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It had been on my bucket list for years. I didn’t want to do it alone, so I kept putting it off. Made excuses. Didn’t want to spend the money.

Dear friends gave me a gift certificate for my birthday.

I got to go skydiving.

I have no idea why the idea of jumping from a plane at 15,000 feet was enticing. Almost three miles up with no place to go but down. The money was paid; the date was booked.

I was committed.

John managed to be out of town for the big jump. He’d told our youngest that it was her responsibility to clean up the mess if I splatted. And inform next of kin.

We headed to the coast early Sunday morning. We picked up Heather and the three oldest grands–I told them they could go fishing while they waited, and headed to my rendezvous with a…

When you’re around babies, it’s easy to dream.

What will they be when they grow up? (I’m still asking myself that question.) What will they enjoy doing? What will they be good at?

Dreaming is the springboard to trying. It’s where we all begin and get past where we are. It’s hope with great potential.

With Huck in my arms and his folks out for some couple time, I watched The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty, starring Ben Stiller. The iconic movie of dreaming of a better life.

I watched Walter with a heart of compassion, as he zoned out, dreaming of what he might be. Fantasy was his default. Short-circuited by his lack of self-confidence, he endured his job. He was good at what he did–a negative assets manager at Life magazine. His attention to detail, his commitment to excellence in his job weren’t recognized or appreciated by…

I am not a gardener. I come from a long line of non-gardeners, people predisposed to killing things rather than growing things. This is not intentional on my part. It is, however, a dirty little reality that saddens my heart, especially living in Florida where most people can grow anything.

My little sister, Jan, however, has thumbs of green.

She loves to get down on her hands and knees, burying her fingers in the dirt, planting, pulling, corralling her cone flowers and navigating through her native wild flowers. She delights in the process–the results are enjoyable because she invested in the process.

Don’t get me wrong. I love gardens. The wild, flowers-growing-in-mad-disarray kind, where there’s an abundance of color and movement and depth. A party of posies, a riot of richness–with no supervision.

Some would call that a meadow. No known gardener in sight.

Except God.

So imagine my dismay…