(The Boy Who Cried Wolf is a story about Hudson, our beloved six year old who just happens to have an extra chromosome.)

They say when the cat’s away the mice will play. And last weekend I told you about my adventures in Whitefish Bay over July 4th weekend. While I was away at the wedding, my boys hiked Mt. Kearsarge, just 30 minutes north in Warner, NH.

It’s a real challenge for our family finding summertime activities everyone can do together. On the mini-golf course, Hudson, cat-like, insists on sitting right in the middle of the green. Every. Single. Putt.

Hiking has always been tough because he walked late. And he’d rather sit than walk anyway. Beach, pool and lake trips are difficult because he’s afraid of water, still hasn’t figured out how to deal with sand. (As in keep it out of his mouth.)

So Mt. Kearsarge seemed the perfect choice to hike with Hudson because you drive the first three and a half miles on the auto road to the picnic area. And from the picnic area it’s an easy 1/2 mile hike to the summit.

Hudson is six now, mostly non-verbal. And while he didn’t start walking ’til he was nearly four, he’s getting steadier on his feet every day. Jon and the boys figured he’d be ok with the short hike.

So up the auto road they drove, picnicked first, then headed up the mountain on foot. After a couple minutes, Hudson tripped. Looked like a twisted ankle, though it didn’t show swelling. Since Hudson can’t talk, he can’t say what hurts. But he refused to put weight on it, even with lots of encouragement.

So the boys hoisted him on shoulders, passed him around ’til they made it to the top.

He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.

You should know that Hudson is forty-three pounds. Forty-three pounds of completely dead weight. He’s of no help, a virtual sack of potatoes. And carrying him up a mountain is no small feat.

When they got to the summit, he sat in one place, refused to walk there either. So they carried him on shoulders for the hike back down too.

When they get to the parking area, they set him down. And guess who races off to the car all smiles and ready to go? Hudson, that’s who. The Boy Who Cried Wolf.  (True story.)

People often ask me if I think Hudson is making progress. And I say yes and no. Because progress is often so slow that it’s nearly imperceptible on a daily basis.

Hudson’s always been petrified of water. But just last week at my aunt and uncle’s at the Cape, Hudson nervously (but willingly) got in a kayak with his dad, had a wonderful ride across the glassy pond. Then later that afternoon, he made his way back to the kayak, pointed to it. His way of asking for another ride. Progress. Baby steps.

Later that week he rode a tube with his dad down the current of the natural lazy river at Woodneck Beach in Falmouth.

And this may sound like a crazy one. But Hudson won’t eat ice cream. Nope. He’s always had sensory issues eating cold things, and always refuses it.

But after mini-golfing at the Cape last week, one of the boys coaxed a reluctant Hudson to try a taste of vanilla ice cream. And guess what? Mikey liked it! And he’s been sampling ice cream ever since. So YAY Hudson, and yay us! One more thing we can do together.

Each baby step forward reminds me that Hudson and all people with special needs are far more like the rest of us than they are different. Maybe they’re just taking the scenic route.

You may also like: Going on a Bear Hunt

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If you’re new around here, you might not know that our littlest boy Hudson was born with a surprise diagnosis of Down syndrome in 2010. (Catch up on his birth story here: Can’t Buy This)

We were told a lot of information, machine-gun-style in the hospital following Hudson’s birth: mostly what he couldn’t or wouldn’t be able to do.

Here’s what They Didn’t Know about Hudson:

• That he’d light up a room just walking through the door
• That he’d say “wow” with genuine excitement each time a light flicks on

2013

• That he’d make us proud learning the alphabet at three
• That he’d demand “ick” (music) every time he got in the car. (And cry if it didn’t happen fast enough.)
• That he’d love to play with balls

2011

• That he’d wake up each morning with infectious joy
• That he’d adore music, singing and dancing

Nellie and Hudson, good friends 2013

• That he’d love life
• That he’d love listening to stories, looking at books

Happy 2nd Birthday dear Hudson! April 2012

• That he’d foster love, kindness and compassion in others
• That he’d make friends everywhere he goes

2011

• That he’d so beautifully complete our family
• That he’d love his little classmates and going to school
• That he’d sign “I love you”
• That his bear hugs would melt our hearts

Freeze!

• That his unique little personality would be funny, mischievous (and stubborn)
• That he’d crawl in our bed each morning, looking for snuggles

2012

• That he’d be a little love bug, steal his mama’s heart
• That he’d have a million dollar smile

They Didn’t Know that Hudson would be mesmerized by his own reflection. That his best baby friend would be that other little boy he sees in the mirror. That he’d catch glimpses of himself in the kitchen appliances, have daily animated conversations with these little friends too….. Stove Baby, Dishwasher Baby and Stainless Steel Trash Can Baby.

Hudson, having the time of his life  

Summer 2013

You can see why this visit to the Children’s Museum was one of the best days of Hudson’s life!

(Tears and tantrums when it was time to wave goodbye to all his little friends.)

Related post: Glimpse of Sunshine

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Hello there my friends, I’m out of town for the long weekend. Hope you’re having a wonderful weekend celebrating with friends and family! And that you enjoy A Special Place in Heaven today. I lost a few tears writing it. allie XO

If I had a $1 for every time someone said “There’s A Special Place in Heaven for the mother of three boys” after my third little boy Charlie was born, I’d be sipping pina coladas in Tahiti right now. (That was nine years ago.)

And why didn’t I think to collect back then? 

And then my baby Hudson was born, our fourth little boy. And I don’t think people knew quite what to say. Understandably. We didn’t either. (Hudson is five years old now and has Down syndrome.)

Hudson’s diagnosis surprised everyone, mostly me. And Hudson has turned out to be our biggest blessing in disguise.

Well not only is there A Special Place in Heaven for the mother of three boys, but there’s also A Special Place in Heaven for special teachers. If I asked you who your favorite teacher was growing up, I bet a special teacher comes to mind immediately. Does for me anyway. I remember a number of teachers fondly.

But one of my elementary teachers really jumps out. Her name was Mrs. White. And some of you reading also had Mrs. White. She taught 6th grade, and everyone in the school wanted to be in Mrs. White’s class. That’s because Mrs. White treated her students like gold. Sixth graders had all kinds of special privileges the “underclassmen” didn’t.

We couldn’t wait to be in Mrs. White’s class. She was kind, and she also broke the rules. Well, she didn’t exactly break them. She just rewrote them. (But only for the 6th graders.) One of the school rules was you couldn’t eat at your desk except for lunch or snack time.

But one day Mrs. White made caramel apples. Brought them in for the whole class. Let us eat them. ALL DAY LONG at our desks. (Napkins provided.) And one day she brought in gum for everyone. Yeah, the teacher brought in gum. I think there was perhaps a little bit of rebel in Mrs. White. And all of us kids found that pretty exciting.

There’s another category of special teachers. These are the teachers who teach special needs children. They may be therapists or classroom teachers, but these are very special teachers indeed. Hudson has been blessed to have incredibly wonderful teachers and therapists so far in his short little life.

So I came upon the sweetest little scene a few weeks ago. It was Hudson’s last day of school, and I was waiting outside the school door with other parents. Some of the children were coming out, but I didn’t see Hudson yet. A little girl with special needs came out the door, ran to her mom. Her bottom lip quivered, and she glanced back towards her teacher. (Also Hudson’s teacher.) A big tear rolled down her little cheek. She was shaking and sobbing. Her mom hugged her.

And then the teacher noticed. Miss Jo-Ann’s eyes glistened  too. She got down on one knee, and that little girl rushed into her arms, hugged her for dear life. It was apparent that this precious 4 year old little girl wearing glasses was sobbing bitterly because she was saying goodbye to her teacher for the summer.

It was a sweet scene and I won’t forget it. I don’t know if that little girl can talk. She never said a word. Just tears. But if she can’t talk, the tears are her language. They say what she can’t verbalize. I can only imagine the joys and sweet times that must have taken place in that classroom.

Stories. Games. Circle times. Snacks. Special hugs and encouragements. Puzzles. Motion songs. It must have been such a delightful classroom experience for her to cry so bitterly when it was over.

The thing about special needs teachers is that their little students often can’t brag on them. They can’t necessarily verbalize all the wonderful things their teacher might have said or done during the day. Most special needs students probably won’t go to a prestigious college. Or become famous.

Special needs teachers pour themselves out with utter abandon because they have a special calling, a real gift. To love unconditionally, to teach with patience and kindness all different kinds of children.

Hudson is attending pre-K during the month of July. This morning I got a call from the school office. Apparently there was a paperwork glitch between the transportation provider and school district, and the bus would not be bringing Hudson home from school today after all. I needed to pick him up ASAP. Unfortunately I didn’t get the call until after school was already out. So when I arrived, all the parents and students were gone.

I walked into the school hallway, came upon another very sweet scene. There on the hallway bench sat two teachers on either end, and Hudson stretched out between them. Thumb in mouth, nestled up against one of his teachers. She was stroking his hair and the three of them were having a nice little chat and snuggle.

This is the scene every parent with a special needs child dreams to happen upon. To find their child cherished, well taken care of. Loved and appreciated for their unique little qualities. Even if the children can’t come home and tell us all about it. These teachers are God’s gift to our family and many others.

There’s A Special Place in Heaven for the mother of three boys. And four boys. And probably ten.

But there’s a private wing reserved for the very special teachers and therapists who patiently and kindly work with special needs children. It has AC. And a pool. And a little bell to ring for the next round of pina coladas.

Got a special teacher that impacted your life? I’d love to hear about them.

You may also enjoy: Twinkle Twinkle 

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Hi friends and a very happy weekend to you! Just last Monday our family returned to the scene of the crime in Stalker: the lovely New Castle Beach in New Castle, NH. The following post recounts my little Hudson’s beach adventure last summer. (Hudson’s six now, has Down syndrome, the youngest of four boys.)

We had such a gorgeous Sunday afternoon a few weeks ago and headed for the mountains beach. Sure do love a late afternoon beachscape.

Not too hot. Not too cold. Juuuuuuust right. (Goldilocks approved.)

So we’re walking onto the beach to set up our stuff, pass an abandoned beach blanket, chairs, etc.  Also a plastic bag of picnic trash, all tied up, sitting in the middle of the blanket.

Oh, and a very clever, greedy Mr. Seagull burrowing through the plastic, enjoying a late afternoon snack of Doritos and whatever other remnants he can scavenge.

So suddenly my boys want to offer him snippets of our picnic lunch. Whaaaattt??? The chicken salad sandwiches I slaved over, not to mention homemade cookies and Avocado Lime Black Bean Dip? Crazy kids.

Sure, and while you’re at it – send an open invite to all the seagulls in NH. Your mother’s not so generous as that, kids.

“Nada nada,” said I.

Gets his wet chewy tube (therapy tool he hopefully chews on instead of his thumb) in the sand, then returns it to his mouth. Gets sand on his hands, puts them in his mouth and eyes.

Doesn’t know how to spit yet, so you get the picture. Think sand. Choking. Stress. Yeah. And let me add that he drinks from a sippy cup with a straw, then with utter abandon cheerfully hucks it into a sand pile.

Now here’s the heaven part. Hudson’s a Stalker. Yup, heaven. (!) I never knew when I dreamed of having all my sweet little babies that I’d bring a Stalker into this world.

Hudson, my little seagull Stalker. And seriously, it’s the funniest thing you ever saw. He gets real quiet and stealthy, sneaks up on ’em.

Of course they’re hoping for food, so they don’t move a muscle as he approaches. Give him that creepy gull off-in-the-distance stare…

Hudson’s often bored at home, asks for a “show”, looks for attention throwing things, even refuses to play with toys often. Yup, our sweet little Hudson does those things. But take him to the beach, and he forgets about the shows and throwing stuff (well, not the sand) and busily occupies himself stalking gulls.

And just when he gets close enough, and it up and flys away, the stalking begins again in earnest with another bird. The only problem is if someone (or something) is in his way. Like a sunbather. (Oops.) Or an occupied chair or beach blanket.

Yeah, that’s a real problem. Because Hudson’s focused, sees nothing but the gull, eyes glued to that elusive dirty grey bird. (Sorry birdie.)

Hudson’s determined to get that bird.

Makes me think perhaps a bird might be a good pet for Hudson. Come to think of it, a parrot. Yes a parrot could be perfect, a little extra speech therapy on the side. (And let’s hope it’s a nice parrot?)

Wish I had a video of Hudson gull stalking for you. Because you’d really get a kick out of it. Mama’s Little Stalker. He never tires of it.

So here’s a funny twist. The stalked becomes the Stalker. You gotta watch this short funny clip. A shoplifting Dorito stalking seagull. You gotta see it to believe it! Too funny.

Wishing you a beautiful summer weekend, friends!

You may also enjoy: Just Like Billy

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In the distance, footsteps. Faint, intentional tiny footfalls on stair treads.

By the stairs, the hallway door creaks slowly open. I don’t see, only hear.

More faltering little steps, coming down the hallway now, making their way towards me.

A little someone fumbles clumsily with the knob, the knob to my bedroom door.

With great difficulty, the door cracks open. Slowly my eyes open, adjust to the low light.

Expectant, a tiny face peeks through the crack. A little someone peers around, looks for me.

And then a delighted chortle. Success.

The door swings open wide. A short, barefooted and pajamed little figure slips through, purposefully turns to shut the door.

Pushes hard. No click.

And again. No click. He waits a moment, musters all his might, shoves his whole little person up against it hard.

And the door, it clicks tight. Finally.

Slowly he turns, a grin splashes. Success.

Got his mama all to himself. Doesn’t happen often.

On cat’s feet he approaches, tries hoisting up. No success. Again.

A thin, unhappy wail. Pouty face.

Untangling from bed sheets, my hands help drag him up, over the edge.

And now, pure ecstasy on that little countenance.

Burrowing under the covers, he crawls in close, face down on the pillow beside me.

I pull the covers tight around him, snuggle in close.

Little kicking legs, like treading water. He turns my way.

His face closes in on mine. Closer, inches away now.

He hones in closer still, eyes locked. Lash to lash, he stares me down with twinkling eyes.

Thumb sucking, flutter kicking, snuggling little Snugglebug.

My arms close tight, bear hug this little person, this precious little gift.

This little Snugglebug alarm clock who hunts me down each Saturday morning.

Dearest little Snugglebug Hudson:

Six years ago you arrived on April 19th. Your extra chromosome surprised us all, but mostly me. Not only an extra chromosome, but you came with extra love too. Tentatively we welcomed you. We didn’t (how could we?) know then what we know now:

That love doesn’t count chromosomes.

Such a precious gift you are. Each day we realize a little more. We sure are lucky God chose us to be your family.

Remember all those special things you want to tell us. Because someday you’ll have words, and we can’t wait to hear all about it.

Keep smiling. Keep shining. Keep spreading sunshine wherever you go.

And don’t forget to come snuggle with mama on Saturday mornings.

You may also like: Can’t Buy This

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Sure do hope wherever you are is as beautiful as it is here in New Hampshire today. Seventy degrees, no humidity. Blue sky, singing birds. We’re patiently waiting for the tree leaves to catch up with the rest of spring around here.

Extra Forgiving & Mostly Happy

It’s been remarked a number of times on our Hudson journey how nice it is that people with Down syndrome are always happy. I could see how one might think that, because many of the wonderful people I know with Down syndrome are very joyful. But I just don’t agree that people with Down syndrome are always happy.

Both Hudson and his Auntie Lizzy (my sister) have lots of joy. But both are sensitive, have frustrations and disappointments too, like anyone else. Sometimes they’re scared or sad, often can’t articulate why. And while they’re not necessarily happy happy happy 24-7, they’re two of the most forgiving people I’ve ever met.

I can think of a lot of examples, but the most poignant one that comes to mind is Hudson’s quarterly blood draw to regulate his thyroid meds. It’s gotten to the point he knows when we walk through that door he’s going to get stuck with a needle. And yet he has no concept of why he needs a blood draw or why I’d regularly take him to a place where he gets poked with a needle. My assigned job is to hold him in the chair in a tight bear hug, one arm free so they can get the draw. It nearly brings me to tears every time. (Can I just say, I hate my job?) We’re thankful to have the kindest phlebotomist on planet earth, Janet. She also has a special needs son with a chromosomal disorder, and couldn’t be nicer or kinder to Hudson. But she has her job to do just the same. (And I have mine.)

Hudson screams and cries, tries to squirm away. And of course I feel terrible, horrible. But what always floors me after each blood draw, is how Hudson instantly forgives me. The same person who held him still to allow that needle stick, is the one he clings to, hugs, dries his tears on right afterwards. I’m so blessed by this sweet little boy and his extra forgiving heart.

Today I’m sharing one of my all time favorite video links about a wonderful man named Tim. It’s less than three minutes long. I really hope you’ll watch it because it will so make your day. I’ve watched it more times than I can count. It’s been viewed on-line over two million times. You’ll have happy tears seeing Tim and his big heart in action. I love Tim, his contagious joy, his hugs and his wonderfully supportive family. Hope this makes your day, and please share it and brighten someone else’s too.

Related post: Grace for Hudson

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I witnessed something so incredibly sweet from my breakfast seat at the kitchen counter early this morning. So moving I knew I’d write about it someday. Well, someone beat me to punch line. Stole my thunder. Yeah, someone. My better half. Ha. He was also there in the kitchen this morning. Didn’t just witness it, he experienced it, picked up his pen and wrote about it. (Good for him.) So please welcome today’s post by Jon, in honor of our sweet little boy Hudson. (Hudson has Down syndrome.)

Two Words by Jon Taylor

This past Sunday we celebrated Hudson’s 5th birthday. People are often drawn in by his personality and comment, “He must be so much fun!” And I smile and say, “Yes, we have a lot of fun with Hudson.” And we do.

Hudson is also exhausting. He clings tenaciously to a routine, yet he can change it at any time. I put him in bed the other night and did the same things I always do: brush teeth, get pjs on, read a story, pray, turn on his music, tuck him in and say goodnight. In that order. He goes to sleep like clockwork. But that night I had left my wallet on his bedside table, and went in to get it after I left. That was all he needed. It threw off his routine, and Hudson got out of his room at least six times and has been doing that for four nights in a row now. He’s also been waking up 90 minutes early.

On Sunday while we were talking in the living room, he quietly went to the kitchen and polished off the leftover chocolate cake from church, spreading it all over the kitchen floor and himself in the process. These kinds of things happen almost daily.
 I tell you that to help you appreciate what happened this morning.

Hudson expresses his speech generally in a 5 second delay. So when you say something he responds 5 seconds after it would be expected. But this morning I was getting my jacket on, grabbing keys and getting ready to race out the door with the boys for school. Hudson watched me like a hawk and, when I turned to go, stood there and said, “Bye!” 
No delay. In fact, he initiated, said it first.

I swallowed him up in a big hug and stood up to go when he said, “Hug.”

How can you resist? 
It’s hard to imagine a human being wrapping my heart more tightly around his little finger than he did in that moment.

I can’t help but think that the apostle Paul knew someone like Hudson when he wrote, “But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God.”(1 Cor. 1:27-29)

Hudson preaches an amazing sermon in two words.

Related Post: Artiste Hudson

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The gas light was NOT on when I pulled into the driveway last night. But when I turn the ignition key this morning? It is. Go figure.

“Impossible” I sputter, cursing evil fairies that siphon in the wee hours.

Busted (Yeah Me) by allie taylor

Today’s a very special day, no extra time for a fill-up. And it doesn’t help that Hudson’s moving at a snail’s pace. He knows we’re in a hurry, conveniently won’t budge. Then loads his pants, necessitating a diaper change at the last nano-second. As I heave him up into his car seat, he carries not an ounce of his thirty-nine pounds.

Now the gas light’s on. But if we stop, we’ll be too late.

“We’ll just have to make it on fumes,” I fume.

Heading north, coasting often, I nervously watch the gas gauge. Ten minutes pass, a police car blows by in the left lane, then slows abruptly in the distance. The traffic does too. I check the gas gauge, avoid pressing the gas pedal, coast along for a while. Now I’m several lengths behind the officer. I switch lanes, we ride in tandem. I coast slightly ahead.

That’s my first mistake. But I don’t realize it ‘til I glance in the rearview mirror. Really? Please not today. No time for a blue light special. But the blue lights are flashing. Busted (Yeah Me).

“May I see your license and registration m’aam?”

I fumble in the glovebox.

“Why are you stopping me?”

“Speeding.”

Movie scenes flash. I rack my gray cells for citizen’s arrest protocol. Because isn’t he the one who just flew by ME?

“Gee, Officer Krupke, now that’s a tad unfair.” (I think that anyway.)

And aloud, “Can I ask you a favor? Could you hurry please? Today’s an important day at school.”

And that’s my second mistake. Obliging, he quickly returns in two minutes flat with a $155 speeding ticket. My first ticket. Ever.

Numbly I pull back onto the highway, rueing that I watched the gas gauge and not the speedometer.

My uncooperative sack of potatoes and I finally arrive, scrambling into the school assembly room just in time.

My oldest son (his mother nearly a felon) is up on stage now, repeating his vows as the newest inductee…of the National Honor Society. (Oh the irony.)

Ok, so I told on me. You gonna tell on you? (Oh come on, confession is good for the soul.)

You may also enjoy: Little Experiment

The post Busted (Yeah Me) appeared first on Through Her Looking Glass.

Did you ever receive a gift you didn’t want? I mean, you really didn’t want or ask for. Did you cry, pitch a fit? Stamp your foot? Scream at deafening decibel: “I don’t want this! I wanted something different”?

Well I certainly hope not. That would be most impolite, quite rude. What the bratty little sugar-high kid does at his birthday party with too many guests, too many presents.

Embrace the Gift by allie taylor

The dictionary defines a gift as “something given willingly without payment, a present.” It’s great fun to receive a gift, even more so giving one. Gift giving is truly an art. A good gift giver doesn’t necessarily choose a gift according to his own personal taste.

A good gift giver considers the receiver’s taste, their interests, personality, hobbies, available space, life situation, etc. A good gift giver considers the recipient’s need. Not necessarily want or whim, doesn’t always give what the receiver asks for.

And a good receiver? Says thank you.

In April of 2010 I’m given a beautiful, custom-made gift. But not the one I ask for. Along with thousands of other expectant moms, I ask for a healthy baby. And I’m dismayed, shocked to discover I don’t receive what I ask for, pray for.

In time, shock recedes, anger wells as the permanence and reality of Hudson’s Down syndrome diagnosis and complications set in. And I behave like the bratty little birthday kid on the sugar-high at the party. Rude and demanding to the Giver. Stamp my foot. Ungrateful for my intricately woven, divinely chosen gift. God’s gift to me, our family.

I’m already blessed with three healthy boys, and my expectation is to receive yet another? Is this my due?

Monitors beep, blare as I pore over that perfect little profile in the NICU, tentatively reach through the isolette window, through tangled wires, feeding tube. Gently trace tiny velvety ears, count teeny toes. I wince at pitiful cries from blood draws on those precious little feet.

And I’m angry at the Giver. Angry for me. Angry that this baby gets no choice, receives an extra chromosome he never asked for.

Angry my family’s future has been forever changed in an instant.

I can’t see through the fog yet, don’t understand the Giver’s gifts are all good, beautiful. Don’t yet comprehend this gift was chosen tenderly, knit stitch by loving stitch with infinite care in the secret place, specifically for me, for us, our family.

For the Giver. To bring Him great pleasure and joy.

I don’t yet understand this gift will grow me, stretch me beyond myself, mold me into a different person. That in embracing, caring and advocating, I’ll experience intense pain but even deeper joy.

Don’t yet see how I’ll be forced to unravel a selfish corner of self I don’t know exists, learn self-sacrifice. That in receiving, unwrapping and embracing my gift, I’ll draw deep from the well, experience the true heart, kindness and goodness of a gracious Giver.

My eyes are wide open, but I’m blind. Eyes smarting, can’t see for the thick, stifling fog, the smothering, pressing in from every side, direction.

In time, I’ll see.

I’ll see in the silence, the quiet, the weeping. In the dark, baby rocking in the wee hours. In the loneliness. I’ll see in whispered prayers, perpetual medicine droppers. In prolonged snuggles, fluttered lashes.

I’ll see in pumping for an infant that can’t nurse. Counting precious fingers, toes. I’ll see in sacrifice. In years of reflux, changed sheets and clothes, towering laundry piles. I’ll see in the kindness, compassion, empathy of others. In staying home, missed ball games, recitals. In the first crawl at two, first labored steps at nearly four.

I’ll see in smiles, tiny triumphs, peeking mischievous eyes during dinner prayer. In sticky little fingers signing “I love you.” This is how I’ll see, drink in the grace, face of the Giver. How I’ll come to be thankful my family’s future has been forever changed in an instant. Changed for the better.

Maybe you’ve been given an unexpected “gift”, situation, diagnosis, pain. (Or several.) Something(s) you didn’t request, don’t want. Don’t know where you are in that process, your pathway to sight. Don’t be afraid.

Unwrap your gift, the one you didn’t ask for. Have faith. Believe it was carefully, lovingly chosen for you. Embrace it. Let your gift change and grow you, bless you. It might turn out to be your biggest blessing in disguise.

In time the fog will dissipate, the sun will rise again.

Hudson giggling with Dianne, September 2010

You’ll smile, maybe even laugh again.  In time, you’ll see.

Related post: She Picked Up Her Pen

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