Parenting is one of the clearest places where faith meets daily life. It calls us to humility, patience, courage, generosity, and the kind of love that stretches us far beyond what we believed we could give.
It invites us to trust God with the people most precious to us, even when the path ahead is uncertain and far beyond our view.
The prayer below is one I’ve been working on for a while. It’s a prayer for parents at every stage of life…those just beginning, and those watching their grown children take their first steps into adulthood. It’s also for those whose children are becoming parents and carrying this calling into a new generation.
It is a reminder that God accompanies us in the noise and the silence, the ordinary and the holy, the days that feel long and the years that pass so quickly.
May this prayer strengthen your heart and deepen your hope as you walk this sacred calling.
A Parenting Prayer
God, please grant me The wisdom to guide my children with patience, clarity, and love And the humility to grow alongside them as they grow. Teach me to choose presence over hurry, Trust over fear, and connection over control.
Give me the courage to admit when I am wrong And the grace to show my children that learning never ends, Not at 7, not at 17, not at 70.
Help me see the world through their eyes, Eyes that understand wonder, Eyes that welcome the new with unguarded joy. Let their curiosity rekindle my own, So our home becomes a place where questions are celebrated And imagination roams freely.
Give me integrity in the quiet moments, When my child is learning from what I do. Give me a heart strong enough to support them And gentle enough that they always feel safe coming to me.
Teach me to treasure the small things: The bedtime stories, The long drives, The conversations over tacos, The ordinary afternoons that turn into lifelong memories. Remind me that these simple moments Will matter far more than the schedules we keep Or the outcomes we chase.
Loving God, Free me from comparing my family to others. You did not design my children to fit anyone’s timeline but Yours. Help me trust the pace of their becoming And see their strengths even when they are wrapped in struggle.
Guard me from chasing achievements that impress the world But neglect the souls under my roof. Let our home be defined by gratitude, peace, and laughter, With the quiet confidence that love is our foundation.
Help me pass down what truly endures: Character over perfection, Kindness over victory, Service over status, Gratitude over entitlement.
May the stories I tell, the choices I make, And the way I show up each day Become part of the heritage my children carry forward. Help me become an example worth following, One who lives with faithfulness, honesty, and a willingness to learn.
Give me strength for the hard times And calm for the anxious nights. Give me a long view of parenting, Seeing not just who my children are today But who they are becoming by Your grace.
Teach me to listen more than I lecture, To encourage more than I correct, And to guide without stifling the person You created them to be.
Grant me the courage to give responsibility as they mature And the faith to let them walk their own path, Even when that path stretches beyond my view.
Lord, may our home reflect Your kingdom, A place of welcome, forgiveness, generosity, and joy. Let my children feel seen, valued, and deeply loved, Not for what they do, but for who they are.
I invite You into every step of this sacred calling. Walk with me in the noise and the silence, In the exhaustion and the celebration, In the days that feel long And the years that pass too quickly.
Grant me the peace that comes from Your eternal and infinite love, Now and forever.
The other night, over a casual taco dinner, one of my grandkids hit me with a question I wasn’t expecting.
“Grandpa, how old will you be in the year 2100?”
Without missing a beat, I shot back, “Nearly 140. Way too old to still be around!”
I may have been off by a few years, but we all agreed: the odds are stacked against me making it to 2100.
Then we started doing the math together, and that’s where things got interesting. They’ll be in their 90s by then. Their children and grandchildren—my great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren—will be alive and thriving in that future world. A reminder that we’re part of something much bigger. Connected to the past, but carried forward by those who will come long after we’ve gone.
“Okay, but how old will you be in 2050?”
That one felt closer, more real. “Well,” I said, “not quite 90, but almost. And you’ll be under 50.”
“What will we be doing in 2050, Grandpa?”
That’s a question only they can answer. I won’t pretend to know. I hope I’m there for at least part of it. I hope I get to laugh with them, to listen, to remind them where they came from, and to cheer them on wherever they’re headed.
Our conversation turned into something more than tacos and timelines. We started talking about how every generation builds on what came before. We carry what we’ve learned from our parents and grandparents, along with our own experiences, and hand all of that to our children and grandchildren. And they, in turn, will do the same.
Their children, my great-grandchildren, aren’t here yet, but I already have high hopes for them. I look forward to holding them, hearing their stories, and watching them discover the world just as their parents are starting to do today.
I hope they’ll learn the big things:
-How a starry sky can quiet our soul.
-How to throw and catch with confidence (it’s baseball season, so this one is top of mind right now).
-How warm and magical a campfire can be…and that S’mores taste better when your hands are sticky.
-How good it feels to help without being asked.
-How to sit quietly with someone we love and say nothing at all.
-How to cheer for someone else, even when the spotlight isn’t ours.
-The peace that comes from a walk in the woods or along a sandy shore.
But I also know they’ll learn things I’ll never understand. Things I can’t even imagine. And that’s exactly as it should be.
My deepest hope is that they’ll carry forward the timeless lessons. That love matters more than being right. That kindness isn’t weakness. That telling the truth is not only brave, but also the only way.
And that family stories are worth retelling…especially the funny ones.
So, here’s to future taco dinners, to great-grandkids I haven’t met, and to the storytellers of tomorrow.
May they keep the best of us within them always.
A Poem for My Grandkids
We sat with tacos, our chips in hand, When you asked a question I hadn’t planned. “Grandpa, will you still be here in 2100?” “Not likely,” I laughed, “I’d be too old by then.”
And then we wondered who’ll be around, Your kids and theirs, with dreams unbound. Building a world we won’t see, Carrying forward the best from you and from me.
We talked of shooting stars and catching balls, Of S’mores by the fire and the night’s gentle call. Of helping for nothing, of walking alone, And learning to love with a heart fully grown.
You’ll learn things I’ll never know, With gadgets and wonders I can’t imagine. Even so, I hope what we’ve lived still finds its place, In stories you tell with a smile on your face.
Here’s to the moments that grow into more, To questions and memories, and tales we explore. May love be your guide in all that you do, And may our stories stay with you, and echo on through time.
p/c – That’s Charlie (in the cowboy hat) and Marcus from a few years ago, perfecting their marshmallow roasting techniques.
This week, a new set of eyes entered the world — our ninth grandchild, a baby girl. Her eyes are just beginning their work. They don’t yet see clearly. Like all newborns, her vision starts in soft focus. She sees light, shadows, movement, and faces held close. She knows the warmth of her mother’s arms, the cadence of her father’s voice, and, if I’m lucky, the gentle presence of her grandparents too.
In time, her eyes will begin to sharpen. She’ll see faces from across the room, the toys just out of her reach, her siblings and cousins. Then, the world outside the window. A broader picture will come into her view.
But even as her eyesight expands, her perspective will remain near. She’ll see how things affect her first. Hunger, comfort, joy, frustration. Her world will center on her own experience, as it should for a child learning what it means to be alive.
And then she will grow. With years and love and bumps along the way, she will begin to see more than just herself. She’ll learn to recognize others’ emotions, to feel their joy and pain. Her perspective will widen to include her friends, her extended family, her community. She will see how her actions ripple and impact others, how choices matter not just to her, but to those around her.
As more time passes, she may begin to understand something deeper. That perception is not the same as truth. That others see the same moment, the same memory, from very different angles. She’ll begin to recognize that we all wear lenses shaped by experience, belief, hope, and hurt.
And if she keeps growing, keeps learning, keeps loving, she may even come to understand the beauty in those differences. To act not just from clarity of vision, but from clarity of heart.
Even as her vision someday blurs a bit, may her wisdom sharpen. May she see what matters most. May she understand not only what is, but what could be. May she seek the life-giving fulfilment of a loving life.
And may she, in time, pass on her vision.
What We Learn to See
She was born into light too bright to grasp, her gaze flickering toward warmth, held by arms she could not name.
A nose. A smile. A voice that hums, these are the shapes she first learns to trust.
Her world is inches wide.
Then, little by little, the room expands. Familiar faces move, toys beckon from across the room.
Still, her eyes are mirrors, reflecting only her own need: Am I safe? Am I loved? Does the world answer me?
Time stretches her view. She sees hurt in another’s face. Joy in someone else’s triumph. She learns that not all stories are her own.
She learns to ask: How do you see it? And to listen for an answer.
Mistakes come. Grace follows. She learns that sight alone isn’t understanding. That clarity is earned, not given.
Years pass. Vision fades. But somehow, she sees more than ever, about herself and the world around her.
What once was blur is now meaning. What once was noise is now truth. What once was about her becomes about others.
And in her twilight vision, she turns to the child, whose eyes are still new, and whispers:
Look close, little one, and then look again. You’ll stumble, and that’s part of the seeing. You’ll hurt, and that’s part of the knowing.
Take the vision I’ve earned — not perfect, but practiced. Carry it forward, along with all my love, and the hopes I hold in my heart for you.
p/c – A photo of our daughters taken almost 30 years ago (!) They’re now passing their love, perspectives, and life lessons to their own children. Happy Mother’s Day!
At kilometer 32 just south of San Felipe, where warm breezes wandered, and stars blanketed the sky — more stars than anywhere I’ve ever been.
Off-road racing brought us there, wide sandy beaches just a short walk away, bathtub-warm waters stretching out forever, the tides carving their quiet stories in the sand.
Under their shady palapa, watching the sun rise and fall on the horizon, Mom and Dad built their place from scratch, one humble project at a time. It was luxury camping at its very best.
Their place was just across the arroyo from the beach, where Dad taught Julianne to drive a stick shift on the wide-open sand.
How I long to beam back there. To see them again.
To hear their voices busy with new plans, to see what they’ve been working on, to sit with them in the shade at cocktail hour, chips, salsa, and all the shrimp we could eat, as the afternoon melts softly into evening.
I’d love to hear who’s come to visit lately.
Both are gone now, but the memories remain. Their laughter rides the breeze, as fresh as the salty air, that still stirs in my heart.
Backstory: A Campo Sahuaro Adventure
When Mom and Dad bought their lot around 1988, it was nothing more than a small concrete slab and four stakes marking the corners of their sandy “oasis.” What made this campo special was its access to a fresh water well…rare in that part of Baja.
Their lot sat on a bluff overlooking an arroyo, with the Sea of Cortez just beyond the sandy beach. In Mexico, buying a lot like this meant purchasing a long-term lease from the property owner. As long as you pay the annual lease (which was under $1,000 per year) you control the land. Anything they built on it was theirs.
Because Mexico has nationalized property in the past, many Americans build semi-permanent structures that can be dismantled and hauled away if needed. That kind of caution remains, even though nothing like that has happened in a very long time.
Being a concrete guy, Dad’s priority was pouring a lot of concrete. He laid down a huge patio that would become the base for everything else, including one of the largest shade structures I’ve ever seen. It didn’t happen overnight. This was a multi-trip (multi-year) endeavor, often coinciding with supporting Team Honda’s off-road racing efforts. They’d haul supplies and tools down along with pit equipment. In the early ’90s, sourcing building materials in Baja was still hit or miss so they brought most of what they needed with them.
By around 1991, Dad was ready to build a workshop. It would be like a shipping container, made of wood, with big swing-down doors on each end that doubled as ramps. He welded little leveling stands to the top of each door so they could serve as sleeping platforms when opened. I slept on those doors under the stars every chance I got.
As with everything at Campo Sahuaro, there’s a story behind that build.
We were down there pitting for Team Honda, which meant several fellow pit crew members were staying at my parents’ place. At that point, it was mostly a shaded patio and a small pump room. Many of the guys were carpenters, so they brought their tools and were ready to build.
Dad’s motorhome was packed. The center aisle was filled with 2x4s, stacked at least five feet high. Getting around inside was nearly impossible. Behind the motorhome, he towed a converted motorcycle trailer that he’d built at least ten years earlier. It was loaded with a perfectly stacked cube of 4×8 plywood sheets. The walls of the future workshop.
I happened to be traveling with them on that trip, ready to help with both pitting and construction. About 50 miles from the campo, we heard a loud crash and scraping noise. We were driving across a dry lakebed, the road raised 15–20 feet above the flat terrain. I looked out just in time to see the trailer tumbling down the embankment.
Dad got the motorhome stopped, and we rushed out to assess the damage. The trailer tongue had sheared clean off under the weight of the plywood. Thankfully, it hadn’t failed earlier, during high-traffic sections of our trip. The trailer was upside down in the lakebed, still lashed to its cargo. That cube of plywood was completely intact.
Within minutes, two vans carrying some of our crew pulled up behind us. We counted heads — at least ten of us, including a few high school football players. It wouldn’t take long to relocate all that wood.
A chain gang formed. We passed sheet after sheet of plywood up the embankment and loaded it onto the vans, lashing them down with tie-downs and ropes we’d salvaged from the trailer. We even hauled the trailer carcass back up the hill. At the very least, we figured we’d salvage the tires and axle.
That’s when an old Toyota pickup rolled up. A local man hopped out. I greeted him with my high-school-turned-Baja-race-pit-guy-Spanish. Lots of smiling, gesturing, and broken sentences later, we learned he was a welder and fabricator. He was heading to San Felipe to visit family and watch the race.
He looked over our trailer, nodding thoughtfully. He said he could take the trailer on his truck bed along with the remains of the tongue and hitch. He’d rebuild it and leave the rebuilt trailer at his brother’s restaurant in San Felipe. We asked him how much he’d charge us for that service. His response was $20(!).
I confirmed that his plan was to haul our trailer back to his shop (about 40-50 miles back), rebuild it, and then he’d tow it all the way down to San Felipe for $20. We told him there was no way we’d let him do that for anything less than $200. His eyes got real wide. I don’t think he believed what I was saying. I said that we’d gladly pay him that amount for all that he’d be doing for us.
We loaded the trailer carcass onto his truck bed, shook his hand, and paid him the agreed $200. We wouldn’t be able to see him at the conclusion of the job, so pre-payment was our only option. He turned around with his new load and headed back to his shop.
We mounted up and continued to Campo Sahuaro, wondering if we’d ever see that trailer again.
The Workshop Rises
The race went great. The workshop was built in a day or two with the expert help of our crew. The carpenters led the way and the rest of us did our best to help and stay out of their way. Copious amounts of alcohol were consumed around the campfire, many snacks and excellent meals were eaten, heroic stories (some of them true) were shared with lots of laughter along the way.
On the way home, we stopped at Baja 2000, the restaurant where our mystery welder said he’d leave the repaired trailer. And there it was.
Not only had he fixed it. He’d reinforced it, straightened the bent parts, and welded it all back together better than before.
Legacy
Over the years, I visited Campo Sahuaro many times, sometimes with my wife and daughters. As mentioned earlier, Dad taught my oldest daughter to drive a stick shift truck on the beach in front of their place when she was probably 12 or 13 years old.
I loved knowing the stories behind everything built there. Most of the stories involved improvisation, imagination, and always perseverance. There were a ton of lessons at their property about staying focused and overcoming obstacles in the pursuit of your goals.
I loved sleeping under that blanket of stars, watching satellites traverse the sky (there’s a lot more of them up there nowadays). I loved swimming in the warm ocean. Most of all, I loved being with Mom and Dad, sharing good times and making memories with them at their special place, 32 kilometers south of San Felipe.
p/c – I asked ChatGPT to make an image of a starry night on the beach based on my story. Amazingly, the image it rendered is mostly how I remember it…except for the houses on the front row (Mom and Dad’s place was on the second row), and the dry-docked fishing skiffs that used the campo as their base of operations.
There’s a line in a Frank Sinatra song that asks if we’d like to, “…carry moonbeams home in a jar.” A crazy idea. Moonbeams can’t be contained or put in a jar, but their magic can be carried home just the same. What if we could carry home the kind of wonder and light that moonbeams represent?
Life throws challenges at us every day. Deadlines. Difficult conversations. The relentless tug-of-war between expectations and reality. Yet, amid the noise, we often stumble upon moments of beauty. Unexpected acts of kindness, moments of connection with strangers, or simply a sunrise or sunset that stops us in our tracks. These are moonbeams.
Have you ever met someone for the first time and felt their kindness so deeply that it stayed with you? Maybe it was a stranger who gave you directions with a smile, a colleague who truly listened, or someone who saw you struggling and extended their hand. These are glimpses of humanity’s greatness. Magic moments where we see the best of who we are reflected in someone else.
What if we made it our mission to carry that magic home with us?
It’s easy to bring home the worries of the day. Our frustrations, our stresses, our nagging self-doubt. But alongside these, we can also bring moonbeams: the small, bright moments of beauty, hope, and love that we encounter every day. We can share the wonder of a chance conversation, the joy of something new we learned, or the inspiration we felt when we saw someone overcoming adversity.
Carrying moonbeams is about being conscious of what we pass on to those we love. It’s about choosing to share curiosity instead of cynicism, gratitude instead of grumbling. It’s about being the explorer who brings back stories of the world’s beauty to share with those at home, inspiring them to see the magic in their own lives, too.
Imagine if we all carried moonbeams in our metaphorical jars. How much brighter would our homes, our communities, and our world become?
What if we could embrace the day with the motivated curiosity of an explorer. Purposely looking for the moonbeams—the fleeting magic of kindness, beauty, and connection.
Imagine carrying them home to share, not in jars, but in our words, our actions, and our presence.
Because moonbeams, once shared, have a way of multiplying.
Photo by me, capturing a “moonbeam” of a sunrise view outside my kitchen window the other day
There’s something special about grandma’s hot chocolate.
It doesn’t matter that she boils water and pours in the envelope of instant powder like the rest of us.
It’s what she does while the water’s boiling. The questions she asks while stirring-in the powder. The way she stops stirring to listen to your answers.
Grandmas have that way of listening, even to the stuff we’re not saying.
It’s the way she adds the right amount of milk to “thicken it up a bit.” Nobody else gets it exactly right like grandma. She knows just the way you like it. In fact, she’s the only one who does.
It’s counting out the right number of baby marshmallows. Enough to sweeten things, but not so many that they get in the way.
It’s the way she squeezes your shoulder as she places the cup on your placemat.
It’s the way she sits to enjoy it with you.
That first sip is such a treat. Is it the taste of the chocolate, or seeing grandma’s warm smile across the table that makes it so good?
It doesn’t matter. Your loving journey to the bottom of this cup of wonder is just beginning.
Funny how the simplest things in life are transformed when they’re mixed with grandma’s love.
A love she teaches us to bring to the simple things in our own lives each and every day.
I have a friend. I haven’t seen him in at least 40 years. Though all these years have passed, I have nothing but fond memories of our childhood together…usually in the desert, climbing on rocks, playing in the dirt, getting too close to the campfire.
His name is Jack now, but he’ll always be Jackie to me. Just like I’m Bob now, but I’ll always be Bobby to him.
I couldn’t believe it when I heard Jackie’s wife had died. It was sudden and unexpected. There he was, facing this tragedy, trying to tell their daughter where her mom had gone. I couldn’t imagine the heartbreak.
For some reason, each time I thought about Jackie and his daughter, I couldn’t help thinking about playing momma’s song and singing along. I had no idea what any of it meant, but still, this refrain continued…singing along to momma’s song.
A couple weeks later, I was sitting in an airport (as I often do nowadays) waiting for a delayed flight to take me home. I decided to pull out a yellow pad and see where this refrain about momma’s song would take me.
Here’s what was on that yellow pad when they finally called us for our flight:
Momma’s Song
Looking back…
We were so complete
Everything was sweet until that day
we heard the news.
Our silence grew
How could this be?
We never knew until that day
The doctor said it was too late
Her momma was gone, all too fast
There was nothing the doc could do
He shook my hand and held me close.
My only thought was of her song
That one I used to sing along
It was our Endless Summer
It had just begun
And now, alone, I faced her setting sun.
Oh Lord, please won’t you play her song!
I only want to sing along
You know the one I need, won’t you help me sing along!
And there she was, our sweet Lorraine
I could see through all her tears
All she felt was numbness and pain
Who would ever play her song?
Especially now that momma’s gone.
Oh Lord, please won’t you play her song!
She only wants to sing along
You know the one she needs—won’t you help her sing along!
We sat and cried
I held her close
I felt so weak, but it was our sweet Lorraine
Who gave me strength.
There we sat, I had no plan
What should we do now that momma’s gone?
And there it was, her words so sweet
The melody we knew complete
She was singing to us once again
The sun was rising, her new day was born
We could feel her in those words
We couldn’t help but sing along.
It’s been many years since that day
It’s our sweet Lorraine’s wedding day.
As we started to dance the Father’s dance, my daughter cried
Oh Daddy please won’t you sing her song
The one momma used to sing
I only want to sing along
You know the one, won’t you help me sing along!
And so we danced, and her momma sang
Her words so clear, she’s singing now and that’s all we can hear
When was the last time you purposely chose gentle…
I recently witnessed a mom with her newborn. It was feeding time. Mom was ready with the bottle and within a minute her baby was content and eating.
Slowly but surely, the bottle was drained, and the effort seemed to exhaust the new baby. She lay on her mom’s lap with a little dribble of milk around her mouth.
The neat freak in me said, “Hey, it’s time to wipe that kid’s mouth,” and my next move would have been to reach for a wipe.
This mom had the same idea but wasn’t in a hurry. She remained still and put the empty bottle away. She moved with a grace and fluidity that didn’t disturb her nearly-sleeping baby.
She then grabbed the edge of a soft towel and delicately wiped the milk. She purposely took her time and continued to move with smoothness and grace.
The gentleness was amazing. Her focus was complete. The moment was silent. This mother’s love and caring approach were there for anyone to see. She took the time to be gentle and her reward was a moment of grace for her baby and herself.
When was the last time you purposely chose gentle as your first response? To anything?
It’s easy for our lives to become a series of tasks, goals, deadlines, rules, disruptions and shiny objects that are anything but gentle.
Only our conscious choice to be gentle will make it happen. Our desire to experience moments of grace and peace will bring them to us.
We control the gentleness we give to those around us…and to ourselves.
I, for one, am glad I got to see my daughter being so gentle with her new daughter.
It was a gentle reminder that I will not soon forget.
The assignment: Describe the most dramatic moment in your life. Easy. But, there were two rules…
The assignment: Describe the most dramatic moment in your life. Easy. But, there were two rules:
1) You have 15 minutes.
2) Only use one-syllable words.
That’s a little tougher.
Here was my entry:
“The rate is gone!”
“Turn her!”
“Code blue!” yelled the nurse.
All of the white coats on the floor were there fast. Jan’s eyes showed her fear. I was no help. I froze and watched in awe.
One nurse pushed some drug in her arm. One nurse held her hand. Two docs barked new plans and the group worked their plan.
“Crash cart!” yelled one doc.
“We must go in. The child may be lost!”
This was our first child. We had been there for a day and a half, and now this. What did it all mean? Would our child make it out to see the world?
They ran down the hall on her bed with wheels. There I stood. The clock read five. The mess showed what was left from my child’s fight for life. Where did they go? I did not know so I stood there in the dark for at least three ticks of the clock.
“Sir, your wife is fine,” the nurse said. She had found me and showed me to the room. “Your child is fine. Come in and see. Would you like to hold her?”
Our girl was born! From out of the dark, the world turned bright for us all that day.
***
Twenty-five years later, yet it seems like only a few minutes have passed. Julianne made her dramatic entrance, and our lives have never been the same.
It was like a perfect slice of the sun walked in the room.
Bingo changed my life. The Alamitos dorm held their annual bingo tournament in the Commons, and a friend told me I should go. Sounded like fun to me. What else was a college freshman to do just weeks before final exams? But, we’d have to wait a few minutes for one of his friends who’d be joining us.
She can shop all over town, turn the gift shops upside down.
Finding something for her man with everything.
I noticed her eyes first. Then her smile. It was like a perfect slice of the sun walked in the room.
“Bob, this is Janet. She lives in the girl’s wing on our floor.” Suddenly, words were a little hard to find. “She’s a CIS major too,” he said, breaking the silence. Talking about your major was always a good ice breaker.
But it’s right behind her eyes and no matter what she buys
She’ll always be the finest gift she brings.
Playing bingo is similar to a movie from a first date perspective. There’s not a lot of time for chit chat. Not that this was a date. After all, we just met. I was starting to string words together again, just barely. This was the one person who would change my life forever, but this was also bingo. It all about the numbers.
I wasn’t thinking about anything except how to see her again. Then it happened. I got a BINGO! The prize? A week’s membership at the Jack LaLane Health Spa. That was nice, but didn’t get me closer to seeing Janet again. Lucky for me they had more memberships to hand out. A few games later, with one of the memberships on the line, I could see that Janet was close to having bingo. How awesome is that?
Every year it’s never missed, should be at the top of every list.
It can never be outdone, it’s the perfect gift for everyone.
I’m sure I was the most excited person in the room when Janet yelled, “BINGO!” We had matching membership envelopes! This was my opening. We were only three or four weeks away from the end of spring quarter. We’d be moving out of the dorms for the summer…Janet wouldn’t be living just down the hall. I had to move fast.
It’s in everything you’ll see, scattered underneath our tree.
You can hear it in the carols that we sing.
The details are a bit fuzzy for me as I think about our visits to Jack LaLane’s. I do remember sitting in the Jacuzzi (I presume, after we had done our workouts). The more I talked with Janet, the more I knew she was THE ONE. And yet, I only had a few weeks. The abyss of summer break was fast approaching. I had to stay focused, which was impossible whenever I was around her.
It’s the heart of love’s design and it appreciates with time.
And she’ll always be the finest gift she brings.
Janet and a group of her friends were planning a trip to the Griffith Park Observatory to celebrate the end of the school year. I knew a few of her friends (some were neighbors on my wing). But, I wasn’t exactly part of the Griffith Park trip plan. What do you do in that situation Invite yourself, of course.
We had a small convoy of cars that night. I couldn’t believe I was in the passenger seat of Janet’s convertible as we approached the observatory. This was like a date, but not quite. We were part of a big group. Everything was closed at the observatory (college students work the late schedule), but we walked around the grounds and checked out the stars for quite a while. I remember how the lights reflected off Janet’s eyes more than anything else.
Our road trip wasn’t over. We stopped at a Tommy’s Burgers on the way back. My first chili burger, on my first (almost) date with Janet.
Every year it’s never missed, should be at the top of every list.
It can never be outdone, it’s the perfect gift for everyone.
Only six weeks later, we were in my parent’s Toyota 4×4 pickup, following my family down to Gonzaga Bay in Baja…about 100 miles south of San Felipe. Why not go to the middle of nowhere in Baja, off road, with this (awesome) guy you met playing bingo? Janet is an adventurer, to say the least.
Now it’s not in any store and she could never give me more
Then her promise of the finest gift she brings.
Three years later, we shared our first Christmas as a married couple.
Our adventure continues to this day.
The finest gift is truly the one I receive every day (including Christmas).
Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership 
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