The Piano Saga

 If you’ve kept up with me for the past few years, you might remember we lost our family piano in the flood. The harp had to be discarded; the cracked block was beyond repair. I deconstructed our piano, holding on to salvageable pieces, including the pedals and well-played keys. Several weeks ago, I finally put the body out on the curb for heavy trash collection. Because it was going to take so much expense to make it into the intended console table, I abandoned the project. I collected some of the pieces that I had reserved for the rebuild, thinking I should just put those out in the trash as well. I had to struggle to get the last piece out of a storage closet, but to my surprise, I discovered that the underlying surface of the top lid had the most beautiful stampings from the builder. What if I flipped the lid over and built legs for it? And that’s what I did, thanks to some helpful online shopping!

It wasn’t my original idea, but a better one. It doesn’t play music, but evokes a melody of memories. When was the last time you abandoned a desire, only to receive a better one?  I really wanted to resurrect that piano, but it was not until I released it did I find purpose in the unexpected. It’s a lot like my last seven years, life flipped upside down, only to find a new beauty. 

Borrowing Rob’s teaching question: so what? 

Be willing to abandon what cannot be resurrected. 

Embrace the unexpected; welcome surprise.   

Chase beauty!

  

I spent some extra moments snuggled under the covers on this brisk December morning, lingering in prayer for a couple of young women. I concluded by asking God to blanket them with his Hope, the only really sustainable hope. It hit me that this was my exact prayer for the entire world as we mark the last few days of a long, arduous 2020. 

I’m reminded of Jesus‘s words in the thirteenth chapter of Luke: how often I have longed to gather you under my wing. (my humble translation) He longs to cover us.  

Cover us with his:

Love

Protection

Grace

Blood

Hope 

And that’s just the short list!

                                                                                                                                            

This present malaise and yes, even despair is working hard to suffocate our weary world, yet, our long-awaited Messiah longs to wrap us in his tenacious Hope. You know, the kind that shines brightly on his faithful promises, the type that drowns out chaos. 

Hope of Glory, wrap us tight!

 “Zechariah asked the angel, “How can I be sure of this? I am an old man and my wife is well along in years.””

“The angel said to him, “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to tell you this good news.”

‭‭Luke‬ ‭1:18-19‬ ‭NIV‬‬

Something struck me in the very first chapter. 

 Zechariah’s human response to what seemed impossible was greeted with greatness and power!  

“I am Gabriel and I stand in the presence of God!”

Nothing is impossible with God!

The Lord has done this for me...In these days he has shown his favor and taken away my disgrace among the people. Luke 1:25

Mostly the women whispered about her condition. Elizabeth, up in age, knew and still tried to live out the blameless life of one married to a priest of the LORD. But she could not hide her empty quiver and probably wrestled with the same lie born not of God: “what disobedience left me barren?”

Shame, we silently carry it, often throughout our entire life. Perhaps a poor choice, the consequence of someone else’s actions or a sad self-fabrication...yet, we quietly render it a permanent albatross. 

 Try to imagine Elizabeth’s relief, joy, rescue as an answer to a worn prayer at last grew in her womb. No more speculation of past sin...Elizabeth, now dressed in anticipation, freed from shame! 

Some of us have been covered in the enemy’s disgrace far too long. No past or even present is too big for the Lord to redeem; nothing is impossible for the Most High.

Rejoice this Advent in His favor!

Thanksgiving during a pandemic...a bit tricky and scary. Only four of us gathered at the beach after a week of isolation, testing and a few prayers. So far, so good.  Our time was lovely and for a spell, it almost seemed normal. I played with Lucas and the three dogs and even got to watch some KU basketball.  I’m so thankful for our time together. 

We had a frank discussion regarding Christmas plans as we figure cases will grow after Thanksgiving gatherings. I really want my family to live with  some normalcy during the holiday season and to not worry about me contracting the virus, so we probably won’t be able to celebrate as a family this year. At least, not in the traditional sense. 

It hit me hard this morning; I struggled to get out of bed. How many Christmases must I celebrate alone?  It doesn’t help that this is the anniversary of Rob’s last week on earth. You would think that after seven years, grief would be lighter. Perhaps, it’s this never-ending isolation.

 I had no plans to drag out the Christmas boxes and decorate for one person, but I decided to get out just a few things that held some special memories. Ten hours later, I managed to decorate three trees and the kitchen! Because the grands won’t be running through the house anytime soon, I was able to trim one of the trees with Rob’s blown glass ornaments, a collection of birthday gifts from me each December 18th. 

Good decision to get up and carry on! I love being  surrounded by lights and Christmas memories.  My advent (Jesus Tree) is ready for tomorrow: December 1st. I plan to read one chapter a night of Luke; 24 chapters will take me through the entire Gospel by Christmas Eve.  Last year, I bought some deeply discounted white Christmas balls for a project that never happened, so I’m going add one to the tree each evening after my reading. By Christmas, my tree will shine bright and so will my heart!

I’m determined to fill this pandemic Christmas with joy. No COVID-19, you will not steal Christmas!

 Am I too early to unpack that evacuation bag I put together as we watched Hurricane Laura grow in the Gulf last month? I’ve already snatched out my camera to capture Lucas’s first birthday. As I dug through the mess of essentials this morning,  I picked up this marriage journal I kept for Rob as a gift on our 25th anniversary.

If you know anything about me, you know few books remain closed; before long, I was reading entries. One struck me in particular. Written shortly after we lost both of Rob’s parents, I wrote of his emotional care for his parents during his mother's terminal cancer and then, his father’s deep grief. Long distance care of aging parents, laden with guilt, is a very difficult beast. Rob’s sister and brother-in-law lived much closer and assumed most of the physical care; we were so grateful, yet, aware of it's toll on them.  It truly grieved Rob. Yet, I fondly remember, as I noted in this particular journal page, his almost nightly calls to them as he drove home in heavy Katy Freeway traffic. Even after a long business day, he’d make his love known via a speaker phone. Then, he would report to me. It was often hard to read Rob’s emotions, but usually not after a particularly hard call.  

Much like so many of us who are isolated from our loved ones during this pandemic, Rob struggled with the desire to communicate with his parents and the demands of work and family. It took great effort to stay connected. I so admired him for his faithfulness.

I urge each one of us to invest in our senior adults during this difficult time. Even a five minute call changes the landscape of their week. 

Recently, my small group discussed what ‘true religion’ looks like in 2020; it’s taken on a whole new look as we worship outside of our comfortable church walls. Weeks of hunkering down in our homes often shrink our ability to see and reach a hurting, lonely world. 

Pure religion... looking after the marginal, the grieving, the lonely and isolated. 

My dear Rob, you understood James’s weighty words. I love you for that.

 

I allow myself a small pocket of sadness each anniversary and usually a pep talk about moving forward. I kind of linger, not wallow, in my blanket of memories and emerge on a brighter, hopeful side for the future. But, toss in a pandemic and twin storms eyeing the Gulf Coast...plus my inner war as an enneagram 6 personality laced with post-Harvey trauma and you have one mess of a girl. 

When paralysis and anxiety hit, I’ve learned to DIVE head first into the Scriptures. Stop everything and sit in them until peace and calm returns. It’s not an easy discipline with preparedness lists swarming around in my mind. 

But, poring over Scripture is always an adventure and often comes an Edison moment when Light shines on a passage. 

I wasn’t expecting this one:

Psalm 84:11

Hear it from the New Living Translation.

For the LORD God is our sun and our shield. He gives us grace and glory. The LORD will withhold no good thing from those who do what is right.

Life will always have a series of storms in the queue, but storms, meet my great God!

He is my Protector...Period! Battle for my mind, meet my Commander; He is my Grace!  He will pick me up when the lies press heavy and He will never withhold his goodness; I only need to offer my heart. He is the Son that calms the storm. 

        Yes, good gifts are lining up as well.

        

 Usually I make a plan for this worst week ever. My August plans for Yellowstone were dashed by this incorrigible virus; profound loneliness seems my current destination. This go-around with my ugly enemy is crippling. I flirted with abandoning all rational thought; I even began equipping my small SUV for a solo trip to wherever. 

After realizing my ensuing  insanity, I unpacked my car, then unloaded my pain at the waiting feet of Jesus. Oh, when will I learn to begin there?

So in the cool of this morning, I slipped on my running shoes and earbuds and started over.  I’ve been building a playlist for the hardest messes; Steffany Gretzinger tops that list. 

“You're always moving in the unseen                            The breath You exhale sustaining me

Before I call, You know my need
You're always going before me

I'm confident Your faithfulness will see me through
My soul can rest, my righteousness is found in You
With every moment left, in every borrowed breath, let this be true
That all my heart, for all my life, belongs to You

Your laughter scatters my enemies
You give me joy for my mourning
You lift my head so I can see
All of Heaven surrounding me

I won't win this battle with the strength in my own hands
You're the mountain-mover and only You can
I won't build my life on sinking sand
You're my hope forever, the rock where I stand”

I walked a little further this morning...at times almost a respectable jog...head lifted a little higher. 

Truth is, the longing for human interaction has no end in sight, but neither does His Presence. Jesus remains my one faithful, confident traveling companion. 

August heat and positive COVID-19 numbers continue to rise. I’m weary; how about you? I find myself clinging to words of Truth and songs of testimony. My Redeemer is Faithful and True and No One Ever Cared for Me Like Jesus have been a frequent source of encouragement in these days of isolation.

Be blessed by the lyrics of the latter.

If my heart could tell a story                                              If my life would sing a song.                                              If I have a testimony                                                           If I have anything at all

No one ever cared for me like Jesus
His faithful hand has held me all this way
And when I'm old and grey
And all my days are numbered on the earth
Let it be known in you alone
My joy was found
Oh my joy, my joy

Let my children tell their children
Let this be their memory
That all my treasure was in heaven
And you were everything to me

No one ever cared for me like Jesus
His faithful hand has held me all this way
And when I'm old and grey
And all my days are numbered on the earth
Let it be known in you alone
My joy was found
I've found my joy

I'm still in love
Your still enough for me
Still all I want
Your still my everything
I'm still in love
Your still enough for me
Still all I want
Your still my everything

No one ever cared for me like Jesus
His faithful hand has held me all this way
And when I'm old and grey
And all my days are numbered on the earth
Let it be known in you alone
My joy was found

My Redeemer is Faithful and True-Stephen Curtis Chapman 

No One Ever Cared For Me Like Jesus-Jason Ingram / Steffany Gretzinger / Chandler Moore / Dante Bowe

(I love the Weigle hymn by the same title.)

Surviving the pandemic

My lockdown projects continue...I’m tackling one drawer at a time, organizing, donating, pitching. 
This week I turned to my closet. Voila; my growing donation bag of “I might wear that again someday.” 

I’ll spare you the “what kind of person would even think of donating this” pile. 
Then, it occurred to me, “Why am I reserving the good stuff for when this monster is over?” So, my new plan has included dressing for the day...well, most days. Nice casual and a touch of jewelry! And what a change in my outlook...perhaps a bit like making one’s bed each morning. My job is to live; not when we’re less than six feet away or maskless again, but right now, in the middle of hard. Live with purpose...live with kindness...live with beauty. 
This task has not been all work, though. 
I loved a summer blouse, but it was pretty scary on my body. I suppose a little bit of 70’s goes a long way, so I repurposed it into a scarf. And a denim dress is now ready for the fall as a fun duster. 

 

Each week, I’m asking God how He plans to repurpose my time alone...and then, trusting.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:1

Seems as if I have no one to talk to today but the blog. Getting desperate, I suppose. 

Progress report after almost four months:
Five puzzles
Seventeen jillion cotton masks (I’ve perfected the pattern!)
One toddler “mermaid princess” dress
One boho crossbody bag on the loom
Umpteen books (five unfinished)
Four decorated windows for the little quarantined preschooler across the street
Four birthday drive-by parties
One shut-in ministry up and running on its own (too many cards , phone calls and emails to count!)
Two dozen 70’s albums
Thirty plus online concerts
Dozens of virtual museum and biking tours
One Children’s Literature course
Three medical courses
One unfinished painting. 
and a constantly messy kitchen!

Things, I’ve discovered:
I adore bright colors and I’m over grey walls. (Too bad, non-negotiable!)
Living rooms can be multifunctional: art studio, library, dance floor...because windows to the neighborhood are essential. 
I’m totally in love with gemstones from New Mexico (But American Express, it’s still cheaper than a trip to The Land of Enchantment.)
My senior pass to our national parks sits idly with that little blue passport. Both are pouting. 
Senior hours are essential and entertaining. 
Sometimes, one must turn off the seriousness of a pandemic. 

Thanks, blog for listening to my pandemic drivel. Brace yourself for the next four months! This ain’t over yet. 

May His favor be upon you
And a thousand generations
Your family and your children
And their children, and their children

There are no words for watching your firstborn son watch his firstborn son play on the resting place of his grandfather. Such emotion has no voice. 

The images 

Searing, hopeful, alarming, indelible 

Many from yesterday’s protest in Houston 

One inescapable 

A young man repeatedly shouting “Pig” at a police officer 

Spewing profanities inches from her protective face shield 

This is wrong, too.

These are my friends. They rescue the trafficked, trapped and used, in our city. They keep me safe in my pew. They are hardworking parents. They love their city. 

This is wrong. 

This...

Because there are too many voices drowning out the only ones that matter. 

Because my voice seems insignificant right now, but my prayers are not. 

Listen closely to my prayer, O LORD; hear my urgent cry.    Psalm 86:6 NLT

  

Enemy of our soul, you don’t have the last voice. 

Day 76 of solitary lockdown...
The country’s gone mad. Briefly overshadowing the pandemic, injustice lays wide open, pain spills from protesters, and anarchists try to silence necessary voices with wanton violence. 
Oh, and a space rocket successfully launches from U.S. soil, a historic event that momentarily unites us. 
Maybe I don’t really want to re-emerge. 
Meanwhile, I’ve made peace with leaving my career and have officially resigned from a ministry limping on life support, not exactly a giant leap for mankind, but pretty big and courageous steps for me. 
So in the lonely hours, I finish a couple of courses to keep my license for volunteer work. (I suppose I’m not so brave; I’ve yet to entirely let go.)  I’m whittling down my tower of meant to read books and revisiting some old vinyls, the best friends I have in my present confinement. I miss glancing up from my page to share an interesting quote or sharing a memory evoked by the music, and mostly, debating the hard stuff of humanity.  If I could just remember there’s no one on the receiving end. 
I keep asking, Lord, how long?
I, too, may go mad. 

Week 10

I’m emerging from my loneliest week of this global lockdown...dark, empty days which almost strangled my soul. Truth be told, last week was not much different than most of the last seven years of singular living, but the inability to anesthetize this loneliness with external activity sheds an imposing spotlight on it. 
Anesthetic. Is that what I want when my world reopens? I don’t have a plan, but the present lack of a meaningful social structure is not an option going forward. This is not an indictment on current friendships; it’s a need to address my lack of social interaction: weekend dinners, church connections, travel mates. (Yes, travel will return.)
I know there are others in the same lane; I’ve heard the conversation. This serves as a launchpad for discussion of another pandemic. 

I needed human interaction on this pandemic Mother’s Day, not just a drive-by wave as in weeks past, but time to watch my grands run around the yard without fear of abusing the 6 feet rule. 
It took a lot of preparation and creativity, but we managed a fun outing. I convinced the littles that we were playing dress up with masks, homemade face shields and my nursing PPE. Peekaboo with my headgear made Chloe laugh and feel comfortable with this new version of her Gigi. But it was surreal.

This morning,  I’m staring down my last necessary continuing education courses to renew my professional license. Why follow through?  Is this another dead end, another loss? Will I ever be able to practice again or volunteer with a medical ministry? I want so much to head for the front line, yet, I’m stuck in the reality of vulnerability. I no longer don my armor to heal; my equipment now monitors my own malady, not the vitals of my patients.

Am I permanently sidelined?

 I found myself here at the cemetery, my first out-of-the-car field trip since the mandate to stay at home. 

I figured I couldn’t expose or be exposed here of all places. To my surprise, our section was overly populated with a sweet family clad in matching orange t-shirts, celebrating what would have been their child’s fourth birthday on this Saturday before Easter. Another life cut incredibly short. 

As the last car drove off, I left my own to go about my task of spring cleaning Rob’s grave. I usually reserve this for this quiet Saturday. It reminds me of the helpers, the women, anxiously waiting to tend to their final preparation of their Master’s body. 

Our cemetery is a beautiful place to rest and wait.  Wait for the grief to soften, wait for the glimmer of hope to return.

The whole world awaits hope this year. With bated breath, we watch for the death count to retreat, for a glimpse of normalcy. We remain in our homes, our waiting places. 

How long, Lord? How long shall we wait?

 I wonder what the women asked on that still Saturday? Did any of them hold out for hope? Did they even remember the things Jesus had told them?

Saturday hope is a lot harder than Sunday Hope. 

There’s no doubt found at this resting place, not on December 4th, today, or in the hard weeks to come. This is a temporary place to remember and honor a beautiful life, but make no mistake, Sunday Hope is written all over this grave. 

Bones may rest, but this man knew where his hope was found...and so does his woman. 

Rob’s name may be etched here, but his heart will not be found in any grave because of Sunday Resurrection Hope. 

Almost a month into this physical distancing and I crave a hug. Not virtual, not paper, but a real live physical human hug! Being the realist that I am, I suspect I will remain hugless for some time. 

Touch starvation is a real menace, producing anxiety and depression, lowering immune systems, potentially stunting bonding and development in small babies. Just ask any NICU or geriatric nurse. 

When I first entered nursing, I worked the night shift. Often, when a patient struggled with sleep, I offered a back or foot rub. Best medicine ever.

 During post Harvey, hugs were plentiful and life giving. I remember Jerry and William’s the most; they shouted, “It’s going to be alright.” We know that’s simply impossible with this virus, but I think for many of us, that is the missing link.

Recently, I ordered badly needed shower gel online and I discovered I could still request  a retired fragrance I used on my hospice clients. I would carry  individual samples and after seeing how most patients responded to its homey fragrance,  families were delighted to run out to purchase it for their loved ones. I spent hours gently massaging edematous feet and would witness a peace wash over my patients. Many would offer deep conversation, others would weep and the most sick would breathe a little easier.  

My bottles arrived today on my worst day so far. A friend had just shared a beautiful worship song so this touch starved captive of her own home, plopped down on the floor, poured out way too much creamy brown sugar and fig, and massaged her own neglected feet as she listened to a beautiful reminder of a good God. A big ol’ wonderful foot and soul hug.  No, not a 20 second hug like one of my friends always gives me, but a self hug, the best I can do right now. 

I’ve neglected self care; I’m not very good at it. 
(Probably the nurse in me.). But I am realizing how much we all need to carve out some time for “me care” during this upheaval.

The washing of feet is not lost on me today:  Mary pouring out her costly perfume on her Master, Jesus humbly washing his disciples’ weathered feet, His charge to love and serve one another.  One day we’ll open our homes again and do a lot of hugging, I hope. For now, our ways to care for ourselves and each other are a bit subdued, somewhat unorthodox, but that’s okay too. 

Like many of you, I wish I was physically distancing on one of my favorite beaches on this Monday morning.  My usual walk includes grabbing a washed up piece of driftwood to carve in the sand.  
Each year, I begin with a beach retreat; I memorialize the new year with a guiding word, etched in the sand and my heart. This year in particular, I’ve added an extra word for this season: spur. 
I love that word, especially in the verb form; to urge, to encourage, to dig in your spur. 
Now, I’m no horsewoman, but I think gentle spurs are best used to reinforce cues for your horse to move forward.
So on this new week of pandemic loneliness, fear, uncertainty, I choose to spur...to dig in and gently encourage. My list of recipients grows; how about yours?

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Hebrews 10:24

Tonight, I was bumped and oh boy, did I spill. What I normally would have received as an unfortunate glitch, I, instead, became unglued. Tears spilled everywhere and I just wanted to bury my head in my husband’s chest. A lot like 9/11 when Rob was stuck in the air, he’s not here to make all this better.
Social media, heck, media of any kind, has crippled me today.  What I thought would be helpful, because I’m a fact person, is just too suffocating. I’m weary of the “first worldness” and weak attempts to cover up and assert control over our fear.  I’ve lost my grace tonight and I dearly want to regain it. It’s time to unplug and run into the Father’s arms. I desperately need Him; I just wish I could literally feel Him. 

Who doesn’t love Vincent van Gogh’s paintings? I think everyone recognizes 

“The Starry Night” with it’s broad strokes. 

I bet you’ve never seen his work named Italian Woman. I love all the short strokes in her quilt and the painting’s border. 

Maybe you would like to pick up your colorful markers or crayons and make your own masterpiece. You could use short, thick strokes to make something completely different. 

Then, have Mom or Dad take a picture to send me. 

Hugs!  Everyone is an artist. 🎨

We are all in a waiting room

COVID-19...pandemic...social distancing...words
that were new to many of us just a few weeks ago. 
Some of us have found ourselves physically alone and a lot of parents are probably wishing they could trade places for even a few minutes. 
My head hurts with information overload; my body already aches for human touch and honestly, from underlying stress. 
We are in a waiting room, all of us! 
I’ve been here three other times in the past six years and I’m still standing. Actually, I’ve grown a little taller and a lot stronger. 
Yesterday, I allowed myself one day of paralysis. (Well, except for performing some surgery on my refrigerator.)
Today, Operation Waiting Room is in full motion. 

Breathe-inhale hope, exhale “what if.”
Pray-at all times, including when I wash my hands. I have posted lists above each faucet. 
Move-short breaks to walk, bike and dance off stress and anxiety.  
Music-something new, something old; turn up the volume, lower it to a whisper.  
Read-escape with a good book, sink my soul into the Word. 
Serve-erase the temptation to make this about me.  
Scratch-in the dark. Finding something meaningful in which I can pour my uneasy self.  I write when I cannot process uncertainty; my friend gardens. 

You will have your own arsenal, but have one!  
I want to write more about my list in separate posts, but I want to close with two thoughts. 
First, I sense a time of revival. People are talking with God more often, people are searching, Easter people are stepping up to this crisis. If we quiet our souls and listen, we’ll hear from Him. What a Lenten period. 
Secondly, I will allow only a few minutes a day for sulking. No more! When Rob and I received the fatal news of pancreatic cancer we allowed ourselves only one pity party a day. We realized we were given the gift of precious time; we used it to speak love and encouragement into one another. Best advice ever given us!

This has pretty much been home for the last couple of weeks. Up for short visits with grandkids and I attempted church yesterday. For someone who has her hand in many pots, this has been a radical pace. 
Thoughts race through my mind; I just haven’t the energy to capture them on paper. Perhaps, some words are just best laid up in the heart. Life can become pretty self-absorbed from this view; I don’t always trust that perspective. 
This too shall pass.  

It’s been one of those seasons. I need a pep talk. 
News flash, world...I lost my mate, not my mind. 
My common sense, ability to problem solve, skill set has not diminished; in fact, each have grown. 
I suppose there will always be those who refuse to see me in that light, but lately I’ve felt like a “project.”  Let’s assume she needs this or that or she can’t possibly figure out her life without him. 
Of course, I miss sharing the weight; it’s hard and exhausting. And as I write, I don’t want to boast, but SELF, you don’t have to listen to those voices. You’ve saved lives, run departments, managed nearly seven years of upheaval! Don’t listen. Choose better...you are not a victim. 

The NFL Super Bowl halftime show takes almost a year to plan and execute. Yesterday’s 13 minute production cost approximately $13 million. 

I switched channels after glancing at Shakira’s “bondage” on the way to the kitchen.  According to your chagrin,  it sounds like I made the appropriate decision.  Yet, this morning I awake to glowing praise of their performances. 

Two gorgeous, talented women...what an unnecessary offering of their gifts.  I don’t blame the NFL, Pepsi or either performer; you have to have onlookers and buyers to spend that much effort and money. I blame the consumer. I blame me!

A team of people invested a year’s time, their individual gifts and a small fortune on a 13 minute show that produced a hefty financial payoff, but little redeeming value.  

Their choice, but begs the question: how am I going steward my year? Will I tear down or build up...promote goodness or support harmful emptiness? Will I gather garbage or have the courage to turn it off?

2020: my time,  my gifts, my talents...it’s my choice. 

Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving. Colossians 3:23-24

Forty-nine years ago today we had our first date. A safe, casual one, I was to believe, as we were only attending a friend’s church basketball game on a school night. Yes, we were high-schoolers. 
However, during that sweet night, I knew something  wonderful was going to happen in days to come...but I never could have imagined this. 

How fitting that I attended church basketball games for two of my grandsons today on this precious anniversary. I’m now stepping in as Granddad as well as their Gigi;  I knew these would be the days Rob would miss the most.  I can’t fill his shoes, but I’m sure trying.