children, who took the time to go through all of my posts, pick the three they like best, and offer a little polishing.

Since a lot of you are new to these parts, chances are what you’ll read this week won’t be reruns. And for those who’ve managed to stick with me from the beginning, I hope these will still move you as much as they did the first time around.

Regardless, please know that each of you make my day, every day. I love you stopping here and sharing your own wisdom, and I love visiting your blogs. Here’s to six more months (at least!!).

The Dance

Here I am, huddled together with four other men in a corner of an elementary school gym. We are all in the same predicament, though we are all too insecure to admit it. So we talk sports and trucks and the year’s corn crop and anything else with masculine connotations, if only to take our minds off where we are:

A ballet recital.

My six-year-old, Molly, has been taking ballet lessons for six weeks now. And as tonight is the final performance, the culmination of all that study and work, my presence is required. Thankfully, other fathers of other six-year-olds have been similarly persuaded. I have company. Company is a good thing to have when you’re where you’d rather not be.

Within our conversation of the new Fords and the dry spell, I watch Molly. She twirls and steps and trips and repeats. And she laughs.

Another twirl and step, but two trips this time. Molly turns, looks at my wife, and wiggles a finger–come here, Mommy. The two meet in the middle of the basketball court, and I know what’s wrong. I excuse myself from the group and join them.

“My sugar’s messy,” Molly says. We retreat to the stands for her glucometer. Her diabetes doctor says that her sugar should be between one hundred and one-fifty. After a prick of a finger, the readout says “389.”

“We should go home,” I say.

“We can’t,” my daughter pleads. “It’s not over.” She looks back to her teacher and her classmates, still struggling through their routine. “God wants us all to dance until the dance is done.”

Both look to me. I have the final decision. Yes, we should go. Go and get a bottle of water and a blanket and climb up on the sofa and rest. But according to Molly, God wanted her to dance. And who am I to argue with God?

Molly returns to her group, but I remain apart from mine. I am stand alone and watch, lost in this little girl, in her spirit and her joy. She dances in spite of her disease. With her disease.

Our evening is over with one final bow, and upon leaving we are confronted in the parking lot by a sea of red and blue lights across the street. Sometime between the first foutette and the last pirouette, a horrible accident had occurred. A mangled white car, it’s top shorn, lay upside down in the median. Police, firemen, and rescue personnel scramble in choreographed chaos. A medical helicopter waits, blades churning, an angel of metal and wires, death and life.

My family stands silent.

“God bless the wrecked people,” murmurs my son. We all join him, holding hands.

My wife and I exchange a glance when our eyes open. Our town is small, the identity of the injured likely an acquaintance. Coming from the school, perhaps. Football practice. A child? One of my wife’s students?”

How can I live with this fear?” I whisper to God.

Silence.

“How can I bask in Your light while standing in this shadow?”

The helicopter blades swoosh.

“How must life be lived

in the face of death?”

I look at my daughter, safe in the crook of my arm. She rests her head on my shoulder.

The suddenness of life presses into me. To be a parent or a spouse is to have your fears magnified. You have much, and so you have much to lose. So fragile is our existence in this world, so easily taken and taken for granted.

Yes, God loves the dance. And so should we. We should hear the music in this life, surrender to its rhythms. We should make its cadence our own. And we should always dance until the dance is done.