January makes me want to eat, sleep and drink bourbon.
Driving my son to school this week, it was raining sideways and the sky kept getting darker and darker along the way. I felt like I was about to enter the epicenter of doom. I tried to cheer myself by looking for inspiring music. Of course, that's when every song on the radio sounds like Bob Dylan or Alanis Morissette singing about drinking binges, losing lovers or dying. Did I say Happy New Year yet?
If January's nasty weather doesn't drive you crazy, there's always the comfort of some ridiculous New Year's resolution that will never happen. Yes that and the fact there are no good holidays to look forward to other than Valentine's Day, which just adds more guilt and pressure to your life.
This morning, I was again looking for any sort of encouragement. I found myself raiding my secret good stash of chocolate by 9 a.m. There's something a bit Stepford-ish about eating chocolate bon bons in the AM. But I was merely looking for coping strategies. It didn't really work anyways and left me sick and disgusted at myself for having to eat a bon bon to get through the morning.
In December I long for the quiet simplicity of January. In January, I long for anything fun and joyful. In my sane, non-chocolate ridden brain, I know that January is sort of cool. You can use that indoors time to get more organized, read great books, do nothing. It's that month of introspection, thinking, getting acts together. There's a lot of good football and something wonderful to be made in a crock pot. I do love the easy days with free schedules, weather keeping you in and a chance to get your brain back from the holidays.
A friend of mine likes to call this "hunkering down." When she's in the mood to only be with her family and say no to the outside world, she says "well, we're just hunkering down today." January is sort of like that. One long month of hunkering. And that makes January a pretty loveable month after all.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
The Face of Joy
My favorite joke about church is "if you're going to be in church, please let your face find out about it."
Many years ago, I was ridiculous enough to think I could sing in the church choir for a holiday program. I had no business singing in the choir other than a love for music and an energetic idea that I belonged up there. They were kind enough to allow me to join in.
I remember practicing for weeks in rehearsal, as well as preparing in my car, at home, any chance I got to sing that inspiring holiday music. I loved it and it truly allowed me to wear the holiday spirit for weeks on end.
The day of the program, I was excited beyond belief. The church was lovely, softly aglow with candles and pointsettias, even a fireplace was lit during our worship. All the families and friends were flurried with the holiday season spirit and I was thrilled to be one tiny portion of the magic.
Our Christmas choir assembled up front and launched into our 15 minute medley of most of the holiday favorites, as well as some new special mixes. I remember singing with "in-need-of ankle weights" style happiness and then feeling a huge wave of irony crash over me. As I looked over the faces in the congregation, I didn't see joy -- I saw people looking bored beyond belief. Many stared blankly out the window or silently scolded their misbehaving children. Some folks were even asleep. Many faces had a dull blank look that seemed to say "when will this end?"
There were only a few smiling appreciative faces and one of them was the pastor, so he didn't really count. As the dull faces stared back at me my plastered on grin got bigger and more elaborate. I thought surely if they saw my smiling happy face, they might catch a bit of the joy I was singing about. No deal.
Holidays are such an emotional stewpot for everyone from bad memories growing up to the gifts you never got as a kid. But there is also so much joy to be had. Even in the midst of hard times, there is good. In fact, the light comes easier to see when everything appears to be dark all around it.
Now I can be accused of being a Pollyanna at times about life -- I guess there are worse things to be called. But with the holidays approaching, it's a great time to think about the joys in our life. Not the fake plastered on kind that I had on my goofy face so many Christmas Eves ago. The real kind that celebrates the simple promises we all share. But don't keep that joy limited to just you -- let your face find out about and spread it around.
Lastly, if you end up visiting a church with an energetic choir singing their hearts out -- give them the blessing of smiling back the joy they give you.
Many years ago, I was ridiculous enough to think I could sing in the church choir for a holiday program. I had no business singing in the choir other than a love for music and an energetic idea that I belonged up there. They were kind enough to allow me to join in.
I remember practicing for weeks in rehearsal, as well as preparing in my car, at home, any chance I got to sing that inspiring holiday music. I loved it and it truly allowed me to wear the holiday spirit for weeks on end.
The day of the program, I was excited beyond belief. The church was lovely, softly aglow with candles and pointsettias, even a fireplace was lit during our worship. All the families and friends were flurried with the holiday season spirit and I was thrilled to be one tiny portion of the magic.
Our Christmas choir assembled up front and launched into our 15 minute medley of most of the holiday favorites, as well as some new special mixes. I remember singing with "in-need-of ankle weights" style happiness and then feeling a huge wave of irony crash over me. As I looked over the faces in the congregation, I didn't see joy -- I saw people looking bored beyond belief. Many stared blankly out the window or silently scolded their misbehaving children. Some folks were even asleep. Many faces had a dull blank look that seemed to say "when will this end?"
There were only a few smiling appreciative faces and one of them was the pastor, so he didn't really count. As the dull faces stared back at me my plastered on grin got bigger and more elaborate. I thought surely if they saw my smiling happy face, they might catch a bit of the joy I was singing about. No deal.
Holidays are such an emotional stewpot for everyone from bad memories growing up to the gifts you never got as a kid. But there is also so much joy to be had. Even in the midst of hard times, there is good. In fact, the light comes easier to see when everything appears to be dark all around it.
Now I can be accused of being a Pollyanna at times about life -- I guess there are worse things to be called. But with the holidays approaching, it's a great time to think about the joys in our life. Not the fake plastered on kind that I had on my goofy face so many Christmas Eves ago. The real kind that celebrates the simple promises we all share. But don't keep that joy limited to just you -- let your face find out about and spread it around.
Lastly, if you end up visiting a church with an energetic choir singing their hearts out -- give them the blessing of smiling back the joy they give you.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
God is in My Bathtub
Last night I took a bath with God. Seriously.
It was one of those days where you get to the end of yourself. I made the mistake of starting to think about the holidays and that sent me on a downward spiral of overwhelm and guilt. Plus, having had a cold for almost two weeks was perching me dangerously close to the edge.
It all started with getting the mail and finding almost 50 catalogs to greet me. Their glossy pages were filled with alluring images of well-dressed people, fantastic homes and glorious meals of happy times. My holidays never feel like that. I usually am ridiculously tired from not sleeping well and getting up at 4 a.m. to polish silver. A friend and I have this joke about how women are the "magic makers" of the holidays -- preparing all the meals, the home, the gifts, the experience, the everything. But seldom do we have enough energy left over to enjoy the magic for ourselves.
In the last few months, I have been part of a very encouraging group of women of faith who meet regularly to talk about the Bible and it's promises. We like to discuss the hard stuff like how do you make your marriage work? or what do you do when it feels like God is on vacation? I'm not saying we all have it figured out, but it's relieving to come up with some faith answers for the journey.
After discussing some pretty hard topics one day, one of our leaders said to me "You just need to hang out with Christ and let him love on you for awhile. Ask Him to lavish you with His adoration and grace and see what happens."
The idea of inviting Christ to hang out with me had never really crossed my mind. I certainly pray, read my Bible, go to church, journal about my faith -- but asking Him over for dinner and a movie didn't ever come up as an option.
So that is what I thought of when I had my bad day. I wanted to climb in the bath tub and soak away all the fears, worries and frustrations that seemed to hang on me like a big heavy coat. I thought, "God can you get in the bath tub with me?" I know that seems odd and you probably think I'm weird for saying it out loud. I really wanted to be held and loved and adored in the promises that I know are true. I wanted God to hold me and soothe me and tell me everything was going to be okay.
So I did. When I got out of the bath, I felt like a small child who had just slipped on her footed pjs and was wrapped up in her favorite blanket. That day I understood that it's okay to invite God into every aspect of our lives, whether it's for pizza or wherever you need Him. He's not just available on Sundays in stained glass churches. He's even available in bathtubs.
It was one of those days where you get to the end of yourself. I made the mistake of starting to think about the holidays and that sent me on a downward spiral of overwhelm and guilt. Plus, having had a cold for almost two weeks was perching me dangerously close to the edge.
It all started with getting the mail and finding almost 50 catalogs to greet me. Their glossy pages were filled with alluring images of well-dressed people, fantastic homes and glorious meals of happy times. My holidays never feel like that. I usually am ridiculously tired from not sleeping well and getting up at 4 a.m. to polish silver. A friend and I have this joke about how women are the "magic makers" of the holidays -- preparing all the meals, the home, the gifts, the experience, the everything. But seldom do we have enough energy left over to enjoy the magic for ourselves.
In the last few months, I have been part of a very encouraging group of women of faith who meet regularly to talk about the Bible and it's promises. We like to discuss the hard stuff like how do you make your marriage work? or what do you do when it feels like God is on vacation? I'm not saying we all have it figured out, but it's relieving to come up with some faith answers for the journey.
After discussing some pretty hard topics one day, one of our leaders said to me "You just need to hang out with Christ and let him love on you for awhile. Ask Him to lavish you with His adoration and grace and see what happens."
The idea of inviting Christ to hang out with me had never really crossed my mind. I certainly pray, read my Bible, go to church, journal about my faith -- but asking Him over for dinner and a movie didn't ever come up as an option.
So that is what I thought of when I had my bad day. I wanted to climb in the bath tub and soak away all the fears, worries and frustrations that seemed to hang on me like a big heavy coat. I thought, "God can you get in the bath tub with me?" I know that seems odd and you probably think I'm weird for saying it out loud. I really wanted to be held and loved and adored in the promises that I know are true. I wanted God to hold me and soothe me and tell me everything was going to be okay.
So I did. When I got out of the bath, I felt like a small child who had just slipped on her footed pjs and was wrapped up in her favorite blanket. That day I understood that it's okay to invite God into every aspect of our lives, whether it's for pizza or wherever you need Him. He's not just available on Sundays in stained glass churches. He's even available in bathtubs.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Mommy Dangerous
I love the Patagonia catalog.
Not for the clothes, those are nice yes. But for the amazingly dangerous things that people do in between the pages of the stuff to buy. Women scaling mountains in Third world countries, men surfing in ridiculous places. The photography is usually stunning, the stories equally. The last issue featured two women that were skiing in Pakistan to evaluate the effects of global change on the planet.
Secretly I want to be them. Women unafraid to hike, ski and camp in a strange place. To be confident in my own abilities and strengths to know that I could survive in most any weather conditions, most anywhere on the planet. In a sense, to be a female Daniel Boone.
But that desire stops in my head -- I am only a vicarious danger woman. I like the idea of doing things that are really risky like mountain climbing, biking, trekking to beautiful summits. But in practice, not so much. In truth, I am a big fat weenie. The Patagonia catalog and others like it become my fantasy life. I love reading about women and men doing amazing things that are both mentally and physically daunting.
In my perpetual safety belt, helmet wearing, side curtain airbag state, my life is one constant "ranger danger" event. Always on the look out for safety recalls, safer cars, safer toys, the dangers of this, the toxicity of that. When I got married and had a child, risk became something I only read about in parenting magazines.
Recently, I thought maybe I could satisfy my desire by going on a mission trip to a Third World country -- that would be risky and an adventure, combined with doing good works. A safe risk if you will.
I thought about this as I drove by a woman in crutches standing by the side of the road wearing a hospital gown. She obviously was waiting for a ride that had not come. I thought, maybe I should stop -- but then just kept driving on to finish my tasks. About a half hour later, I was coming back by the same spot and remembered the woman. She was still there.
I pulled up and asked if she needed a ride. Her voice cracked as she humbly said no but asked if she could make a call on my cell phone. She was freezing and had no purse, no shoes. I told her I would pull around and she can warm up and make the call. She made her calls and no one answered. She told me she didn't want to ask me to drive her home because it was so far. However, it happened to be the exact same town I live in about a mile from my home. (God is so funny that way!) I ended up taking her to her ride and she was flooded with relief and gratefullness.
I tell you this story not to share how great I am. After I dropped my new friend off, I felt as if I had gone on a mission trip. So often, I like to make things so much bigger and grander than they need to me. It taught me that a mission trip can be found in Cary, NC just as much as it can be found in Costa Rica. People need help everywhere.
I have decided to live more dangerously without going anywhere. But it had to start with opening my eyes to opportunities right in front of me. Every day could be my personal mission trip to help others without Patagonia clothes, scaling mountains or even visiting a Third World country.
Not for the clothes, those are nice yes. But for the amazingly dangerous things that people do in between the pages of the stuff to buy. Women scaling mountains in Third world countries, men surfing in ridiculous places. The photography is usually stunning, the stories equally. The last issue featured two women that were skiing in Pakistan to evaluate the effects of global change on the planet.
Secretly I want to be them. Women unafraid to hike, ski and camp in a strange place. To be confident in my own abilities and strengths to know that I could survive in most any weather conditions, most anywhere on the planet. In a sense, to be a female Daniel Boone.
But that desire stops in my head -- I am only a vicarious danger woman. I like the idea of doing things that are really risky like mountain climbing, biking, trekking to beautiful summits. But in practice, not so much. In truth, I am a big fat weenie. The Patagonia catalog and others like it become my fantasy life. I love reading about women and men doing amazing things that are both mentally and physically daunting.
In my perpetual safety belt, helmet wearing, side curtain airbag state, my life is one constant "ranger danger" event. Always on the look out for safety recalls, safer cars, safer toys, the dangers of this, the toxicity of that. When I got married and had a child, risk became something I only read about in parenting magazines.
Recently, I thought maybe I could satisfy my desire by going on a mission trip to a Third World country -- that would be risky and an adventure, combined with doing good works. A safe risk if you will.
I thought about this as I drove by a woman in crutches standing by the side of the road wearing a hospital gown. She obviously was waiting for a ride that had not come. I thought, maybe I should stop -- but then just kept driving on to finish my tasks. About a half hour later, I was coming back by the same spot and remembered the woman. She was still there.
I pulled up and asked if she needed a ride. Her voice cracked as she humbly said no but asked if she could make a call on my cell phone. She was freezing and had no purse, no shoes. I told her I would pull around and she can warm up and make the call. She made her calls and no one answered. She told me she didn't want to ask me to drive her home because it was so far. However, it happened to be the exact same town I live in about a mile from my home. (God is so funny that way!) I ended up taking her to her ride and she was flooded with relief and gratefullness.
I tell you this story not to share how great I am. After I dropped my new friend off, I felt as if I had gone on a mission trip. So often, I like to make things so much bigger and grander than they need to me. It taught me that a mission trip can be found in Cary, NC just as much as it can be found in Costa Rica. People need help everywhere.
I have decided to live more dangerously without going anywhere. But it had to start with opening my eyes to opportunities right in front of me. Every day could be my personal mission trip to help others without Patagonia clothes, scaling mountains or even visiting a Third World country.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Mom the Hockey Dork
With kid hockey season in full swing, my Saturday and Sunday mornings now start with an adrenaline rush and the brain tug moment of "what time was practice today?"
The thing I have come to learn about youth hockey is that the time set for practice is always a moving target. A fluid, ethereal spot in my day that may change by rink, by time and even by the night before.
So here I am Saturday morning, sleepy, hair askew and wheeling the biggest bag of equipment ever imagined. A bag so big I could probably pack two seven-year old boys and all their equipment too. Yet my son is proud that he has this big statement of a bag, nevermind I'm dragging it behind him.
It's a gorgeous fall day, a warmish Indian Summer spectacular, and I breathe deeply knowing only too soon we will find ourselves inside the sweatiest, feet-smelling changing room. The locker room, about the size of an airport Starbucks, has 16 kids and mostly dads, all with that same ridiculous monster bag. To say I am overwhelmed -- you betcha.
They all know what they are doing. The moms even know what they are doing -- wielding huge handfuls of tape to their son's gear, smartly lacing up skates and pads and other acoutrements. At age seven, I was working on my Barbie townhome, organizing tea parties and feeding my Baby Alive pretend food. I wasn't putting on Shock Jock sport cups with coordinating Under Armour athletic pants.
So here I am, feeling like the biggest dork among a sea of cool, in-crowd hockey knowers. All this stuff feels completely unnatural to me and if I could talk my son into another sport, I would do it in a heart beat. But I know I am projecting my own insecurities on a boy who doesn't even notice.
As we wait for our turn on the big white sheet of ice, we watch the Junior Hurricanes play. Kids flush in talent and amazingly only ten or eleven years old -- they are stunning to watch. I am humbled by my son's face as he see these "kid heroes" come off the ice. I see him stand taller watching them come by. His face is serious with a look of resolve and pride -- knowing if he works hard enough, he could be just like them.
Hockey is not for the faint at heart -- it is risk, adventure and power rolled up on a frozen oval. I have no idea if my son will continue to love it as much as he does now. He is undertaking something where I have nothing to teach him. But in hockey, we both are learning how to be passionate about the sport together. Yes -- passion is a life lesson that is of beautiful value whether you are seven or 70. Even a dorky mom gets that.
The thing I have come to learn about youth hockey is that the time set for practice is always a moving target. A fluid, ethereal spot in my day that may change by rink, by time and even by the night before.
So here I am Saturday morning, sleepy, hair askew and wheeling the biggest bag of equipment ever imagined. A bag so big I could probably pack two seven-year old boys and all their equipment too. Yet my son is proud that he has this big statement of a bag, nevermind I'm dragging it behind him.
It's a gorgeous fall day, a warmish Indian Summer spectacular, and I breathe deeply knowing only too soon we will find ourselves inside the sweatiest, feet-smelling changing room. The locker room, about the size of an airport Starbucks, has 16 kids and mostly dads, all with that same ridiculous monster bag. To say I am overwhelmed -- you betcha.
They all know what they are doing. The moms even know what they are doing -- wielding huge handfuls of tape to their son's gear, smartly lacing up skates and pads and other acoutrements. At age seven, I was working on my Barbie townhome, organizing tea parties and feeding my Baby Alive pretend food. I wasn't putting on Shock Jock sport cups with coordinating Under Armour athletic pants.
So here I am, feeling like the biggest dork among a sea of cool, in-crowd hockey knowers. All this stuff feels completely unnatural to me and if I could talk my son into another sport, I would do it in a heart beat. But I know I am projecting my own insecurities on a boy who doesn't even notice.
As we wait for our turn on the big white sheet of ice, we watch the Junior Hurricanes play. Kids flush in talent and amazingly only ten or eleven years old -- they are stunning to watch. I am humbled by my son's face as he see these "kid heroes" come off the ice. I see him stand taller watching them come by. His face is serious with a look of resolve and pride -- knowing if he works hard enough, he could be just like them.
Hockey is not for the faint at heart -- it is risk, adventure and power rolled up on a frozen oval. I have no idea if my son will continue to love it as much as he does now. He is undertaking something where I have nothing to teach him. But in hockey, we both are learning how to be passionate about the sport together. Yes -- passion is a life lesson that is of beautiful value whether you are seven or 70. Even a dorky mom gets that.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Yo Yo Ma and Me
Last week I was lucky enough to see Yo-Yo Ma perform (world class cellist for those that don't know.)
Now before you roll your eyes and peg me as an elitest snob, I confess that I am an amateur classical music lover at best. I am a Saturday morning sipping coffee sort of classical music person. It relaxes me and it seems like the right thing to do on a quiet morning.
As a kid, after spending weekend visits with my dad, we would commute to the hospital where he worked about 20 minutes away. My dad's ritual was to drive and bask in the beautiful music during road time. As a sleepy child, I thought this had to be the best possible way to start the day -- riding with my dad and listening to grand sounding music from faraway places.
Each time I listen to classical music, I am transported again. When you are listening, really listening to it, you can't help but watch how your breath slows. My mind soon begins to wander off to distant places, thoughts and ideas, carried on big curvy bends of music. It's like taking a vacation and yet going no where.
Afterthe Yo Yo Ma experience, a friend and I were discussing what we think about during the performance. Each of us had different answers about the places our minds took us, but we all agreed it was a wonderful journey.
Listening to Yo Yo Ma, I couldn't help but think about my childhood pastor, Rev. Stephen Wardwell. He was a huge classical music fan and his house was right across the street from mine. As a child with nothing but time on her hands, I would visit often to see what was going on at his house. Usually he was working or studying or gardening, but always there was classical music. I can remember him introducing me to all his favorite pieces and famous musicians, including Yo Yo Ma.
He even let me make a cassette copy of his complete works of Dvorak one day. I can remember leaving his home and thinking I was probably the most cultured 9 year old kid on the planet. I had my own copy of Dvorak's music.
Classical music gives me an appreciation for things I cannot understand. How do people make this music? How do people like Yo-Yo Ma get this talented? Why does music speak to my soul in ways that the written word can never venture?
I guess that's what makes it so beautiful and vapor-like. It begins in a dream for the composer and ends in a dream for the listener.
Now before you roll your eyes and peg me as an elitest snob, I confess that I am an amateur classical music lover at best. I am a Saturday morning sipping coffee sort of classical music person. It relaxes me and it seems like the right thing to do on a quiet morning.
As a kid, after spending weekend visits with my dad, we would commute to the hospital where he worked about 20 minutes away. My dad's ritual was to drive and bask in the beautiful music during road time. As a sleepy child, I thought this had to be the best possible way to start the day -- riding with my dad and listening to grand sounding music from faraway places.
Each time I listen to classical music, I am transported again. When you are listening, really listening to it, you can't help but watch how your breath slows. My mind soon begins to wander off to distant places, thoughts and ideas, carried on big curvy bends of music. It's like taking a vacation and yet going no where.
Afterthe Yo Yo Ma experience, a friend and I were discussing what we think about during the performance. Each of us had different answers about the places our minds took us, but we all agreed it was a wonderful journey.
Listening to Yo Yo Ma, I couldn't help but think about my childhood pastor, Rev. Stephen Wardwell. He was a huge classical music fan and his house was right across the street from mine. As a child with nothing but time on her hands, I would visit often to see what was going on at his house. Usually he was working or studying or gardening, but always there was classical music. I can remember him introducing me to all his favorite pieces and famous musicians, including Yo Yo Ma.
He even let me make a cassette copy of his complete works of Dvorak one day. I can remember leaving his home and thinking I was probably the most cultured 9 year old kid on the planet. I had my own copy of Dvorak's music.
Classical music gives me an appreciation for things I cannot understand. How do people make this music? How do people like Yo-Yo Ma get this talented? Why does music speak to my soul in ways that the written word can never venture?
I guess that's what makes it so beautiful and vapor-like. It begins in a dream for the composer and ends in a dream for the listener.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
The Reluctant Hockey Mom
I'm trying to channel Sarah Palin.
Not necessarily the high power, VP candidate, political Sarah. More of the effervescent hockey mom Sarah Palin. In recent days, she glowingly declares she's a proud "hockey mom" among all the campaign rhetoric. I wish I could muster just a tiny bit of her enthusiasm -- at least for hockey that is.
This past weekend kicked off our six month journey in "Mighty Mite" hockey house leagues for seven and eight year olds. Let me repeat for effect, six months. As I peeled my son out of bed for early morning practices on both Saturday and Sunday, I couldn't help but ask myself "whose idea was this?"
He's seven. I know at some point we thought it would be brilliant fun to be decking ourselves out in ridiculous amounts of gear with razor sharp skates and zooming around with long sticks. To add more fuel to my doubts, my son declared on the way to the first practice "I don't think I want to do this next year." Great.
To make matters worse, I was walking in with another mom and son that I mistakenly assumed were in my camp. I smiled to her and said "remind me again why we are doing this?" She gave me a look like I had three heads as if to say, "lady, you better get with the program!" and then calmly said "because we love hockey of course!"
Despite my son's earlier statement, he tumbled off the ice changed. He was sweaty and stinky, but grinning ear to ear. Each time he sets foot on the ice, he comes off blooming with confidence and joy. And despite my grumblings, I know that this moment is worth it.
Not necessarily the high power, VP candidate, political Sarah. More of the effervescent hockey mom Sarah Palin. In recent days, she glowingly declares she's a proud "hockey mom" among all the campaign rhetoric. I wish I could muster just a tiny bit of her enthusiasm -- at least for hockey that is.
This past weekend kicked off our six month journey in "Mighty Mite" hockey house leagues for seven and eight year olds. Let me repeat for effect, six months. As I peeled my son out of bed for early morning practices on both Saturday and Sunday, I couldn't help but ask myself "whose idea was this?"
He's seven. I know at some point we thought it would be brilliant fun to be decking ourselves out in ridiculous amounts of gear with razor sharp skates and zooming around with long sticks. To add more fuel to my doubts, my son declared on the way to the first practice "I don't think I want to do this next year." Great.
To make matters worse, I was walking in with another mom and son that I mistakenly assumed were in my camp. I smiled to her and said "remind me again why we are doing this?" She gave me a look like I had three heads as if to say, "lady, you better get with the program!" and then calmly said "because we love hockey of course!"
Despite my son's earlier statement, he tumbled off the ice changed. He was sweaty and stinky, but grinning ear to ear. Each time he sets foot on the ice, he comes off blooming with confidence and joy. And despite my grumblings, I know that this moment is worth it.
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