Fear factor

It's Friday night.
I love Friday next as much as the next twenty-something. Mine just looks a little different.
Because I am forty.

And trying hard to rewrite my definition of fun.

Typical Friday night before 6 days ago:
Hang out with the boy. This likely includes carne asada fries or pizza with a Disney movie (Aladdin last week!MY pick!!!) or something weird like zoo animals turning into zombies (this is a real thing. and also, manchild's pick). After manchild goes to bed, the hubs and I grab a beer (something NOT fancy for him - think Fosters or Mickey's - in a can the size of my face, and a Shocktop Twisted Pretzel for me. Because that is the best beer on the PLANET.)
We go outside, grab our smokes, settle in our chairs and proceed to talk for at least three hours. Minimum. We talk, we plan, we belly laugh, we give kisses, we high-five, and we dream a little more. Then we go to bed.

Friday night as Day 6 of NO SMOKING. What does THAT look like?

Well - we did not go into this decision unprepared. This life change was the topic of conversations many Friday nights.

We planned how we would stop smoking while we smoked our brains out.

You see, we've tried before. Or - Jeff has.
I am the one with the pitchfork and horns in this situation. I am the BAD INFLUENCE. He has done 6 days. He has done TWO WEEKS. And I'm outside like, "No one is making me quit. I'll smoke if I wanna." puff puff flick. puff puff flick.

That plan doesn't work. Not for us. We both had to or it wasn't going to happen. All. Nothing. All. Nothing.

And I didn't want to. I was adamant about it. I would quit when I was ready and you know, I didn't think I ever would be. Even typing this sentence right this second, I feel scared. I feel scared about not smoking.

Jeff wouldn't push me and he'd come back outside and we would continue.
Oh, I'd feel shame. For sure. What kind of WIFE doesn't support her husband when he wants to quit smoking? When he wants to better himself?
I'll tell you,
A selfish one. An addicted one. A struggling one. A scared one.
But I'd rationalize, and he would too, and the shame would crawl back into the mud it came out of. See you next time.
puff puff flick.

I started smoking when I was twelve. It started as pressure, for sure. Not the kind you would think though. I didn't smoke to "be cool." I smoked to disappear. It's a lot easier to disappear when you look like everyone else.
A year later I was living in a group home. We ALL smoked. To disappear. To be outside. To avoid slamming each other's heads against the wall. To not cry out our fear and rage. Instead we sucked it down. We sucked it all down.
puff puff flick.

And that continued for me for the next 27 years. Cigarettes became my bestie. Sure, I knew the dangers, I'm not an idiot, but those seemed far, far removed from me. Like a city on a continent I've only seen pictures of. I know it's real but I don't have plans to go there.

I smoked and I sucked it all down - abandonment, anger, loss, insecurity, fear, and fear, and fear. I inhaled deep and controlled my exhale out. I would not let these things beat me. I would not.

And even as I write this I wonder, who will be my friend? When all is quiet and everyone is asleep and my mind is goinggoinggoing and I am trying to pray and trying to feel and also trying not to, who will be my friend?


But, I can't think about that. I have to focus. I have to remind myself Jeff and I have a plan. We made a plan and part of that plan is, don't think too far ahead. And a second part is, we're going to feel it all and we're going to give grace and love like we're made with it. And another part is, we're going to learn how to talk, like normal people, we will learn how to talk. While doing dishes, and laying in bed, and walking the dogs. And maybe we will gain a little bit of weight but we are going to keep saying, You are BEAUTIFUL and You are STRONG, and so we will smile and keep going. I will do this. We will do this.
We have to.

The thought of losing Jeff scares me frozen. I could not bear it.
He started coughing a while ago. He started coughing and its been so long since I've heard the cough that I can't remember when it started. All I know is that sometimes he hunches over and he coughs so hard it reaches out and squeezes my heart until I think it might shatter. He coughs so hard he can't breathe and I hold my breath and not breathe either until he does again.
I found myself making deals with God, "If you let him be ok, I'll stop. I really will." And then I would light another one. I'm not very good at this deal business. I am good at fear.

Here's the thing. I had to decide which fear was bigger - living without my constant of the last 28 years or living without Jeff?
And Jeff wins. Jeff wins every time.

Maybe it's because we're forty now. Maybe its because over the past two months, two people we know have died and left us shaking our heads thinking, "What the fuck is happening? He was SO young!" Maybe it's realizing, this life is pretty damn precious and if I want it, I better live like I want it. Maybe its finally beginning to believe, I am worthy. I am worthy of not just surviving in this life,
but thriving in every second of it too.


And so, come. Come, new Friday night with food and movies and no beer and no smokes.
Come.
I am going to see you. I am going to face you.
And I am going to be OK.

Mother-of-the-bride

In one week my daughter will wake up with a new name.
In six days I will watch her have her make-up done,
slip into her wedding dress,
cover her face with a veil.
I wonder if she will laugh in nervousness? Cry in excitement?
I wonder if she will notice as her hands shake when she takes her dad's arm and begins the procession towards her soon-to-be husband? I wonder if her voice will catch on a ball of tears as she repeats her vows? I wonder if she will laugh instead because she cannot contain her happy.
All of these thoughts, and more, slip in and out of my focus today, as I count centerpieces, check off wedding favors, and scribble a new list of last-minutes.


She looked like Snow White when she was little. All that pale skin and dark hair with big, blue eyes that absorbed the world. It's hard to convince people how shy she was in her early years. Introverted. That's what the teachers called her.
She doesn't say a lot.
She doesn't have very many friends.
Of course, the anxiety started immediately. I worried she would grow up friendless and lonely, wearing an obscene amount of black eyeliner with combat boots to make the statement she didn't need anyone, but would cry in the bathroom stall at school because no one would speak to her. She wouldn't have a boyfriend, go to prom, or have sleepovers with her 4 closest friends. I wouldn't hear them all squeal when talking about the cute boys while demolishing bags of potato chips. Oh, how I worried.
You know, like any mother would.

It was at her 3rd grade parent/ teacher conference when we were asked to speak to her about talking in class.
She was a chatterbox and it was distracting.
Her dad and I nodded our heads in agreement, dutiful parents who are taking the teacher's recommendations seriously, but when we walked out of the class and around the corner, we high-fived each other in triumph.
She's talking! Too much, even! And she has friends!! Parent win! (all the flexing, fist bump emojis here)
And we never brought it up to Bre.

Last week, while I sat on a green rug, in an unfamiliar living room, with eight other people I am still getting to know, a sweet friend, said a prayer for me.

"Lord, don't let all the preparation steal her joy. Let her enjoy this time with her daughter, this time of her wedding."

The simplicity and truth of it was so profound, it knocked the breath right out of me.

Sometimes when people pray, I am fervently trying to focus on what they are saying but actually thinking, "Oh my gosh - are they ever going to stop? This is taking f o r e v e r." (we've ALL thought this. COME ON.)

But not this time. Not this prayer. I wanted to stop time for just a little bit, seconds even, to let it soak all the way in. I wanted to grab her hand, and say,
wait,
slow down,
say it again,
say it ten times.
I can't forget this.

It was truth and need. It was spirit interceding for spirit. It was God seeing me when I hadn't asked him to.

You see, so much had been hard to enjoy. Oh sure, a few glimpses, some smiles and laughs, ... but mostly, moments of being happy she was enjoying the process, not because I was.

I know. It isn't about me. It's not. I am SO THANKFUL she is having every precious second of this process. I pray always it is, and will be, everything she hopes and more.
But there is a place for me too.
As her mom.
As the one who carried her in my body, whispered in her ear, cheered her achievements, listened to her dreams, prayed for her wisdom, and loved her through every second of her life. I have held her heart, her victories, her secrets, her disappointments, her wailing's, and her pain.
I have held it all inside my body as if it were my own, letting it beat with my beat and breathe with my breath.
And now, the next thing, the next beautiful step, just days away.

There hasn't been any time to sit and savor.
The list much too long. Time much too short.
And me, much too inadequate.
All this wedding planning and crafting and doing has left me feeling very small.
This is a job for someone else. Someone who knows how to decorate, and entertain, and be all things girly.
Someone who is not me. Someone who is better.
And this is the time I certainly cannot fail. I cannot. I must do the BEST job for her.
My best is not even good enough.

It must be perfect. It is her wedding.

And so to compensate for all my short-comings I am painfully aware of, I am unable to sit in any one thing for more than a few minutes before my mind begins jumping into the next to-do.

I had unconsciously crossed over from a Mary to a Martha.
And in doing so, I had let every opportunity for joy and excitement, slip into the crevices of lists and worry and an abyss of self-doubt.

Thank God for honest (and to the point) prayers.

I'll tell you the first time I really let myself live as mother-of-the-bride.
Not semi-wedding planner. Not list maker. Not bouquet taper.
Just her mommy.
I was stopped at a red light on a country road and I checked my Facebook.
Her post from minutes before was the first in my feed.

"Ten more days until I marry my best friend!"

I remember how I felt when I married my best friend.
I remember the thrill, the giddy, the shout-it-from-the-rooftops-I-want-the-whole-world-to-know-I-am-almost-hitched euphoria.
And I could feel it in my daughter's post. I could picture the giant smile on her face. I could imagine the dreams in her head, all hearts and waterfalls and big blue ocean.
And I began to cry.
Because guess what everyone?
MY DAUGHTER IS GETTING MARRIED!!!

My daughter, the once shy chatterbox who is now a fearless woman with a heart that sees; is going to walk down the aisle and start her own life, with all its twists and turns and road bumps, with her best friend.

I have one week left.
One week left to savor every second. One week left to be needed in this specific way. One week left to be her "Mommy" before she is someone else's "Wife."
I am going to try my hardest to walk this week as Mary, sitting in each precious moment, resting in my role as her mom.
I have one week left.
Let it be all joy.


XO

Text me something new

"Dang babe ... Let me know what I can do?

hold me when I cry and let me smoke my brains out.

Lol. you're awesome.

We should probably have crazy sex too. I think that will help. "
.

Jeff and I have been married almost ten years and we've been texting like horny teenagers since day 1,095.
That was the year our marriage went on an upswing and we've held it up high ever since.

We've worked hard to get to this point. Communication being the rope that binds us and texting throughout the day being a fiber of the rope.

I remember the first time I sent Jeff a text that said more than, "I love you. Have a good day."
It was a suggestion of things to come and you know, I had sweaty palms when I typed it out.
My heart thumped and my brain thumped with it, "This is stupid, this is stupid. This. Is. Stupid."
To say that it did not achieve the desired result (exhortations of want and compliments galore) is an understatement.
He was confused, speechless (textless?)and I was more than a little mortified.
Have you ever planned a romantic night, or a romantic hour after the kids have gone to bed; and you put something on other than your sweatpants and comfiest two-sizes-too-big-with-a-faded-bar-logo t-shirt, and when he walks in he kind of looks at you like you're the newest zoo exhibit and he isn't sure if he should clap or point?
Yep. Pretty much.
My disappointment covered me like a second-hand negligee.

Here's what I learned:
You can't start a team sport and not let your teammate know the sport you are playing.
So, as unsexy as it sounds, we had a full-on discussion about our word play and costume changes. The expectation, what was acceptable, what was too far, what was hot, and what was cause for a smack. And not the kind of smack that leads to a kiss.
More like a "here's the line, and look, you jumped about a mile past it" tackle.

Since then, our banter has become an avenue of communication that gets us through the day, with laughter, connection, and fun.
What's better than that? Not much.
Not even the"maybe-real-sex-but-maybe-not" that's implied. Trust me folks, there's a lot of nights of "maybe-nots."

Don't get me wrong - we text about the WalMart list and toilet paper preference too, but we don't let it stay there.
Not ever.

The first three years of our marriage were dramatic and awful. It was like fumbling around in the dark with sharp knives.
Getting to the upswing took effort that could be likened with climbing Mt. Everest.
Or swimming with sharks.
I can't tell you how many times one of us looked at the other and said, "I'm so done. I want out."
It was our saving grace that we never said it at the same time. One was willing to push through, and back down, and give gentle; while the other huffed and puffed and tried their damnedest to blow the whole city down.

Yay for upswing! A chance to get our breath, take a look around, decide if we liked the view.

We could have left it there. Let it float. Drift. Just kind of hang.

After all, wounds from sharp knives heal, but guess what? The scars still shimmer.

And so we became intentional. With our words, our time, the places we go, who we see.
This post is not about sending your spouse a sexy text. That is an oversimplification.


I hear it all the time.
"Oh well, we've been married (insert number here)years and you know, it's just not important anymore. It is what it is."

What's not important, exactly?

Remember what it was like to flirt? The thrill that would start somewhere in your body and shoot out of your fingers and blaze from your eyeballs? To feel the quiver in your belly? And when he/she looked at you a certain way, to feel a quiver everywhere else?

Jeff and I went to a marriage counselor for a year and half. There's something to say about having an objective person there while you get it all out. During one session, she looked at us and said, "You know, despite everything being said (and some pretty terrible things were being said), and everything you guys are going through, I can see that you are friends.You actually like each other."

She went on to say she doesn't see that very often. I'm not for a second trying to imply Jeff and I are the rock stars of marriage. However, we have gone to the bottom, laid in the mud, and got back up again.
Jeff and I have a lot of FUN. This is purposeful ya'll. I don't want to be with someone who bores me to death and I don't want to be the one who is boring.

It's beyond sex. It's more than bills. It's enjoying one another. And that makes everything else so much better.

Sometimes I'll look at Jeff when he walks in from work, and I have no idea what my face is showing, but Sammi will yell out, "Ewwwww MOM. STOP. IT."

And I burst out laughing because my daughter has caught me; caught me checking out my husband.

I encourage you to check out your husband.
Look at him like you used to. Smile slow. Let your hair out of the topknot. Put on some lipstick and if that doesn't work for you, tinted chap stick will do the trick.
Send him a text about more than what broke at the house or a request for milk.
Tell him you think he's hot. Tell him you appreciate him. Even better, tell him why.
You'll be surprised at what you get in return.
We all want to feel appreciated. Wanted.

It's a good thing to try something new, to stretch ourselves so much we get sweaty palms.
It's a better thing to connect.
It's more than better.. it's vital.

XO

Day 1

I haven't written in much too long. It's crazy because there is CONSTANT flow of consonants and vowels in my head. I'm always thinking, "I should write that down for later." And I never do. Then it's lost.
If you are reading this, thank you. I will never lose sight of what a privilege it is for someone else to read my musings, my struggles, my convictions. I am sure you have 283768394 other things you could be doing right now.
Laundry. Dishes. Yelling at your kids. Grocery shopping. Meal-Prepping?
Picking up your husbands dirt-crusted socks.
Oh wait ... that's all the things I could be doing. ;)
Instead I am writing.
And this is a BIG DEAL, because I always feel torn, like I'm not doing enough, and because writing is such a pleasure, I feel guilty. As if it should be a reward that comes after everything else instead of the THING that makes my heart beat faster, the THING that makes me feel like matter.

I have challenged myself to write every. single day.
Some posts may be very, very short.

Your welcome.

I am going to write about everything. I will warn you now that there may be a lot of things you don't like or agree with.
You may even decide after reading a few posts, you don't like me much at all.
That's ok.
I have this habit of broadcasting all my faults, or unappealing habits quickly, so we can both get it out in the open if I'm not going to live up to your expectations. I learned very young that LOVE was a bargaining tool and so now, when a relationship forms, I prefer to just lay it out. Before we waste too much time or get our lives all invested. I hope you stay but if you have to go, I get it. Really.

So here we go. I am a wife, sometimes not a very good one, and every day I count myself blessed to have the man that I do. I tell people all the time he is the nice one. Sometimes I get a hearty chuckle in response as if I am being coy.
I'm not.
That's straight up truth right there.
I'm a Christian. I love Jesus with everything in me and I think the church I go to is pretty fantastic.
However,
I usually prefer the company of non-Christians.
I find them refreshingly honest and I have to tell you, a whole lot funnier.
I am drawn to the hurting, the abandoned, and the looked-over. They are my people and I remind myself on the daily to never forget that.
I am a mom! Best and hardest thing I have ever done. I wish I could tell you I have been the perfect mother.
I have not.
But what I have done is raise some pretty decent humans who aren't a-holes.
They are kind. They are funny. And they see people.
That makes my heart grow more than anything.
I have a love/hate relationship with anger and confrontation. It was so much easier before I had Jesus and wanted to be more like Him and less like me. I'll tell ya, punching someone in the face puts a situation in perspective really fast but this whole "love your neighbor as yourself" thing has pretty much put a shut-down on all things physical.
And quite a few verbal.
So there's lot of praying instead.
Which is a good thing.

I want to be a good person all the time. I really do. It only gets difficult when other people are involved.
Which says a lot about my heart.
I want it to be white.
But I think it is gray, gray as concrete, with bruises of black, and a smattering of white dots.
This is exponentially whiter than it was before (and by before, I mean a whole lot of tragic crap that I'll probably get into in future posts... I know that any bad can be used for good and there's no way I am letting all that rot go to waste).

I bet you really want to read more now, don't you?
Well, I hope so. I mean that. I hope you read. I hope you comment but more than anything I hope it shines a light in some dark places of your own.
Because we all have heart damage; bruises that go deep.

Some just have white duct tape over it.

Here's to the brave and the hopeful.
We will not be disappointed.
XO

proverbs 14:1

I love facebook.
It's almost embarrassing to admit, but there it is. I am not a teenager. I am a grown-up with a job, and bills, and kids.
But i still love facebook. No time for a phone call or coffee date? Power up. It's an icon away to see the dirty, gleeful faces of my friends' kids as they terrorize summer. It's just a five minute scroll to see who is eating lunch at the Loving Hut, who started their 2.6 mile run, who is "so over" their Monday at work, who is going to happy hour, and who is chugging their way to "Vegas Baby!!!"

We can stalk old boyfriends, their newest girlfriend, past friends, new friends, and even the ones that don't want to be friends, in the privacy of our homes, our cars, our closest Starbucks while sipping an iced latte. It's a window to our kids and the lives they are living away from home, on their own. I may not talk to my daughter every week but I can see pictures of her latest hike and I know what Disney movie she watched cozied on her couch. It connects us and shares us and sometimes takes the pressure away.

But there is the dark side. The side that we don't "like" or "share" but undoubtedly still read.
The side that can leave us a little breathless, a little "what the eff?"
Sometimes we see things that a few years ago, would have remained PRIVATE.
Closed. (KEEP OUT. NO TRESPASSING.)
Friends and Family Only.
It would have been one of those ... "oh but what happened to so and so?" And then, "Oh it was so heartbreaking... tragic ... a few years back..."

Not the entire world. Not people that you've only met once or twice, or is a friend of a friend that you ran into at church; a face that you'd recognize but if it wasn't for facebook, you wouldn't remember their name, much less where they recently vacationed (Hawaii!!), or if they are dieting (the last five pounds!), if their kids are taking swimming lessons, that their anniversary is in five days, or ...

if their marriage is falling apart.

if they are having an affair.

if they are getting a divorce.

if they hate each others guts.

But suddenly
here I am, here we are.
seeing every grim detail, exposed to each raw emotion, a gaping wound with leaking arteries, we watch a love story that once swelled and moved, passionate and full,
gasp
and die.

with their very own hands, in their very own words, their pulsating pain reaches out

a wrecking ball.

every insult - a brick. every barb - a shattered window.
Their house,
smashed into chunks and pieces.

it makes my heart hurt.
it causes me to pray.
alot.
and sometimes
i cry.

It isn't my business.
Yet it stares me in the face.

a mirror.

I tell myself, Turn it off. Shut it down. I don't want to see.

And like a reality show that exposes weaknesses and vulnerability and betrayal for fun and ratings,

I leave it on. Mortified. Heartsick. I can't take me eyes away from it.

why?

because i know.
i know what it feels like to be in that house, a bleeding mess that refuses
oxygen,
love,
forgiveness,
healing.

I know what it feels like to want shove it in their face, how happy you are now, how hot you are now, how wanted you are now, how appreciated you are now.

how carefree you are now.

except you aren't.
not really.
it's pretend.
and other people help you pretend.
telling you what you deserve
(them)
and how different they will be
(but they're not)

and every time you post, every time you pose, every time you say one more thing in offense ...

you rip part of your house down for all of us to see.

How easily we forget how hard it was to build it in the first place.

I tore my house down once too. We can get pretty comfortable, can't we? In our marriages? I know I did.
No boundaries, No safeguards. No tending.
We guard our cell phones, our car keys, our Starbucks Gold cards, with fiercer protection than our marriages.

I said what I wanted, to those I claimed to love.
In tones that cut.
With facial expressions that demean.

Instead of holding close, I flung away.
Instead of going towards, I turned my back.
Instead of choosing to love, we chose complacency.

It's no wonder we didn't make it. It's not that we didn't care.
It's more that we didn't know how.

My heart aches for you, crumbling marriage divided with pain.

I heard this by a preacher man one morning on the radio. He said, "Marriages don't just explode out of nowhere. It's not a giant burst.
Marriages are punctured."

Stabbed.
Wounded.
Holed.

and then they lay down and bleed to death.

I believe in miracles. I do. I believe marriages can be fixed. Healed.
and then more than healed. They thrive.
I have seen it.
Not in my own.
No. We tapped out.
I tapped out.
I didn't want a miracle.

That's the beauty and the agony of it, isn't it?

We get to choose how our life is going to be.

And then we all get to see that life.

On Facebook.


* I titled this proverbs 14:1. but just know, this post is equal opportunity. We all tear our houses down.

Kiss bigger

I have been looking around. I have been watching. Watching the joys and the sorrows, the pick-me ups and the let-you downs. Life.
It can be so brutal,

so lovely.
You just never know.
You never know who is going to fall in love with whom. You never know who is going to get their feelings hurt and hold it inside. You never know who is going to walk away, turn a corner, not look back.
You never think it will be you standing there all alone.

Brutal.

You never think you will be the light in someone else's life. You don't realize what cost you five bucks or a small smile, will make someone else's day. It could be what carries them through the night, to the next opportunity,
of hope.

Lovely.

I am an early riser - by necessity, not choice. I work at Starbucks and so most mornings I rush out the door, while most haven't even attempted to hit snooze yet, at the dark and foggy hour of 4:00 am. Give or take 30 minutes. It is a windy drive on a mostly two-lane road.

Mountains. Coyotes. Stillness.

Today I didn't have to be there until 5:30. A reprieve. Although 4am doesn't bother me like it used to. Normally when I make the drive I am alone, one pair of headlights zig-zagging through the silence.

Today was not like every other day. Like I said, I didn't have to be there until 5:30. I rushed out the door by 5:05, grabbing my water, my apron, my tupperware of grapes and strawberries. I gave my husband the quickest kiss on the planet and tossed out an "I love you" over my shoulder, as I walked out the door.
Normally no one else is on the road.
Normally I drive a little on the quick side.

Today was not normal.
I was in my daughter's truck, which does not go nearly as fast as my Prius. I had already been warned, "Yo. Take the truck. Don't speed." by my daughter's post it note on my purse. A reminder to not forget - she needed the car for the day.

Fifteen minutes later, I made the left onto Poway road. It winds and cuts and corners for several miles, with just a few turnouts and dark driveways, like hidden mouths, waiting to swallow you up. Two cars were behind me.

weird.

Several others passed me going in the opposite direction.

weirder.

I ate my apple. Sipped my water. Listened to my "Jesus Jams" playlist. Sang in between bites.

And I went around another bend.
That's when i stared, head cocking to the side, mouth opening in a question I did not know yet.
It took a few seconds for my brain to catch up with my eyeballs.
It wasn't two headlights headed towards me.

It was four.

It's not uncommon to see one car pass another on a two-lane rode. No big deal. No offense taken. Let's get moving and be on our way.

It's a bit of a different story when the two-lane road turns every 8 seconds and you can't see what's next. Not too smart. Not too legal. Not enough time.

It was only seconds. Seconds that stretched and snapped back at the same time.
I didn't have time to pray "Oh, Jesus"
I didn't have time to say "Oh, shit."

I only had time to say "oh ..." and suck in my breath.
I couldn't stop. Two cars behind me. I couldn't pull over. There was nowhere to go but down the side of the mountain. I couldn't do anything but stare.

Frozen.
I felt fear in the center of my bones. I felt it leak into my bloodstream. I felt it pause my heart. People die on this road.

And then the truck yanked away from me, cutting off the bigger, construction truck it successfully passed, barely avoiding killing us all.

Or just me.

My chest began to heave. I was gasping for air as I struggled not to shake. I couldn't help it though. Fear morphing into relief beat into each cell in my body.

So I did the only thing I could think of right then.
I called Jeff.
I needed to hear his voice. I needed to connect, just for a minute.
I didnt even think of how completely freaked out he would be when he answered the phone and i couldn't speak because i was crying.
"Are you ok? Are you ok? Are you ok?! babe. babe. Oh my God."

I manged to calm down. Reassure him. Tell him what happened. Tell him I just needed a minute. I just needed to breathe. I just needed to hear his voice.

And then I said this before we hung up, "I wish i would have kissed you bigger before i left today."

And there it is. The truth we manage to ignore most minutes of our lives.

You just never know.

When that last kiss will be. The last goodbye. The last walk out the door. The last drive away from home.

Our last.

I still have not seen him yet. But when I do.
I will kiss him bigger.

Because today was a reminder, we are not promised tomorrow. We are not promised two hours from now.
It happens every day, to everybody else.
But one day it will happen to me. It will happen to you.
Just that fast.

Treat each other well. Forgive quickly. Love until your heart explodes.

And kiss really really big.

What else is there?