I Have a Dream

Image owned by Samantha Bender, Noonday Ambassador

You're one of them, aren't you? You're Amish. 

It was a hot, humid afternoon, not at all uncommon for the West Indies, and it was my day off. The morning had found me at the beach, basking in the glow of the eastern sun, on the pier with a few of my roommates. But caught in the midst of a quick passing tropical storm, we decided to pack up our bags and drive downtown to our favorite fabric warehouse. A warehouse with walls lined in bolts of fabric boasting radiant Caribbean hues, and bins crammed with already cut, majorly reduced knits and cottons. 

And it was there, as I was sorting through the knits, searching for a yard and a half of the perfect cloth for a new skirt, that she attacked me. 

Now before we get too far into this story, I want you to know that this wasn't at all unusual. Growing up Mennonite, but especially as a girl, means that you look different and dress different than the majority of folks around you. So being approached by a stranger who questions the thing on your head or why you are wearing a dress or whether you are Mormon isn't exactly a cause for alarm. Most people are genuinely curious and mean no disrespect. Her character, however, I cannot vouch for.

Before I even had a chance to respond, she continued. 

Oh, I know all about you! I've seen the shows on TV. It's a cult, that is what it is! How can you even live with yourself? Folks like you disgust me. Trying to live plain and simple lives. You're ignorant and stupid. How can you blindly follow a group like that? How can you dress that way? You're ugly, all of you!

Her eyes were steely and cold. Her verbal assault caused everyone around me to stare. Without a chance to defend myself she was gone, glancing back, and probably spitting on the ground I would walk on. I was the most horrible human, scum of the earth, and for what? Something I had done? No, it was simply because of the religion I was born into.  

As we sat around the table that night, a mixture of skin tones and backgrounds and genders, we laughed as I retold the days events, mimicking the inflection in her voice and scowl in her facial expression... How can you dress that way? You're ugly, all of you! Her words didn't cut deep, we all knew we weren't the ones ignorant -- after all, everyone knows reality TV isn't really real.

I easily moved on, but I never forgot.

Over that past few months, as stories keep popping up over the Internet, stories about the refugee crisis and the war in Syria, this scene has replayed in my mind on repeat. 

We group people by race and religion and region, and we judge so harshly, without knowing them or their heart.

There are no easy answers, I get that! But I've seen so many people, Christians in fact, sharing things on social media, meme's that say "Until there are no homeless people in America, we have no room for refugees." or commenting about Muslim's with the same disdain that Jamaican lady hissed in my face, saying how Syrian mother's blow up their children, as if that is the norm and not the rare exception, and so we should never allow them in our country. 

2015 showed us that racism is still so strong, even here, especially here, in the United States. But it has also shown prejudices in other forms, against religions and people groups who many of us know little about leaving us feeling intimidated and scared.

As I hear stories over and over again, stories of Ferguson, Baltimore, Syria, I can't help but remember what it feels like to be hated not for what I have done, but for who I am. 

As odd as it may sound, I am thankful for that lady. She gave me a taste of what it feels like to be discriminated against, small as it was, and she left me more aware than I was before I met her. Aware that how I treat others through word and deed reflects so much more on me as a person, then on them. 

Friends, before we judge harshly about people we know little about, let us remember this:

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." -Martin Luther King

Currently

I think I've waded through the messiest parts of the blog move. There are still a lot of little details to fix, much like repairing drywall in an old house or painting over nail holes from a photo collage you no longer have in your entryway... I'll get there. And in the mean time this blog is livable again, and should be used. 

I recently upgraded my computer too, so no longer does the laptop screen need to be propped up just so, stationed against a wall, never moving. This means that I am now free to write from the comfort of a cozy chair or my dining room table or the Starbucks coming in down the street. (I'm not going to lie to you, having a Starbucks just a mile away in going to be like a dream! I am already planning on tucking the kids into bed at 7:30 every Thursday night so I can slip away for two hours of uninterrupted writing. Hallelujah!) 

All of this also means any excuses I am using as to why my blog isn't updated regularly will hold no weight. I am putting this out there to hold myself accountable to you all -- because if I ever hope to become a writer I need to write. Anne Lamott told me (okay, so I read it in Bird by Bird) that I should be writing daily and I've got a month of Sunday's I need to work on making up for.

Now on to what's currently happening in my life:

Reading: Hands Free Life, by Rachel Stafford

I picked up this book on a Saturday evening because I had nothing else to read at the time. By Sunday night I had read the last chapter, and as I set the book down I felt inspired and in need of change in my own life. Rachel is the author of Hands Free Mama, A Guide to Putting Down the Phone, Burning the To-Do List, and Letting Go of Perfection to Grasp What Really Matters! This book, Hands Free Life: Nine Habits for Overcoming Distraction, Living Better and Loving More, follows up with some practical steps on how to live a less distracted, more joy filled life.

This book encouraged me to be more mindful of living in the present moment; to put down my phone to look at my husband and children in the eye and hold meaningful conversations with them; to stop viewing every moment as an Instagram moment, and to instead soak in the colors and smells and sounds, and capture more of life's memories that way. I am all for technologies and social media, I think it can be a great encouragement and useful tool. But I also know from personal experience that it can be a time-filler, where I no longer allow myself to simply enjoy the stillness of life, or to get bored, because any lull is filled with newsfeeds and captions. Many of these are areas that I, and many others I'm sure, could grow and improve in. I truly enjoyed this book, and now intend to read the first book as well.

Note: this book was given to me by Booklookblogger.com in exchange for an honest review.

 
Loving: The wit and humor that shines through Carson's personality more and more with each passing day. This week one night Carson bumped his head while playing in the basement with Mia, our dog. He came upstairs crying and asking to go to bed. It was earlier than he typically goes down for the night, but after brushing his teeth and getting his Lightening McQueen pajamas on, he was ready. That is until he heard the clank of a spoon against a bowl. Herm was out in the living room enjoying a late night snack of granola. Going to bed was quickly forgotten as he raced out to join Herm, eager to slurp the last of the milk that might be remaining. I sat down on the couch next to them. Carson's eager hands were too quick, and with a sudden jerk the milk splashed over the edge of the bowl and landed on my protruding stomach. Carson patted my belly as he said "Dat's for da baby!" and went on, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Dreaming: About sleep. Am I allowed to dream about something as shallow as that? Between late night trips to the restroom because baby gets a kick out of jumping on my bladder and trips to Carson's room because he still doesn't appreciate the value of a solid night of sleep, I haven't been getting much myself. This too shall pass, right?

Wishing: For a good blizzard that would keep me housebound for two days straight so I could get caught up on that stack of books from the library, and wishing for sunny weather that is above freezing so going out for walks and jogs wouldn't feel like such a chore.

Thinking About: Baby names. At our house this is how it works: I come up with a list of names and Herm crosses all of them off immediately. I'm thinking about holding a contest where blog readers can submit their suggestions in the comments below. Winner will get, um... I'm not sure what yet. But something. :)

Listening: To the Happy Hour podcast with Jamie Ivey.

I am slightly obsessed with podcasts, and I think the reason why is simply this... As a stay at home mom of a toddler, I don't get a lot of adult conversations in my life throughout the week. And while Carson is very chatty, our typical conversation might go something like this, "Mom! mom! MOM! Diss tractor is red, diss one blue. Do you wike tractors? I wike tractors. Papa has tractors. Mom. mom. MOM! Can I go to Papa's house. Pweese." I adore these moments, but sometimes I really like to hear what is going on in other peoples lives. Listening to the Happy Hour feels as if I'm actually out with my girlfriends, sipping on drinks and talking about whatever it is girlfriends talk about, and all while I'm doing the menial tasks of laundry and housekeeping.

If you haven't already listened to the Happy Hour, I'd recommend you start with episodes #67 with Sarah Bessey and #44 with Tasha Morrison.

What are you currently up to?

I Think I Have a Migraine

If you've stopped by my blog in the past day or two, you may have noticed something fishy going on.

About a year ago I had decided to make the move from Blogger to a self-hosted WordPress site. Most people I talked to recommend it, they said that if I was planning to stick at this blogging gig it would be worth while. I hesitated for quite some time, mainly because of the cost. I am a true penny-pinching German Mennonite, and I simply could not justify spending that much money on a hobby that doesn't bring much revenue in. That is, until my sister told me she found a promo where the first year of web hosting + a domain name would only cost $12. (This is typically around $144, so the saving was huge!) You never know if you like something until you try it, and at $12, it was worth the risk.

I was pleased, for the most part, with WordPress, but I certainly did not make use of most of the extra features. So when I got a renewal notice from my hosting company, and the total for another year was a fat $144, I decided it's not worth it. I packed up my bags, and left town.

And now I have a migraine.

I wasn't able to simply transfer all of the content from one blog to another. I Googled for hours, trying to find some way to easily move the blog, photos, comments, etc. But I got nowhere.

For the past few nights I stayed up far too late, hitting copy + paste, and moving each post one by one. It appeared as though everything transfer well, except the comments. (I would forever love you if you would go back to each post you may have commented on, and rewrite your thoughts. :))

Today I forever closed down my WordPress site, and my migraine got worse. All of the pictures are gone! But it's just a blog, and the words are still there. It's not the end of the world... I'll just keep preaching this to myself for a while.

All of this to say, if there are a lot of broken links, missing photos, etc. I'm sorry, and I'm working on it.

Thanks for still following along, regardless of the mess.

To Truly Seize Life

As the days on the calendar neared the close of December and 2014 gave way to 2015, I was still reeling, deep in grief, after the tragic death of my childhood friend, Ev. 

When the life of someone young, someone filled with so much passion and exuberance, is taken away suddenly, and your fervent prayers seem unheard, useless, it's so easy to question everything you thought you knew. And it was in that state, shaken and angry, broken-hearted and unstable, that I began a new year. 

But in the deepest part of my being, I still believed — I still believed that He is good and merciful and loving and sovereign.

So, in spite of my head and my heart not aligning, one screaming 'Meaningless, totally meaningless' and the other gently whispering 'Be still and Know', the phrase Seize Life! was born to embody the coming year.

Ev left a legacy that valued relationships above all. At such a young age he had already figured out that success isn't based on title or position or financial gain, but rather on how well you love God and love others. I wanted my life to carry on his legacy  

Had I know what lay in store for 2015 I would have scoffed at the phrase.  I was unaware that the hard work of grief was only just beginning, that in a year where I so desperately wanted to Seize Life! I would be faced, yet again, with death. My beautiful cousin, Cheryl, and her perfect newborn son, our beloved dog, Rambo, a dear Jamaican lady I befriend during my year in the West Indies, all gone from this earth — leaving my heart shattered and soul crushed.

To know how it feels to grieve deeply, one must also know what is it like to experience great joy. And there were, tangled within this year of sorrow and grief, many, many moments of joy so strong I thought my heart would burst.

2015 — I am so grateful for those moments; for the numerous road trips and flights where we got to experience new destinations and revisit old ones; for the miracle of life growing at a rapid pace before our eyes in the form of a toddler with energy unending, and that of new life growing deep within me; for the sure and steady love of a man who cherishes my heart. I am grateful for slow mornings at home and evenings on our deck as the sun sets beyond the horizon; for health and strength and a puppy who is chewing her way into our home and hearts, one shoe at a time. And I'm grateful for challenges that stretch me; opportunies that overwhelm me; for old friendships that, like cheese and wine, are getting better with age, and new friendships, still tender and budding.

Yes, tangled into this year of bitter was so much sweetness, and I am truly grateful. 

But as for resolutions and words and phrases to build the coming year around, I have only one: To keep a journal. I want a safe place where the joy and heartache that was and is to come will be recorded — And the rest on which this fresh slate of a New Year will be built upon? I'll be leaving that up to the Good Father and the year, 2016.

Happy New Year!

Currently

It has been quite a while since I last wrote here, and I have several excuses:

• My birthday has passed, which means 23 before 24 is over and I no longer feel self-obligated to write weekly.
• The holiday season (which includes but is not limited to, my birthday, opening day of rifle in New York, Thanksgiving, opening week of rifle season in Pennsylvania, Carson's birthday, my mom's birthday, Herm's birthday, Christmas, and New Years) is a busy time of year for us - by the time Christmas comes around, we will have traveled to / been in PA on three different occasions in the month of December, and on top of that we have holiday parties and birthday bashes and general life thrown into the mix.
• My computer crashed. It has been on the verge of dying for almost a year, barely hanging on by a thread. Literally. The lid of the laptop was connected by a few wires. I had it strategically propped up against a wall, and if anyone closed it or nudged it too harshly I knew it would suffocate. Well, a sad, sad day happened and it's gone. May it rest in peace.

Those excuses may perhaps be legitimate, but they are just that, excuses. And had I wanted to write bad enough, I would have made time for it. But I'm back again, and while I won't promise weekly posts anymore (have you ever tried typing and linking on an iPad?), I'm not going to give this blogging gig up either.

To jump back into things, here is what I've been currently up to...

Reading: Raising Grateful Kids in an Entitled World - how one family learned that saying no can lead to life's biggest yes, by Kristen Welch.

This book arrived in my mailbox, taking me completely by surprise. I had not ordered it, nor did I know it was coming out. There was a note from Kristen and her team at Tyndale House, saying that I was receiving it as a gift for sharing encouragement to other women through my platform (my blog). Included in the package was a Fair Trade Friday family gift packet and a beautiful paper bead bracelet.

I wasn't reading anything at the time the book arrived, so that evening I sat down and got started. And friend, let me tell you this: If you are a mom of children, whether they are toddlers or teens, I really do think this book will benefit you. In our culture, where almost everything is instant and we are flooded with advertising, it is easy to fall into the trap of thinking if only I had this ________, then I'd be happy. Our kids aren't the only ones who struggle with this, we do too. The consumerisim mentally is a hard one to combat, but it's not impossible. If you decide to read this book, get ready to cultivate a spirit of genuine appreciation where your kids (and you) don't just say—but actually mean—"thank you" for everything you have.

You can preorder the book here - I wholeheartedly recommend it!

Loving: All things Fair Trade, such as this necklace (which I own and wear weekly), these kantha blankets (I have a gift card to redeem. Now to decide which one?),  Punjammies (most comfortable pants in the world... It's 3:30pm and I still haven't changed into real clothes today because of these.), and finally, these earrings (which I wear on heavy repeat.).

Dreaming: About the Little One growing within me. I had a visit with my midwife this week, and got to see the child via ultrasound. We didn't find out the gender, but it was such an amazing experience to see that little head, the tiny fingers, and bony knees. I am at almost 20 weeks now, and it just baffles me how anyone would deny this a child—a human being with rights! —it's so very obvious. If I chose, I would still be legal to abort, and to know that so many babies lose their lives because of our entitlement, our rights, just breaks my heart. It was such a bittersweet moment, seeing my child and falling in love even more, but knowing at the same time that so many children aren't loved or wanted.

Carson was with me at the appointment , and ever since then he has been even more affectionate towards the baby. Not a day goes by where my belly isn't patted and kissed and talked to by a very excited big brother.

Wishing: For a white Christmas. But we will be in Lancater, Pa, where the  extended forecast is predicting a high of 70*. Sunblock anyone?

Thinking About: What I should make for dinner.

Listening: To Serial. I can't get enough of this podcast! I was a bit late to the show during season one, so I was able to listen to episodes back to back, finishing it within a week or two. And then season one was over and they took a forever long break. It's back again, and now, every week I am like a kid counting down the days until Christmas... Except what I'm  counting down is days until Serial.

Watching: The clock tick slowly towards our supper hour, and still nothing. Ideas? Anyone?

Trying: To stock my pantry a bit better. One of my goals for this winter is to cook my way through the Against All Grain: Meals Made Simple cookbook. To do so, there will be a bit of shopping and planning on my part. Once the snow starts flying, I think I'll be up for the challenge. I used this cookbook consistently last winter when we were training for the Seneca7, and not one recipe disappointed us, they were all so good.

What about you? What have you currently been up to? I'd love to hear about it!

Conversations and a Red Cup

Hey how are you? I was putting mushrooms and spinach into my grocery cart, placing them next to the olive oil and yogurt already in the basket. Carson and I were at Aldi, stocking up on produce and a few other items we needed for the week. I glanced up. Was someone talking to me?

Hi, good to see you! I responded, recognizing one the the former employees who I've grown to know in the past three years of shopping there almost weekly.  As we chatted Carson ran down the isle and turned the corner, suddenly out of sight. I'll catch you later, I need to find my kid!

Minutes later Carson was held prisoner, in with the mushrooms and spinach, and our conversation resumed. How are you doing? I haven't seen you in so long. Her expression was bleak, even before she answered, I already knew. In the past few years her life has been rocked dramatically. One day they were a happy family of three, and the next left her a widow, a single mom. To respond, she held up a box of tissues and package of chocolate Debbies. I'm counting on these to get me through the week, I'm going to need them, and some prayer too, if you think about it. She's in the thick of legal papers and insurance claims, every day reliving the moment that made her a widow, as she fights for her rights.

How about now? And there, surrounded by toilet paper and Windex, we prayed.  

If someone would have asked the the same question this week, I too, may have broken down. My hard-slogging is nothing compared to what my friend is going through. But in the thick of motherhood, in the piles of laundry and upset stomachs and diapers that aren't holding the runny content well, I've been feeling completely drained. Empty and lacking. Ready to throw in the towel - which would only result in more laundry.

And it was in the midst of one of those days, a day where yet another nap resulted in only ten minutes of peace and quiet before the small boy was roused, crying and whining and demanding so much, when Herm walked in on one of my break downs.

Babe, why don't you and a friend go out tonight? Carson and I will stay home. No need to worry about supper, I'll take care of it. It'll be good for you, for us.

I gratefully took Herm up on his offer, but I went alone. Motherhood can be lonely and isolating, especially with young children, but what I felt like I needed, even more than companionship that night, was complete silence and solitude.

As I slipped on to the chair in the far corner of Starbucks, away from the conversations across the room, I marveled at how lovely and rare time alone like this was. The Gingerbread Tea Latte tasted amazing in that highly controversial red cup. In fact, I rather like how it looks without snowflakes and whatnot, even if it does supposedly take Christ out of Christmas. (Is anyone actually offended by that?) But that quietness quickly ended as the door swung open and a lady, short and wirey, with close cropped hair dusted in gray, strode in.

She carried an air about herself, but her tattered clothes and glasses held together by medical tape gave her secret away. She was homeless.

Right away she started complaining to anyone who would listen. This place isn't very cozy, is it? Nothing like the Starbucks in Pittsford. Yeah, there they have leather chairs, and they're open late. It's Pittsford where I like to go.

She tried to chat with a student who was studying, every couple of minutes getting up to ask another question, each time forcing the student to remove her earbud before answering, then returning to her textbook and laptop. She complained about something to the man reading the paper a few tables over.

I tried to tuck myself further into the corner, but it didn't help, she noticed me and sat down.

I could tell she was lonely, wanting someone to listen. But what about my silence and solitude? The conversation jumped from place to place, she asked where I lived, and what I do for work. She wondered how I was ever able to survive out in the sticks, surrounded by all those Amish and Mennonite folks. Life is so backward for them, she stated, having no idea that I am one of them.

Somehow, in the midst of this, we began to talk about refugees and poverty, and that is when I quickly learned that she had complete disdain for immigrants and Mexicans and Blacks and anyone who wasn't of a higher class. She told me how she was currently fighting potential jail time for assaulting a Syrian pastor in a neighboring town. That man has got to learn that he can't come to our country and show disrespect! I've got rights, I will not go to jail because of him. They come and take our welfare and live off of us. I won't have it! My main concern in life is for my well being, my safety comes first. You might not agree, I know you don't, but they aren't welcome here.

Over the next 15 minutes she spoke bad of everyone of a different ethnicity then her and brought class and economic status up again and again, as though that was the most important thing in this life. I found this ironic, considering her obvious state, living on the streets, possibly even taking our welfare, in tattered and torn garments. 

As I left Starbucks that evening, I kept replaying that conversation in my mind, and comparing it to conversations I've had with refugees. The ones who were the 'lower class of our society', as she would have put it -- even though I would consider her to be in that class as well. She was completely miserable, her life only about her. The refugees I met, they were grateful to be together as a family, in a safer place. They were concerned about the safety of their family and friends back home, in the countries they fled. Life was not simply about them. If class would be based on happiness, they would be classes apart.

After two hours and fifteen minutes of alone time, I was ready to come back home again, back to the hard-slogging of upset stomachs and chewed up raisins pressed into the carpet, back to the  man I love more than anyone else, and back to this career as a stay at home mom, which I don't exactly love, nor do I hate. And I was so thankful to be reminded that this life isn't about me, about my safety, or my protection and well being. There is so much more to it than that.

If I had to pick only one thing I am grateful for today, it would be that controversial little red cup and the many conversations and perspective shifts that happened around it.

11. Write 52 Love Notes to One Man

Tucked somewhere deep in the attic of my parents home is a brown cardboard box, the corner labeled Love Letters. That box is filled to overflowing with cards and letters that were sent the many miles from Dryden, Ontario, Canada, to Fair Play, South Carolina, and back again. While my mom and dad were dating and later, engaged, they lived hours and hours apart. With limited phone calls and visits, hand written letters was a major part of how they got to know each other.

Even though I don't know the stories hidden away in the box, I've always thought it was a gem. The yellowed paper, brittle, valuable.

Fast forward quite a few years and I'm dating Herm. But our relationship was completely different than that of my parents. Instead of long distance, we saw each other daily. We were coworkers who attended the same church and for the most part had the same group of friends. Instead of years of getting to know each other better before committing to forever, we dated for three months and were engaged for four. We had known each other for only 13 months before we said I do.

Sure, we left each other notes once in a while, but for the most part those notes were sent via text or written on a scrap of paper or neon sticky note -- nothing nearly as extensive as that box hidden so deep in the attic.

My goal for the 52 love notes was simple; I would write one per week for the entire year. I'm not a hopeless romantic...  so please, when I say I wrote love notes, don't imagine sheets of unlined paper and perfectly penned beautiful never-ending words. The reality looked more like this: I love you, scribbled onto a napkin tucked into his lunchbox, or Today I am thankful for you! <3, scratched on a sheet of notebook paper.  It was nothing fancy. And, unfortunately, while I only have about two more weeks before my deadline for the list is here, I still have a good 10 - 15 more notes to write.

But last night happened, and I have this feeling last night could have counted for at least a half dozen of those unwritten notes...

We had dinner plans with friends, Carson was going to Papa's house. (My dad is his  hero, and he is always so excited when he gets to go see his grandpa.) It was beautiful outside, remarkably warm for this time of year, and I wanted to finish up some painting before I got ready to leave for the night. As I was brushing a coat of white over the door propped on sawhorses out by the garage, Herm came out to let me know he was going to go for a quick hunt on our property before we left. He still had about two hours. I didn't say anything, but seriously, wouldn't that ruin our plans if he did get a deer? Wouldn't we have to stay home and gut the thing instead of enjoying a delicious meal with friends?

Herm came in just as it was getting dark. He didn't say a word, so I asked. Well, did you see anything? Yeah, three deer. Did you shoot? Yeah. Did you hit it? Yeah. You killed a deer?! Act excited about it, Babe! That's meat in the freezer. He just smiled mischievously and said, I wanted to see if you would ask. 

This didn't cancel our dinner plans. We still went out and had a lovely evening. But after dinner was over and we were heading home, I went to pick up Carson while Herm came back to our house to start searching for the doe.

He hadn't found the doe by the time I came back home, so after I tucked Carson into bed I pulled on an old pair of yoga pants, slipped into hiking boots three sizes too big for me, and stomped off to the dark woods, like a real outdoors women, in search of a blood trail.

By the light of our iPhones and a headlamp that seemed to grow dimmer with each passing minute, we hunted, the trail growing faint at times, next to impossible to see. Briers and burrs tore at my skin and got caught in my hair,  but still we pressed on. (I know I am making this seem like a real adventure, right? Don't ask me how close we were to our house. That detail makes the story seem less extreme.)

About 20-30 minutes after I joined Herm, I kept noticing a bush with thick undergrowth. It looked like mangled roots, but my light wasn't bright enough to see exactly what it was... My gaze kept going back that direction, and that's when I saw it — the faint, dark outline of a hoof. Babe, I found it. You mean you found her?! He asked. No, "it", I thought. Her sounds too gruesome and heartless.

I got a kiss for my help in tracking the doe, and then I got to watch, help even, as Herm butted and gutted "her".

And I'll just tell you outright, as there's a high chance you may have never had the pleasure of experiencing this first hand, butting and gutting is awful. Not only is there blood everywhere, but the smell —oh the smell!— and in my pregnant state, where scents are ten times more intense than normal, this was bad, real bad. The calamari and tortellini I had so enjoyed just a few hours prior was churning. I somehow managed to hold myself together, and as the hour hand on the clock neared 11pm, I checked for ticks, showered, and fell in to bed exhausted and humored. My love for that handsome hunter obviously runs deep, because you certainly wouldn't have found me in the woods late at night, butting and gutting, unless it was with someone I truly loved.

Yes, this surely was worth more than six love notes written on little neon squares.