Becoming Maricelli (mar-sell-ee).

When I started this post, I was pretty hopped up on steroid medication to get rid of a sinus infection, but it in no way masked my true, unadulterated excitement about letting y'all know that I GOT MARRIED TO THE LOVE OF MY LIFE LAST WEEKEND!!!!

It's true, everybody.

And, of course, this really does mean something for everyone, not just the newest Mr. and Mrs. Maricelli (pronounced "mar-sell-ee").

• Ok, let's start with me. (What? There are some values to this being my blog, right?) This redhead has found the one whom her soul adores (Song of Solomon 3:4). This may not be earth-shattering to those of you who know me as Girl With Many Friends or who have met Michael and seen us interact. But to those of you who are familiar with Girl Who Wouldn't Go On Third Date or Girl Who Didn't Think Anyone Was Interested in Her in High School, it's a pretty big deal, and I couldn't be happier.

• Michael's commitment to the black bean brownie lyfe is now in stone. At the rehearsal dinner, he breezed past the salad, informing me in a carefree tone, "This is a MAN challenge!" His mother later told him, "You have the rest of your life for salads, Michael." With a pained look, he replied, "Trust me, I know." Your prayers are welcome and appreciated.

• Nan, much to my surprise, told me a day or two before the wedding that she had "mixed emotions." When I reminded her she'd been trying to marry me off since I hit puberty, she informed me, "I KNOW. And I love Michael and I know yer happy and I'm happy. But I KNOW YOU SINGLE so I feel happy AND sad." It was an incredibly sweet conversation, but she immediately shifted gears when I told her we would come to see her after the wedding. "Aha. I want CAKE."

• Both sets of our parents responded with a great balance of emotion and support, and more love than either of us could have asked for. Given that we are not at the tender age of twenty-anything, there has been some chatter about The Big Christmas Adjustment with rotating at holidays and how everyone will feel. Also, my Daddy, with tears streaming down his face during the father/daughter dance, cleared his throat and said, "Well, y'all need to come see us sometime." So of course I cried and pointed out the nearest boat. Emotions. Lots of emotions. Also, I need to be sure to take notes from Michael's mother on things like not letting his waffle get cold before he puts his butter on it, and as I've learned with this lovely sickness, being more sympathetic when he gets something first. (I could've been much nicer.)

• My nephew is mainly concerned about two things: sleeping arrangements when we're all at Grammi and Grandpa's, and what he'll end up calling Michael. (I say it should be Uncle Michael, but Michael prefers Uncle Mike, even though we already have one in our family. "It rolls off the tongue," Michael argues.) At any rate, surely we will get those things worked out.

That said, it was a beautiful (though hot) day, and I couldn't be more thrilled to have committed to spending the rest of my life with this one who I know God created to enhance my strengths and better my weaknesses. 

Visit our wedding website for more of our story.

Repost from another re. My ongoing love affair with my home state, Mississippi.

Repost:

http://thoughtcatalog.com/mary-sellers/2014/02/a-love-letter-to-mississippi/

One outstanding quote:

"All growth is change and pain, but stagnancy is far worse. Life shouldn’t pass us by because we are virile, tough things. We are made from your delta, your seashore, and your folklore. Let’s give equal parts thanks and sorrow. Let’s mourn our wrongdoings and celebrate our indomitable spirit."

Wordless Wednesday: Where I come from.

Wordless Wednesday.

Wordless Wednesday.

Growing pains.

One of the most impactful teachers I had in school was not very encouraging. I probably didn't hear "good job" or "way to go" too often from Coach O'Neal.

(Before you ask, yes, I was and still am a total dork. Even so, I'm pretty sure this teacher's behavior toward me wasn't just because I was smack in the middle of my awkward phase, which I would, for the record, gradually meander away from around the tender age of 22.)

No, if memory serves correctly, I think it's safe to say none of us at d'Iberville High -- the graceful, angsty, athletic, pretty, troublemakers, awkward, pimply, mischievous, gorgeous, shy, overeager, troublesome or ambivalent -- walked out of that classroom at the end of A Hall with the warm and fuzzies on a regular basis.

Yet, it seems the majority of us ended the semester, year, high school career, and sometimes even the week under Coach O'Neal's tutelage with a great sense of satisfaction of having tackled something much more complex than the when-will-I-EVER-use-this-in-the-real-world Algebra III equations we inevitably, somehow, miraculously overcame.

In Coach O'Neal's class, we tackled an environment where it didn't matter who "ya mama an' 'em" was. It didn't matter if you wore snazzy Girbaud jeans (my cool friends) or highlighter pink smiley face t-shirts (dorky me). It didn't matter if you had beautiful silky smooth hair or had never heard of hair product but desperately needed to (must you ask?).

What did matter in Coach O'Neal's class -- at least what I recall of it -- was the task at hand. If you were in Trig, Trig mattered. Same for all the Algebras and other advanced math classes.

This isn't to say the other excellent teachers we rave about didn't focus on the same things; they totally did. But Coach O'Neal did it in a much different way, and we all knew it.

Coach O'Neal's focus was sans the warm and fuzzies, and when you got him for your math classes, you were well aware that your work was cut out for you.

DHS didn't have only one math teacher, so I wasn't required to ever walk into this man's classroom. Given that, you can imagine my parents' surprise when I requested him for Algebra I just a year or two after he'd wrongfully accused my very sweet sister of cheating on a test. (Those of you who know my sister KNOW. I won't expound too much.) So to make a very long story a little less long, after The Accusation, my kind parents met with him leading to no results, my sister powered through, took the 0 on the test,  and worked like a dog to pull her grade up.

Because of all this, my parents were understandably mortified not long after when their questionably minded younger child chose this man for not just that one inaugural class, but eventually all four years of really unnecessary advanced math classes during high school.

And looking at this in black text on the white screen, I gotta wonder, why in the world would I do that to myself? Or them? Or Kim, for the love of Pete?

But, feeling the emotions that have come from the reason I've typed these words tonight, of course I know why.

I chose to take elective math classes that I didn't need not to raise advanced or bonus or whatever the geek word for Overachiever's GPA was in the 90s, but to prove something to Coach O'Neal...or so I thought at the time. I thought I was showing him that our family was ethical, and not scared of him.

And maybe, just a little bit, in some ways, I was.

But maybe also, I kind of liked tackling his snuff-dipping, deck shoe-wearing, unconventional, non-back-patting teaching style. Because getting those As and Bs on tests and in classes and subjects I really hated and didn't excel at and had to work for felt much better than any end-of-year academic award in areas that came much more naturally to me.

See, when I was growing up, in and out of the classroom, I received encouragement and warmth and receptiveness from almost everyone. I mean, I was no one's little princess by any means, but I was good for the most part. I did my work and did it well. I only smarted off  out loud sometimes; I didn't push the line too much, and when I did, I apologized.

So getting a straightforward, no-nonsense hour of sarcasm laced with, "If you can do this, show me you can do this" each weekday might've been good for my shiny (hello, T-zone!), happy self. I think I might've even grown to like it a little bit.

And one thing's for sure: there's nothing like a good balance of warmth and reality from high school teachers to prepare you for college professors, the work world, "grown-up" relationships and "adult friends" that come with enough drama to make Ryan Seacrest feel like it's his birthday. In fact, I think can see Coach O'Neal rolling his eyes now!

Only....I can't. And I haven't for many years.

Which is why I'm thinking of him tonight, and why I'm working through this whole Dewey Decimal system of memories, blog-style, like I do when I need to sort out this type of thing.

I learned today that this impactful, sloppy-on-the-outside, studious-on-the-inside instructor o' mine has been dying of metastatic colon cancer, and that Hospice has been called in.

From what I've heard through former classmates, he's donating his body to scientific study, and his family and friends will hold a memorial service on the beach. All this is very fitting for the unconventional, shaggy haired teacher who non-verbally challenged my word-loving self to take advanced math classes and my sweet sister to stay in his class and pull up her undeserved failing grade.

In Coach O'Neal's classes, we at DHS learned to power through more than the successive Algebras and Trigonometries.

In Coach O'Neal's class, I think we all learned how to power through growing pains, which for some of us included an unfortunately late discovery of hair products, and for others might've been the buzzkill of peaking at a very young age.

Today, with the news of his declining health, many of Coach O'Neal's students are powering through other growing pains.

We're all adults now, for better or for worse.

Some of us have procreated.

Some are in our ultimate careers.

Others are still discovering that path.

We all can drive and are probably doing this every day, which might make Coach O'Neal shudder if he were to use energy to think about those very special days in the student parking lot.

Far removed from the sacred halls of DHS, we still might not get warm and fuzzies from each of life's "teachers," but we've probably learned how to scope out the ones who will instruct us well, and which ones we should return to for repeat lessons.

Whether or not we resolved the growing pains of if and only if, other complexities of higher-level math, or Coach O'Neal's sarcasm, we're basically all dealing with the same word problems as our peers now, just as we were back in 5th period.

My sister has been teaching since the late 90s, and is stronger in that environment in every way than I could be for one hour. In the past month, I have volunteered for work projects that were out of my realm, but they needed to be done, so I stepped in.

But no matter what we've grown to do and be, I'm confident that all of Coach O'Neal's students have our own stories to tell and be told, and our own challenges, word problems and solutions waiting to be worked out.

And you know what? We're Warriors. We got this.

So here's to you, your ever sockless feet, and those deck shoes, Coach O'Neal. You won't be forgotten. Thanks for all the lessons.

Sail on.

Wordless Wednesday: Nan wins the green thumb war.

Wordless Wednesday.

On the Big Screen: The Help (No Spoilers)

I just left the theatre, where I saw "The Help" on the big screen.

The movie was superbly done, and addresses a subject that is more talked about now than in the past, but is still hairy: race relations.

I am from Mississippi. I am not proud of the slavery my state participated in past years. Most of us aren't.

That's not all, though.

There are many things I'm not proud of that people I love have done. I still love the people, though, especially in cases where they change, and see the need for a difference, and at the time, sometimes might not have known better.

Sometimes, I've been that person. I'm thankful my friends and family love me anyway. I'm guessing we all are, and that we're grateful for those who believe in us and the improvements we can make.

That's all on that subject.

My favorite thing about "The Help," which I blogged about after I read the book, is the way the story's told. The writing and use of voice are excellent, and from the perspective of a former Jackson junior leaguer, certain nails are hit squarely on the head. I really want to meet the author.

My thoughts for those who haven't read the book: read the book. See the movie. Share it all with a friend.

My thoughts for those who have read the book: see the movie. Share it and the book with a friend.

Well done. Very well done.

The Baby Jesus Cake.

My sister and her family are Yankees.

Ok, not really. They live in the northern part of Alabama. And in all fairness, they're transplants. But compared to the Biloxi, New Orleans, and Baton Rouge areas, it's kind of a stretch.

One of the more significant differences between here and there is the lack of Mardi Gras celebration "up north."

While our conservative Southern Baptist family is Protestant to the T, we still make room in our hearts, religions and tummies for king cake each year, so it was pretty important to us to introduce my nephew to king cake as early as possible.

Caleb is now 7, so I guess it was 4 or so years ago when he had a friend over during the Mardi Gras season after a king cake from home had arrived. It was time for a snack, and Caleb excitedly asked Will, "You wanna piece of baby Jesus cake?"

Caleb's friend reacted the way any Yankee -- ahem, I mean non-coastal person -- would, and firmly said no.

Who wants a piece of cake that sounds like it's made from the baby Jesus? No thank you!

However, Caleb's little-boy-terminology makes me think each time I remember it.

King cakes' inclusion of the plastic baby representing Jesus isn't just random; it's symbolic. While the whole point of Mardi Gras has been wildly exaggerated into a Bourbon Street perspective by the general public, its roots stem from the devout reverence for the many sacrifices that Jesus made for us.

So tasting this delectable pastry is more than just fattening up one particular Tuesday (and maybe every day before then, depending on how many delightful king cakes you're exposed to). Eating king cake and being reminded of the baby Jesus -- sometimes painfully in the tooth area -- are all part of what really is logical about Mardi Gras. We enjoy, we indulge, we celebrate life and all its gifts, and then we take some time to somberly appreciate those gifts, minus the indulgences.

But even still, if I were a Yankee (or something like that), and someone offered me a piece of "baby Jesus cake," especially when I was in pre-school, I probably wouldn't take 'em up on it, either. :-)

Boldly Approaching.

I well remember the day I stepped off the bus at Woolmarket Elementary School and was (kindly) told by the chuckling driver who overheard some conversation I was having, "Well, you're a feisty one, aren't you?" Having never heard that word, I just shrugged, smiled, and and told her to have a good day.

When I got home that afternoon, I asked my mom what "feisty" meant. She looked concerned, then asked me why I needed to know. Once I told the story and learned the definition, my steel-trap-minded 4th grade self could tell from the smiles my parents were trying to hide that they were proud, but we did have a talk about controlling our feistiness (among other things -- like redheaded tempers, and my tendencies to talk too much, and...etc.).

Those who know me as an adult laugh when I say I need to control my temper, or bite my tongue, or things like that. But anyone who grew up with me or who has ever met my sister understands that my role model was not typical. Kim is so sweet, and precious, and humble, and submissive. In fact, much of my fiestiness on the bus came from taking up for her during her awkward years when she was quiet and occasionally getting picked on (not that I would've known what to do had anyone actually hit me, Heaven forbid).

So that said, controlling my temper, and my tongue, and the unabashed boldness that's always been just below my surface has been something I've tried to keep in check over the years, whether people knew it or not.

Like most things, though, I think I got to a point where those traits became less something I wanted or needed to keep in check, and more something I just subconsciously learned not to do in public. (Which is good, and is why I haven't been arrested for road rage -- or worse.)

In the past year, I have learned a lot of lessons. Like, more than I have in some whole decades.

Throughout 12 months, I have learned that things are not always what they seem, and people are rarely ever what they seem.

I have realized, several times over, that life is entirely too short to always give and never receive.

I have been harshly shown the old adage that I must look out for myself, because everyone else is doing the same for themselves, and sometimes, no one else will be there to offer the hand I've tried to give so many times.

I've literally watched precious friends and family members die.

I've lived through the shattering of corporate and personal promises to me that I never thought would be broken.

I said goodbye to my favorite furry friend.

I've learned that in spite of the song my youth choir beat like a dead horse, friends are not always friends forever.

And I've had to learn that while I'm definitely not perfect, the origin of a lot of these lessons have not been my fault. In fact, nothing has been 100% my fault. This has really taken some learning, and wise counsel, and serious prayer for me to come to grips with. (I'm not sure why. I was never labeled remedial, but, who knows. It was the 80s & 90s.)

The lessons I've learned do include maintaining the kindness and meekness that I constantly need to remember the importance of by nature, but the ones that have dug their ways into my soul have been about reclaiming boldness and courage (for good, not evil -- or mischief).

For 33 years, I have laughed in the face of "me time." I've inwardly shuddered at the thought of "always lookin' out for number one." And I have perceived that my friendships were pure enough, and true enough, and real enough to survive anything.

And I was wrong about all those things.

I need to take care of Rebekah, or no one else will want to be around her.

I have to look out for myself, because Lord knows that a) putting that pressure on people who want to is unrealistic, and b) not everyone follows through.

And somehow, after three decades of being able to comprehend and relate to others, I've just come to realize in the past few months that friends can't be friends forever on their strength and love alone. We're human. We err. We bow up. And we crumble.

Some people (maybe including my family...?) may not like this, but I and several friends have referred to 33 as our "Jesus year."

This stems from having always associating 33 with the year Jesus was crucified, and certainly does not mean I think I'm Jesus. Or perfect. At all.

It just means that about 6 months in, it hit me that this was a really hard one so far. And that I was trying to do the right thing in a lot of areas, and praying that God's will be done, yet the hits just kept on comin.' And when I mentioned it to a couple of friends, they agreed that it had been the same for them during that year, and the same thought had occurred to them, too.

For those reasons, I am happy to bid 33 farewell.

Do I think 34 will be perfect? Um, no. (Have you met me? I still skin my knees. As children are calling me "ma'am." I'm pretty aware that my life will never be a walk down Wisteria Lane.)

But have I felt a new wind blowing in the past few months? Yes. Am I more hopeful about life in general than I was last fall? Definitely. Am I more at home -- in a hundred ways -- than I can ever remember being? Absolutely.

I attribute mental and emotional survival of these very hard last 12ish months to having been broken in a lot of ways, and humbly and meekly crawling back to the Source of all that's good: the Cross.

For more than a year now, when it's come to all decisions, great or small, I've taken the same approach. I've prayed quietly, then more steadily, and now with an amazing confidence, "Thy will be done."

I was reminded in Sunday School this morning that that is the kind of audacity neither earthly nor Heavenly Fathers hide a smile at. We're encouraged to boldly approach the throne of grace! I hadn't forgotten this Scripture, per se, but I definitely hadn't applied it to my situation in a while.

So while I don't expect to be spared the daily grind, or the broken promises, or the humanity of life and death that will surely come with this 34th year of life, I will boldly approach God with my request for it all to be for His honor and glory.

Will I mess it up? Royally. Will you read this, then see or hear or anticipate me acting like I never wrote it? Most assuredly. But is that my goal? No way.

This year, I'm going to take those lessons learned, add a little of that natural-born school bus feistiness, keep sprinkling in the kindness and meekness I so appreciate my parents and sister modeling for me, and build up some arm muscles as I steadily stir it all with a bold approach to my Father's throne of grace.

May His will be done.

And happy birthday to me. :-)

The Turnaround.

My adorably hilarious nephew is 6, and he's a pretty brave kid. He did inherit his mother's preciously tender heart, which I love with all of my own semi-tender heart, but he also is all boy, so the sweetness comes out when you least expect it. And I love that.

This year, Caleb graduated from kindergarten. My sister teaches language arts at a school near his campus, so getting him to and from class has been an interesting set of logistics to work out. At first, he was expectedly sad to see her go. Then other older students of hers started walking him to class, and things smoothed out a little.

About a month ago, my parents visited them for a weekend and took Caleb to school on the Monday morning before they left to go back home. According to my parents, he was super big and brave, and walked to the door with his backpack (looking much like a little man, I'm sure), then turned around and waved bye and proceeded into his building. My parents lost it. It's hard saying goodbye to kids anyway, but their only grandson, and looking so grown up, and being so brave... You know. Tough stuff.

Later, my parents learned that after Caleb entered his school building, he lost it as well. School starts early (I'm not sure how early, but you remember the outrageous times those first bells would ring), and apparently Caleb's teacher could not get him calmed down until around 8:30. In kindergarten time, I'm pretty sure that's like 4 days.

Later, when my sister talked to my nephew about why he was so upset, he explained very simply, "I don't know, Mom. I'm always ok till the turnaround."

Thankfully, things like his sweet teacher, recess, and even math can help distract him.

This weekend, I am in a place I love deeply and that I resided in for nearly ten years. Ten very crucial post-college, growing up years, I might add. Jackson, Mississippi holds a plethora of beautiful memories and coming-of-age markers for me, but it also holds some bittersweet pivotal life points, as well.

I knew before this visit that it wouldn't be 1,000% rosy. A friend was dying. His wife is aching, while still trying to function and work at her paying job, and work even harder to take care of him and their children. And even aside from that, I've had enough emotional precursors over the past few months to realize that this trip would hold more than just a feta dressing fix from Keifer's and long laughs with my best-good girlfriends.

This trip to Jackson is definitely a turnaround for me. Change was in my air before I even got in my car to make this drive, and I am really, truly happy about it. I've been given a few opportunities for some new beginnings, and much to my own surprise, I'm lapping them up like an overplayed puppy would a fresh pan of cold milk.

Even so, Caleb is right. Athough I'm walking into a wealth of opportunity for learning and life experiences, the turnaround is hard. I know that when I turn around, something beautiful will happen, it will further my life education, and I am prepared to make the absolute most of it that I can. But a look back at the old can still make one cry -- whether one is a 33-year-old career chickadee or 6-year-old kindergarten grad.

After thinking a lot about Caleb's and my own situations, I think it's ok to get emotional at the turnaround -- it honors the good times you had in the past, and lets your peeps know they're loved and valued. In fact, it might be odd to NOT get emotional at the turnaround.

But part of the turnaround is in the actual turning, and the bright, unlimited possibilities that await.

Which will be super cool, much like kickball at recess.

Happy 100th Birthday, Southern Miss!

My alma mater is celebrating its 100th birthday this week! True to form, political cartoonist Marshall Ramsey tied in Mississippi's current budgeting issues with the event:

Southern Miss, To The Top!

Go Golden Eagles!

Finding my happy place.

I could've told you this before the article below was even thought about, much less published, but I've found my happy place.  Louisiana is definitely close enough to home to have the look(ish) and feel of the (MS Gulf) Coast, yet in a spot where I can learn and explore newness, which makes my redheaded self full of joy.

However, I guess someone leaked this bit o' news to the press, so now everybody knows:

States ranked from happiest to least cheerful

THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

WASHINGTON -- A new study found that people who report more satisfaction with their lives live in states that score well on things like good schools, low crime and short commuting time, perhaps a first objective look at why some states are happier than others.

The state-by-state list, from happiest to least cheery:

1. Louisiana
2. Hawaii
3. Florida
4. Tennessee
5. Arizona
6. South Carolina
7. Mississippi
8. Montana
9. Alabama
10. Maine
11. Wyoming
12. Alaska
13. North Carolina
14. South Dakota
15. Texas
16. Idaho
17. Vermont
18. Arkansas
19. Georgia
20. Utah
21. Oklahoma
22. Delaware
23. Colorado
24. New Mexico
25. North Dakota
26. Minnesota
27. Virginia
28. New Hampshire
29. Wisconsin
30. Oregon
31. Iowa
32. Kansas
33. Nebraska
34. West Virginia
35. Kentucky
36. Washington
37. District of Columbia
38. Missouri
39. Nevada
40. Maryland
41. Pennsylvania
42. Rhode Island
43. Ohio
44. Massachusetts
45. Illinois
46. California
47. New Jersey
48. Indiana
49. Michigan
50. Connecticut
51. New York

Again... No shock to me that my current residence is #1 and my home state is #7 out of 51, but for those of you who didn't know how awesome the deep South is, FYI. And come see us! :-)

Joie de vivre.

I've had one of those days that reminded me of the joy of life, and living, and how ridiculously thankful I am for all I have and where I've been -- good and bad.

So this time, I'm listing things my heart is brimming over with thanks for, and I'm not stoppin' at five.

1. My home state. I am in mad love with Mississippi, and the fact that I've had the opportunity to spend so much time in so many parts of it. Faith Hill had it right -- no matter where I am, I'm still (and always will be!) a Mississippi girl. :-)
2. Old friends. There is something to be said for the peeps who know you well, have seen you at your worst, and still love you. I'm overly blessed with the most wonderful friends EVER. How this happened, I have no idea, but I pray to God I don't do anything to mess it up! My peeps are the best peeps.
3. New friends. Meeting new people never gets old! Sometimes I think it's not the best habit of mine (for maintenance reasons and all), but aren't new personalities the best?! It's so cool to learn where others are coming from and to see where they'll go.
4. The past -- all of it. The good, the bad, and the ugly are all part of where and who I am now, and today, I happen to really love where and who I am now. I never thought I would be thankful for some of my ugliest experiences, but I'll be dadgummed if they're not reminding me of how good it feels to feel good today.
5. Cruise control. I would love to hug whoever invented it.
6. Fall colors. I know I don't shut up about this, but I'm all about some fall leaves and colors, and since I don't see much of those in BR (until this week!), it was absolutely breathtaking to drive up through Mississippi and see the vibrant colors. (I guess I would need to be hospitalized if I was actually up north, where real fall occurs.)
7. Stereotypes. I was reminded this weekend that just because I set stereotypes, it doesn't mean they're in stone. That was a good reminder. Sometimes this redhead needs the "refresh" button clicked so she can see things as they are, not just as she imagines they are.
8. A nephew who loves his aunt. There is absolutely nothing in the world that could make my heart fuller than to hear my hilarious nephew's voice trash talking me about football, or commentating on his 5-year-old life like the old soul he is, or incredulously getting excited because he "gets to see" me in only three days.
9. Music. If you know me at all, you know I love it. And there's nothing like ten hours in the car to reminisce on the playlists of your life in every genre! Rock. On. Or country on. Or jazz on. Or...
10. Scripture. It's amazing how, like music, Biblical reminders can pop up just when you need them. I'm thankful to have been raised in a family and church where I was taught Bible verses at a very young age, and that they still stick with me when I need them most.
11. Being a girl. For real. Sometimes I gripe about it, but secretly, I love it. :-)
12. Reminders of Aunt Mildred. I had the sweetest, funniest great-aunt ever, and since she died, I have noticed more and more when things remind me of her. Like good sweet tea. And decorative dish towels. And a new friend's laugh that sounds exactly like it came from Auntie M's kitchen table! Fantastic. I love that a beautiful sound allows me to see her shoulders shake from getting tickled, even though I can no longer give her a hug and kiss.
13. My mother's cornbread dressing, and the fact that I get to eat it this Thursday. No further commentary needed.
14. My family. They are the best of the best, hands-down.

A new friend said something this weekend I've not really heard adults state so frankly:

"Hey. I'm happy."

At the time, I grinned and told him I was glad.

Today I'm there, and can only grin again and think, "Well said. And ditto that!"