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Foriving

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  "On the touchy and often misunderstood act of Forgiving" Dear Squabbling Kinfolk,  ( I readily include myself as a blood-engaged grandmother, in ongoing conflict with an adult grandson).  Over decades, I've watched the debilitating effects,  great and small, between and among families corrode, erode, and weaken the DNA (and more) of an ordinary family.  Things that began as mere "specks" when left to ferment have become "beams," or logs that mar our civil interactions.  Honestly, I cannot recall when a minor run-in became a major issue!  Nor can I remember the month, date, or season of the year an initial skirmish reared its head (to mix a metaphor or two) and ended up in a McCoy-Htfield draw. Most incredibly, I wish I could tell you who or when "forgiving" or "forgiveness" entered my personal vocabulary, first as a concept and later as a possibility to be embraced. Surely, a Sunday school teacher introduced me to the notion of ...
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Inseparable

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  My dear, loving Nephew-Son, I love you, Robb.  I hope you know your value to me and the love I hold for you are opposite sides of the same coin  I've sat here for some time trying to sort out my feelings since I received the startling news of the choice (which really was not a choice!) that you had to make yesterday.  Rufio has been "put down!"  Euphemisms drive me bonkers, even as I understand why we use them.  "Put down" attempts to soften the gut-wrenching, heart-splitting truth.  Rufio. Is. Dead.   How harsh and impersonal a declaration.   Yet, "dead" falls far short of this permanent turn of events. Your mom didn't have to tell me how you agonized over the non-choice: You couldn't bear the thought of life's final ending for the "gentle" giant of a friend.  Your dependable, best friend,  and literal "Road Dog."  I was visiting Chicago fourteen years ago when you chose each other and the team coalesced.   Just that ...
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Exhale!

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I remember holding my breath as a young kid, either from anticipating Christmas-to-come or choosing September birthday party favors.  Not for storing up the air with which to blow out candles---more just in waiting for the event to occur.  Certainly not as a prelude to a temper tantrum.  Neither Mother nor Daddy played that!  During my teen years, holding my breath would come as I awaited the announcement of the winner in a speech contest or in waiting to see which varsity team would shoot the tie-breaker basketball shot.  And win the State championship ! (My high school, by the way, won the title three of the four years before I graduated.) College changed the focus of my breathing when  I discovered graduates of the male persuasion.  Lawdy! They spent considerable time and energy learning suave and debonair postures.  And growing sparse wisps of fuzz to transform the upper lip or not-so-strong chin.  They practiced their "lines' o...
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