Lessons from the Trail

Hi Friends,

Just finished our first horse camp week. Whew! We did it! And the kids had a great time.  Here's a lesson from the trail . . .

I put my hands on my hips and looked out at the sea of grinning-kid faces sitting on the stacks of hay before me. Nearly thirty big, wide smiles met my gaze. I grinned back. A few van-loads of kids had come from the local low-income apartments to spend the afternoon riding, grooming, and experiencing horse-life for the first time. 

            “Who’s been on a horse before?” I asked.

            Three hands raised.

            My smile grew. It was going to be an interesting day.

            My daughters brought our horses from their pens as I reviewed basic safety tips. After the horses were saddled and ready, I pointed toward the narrow trail that winds through the trees around our property. “Okay, this is the important part. When it’s your turn, stay on the trail!”

            A boy raised his hand in the back of the group. “Why?”

            “If you don’t, guess what will get you?”

            “Wolves?”

            “Zombies?”

            “Monsters?”

            “Snakes?”

            I raised my eyebrows. “Worse! Poison oak!”

            “Oooooh.” Their eyes widened.  

            A tiny girl tugged on the edge of my shirt. “What’s poison oak?”

            I squatted beside her. “It’s a plant that looks like other plants, but it’s not like other plants at all. See all those nice red and green leaves growing on either side of the path?”

            She nodded.

            “That’s poison oak. It looks pretty, but if you rub against it you’ll get a nasty red, itchy rash. It’s awful.”

            She wrinkled up her nose. “I don’t want that.”

            “Nobody wants that. That’s why we stay on the path.”

            In the hours that followed, I led a string of horses around and around the trail. Two loops around, and kids would dismount to allow the next group to ride. Each time, we talked about poison oak. Each time, the kids kept their horses on the path. Until about two hours in.

            I heard a yelp behind me. “Help! Smokey’s going off the trail!” Sure enough, the gelding had spotted a patch of green and was heading right toward it. I ran back and grabbed his bridle, just as he reach a bush of shiny, poison leaves. I hauled him back to the safe path and walked beside him until he stayed the course.

            Two rounds later, I heard another yelp. This time, Valentine headed off the path, back toward the barn. After two and a half hours, she was tired. She wanted to be done. done. We brought her back to her spot and encouraged her to keep walking. 

            Later that night as I thought back to the adventures of the day, I was reminded that we can stay out of the poisonous places in life if we just let God lead us on the proper path, let him dictate the boundaries and where we ought to walk. We must stay on the path God has for us. Otherwise, poison thoughts, poison actions, poison problems will rub up against us to make ugly, itchy rashes on our relationships, our work, and our witness. 

            Sometimes there are green and red, shiny leaves tempting us off the path. They look pretty. We want to take a closer look. But they’re poison.

            Sometimes, like Smokey, we get hungry for things that are not for us and we veer off course. When that happens, it’s good to have God and wise friends to bring us back to the trail. And it’s good to allow them to walk beside us to help us stay the course.

            Sometimes, like Valentine, we just get tired and want to take a shortcut back to the barn. We want to be done. In those times, God says to us, “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” (Galatians 6:9, NIV) 

            As I sat, soaking my feet that night, I thought about the joy we find when we trust God to lead us where we need to go. The path may be long, we may get tired and hungry, discouraged and disappointed. But God knows there’s poison off the path. He says to us, “...ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.” (Jeremiah 6:16, NIV)

            Rest, not rashes. And maybe a good, epson salt soak for feet sore from the journey. That sounds good to me!

No More June Gloom - Hope When Things are Wrong

Hi Friends,

It's June! Which around here isn't summer at all. Here are some thoughts about June Gloom and living in hope and strength when life isn't what it should be . . .

 

 June Gloom?

            It was just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Fog dripped from the trees and settled in puddles on the ground. I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck and zipped my coat against the chill. 

Wrong.

And it wouldn’t burn off today. Maybe not even tomorrow.  

            So much for our warm summer camping trip.

            My daughter opened the door behind me and stepped outside. She pulled up the hood on her sweatshirt. “It’s so cold.”

            “Yes.”

            “It’s June.”

            “Yes.”

            “Summer.”

            “I know.

            “What are we going to do?”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

She huffed. “I mean it’s just not right. We’re going to freeze.”

            “It is what it is. We’re going camping.”

She scowled, turned, and hurried back inside. 

            I sighed. 

She had a point. It wasn’t right. And it would be less right after we traveled up the mountain where it would be colder still. But I couldn’t control the weather. I couldn’t make the sun shine. Despite all my plans, all my hopes, all my careful preparations, I couldn’t even make the fog break for a single moment.     

            Sometimes life is like that. Sometimes things just don’t go as planned, or hoped, or expected. Sometimes it’s under fifty degrees in the middle of summer. Sometimes you’re a victim of June gloom.

            As I turned back to go inside and pack long sleeve shirts, wooly socks, and more scarves and sweatshirts, I thought about how life can go awry even when you’ve done everything you can to prepare. Sometimes, things just aren’t right and you have to pack to big blankets when the cold was the last thing you expected.

            Sometimes the sun doesn’t show up as planned.

            So then what do we do?

            For our family, we packed up and continued on with our camping plans. We bundled up, we traveled to the campground, we set up camp, and we made a big campfire. Scarves, coats, and all.

            That night, as we sat roasting marshmallows and sipping hot cocoa around a warm fire, with our coats zipped tight, I realized that a cold June day, and a colder June night, didn’t matter so much. We were together. We laughed. We joked. We read spooky stories and ate s’mores. 

            We lived. Even though everything wasn’t right. Even though life wasn’t all it was supposed to be.

            We found our place in the midst of a plan gone wrong.

            And I wondered, could we, could I, also find my place in a life that was not all it was supposed to be? Could I find peace, warmth, and joy when things just weren’t right in my world? Can I live life to the fullest even when it’s not what I planned, hoped, prayed? Even when damp fog blocks the light of the sun?

            Maybe I can. I will. 

In Ephesians 5:15-20 (NIV), Paul tells us to, “Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity… always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

And in 2 Corinthians 9:8 (NIV), he says, “God is able to bless you abundantly, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work.” 

In all things. Everything. In the fog, in the chill, in the cold in summer. 

When life doesn’t go as hoped. When plans go awry. When the day looks nothing like you expected and it just isn’t right.

            Because even in June gloom, we can choose laughter. We can choose friendship. We can chose to draw near to the fire of Christ’s love, no matter what not-right things happen around us. We can chose gratefulness.

            June gloom happens. But it doesn’t mean we have to center our lives around the wrongness. It doesn’t mean we have to forego the wonder-filled things God has planned for us. 

            When we wake up to the drip-drip of a relationship that’s not all it should be, when we step into the chill of a lost job, when we walk beneath a gray sky and it seems the sun will never break through ... that’s the time gather together with those we love, draw close to the fire, and toast a marshmallow.

            June gloom doesn’t have to stop you. You just have to bundle up in God’s grace and drive up to mountains anyway. And maybe tomorrow the sun will come out and the fog will be only a memory.

Living Beautifully No Matter What

Hi Friends,

I love this story from my trip to France a few years ago. I hope it encourages you too today!

Out of the Flowerbed

It seemed as if I were walking in heaven as I strolled the beautiful gardens outside Château de Chenonceau in France. Bright reds, deep purples, glowing oranges, sunny yellows surrounded me and filled the air with a sweet aroma. Many of the flowers were grown for cutting and placing inside the many rooms of the chateau. I wandered through the neat rows of violas, petunias, roses, lilies, tulips, all perfectly kept, watered, groomed, weeded. Beautiful lavender wisteria draped like a jeweled necklace over ancient out-buildings. 

            I took a deep breath and paused. Ah, to be a beautiful rose in the garden of the King!

I looked down. And there, right beside all the perfectly tended garden flowers, sprung a bunch of scattered little white blooms that weren’t tended at all. They sprinkled the lawn just outside the flowerbeds. Tiny little daisies with yellow faces, the same ones that popped up along the roadways, in parking lots, and even at my local high school all the way back in California.

            They weren’t cultivated, or watered, or placed carefully in the flowerbeds. They just grew.  I leaned over and examined the daisies. In the grand gardens of a King’s chateau, these little flowers seemed lost and unappreciated among the larger, fancier varieties. But were they? After all, those flowers needed special care and perfect conditions to bloom. Yet these little daisies, they bloomed and brought beauty everywhere, even in the worst conditions. 

It seems that too often in my life, I’ve strived to be like the cultured tulips, the bold wisteria, the elegant lilies. But now, I think I like the humble daisy better. 

I want to be able to be my best and give my best and bring joy to those around me no matter the circumstances. I want to thrive in the King’s garden and along the roadside and even when being trampled by teenagers. 

            In Philippians 4:11-13 (NIV) Paul says, “Not that I am speaking of being in need, for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.”

            What is this secret of Paul’s and of the simple daisy? Perhaps it’s found in the word for “strengthens.” In the Greek, that word is literally the prefix “in” followed by the word from which we get our word “dynamite.” God doesn’t just beef up what we already have. Instead, he puts his power, his great, might, dynamite power, in us … no matter where we’re planted, whether we’re well-tended or whether we’re feeling stomped on by careless feet. 

So I think about the daisy. I think about how it takes whatever God allows to bring its way; it accepts where God has planted it, and it chooses to be what it was created to be.  And God in-powers it. It doesn’t compare itself to the fancier flowers; it doesn’t cry “if only I were there”, or “if only I looked like that.” It does say “if only” at all. Instead, it determines to grow and become who God created it to be, no matter what.

That’s what I want.  I want “no matter what.”

And like the daisy, I can get it by choosing God’s power instead of my own. I become who I am meant to be by being in-filled with him instead of with fear. I grow and flourish by knowing that by his power placed within me, I can thrive in any and all situations. And I can bring joy and blessing to everyone passing by.

You can too.

The Beauty of Pulling the Weeds in Your Life

Hi Friends,

It's that time of year again ... weeding pulling time! As I've been working on weeds, I was thinking about this story from a few years ago. Sometimes the holes left by pulled weeds are a blessing . . .

Pulling Weeds

 

            Spring came quickly this year to our ranch. It came with the budding of wildflowers, scattered puddles like muddy mirrors reflecting the sky, and weeds. Lots and lots and lots of weeds. Tall weeds, short weeds, thick weeds, prickly weeds, weeds that pretended to be flowers but weren’t. Weeds.

            One sunny Saturday, I gathered my children and pointed to the once-well-landscaped strip of earth in front of my husband’s office. “Today is the day! We’re going to make that area nice again.”

            The kids at me. I looked at them. They frowned. I scowled. They grumbled. I jabbed my finger more emphatically toward the weeds. “We are going to do this. No complaints!”

            I ignored the deep sighs and half-hidden eye-rolls, and marched toward the office. A moment later, Jayna grabbed the yard waste bin, Joelle found some gloves, and the rest of them trudged up the hill to the weed-infested area. 

            Bria glanced up at me. “Are all those thorny things weeds?”

            I took a deep breath. “Yep.”

            “And those too?” She waved her hand at some dandelions.

            “Yep.”

            “And that stuff? That’s a lot of work.” She motioned toward some grass-weeds that towered high above the others.

            I nodded. “All weeds. And it’s all gotta go.”

            Little Jordyn pulled at the corner of my shirt. “But those ones are taller than me.”

            “You take the shorter ones.”

            She looked doubtful, but she strode forward anyway, grabbed a thin stalk of dandelion, and yanked. It came up, roots and all, leaving a hole in the ground where it had been.

            I smiled. “That’s the spirit! Come on group!” 

            We spent the next hour pulling weeds and tossing them into the yard waste bin. Leaves flew. Dirt splattered. And soon the area was half-cleared. 

            Jayna paused and put her hands on her hips. “I thought you said we were going to make it nice? Look at all these holes! It’s ugly.”

            I threw a fat thistle-weed into the bin and straightened, evaluating the work we’d done. Jayna was right. Pulling the weeds had created holes all across the strip of land that I had promised would be “nice.” It wasn’t nice. It was upturned earth, unattractive divots, bumps, lumps, and nothing pretty. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe weeds were better than this.

            Before I could answer, Bryan stepped out of his office. 

            I wiped my forehead. “I’m not sure if it looks better...Sorry.”

            He smiled “Of course it’s better! It looks great.”

            “But look at the holes.”

            Bryan came down the stairs and surveyed the cleared dirt. “Looks perfect to me. Now I can plant beautiful flowers there like there’s supposed to be. I’m going to put catmint over here.” He pointed to the left.

            “Catmint?”

            “That’s the one with purple flowers. And salvia. And then I can plant a yellow bush daisy over there, and some goldfinger cinquefoil in front and maybe a few Johnny Jump-ups.”

            “Johnny Jump-ups?” Bria laughed. “That sounds like fun!”

            “They are fun. And pretty. But I can only plant them because you’re clearing out all the weeds.”

            Jayna grinned. “I guess ugly holes aren’t so bad after all.”

            The kids went back to work with renewed vigor. Out came the weeds, leaving the ugliest of holes, but they didn’t care anymore. They knew their daddy was going to put something beautiful there. Holes didn’t matter, only the promise of beauty to come.

            As I watched them I realized that maybe the holes made from pulling up weeds in my life weren’t so bad either. Perhaps I needed to be as eager to pull up the weedy-things that had grown up in me, knowing that my heavenly Father also waited to plant something beautiful in the holes left behind.

            2 Corinthians 7:1 (NIV) says, “Therefore, since we have these promises, dear friends, let us purify ourselves from everything that contaminates body and spirit, perfecting holiness out of reverence for God.”

            Purify ourselves. In other words, pull out those weeds! The tall ones that dominate our landscapes, the prickly ones that hurt when we touch them, the deep-rooted ones that will make large, ugly holes. All must go. 

            It’s spring. It’s time to put on some gloves, and with a new sense of determination, rid our lives of the weeds so God can plant his amazing beauty in the most ugly and over-grown places of our lives.

Why I Take Pictures of Flowers

Hi Friends,

In case you're wondering why I'm always taking those flower pictures wherever I go, well, here's the answer:

Flowers, Flowers Everywhere!

There is a common beauty found all over the world. A splash of color, a hint of sweet scent. Familiar, and foreign. Like home and a half a world away.

I discovered this beauty on a narrow street in a small country town in the hills of France. My older daughters and I had travelled to France with their school group, and now we walked cobbled streets surrounded by stone buildings older than anything we could find in the United States.

Halfway down a street, across from a cathedral, I saw it. Simple, really. A short pot filled with bright red tulips. 

I stopped, grabbed my phone, and took a picture.

My eldest daughter paused in front of me and frowned. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking a picture of these flowers to send to Jayden.”

She huffed. “That’s dumb. Take a picture of the cathedral instead.”

I shrugged. It may have been dumb, but I did it anyway. My son, Jayden, seven at the time, loved flowers. When he was little he called them “fowlers” and would always gather me a bunch when the wildflowers bloomed on our property in the spring. When we went to parks, he stopped to appreciate all the pretty petals. When we went to the store, he would want to pick the flowers in the pots outside. Of course I didn’t let him, but he could smell them and touch them and fill his soul with their beauty, 

So it only made sense now to text him pictures of France’s flowers so he would know I was thinking about him. 

I took another picture of the tulips. Then I snapped pictures of the bright yellow daffodils at the park a little ways down the street. I took pictures of tiny purple wildflowers across from the statue of Denis Diderot in Langres, climbing lavender wisteria at the Château de Chenonceau, cherry blossoms in Paris, and tiny little white flowers that looked like daisies on the walk to Napoleon’s tomb. 

I took pictures of flowers everywhere. Yellows, oranges, purples, pinks, and blues. As lovely as the paintings in the Louvre. After all, they were flowers in France!

Then I came home. But I kept seeing flowers, splashes of beauty in the most mundane places. In a pot outside the supermarket. Poking up in a crack in the parking lot of an apartment complex. Alongside the sidewalk, growing wild, on the way to my favorite restaurant. At home, among the weeds, yellow flowers. 

            So I’ve continued to take pictures. My daughters laugh at me still. They think it’s silly. Maybe it is. 

But the flowers remind me of God’s grace. They remind me of his wonder. They pop up in the places I least expect. They give beauty in the places that seem too mundane to notice.

I want to notice. I want to be intentional, intentional enough to take a picture, to remember, not just the flowers but the ways in which God reveals his beauty, his glory, his wonder in all the unexpected and ordinary places in my life. I want to see him as I rush into the grocery store, as I walk to my favorite restaurant, as I hurry through the apartment complex parking lot to set up a party for the low-income kids there. I even want to see him, glory in him, at home when life seems full of the weeds of weariness, discouragement, and everyday hurry. I want to see him there most of all.

Jeremiah 29:13 (NIV) says, “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. ALL your heart. All my heart and with everything I am. Not just when I’m having an amazing vacation halfway across the world, but when I’m home and tired and just don’t want to bother. To seek him then. To see him.

I love the flowers of France. And lately, I’ve come to love the flowers in my local Prunetree shopping center too. There is common beauty found all over the world, waiting to be discovered in the most overlooked places of life. There is a beauty that points to the breath-taking wonder of a God who will be found by us if only we pause to seek him, to see, and to breath deeply of his grace in the most unimpressive places of our lives.

So I think I will keep taking pictures of flowers in everyday places … no matter how often my daughters sigh and shake their heads. Because in doing so, I might just see God.

When All You See is Muck

 Hi Friends,

I've been pondering this story lately. For anyone who is stuck in muck and nothing seems right ... here's hope!

What's in the Muck?

It looked like mud. It smelled like mud.  It sloshed like mud.  But my 12-year-old daughter, Bethany, insisted it was just a vial of pond water she was supposed to study for her science class.

She set the vial on the kitchen counter.  “This is going to be awesome.”  

I scowled.  “Awesome? You’re studying mud.”

“Teacher says we’ll  be surprised at what we see.”

“I see mud.”

She laughed, then jogged upstairs for the cheap microscope we’d bought her for Christmas.  Her voice floated back down to me.  “Just wait, Mom.  You’ll love pond scum.”

I shook my head.  “We’ll see about that.  Now hurry up.”

A moment later, she trotted back down the steps, set up the microscope, and carefully placed a drop of dirty pond water between two slides.  She slid the sample in place and bent over the eye piece.  Her hand fiddled to adjust the focus.

I waited.  Surely there was nothing good to see in a bunch of mucky water.

“Oooo, I knew it.”  Bethany leaned closer to the eye piece.  Then, her head shot up.  A huge grin spread over her face.  “Ha!  Told you so.  Look at that!”  She stepped back and jabbed her finger toward the microscope.

“I still see mud.”

“You won’t when you look through the lens.”

I moved toward the microscope then peered into the eye piece.  I caught my breath.  Bethany was right.  I didn’t see mud anymore.  Instead, I saw life.  The water teemed with amoeba, paramecium, and tiny specks of who-knew-what.  The creatures waltzed through the water in a silent dance that was, indeed, awesome.  Tiny legs swooshed.  Tiny bodies floated with exquisite grace.  As the creatures continued to glide and spin, I glanced up at Bethany.  “I had no idea there was so much life in a little bit of muddy water.”

Her voice softened.  “You wouldn’t see that in clear water.”

“I guess not.”  But I’d wanted clear water - water that was sparkling, pretty ... and lifeless.  It was in the murk, in the mud, in the guck, that real life was found.  

Bethany again moved toward the microscope and bent to look through the lens.  As I watched her, I remembered all the years of infertility I’d endured before she was born.  Month upon month, turning to year upon year, of soaring hope followed by crushing disappointment.  Over a decade filled with painful procedures, failed tests, miscarriage, and a thousand questions about God’s love and faithfulness.  Back then, life was a lot like that drop of pond water.  Nothing was clear.  Nothing made sense.  I didn’t know how I’d see my way through.

But in that moment, as I looked more closely at those 11 years, I could see life.  I could see how God was at work, breaking me of the need to measure His love by my happiness, using every bit of muck and mud to form me into the person He wanted me to be.  Despite all the murkiness, those years teemed with life and growth, even when I couldn’t see it.  Even when all I could see was the mud.

Faith, then, is like a microscope.  Hebrews 11:1 (NIV) says, “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.”  Faith allows us to look into the muddy, murky, stinky, yucky places of life and see God at work.  Through faith, what may seem like pond scum can become a thing of beauty.

In the 13 years since Bethany’s birth, I’ve found that life has a lot of murky moments.  Things rarely go as expected.  Plans go awry.  God’s workings are often unclear, difficult to see, and hard to understand.  But when I look at life through the microscope of faith, through the lens of hope -- when I focus in on God and his truth, then I truly see.  God is moving.  There is life in the murkiness, and there is purpose even in the muck.

And while I still prefer my water clear, I’m learning, little by little, to appreciate the pond scum. I’m learning to focus in through the muck, see the waltz of God’s workings, and whisper, “Oooo, I had no idea there was so much life in a little bit of muddy water.”

When You Need a Wildflower Crown

Hi Friends,

I'm reminding myself of this story this week as I seek to rejoice in God's love...

WILDFLOWER CROWNS

 

            They came in giggling.  All six of them with dirt smudges on their noses, grass stains on their knees.  Laughing and dancing and flopping on the floor in a bundle of bubbling sibling delight.

            “Don’t make a mess!”  I gripped the dishtowel in one hand and peered out the kitchen.  “No dirty shoes on the rug!”

            “Don’t worry,” Joelle called.  “We won’t.”

            “Did you clean up the basement for community group?”  I went back to drying the dishes.

            No one answered.

            “We’ve got a lot to do.”  

            Only another burst of giggles answered me.

            I put my fists on my hips and stomped around the corner.  “Hey, you --”  The words caught.

            My three-year-old skipped toward me, one  hand on her head.  “Look, Mommy, look what I’ve got.  I’m wondrous beauty!”  She pulled a crown of wildflowers from her hair.  “See?”

            I did see.  I saw them all, with flowers adorning every head, with crowns woven of daisies and dandelions and little purple wildflowers. They were beautiful.  Wondrous.

            “Jayden made me a crown.  Purple, your favorite color.”

            I bent over and squeezed her tight.  “You are a beautiful princess.”  I stood up.  “All of you.”

            “Not me!”  Jayden took the crown from his head and tossed it in the air.  “Boys aren’t princesses.”

            His sisters laughed.  “You make the best crowns, though.”

            He made a face and brushed sand from his hair and onto the rug.

            Bethany, the eldest, stood.  “Come on, let’s go make some more.  Let’s make one for Dad!”

            They jumped to their feet and raced out the door.  

            I shook my head and dried my hands on the towel as the door slammed shut and they scurried out onto the lawn.  I paused by the window, watching.  Legs scampered across the grass, hair glistened in the sun, small bodies flung themselves toward the patch of flowers growing near the driveway.  Sunshine and color and beauty and hope, adorned with wildflowers.

            A moment later, they were sitting in a tight circle.  Fingers flashed as they wove stems into head-sized circlets. Joelle placed a crown on Jayna, Bethany put one on Bria, while the littlest one worked hard to weave one that I knew would be for big brother, who would wear it even though he was NOT a princess.

            With crowns complete, they stood and began singing at the top of their lungs.  They danced in circles.  They ran; they leapt; they rolled on the grass.  And I was reminded of Zephaniah 3:17 (NIV), “The Lord your God is with you... He will take great delight in you; in his love he will...rejoice over you with singing.”  

            This is what rejoicing looked like.  This wildness, and joy, and dancing, and running, and tumbling.  And singing that was more like a shout than a song.  This was the kind of joy God offered me in Zephaniah 3:17.  

            He offered me a crown of wildflowers.

            I looked down at the dishtowel, still in my hands.  There was work to be done, dusting and laundry and dishes and food preparation for our group.  I had a to-do list a mile long.  How would I get it all done?

            Then, came a whisper in my soul: “Do not worry about tomorrow... (Mt. 6:34) ... I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these ... (Mt. 6:29)”

            Not even Solomon was dressed like one of these children, with their dirt-smudged noses, their grass-mussed knees, their flower-crowned heads.  God had adorned them with beauty, not because of their work but because of his love. They were princesses (well, except for Jayden), with crowns to match.  They were daughters of the King.

            And so was I.

            I dropped the dishtowel and called out the window.  “Hey, who’s going to make a crown for Mom?”

            Then, I danced toward the door.