Currently appearing in the March 2010 issue of Bella Magazine.


When I met my husband on a plane, the lighting was dim and I mostly noticed his cowboy boots. Early on in our conversation, he mentioned that he graduated high school in ’72.

“What a coincidence!” I remarked. “I graduated first grade in ’72!”


I’m not that swift on the uptake. I had to excuse myself to go to the tiny airplane bathroom to figure out our age difference. Gee whiz, this guy was eleven years old than me! Yet he was cute, and ever-so-witty, so I was willing to exchange numbers on our boarding passes as the plane landed in Philly.

He called. And he drove up from Maryland to take me to lunch. In the better lighting, the first thing I noticed was his gray hair. When he excused himself to get something in his car, I called a close friend in Chicago and hissed, “He has gray hair!”

Thankfully, Kristy was unimpressed with his hair and wanted to know instead about his character, intellect, sense of humor and the like. I’m so glad I called Kristy and not a more foolish sorority sister, or the courtship and eventual marriage might have stalled right there.

I was born in the Sixties but by the time I had half a brain, all of the excitement was over. I scarcely even remember the Seventies except that we wore bell bottoms and compulsively turning off the lights because President Nixon told us we were in an Energy Crisis. I came to age during the Eighties and any fool can tell you that is a different kettle of fish than being a teenager in the Sixties.

My husband Dave was 100% a child of the Sixties. If you saw him today, you would never suspect that he once had long hair like Jesus. You would not guess that he so disdained authority that he planned a Non-Prom (read: keg party in a field) instead of going to the school dance which he felt would be going along with The Establishment. Winsome and persuasive, Dave made sure the majority of his classmates would join him on that field. Only three couples danced at the actual prom and Dave won one for the rebels.

Question authority, I guess, was a big thing back then. I can’t really relate because we weren’t allowed to question authority in my house. I am actually enamored with authority and as you can imagine, that frustrates Hippie Dad to no end. When we met, I was dutifully getting oil changes every 3,000 miles because “Jiffy Lube says so.” I was writing my account number on checks when I paid bills because “that’s what it says to do.” I was filling my gas tank when it was down to a quarter tank because, besides “Daddy told me.” Not only did I avoid risk, I never even considered risk to be an option!

Dave laughed at my quaint habit of doing what other people told me to do. Frankly, sometimes he howled. He was the polar opposite. He would distinctly not do something, just because someone told him he had to. I have come to appreciate these traits very much. Dave is the one who would survive in a crisis because he would forge out on his own. I would be the one saying, “They said to stay in the car and help would come!” while I slowly drowned.

By the time Dave was eighteen, he was on his own because, you guessed it, no one could tell him what to do. He hitchhiked to Florida and back while he was in high school. (Kids, don’t try this at home.) When I asked what his parents said about that, he responded, “I never asked.” Now that would not have been allowed at my house growing up; I couldn’t even babysit after midnight! Recently the world celebrated the anniversary of Woodstock. Dave’s mom finally inquired “Where you there?” and shared that she hadn’t asked during the past forty years because she was afraid of the answer. (Dave wanted to but couldn’t thumb a ride.)

Yes, he was a hippie and a rebel and he questioned authority like it was his profession. I was a preppy and compliant and wouldn’t question authority if it locked me up for life for a crime I didn’t commit. How does this impact our parenting? That’s where it really gets fun.

We have teens who are now the age Dave was when the majority of his crazy stories occurred. Yet, my apple hasn’t fallen far from the compliant tree. Therefore, I expect all sorts of things that Dave considers to be superfluous. Things like brushing your teeth, calling when you’ll be late, and curfew. While he knows to not say this in front of our teens, Dave is always astounded and amazed that the kids put up with the boundaries that he so fervently resented in the Seventies. But the way I see it, our kids are blessed to be raised at the intersection of Hippie and Preppy Streets. Guess we’ll ask them in forty years to be sure.

Martie Smith Byrd lives in Roanoke with her hippie, Dave, and their five talented teenagers. She is the author of two books and speaks around the country. She’d love to come to your club or organization!

Facebook is a scary place. It's like a continuous Class Reunion. Except its one where you show up as you really are, having forgotten to lose weight, color your hair or bleach your teeth. You splay yourself out on Facebook, thinking most of the time of your local friends or family that you are communicating with when WHAM! you Facebook intersect with long-lost friends who now have access to your family photo albums, including the awful pictures that other people post and tag. (Quit doing that! I hate that!) Anyway, having just Facebook Reunioned with several old and dear friends, it inspired me to post this Oldie and Goodie. It's about the me I used to be...an annoying me that many will remember quite well. This column was the first thing I had professionally published and it's still one of my favorites. It's my heart.

I’m scared of people who know it all. I know a few of them. I recognize the species. Because, well, I used to be one.

I knew it all. At least, I thought I did. When I was younger, hoooo baby, you could not tell me anything. I knew it all. I look back now and blush. If I had addresses, I’d send out lots of sympathy cards. I’d write to everyone who used to work with me, for one. I’d say….

“Sorry you had to work with me in the 80’s. I know I was really obnoxious. Thanks for not throwing me out the window of our high story office building. Blessings! Martie”

I bet some people are still mad. Like one lady chased me into the bathroom once and yelled at me through the stall. She told me I was young and I didn’t know what I was saying. I sat on the toilet and thought about how wrong she was. Sorry, Kate. To Kate, I should send flowers.

My gosh, the moral fiber I imagined that I had! The stand that I took on so many issues! Ok, it’s a tiny bit cute now, to remember how very brilliant I felt when I argued with adults. I felt powerful! I felt right! I could not be dissuaded! On the other hand, now that I have teenagers and have those arguments in reverse, it’s not all that cute. It’s annoying.

When did I figure out that I didn’t know it all? I guess it started when I met the Lord. See, the very first thing I learned about God was this.

“He removes our past transgressions as far as the East is from the West.” (Ps. 103:12, paraphrase mine)

This was both reassuring and humiliating. It was reassuring because I was dragging a lot of baggage around with me. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d ever be free of it. It was great to know that it could be sent through some heavenly FedEx to the other end of the earth. It was humiliating because if God was going to perform that service for me, gosh, it meant He knew what all the transgressions were. He knew it all. It wasn’t me who knew it all, it was God. Gosh, that was painful….but freeing at the same time.

Well, the more I grow in the Lord, the more I realize that I don’t know it all. I hardly know anything.

But I’m psyched because God really does know everything. And He still loves us. He knows what happened in the past. He knows what will happen in the future. He even knows every word we’re going to say, before we say it.

(When I found that Scripture, I was fascinated! Every word? Before we say it??? To test this out, I shouted out a swear word, a really bad one, really fast. And I felt the Lord kind of smirking, with a knowing grin on His face. “I knew you were going to say that,” He said.)

You can’t get away from the Lord. And that’s a great thing.

So now I know that I don’t know much. And I’m pretty relaxed about it. See, the view is nicer from the “Don’t Know It All” side of the fence. You don’t have to always be arguing. You don’t have to think how stupid everyone else is all the time. You can just hang out, and love people.

So now when I meet a Know-It-All, I just smile. And throw up a silent prayer that the Lord will grab hold of them, and save them from themselves, like He did with me. I’m really grateful. I don’t know much…but I do know Him. Turns out, that’s All.

Currently appearing in the March 2010 issue of Bella Magazine.
When I met my husband on a plane, the lighting was dim and I mostly noticed his cowboy boots. Early on in our conversation, he mentioned that he graduated high school in ’72.

“What a coincidence!” I remarked. “I graduated first grade in ’72!”

I’m not that swift on the uptake. I had to excuse myself to go to the tiny airplane bathroom to figure out our age difference. Gee whiz, this guy was eleven years old than me! Yet he was cute, and ever-so-witty, so I was willing to exchange numbers on our boarding passes as the plane landed in Philly.

He called. And he drove up from Maryland to take me to lunch. In the better lighting, the first thing I noticed was his gray hair. When he excused himself to get something in his car, I called a close friend in Chicago and hissed, “He has gray hair!”

Thankfully, Kristy was unimpressed with his hair and wanted to know instead about his character, intellect, sense of humor and the like. I’m so glad I called Kristy and not a more foolish sorority sister, or the courtship and eventual marriage might have stalled right there.

I was born in the Sixties but by the time I had half a brain, all of the excitement was over. I scarcely even remember the Seventies except that we wore bell bottoms and compulsively turning off the lights because President Nixon told us we were in an Energy Crisis. I came to age during the Eighties and any fool can tell you that is a different kettle of fish than being a teenager in the Sixties.

My husband Dave was 100% a child of the Sixties. If you saw him today, you would never suspect that he once had long hair like Jesus. You would not guess that he so disdained authority that he planned a Non-Prom (read: keg party in a field) instead of going to the school dance which he felt would be going along with The Establishment. Winsome and persuasive, Dave made sure the majority of his classmates would join him on that field. Only three couples danced at the actual prom and Dave won one for the rebels.

Question authority, I guess, was a big thing back then. I can’t really relate because we weren’t allowed to question authority in my house. I am actually enamored with authority and as you can imagine, that frustrates Hippie Dad to no end. When we met, I was dutifully getting oil changes every 3,000 miles because “Jiffy Lube says so.” I was writing my account number on checks when I paid bills because “that’s what it says to do.” I was filling my gas tank when it was down to a quarter tank because, besides “Daddy told me.” Not only did I avoid risk, I never even considered risk to be an option!

Dave laughed at my quaint habit of doing what other people told me to do. Frankly, sometimes he howled. He was the polar opposite. He would distinctly not do something, just because someone told him he had to. I have come to appreciate these traits very much. Dave is the one who would survive in a crisis because he would forge out on his own. I would be the one saying, “They said to stay in the car and help would come!” while I slowly drowned.

By the time Dave was eighteen, he was on his own because, you guessed it, no one could tell him what to do. He hitchhiked to Florida and back while he was in high school. (Kids, don’t try this at home.) When I asked what his parents said about that, he responded, “I never asked.” Now that would not have been allowed at my house growing up; I couldn’t even babysit after midnight! Recently the world celebrated the anniversary of Woodstock. Dave’s mom finally inquired “Where you there?” and shared that she hadn’t asked during the past forty years because she was afraid of the answer. (Dave wanted to but couldn’t thumb a ride.)

Yes, he was a hippie and a rebel and he questioned authority like it was his profession. I was a preppy and compliant and wouldn’t question authority if it locked me up for life for a crime I didn’t commit. How does this impact our parenting? That’s where it really gets fun.

We have teens who are now the age Dave was when the majority of his crazy stories occurred. Yet, my apple hasn’t fallen far from the compliant tree. Therefore, I expect all sorts of things that Dave considers to be superfluous. Things like brushing your teeth, calling when you’ll be late, and curfew. While he knows to not say this in front of our teens, Dave is always astounded and amazed that the kids put up with the boundaries that he so fervently resented in the Seventies. But the way I see it, our kids are blessed to be raised at the intersection of Hippie and Preppy Streets. Guess we’ll ask them in forty years to be sure.


Martie Smith Byrd lives in Roanoke with her hippie, Dave, and their five talented teenagers. She is the author of two books and speaks around the country. She’d love to come to your club or organization!

Facebook is a scary place. It's like a continuous Class Reunion.  Except its one where you show up as you really are,  having forgotten to lose weight, color your hair or bleach your teeth.  You splay yourself out on Facebook, thinking most of the time of your local friends or family that you are communicating with when WHAM! you Facebook intersect with long-lost friends who now have access to your family photo albums, including the awful pictures that other people post and tag.  (Quit doing that! I hate that!)  Anyway, having just Facebook Reunioned with several old and dear friends, it inspired me to post this Oldie and Goodie. It's about the me I used to be...an annoying me that many will remember quite well.  This column was the first thing I had professionally published and it's still one of my favorites.  It's my heart.

I’m scared of people who know it all. I know a few of them. I recognize the species. Because, well, I used to be one.

I knew it all. At least, I thought I did. When I was younger, hoooo baby, you could not tell me anything. I knew it all. I look back now and blush. If I had addresses, I’d send out lots of sympathy cards. I’d write to everyone who used to work with me, for one. I’d say….

“Sorry you had to work with me in the 80’s. I know I was really obnoxious. Thanks for not throwing me out the window of our high story office building. Blessings! Martie”

I bet some people are still mad. Like one lady chased me into the bathroom once and yelled at me through the stall. She told me I was young and I didn’t know what I was saying. I sat on the toilet and thought about how wrong she was. Sorry, Kate. To Kate, I should send flowers.

My gosh, the moral fiber I imagined that I had! The stand that I took on so many issues! Ok, it’s a tiny bit cute now, to remember how very brilliant I felt when I argued with adults. I felt powerful! I felt right! I could not be dissuaded! On the other hand, now that I have teenagers and have those arguments in reverse, it’s not all that cute. It’s annoying.

When did I figure out that I didn’t know it all? I guess it started when I met the Lord. See, the very first thing I learned about God was this.

“He removes our past transgressions as far as the East is from the West.” (Ps. 103:12, paraphrase mine)

This was both reassuring and humiliating. It was reassuring because I was dragging a lot of baggage around with me. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d ever be free of it. It was great to know that it could be sent through some heavenly FedEx to the other end of the earth. It was humiliating because if God was going to perform that service for me, gosh, it meant He knew what all the transgressions were. He knew it all. It wasn’t me who knew it all, it was God. Gosh, that was painful….but freeing at the same time.

Well, the more I grow in the Lord, the more I realize that I don’t know it all. I hardly know anything.

But I’m psyched because God really does know everything. And He still loves us. He knows what happened in the past. He knows what will happen in the future. He even knows every word we’re going to say, before we say it.

(When I found that Scripture, I was fascinated! Every word? Before we say it??? To test this out, I shouted out a swear word, a really bad one, really fast. And I felt the Lord kind of smirking, with a knowing grin on His face. “I knew you were going to say that,” He said.)

You can’t get away from the Lord. And that’s a great thing.

So now I know that I don’t know much. And I’m pretty relaxed about it. See, the view is nicer from the “Don’t Know It All” side of the fence. You don’t have to always be arguing. You don’t have to think how stupid everyone else is all the time. You can just hang out, and love people.

So now when I meet a Know-It-All, I just smile. And throw up a silent prayer that the Lord will grab hold of them, and save them from themselves, like He did with me. I’m really grateful. I don’t know much…but I do know Him. Turns out, that’s All.

Currently running in the February Issue of Bella Magazine

One of my teen boys just requested that I stop smothering him. Ah, is that what I have been doing? All these years I thought I was mothering. Mothering…smothering. When did I cross the line?

I’ve heard of helicopter parenting but never imagined that the phrase applied to me. Helicopter parents hover around, consider their children as extensions of themselves, and are uncomfortable with letting them feel pain or allowing them to fail. Ouch, does that apply to me? If it does, I can tell you it is not a genetic trait in my family. I was raised by distinctly non-helicopter parents. I can still remember grade school when it was first obvious to me that the other kids were getting a lot of help from their parents. Their projects were shiny and fantastic and mine were put together with spit and an old shoelace. Yet I still remember being proud because I did it myself. (Okay, and a little jealous of the pizzazz that the parents brought to a project.) Dear friend Amy told me that when her first-grader Justin was assigned the task of making a community building, such as a post office or grocery story, Justin got a shoebox and some crayons. His dad, however, put his genius and engineering degree to work and produced, as Amy recalls, “the Smithsonian.” Kid gets an A but Dad gets an F. I can hear the helicopter blades whirring from a distance.

When we had toddlers, I met my first afflicted mother. We were invited to dinner at a home where the family’s youngest child was getting ready to graduate from high school. Her mother confessed, “I am so ready for this. I’ve been doing homework for the last twenty years.” Innocently, I naturally assumed that she was enrolled in an excruciatingly slow graduate program. I inquired what degree she was pursuing. “My kids’ high school degrees!” she exclaimed. She explained how she personally dragged each of her children through high school. This destroyed my fantasy about the vacation time I would enjoy when my little bundles were in school. I realized that this mother was what the educators refer to as a Blackhawk, the most hovering of all helicopter parents. I thought she was a bit wacked and resolved I would never be anything like her.

Alas, this fall I found myself in a teacher’s conference for one of our sons and to my horror and surprise, I wept throughout the conference. Although I admit it was a very tender time of the month for such a conference, even I was shocked when I could not staunch the tears. (I didn’t know I cared that much!) Dear Dave, father and husband of the year, took me out for a fancy breakfast at Famous Anthony’s afterwards. He grabbed my hand, gazed in my eyes and said gently, “Can you explain the tears to me?” I had to confess to him (and now to you, dear readers) that everything I heard about our precious son’s failings felt like a knife in my heart. I irrationally felt that the critiques were aimed at me …and me alone. I was being judged and found wanting. Just so you know, this is the primary symptom of Helicopter Parenting.

Wise Dave, who has earned every one of the considerable gray hair on his head, had to set me straight. “Martie, you have not missed any homework assignments! You are the mom, not the student.” Oh, what glorious words. He’s right…again. We all know that if it had been my assignment, I would have handed it in early and near perfect. And if I were the student, my parents would not have known the topic, the due date, or how I did on any of my tasks until the report card came home. Ah, the good old days.

Helicopter parenting is a relatively new phenomenon where baby boomer parents have Gen Y kids and they can’t seem to let them succeed (or fail) without getting psychopathically involved. This is most often seen, ironically, with college students. Many universities have recently created a new position called Dean of Parents. I’m not kidding. This dean is solely responsible for keeping the helicopter parents from landing on campus.

Danny’s comment to stop smothering him really got me worried. The tears at the conference shocked me as well. So I did what any thinking person would do. I Googled Helicopter Parenting. As with everything, there is a quiz you can take to see if the term (condition, syndrome, illness) applies to you. Here are some sample questions:

1. When your child is having difficulty in school, do you contact the teacher?
2. How often do you contact the teacher?
3. Are you nice when you contact the teacher?
4. Do you threaten the teacher?
5. Have you ever been asked to leave the school building?

I was so relieved. I passed. I am not a Helicopter Mom. Come to think of it, my kids would say I’m more of a steamroller.

When I think of nudity, I think of my children.  First, they were born that way. Second, my kids loved to run around the house naked.  Every night after dinner, we'd get our toddlers cleaned up and then strip them down in preparation for bath and bed time.  They'd run through the house with total joy and without even a hint of modesty.  When we had three boys under the age of three, we proclaimed it "Naked Nudie Boy Time."  It was a whole new Happy Hour.  It was the best part of the day and yes, that even included the occasional accident on the carpet.

Back then, I wondered a bit anxiously if they'd grow up to be Nudists. They were so free and so happy to be uncovered.  As they aged, however, they became more inhibited (like the rest of us).  By the time they reached pre-kindergarten,  Naked Nudie Boy Time was simply a memory.  They learned to keep themselves all covered up and fell in line with what everyone else was doing.  They turned in their freedom for a 36 pack of Crayolas and a backpack.


But Jesus called the children to him and said, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these." (Luke 18:16)

What does it really means to come to Him as a little child?  It means a lot of things, but I've just realized, it's got to also mean to come naked.  Bare it all to the one who made you.  Drop the masks, the facade, the pretense.  Just be like a little one....with nothing to hide. Naked.
I know I've hindered my children from coming, just as they are.  I've constrained them in the name of society, in the name of reputation, in the fear of "what will others think?"  I'm not just talking about nudity here anymore.  Do you feel comfortable approaching God, just as you are? And if you don't, do you think your children will?

Amber Dougherty is a 13 year old from Tyrone, PA and is suffering from Severe Intractable Epilepsy, with a sadly grim prognosis. According to an email sent by a family member, the doctors don't expect for her to be with us next Christmas. Since Amber likes to receive mail, her family is organizing a card drive so that Amber can get mail from all over.

Amber Dougherty 2766 Bald Eagle Pike Tyrone, Pa 16686

Please take a minute and send this little girl cards. Every minute that she is opening and reading a happy card is a happy minute she might not have had, otherwise.

Original email:


"My niece Amber has been fighting a severe brain disease for the past 12 years. She is coming to the end of the road. There is nothing more they can do for her. They say she probably won't make it to next christmas. She loves getting mail. We wanted to see how many cards and letters she could get and from how many different states and countries. Please send her a card of encouragement and pass this on to everyone you know. She has been life flighted 110 times and been put into 17 drug induced comas. Her name is Amber Dougherty 2766 Bald Eagle Pike Tyrone, Pa 16686. You can read about her at http://prayernet.geisinger.org Name code is damo56 . 

Please help her out and forward this to everyone in your address box. Thanks for your help."

Now appearing in the January 2010 issue of Bella Magazine

Did you date in high school? Remember what that was like? I do. I remember it going something like this. First, you noticed someone in homeroom, or while learning to square dance in gym. (Yes, kids, we actually did that.) You admired him from afar. You did the only natural thing. You had one of your friends talk to one of his friends to see if he noticed you, too. If he noticed you, you hoped he would take next step and give you a call. At home. Back then, we had no cell phones or even WhitePages.com. If he wanted to call you at home, you had to strategically make sure that he got your address so he could look up your number. If you were gifted with a last name like Smith, as I was, you found dozens of ways to mention your address as well as your father’s name (Wheeler) in casual conversation with the friend of the guy that you noticed in Spanish class. It was exhausting.

If he was interested, you’d flirt at the football game, or maybe even pass notes in the hallway. The next step usually came within days, at least back in the eighties it did. He’d call you at home and asked the magic words, “Will you go out with me?” Voila. You were a couple. That’s all it took. There were those three steps. Notice. Tell friends. Establish coupledom.

So imagine my shock to find out that the teens these days have added another whole step to the perfect pattern we perfected in the seventies, eighties and for some of you hipsters, the nineties. They no longer go from crush to dating. There’s something in between. Some thing. And I just don’t get it.

To get to the bottom of this, I played super-sleuth to uncover this new pattern for the Bella readers. I recently had breakfast with some high school juniors. In a very large part of my brain I am still feel I’m a high school Junior. Therefore, it doesn’t even feel that strange to be the only gray-haired person eating among them. I know I can hold my own in the super-hip conversation of the sixteen-year-olds. Despite the fact that I’ve had car loans longer than they’ve been alive. Despite the fact that I have voted more than a dozen elections and they are still two years from voting in their first. Despite the fact that I was there for the advent of MTV and to them, it’s just another channel on their satellite. Anyway, I was feeling my usual groovy self there at IHOP with homies. (Truth be told, I was only invited to be the shuttle service and get the teens to school in time). But I digress.

The breakfast was on the eve of the big school dance. Since I had three teenage boys going to the dance, I was anxious to know the scoop. Who was going with a date? Who was going with a friend? (Even I know that this usually denotes one person likes another but is protecting his/her ego as well as keeping his/her options open by playing the “friend” card.) I am usually hip to the lingo. Or, I can discern what the gist is, at the very least. Not this time, however.

Male and female alike kept using the word “Thing.” I would say, “Are they going out together?” and the response would be “Well, it’s A Thing.” A Thing. What? A thing sounds simply like a noun, you know, “person, place or thing.” That’s how we used the word thing back at Simsbury High School in the late seventies and early eighties. But I guess things have changed. Er, I mean, words have changed. Boy, have they.

It took thirty minutes and three napkins of notes before I figured out what A Thing actually is. You, lucky reader, can simply read for another few seconds and you’ll be too cool for school. Here’s the summary. A Thing is beyond a crush but before going out. There. It’s mutual and exclusive but there’s the tricky bit…it’s unstated. Well, unstated among the specific parties involved. High school still being high school, the people who talk about the burgeoning relationship are still those who are only peripherally involved.

Musing about this new concept of A Thing, my friend Claire referenced “Me and Mrs. Jones,” the song which was a huge hit for Billy Paul in 1972. The refrain is, “We’ve got a thing goin’ on….” Turns out, it isn’t such a new concept after all. Thus, my painful conclusion. Turns out, I’m not as cool as I think.


Pictured: Danny Byrd and his special friend, Callie

My friend Angela loves January. I am jumping on that bandwagon. I think she's got a point. January is a cool month (pardon the pun) because the expectations are very low. Pretty much we all simply expect to get through it. There are no January holidays, no special cookies to bake and exchange, no January gifts to buy, wrap, send or return. How wonderful! Happy, happy, happy January!

This year, we have the added advantage of being in a whole new decade. I heard some television personalities trying to decide one phrase to summarize the last decade. You know, like the nineties were the nineties. How do we refer back to the last ten years? The best of the lame choices was, get this, "the 0's." No, not the zeros, the "ohs." That's a stretch if you ask me. I am enthusiastically looking forward to the tens and don't really need a cutsies slogan for the o's. Is it just me?

My cousin Peter did a neat thing on Facebook. He did a personal review of the last ten years. I thought it was a great idea. His summary was something like this: "Got married, changed jobs, had a baby, changed jobs, had another baby." I was really inspired. I would follow his lead but I'm just too exhausted. Maybe in February. Will it be too late to review the o's in February?

The o's were filled with trial and triumph, love and loss, and everything in between. So for now, I am sticking with the apostle Paul who said,

"Forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forward to those things that are ahead..." (Philippians 3:13-14)

Thank you, Lord, for a new year.