October 11th, 2011 | 2 Comments »

He’s the guy who touches the sky. He hangs from cables and works his magic. People stop and stare.  The places he goes and the things he does — oh how he amazes me.   He thrills me!  He works so hard, and he’s so very good at what he does.  I respect that immeasurably.

up, up, up, so high in the sky

He sent me a text message the other day:  “I sprayed your name on the building two stories up.  Everyone can see your name in Pioneer Square, my love bug.”

And so he did.

Spiderman - ready for action

there's this girl...

my name, for all to see

It makes me think, betcha by golly wow — you’re the one that I’ve been dreaming of forever.

And so he is.

There’s something about this guy…  He has a heart of gold.  He is kind.  He is gentle.  He is good.  He smiles and the warmth of his presence lights up the room.  He is tall.  My head fits perfectly in that wonderful place between his shoulder and his neck.  His eyes are the most beautiful blue, and not only beautiful because they are blue, but beautiful because they are the windows to his soul.  He shines, this man.  He is smart.  He is more than competent.  He is confident and enthusiastic.  He is compassionate.  He is responsible.  He is fine and upstanding.  He is strong, mature, educated, thoughtful, playful, sensitive, wise, elegant, savvy, honest, healthy, trustworthy, fun, dependable, interesting, passionate, alive, affectionate, communicative, understanding, and patient.  In a word, excellent.

making music

He sings to me, for me, and with me. He makes my heart pound and takes my breath away.

brightly his light shines

He has a heart for me.
And I am so very blessed to be the woman of his dreams.

Posted in love, me, men
October 26th, 2007 | No Comments »

The other day as I was leaving work, about to enter the freeway, I saw a family standing on the corner, hoping for a ride. A very large man holding a large sealed cardboard box. A fairly large woman holding a sleeping child, draped in an afghan. The child looked to be five or six, judging by the length of the body compared to the woman’s stature. It struck me deeply in many ways.

I wanted to stop and give them a ride. But I didn’t.

I see my own sleeping child. In my arms, he is just as big as that other child. I carry him upstairs to put him to bed. How grateful I am that my child is safe and sound in a warm home with plenty to eat and a comfortable and safe place to rest.

How frustrated I am that the possibility that these people weren’t who they represented themselves to be would overrule my natural inclination to help my fellow man.

How I wished my husband had been with me. Then we could have given them a ride.

Were they homeless? Where were they going? Where did they come from? My office is so close to the airport, and there are regularly scheduled buses. Could they not afford bus fare? Was everything they owned sealed carefully in that box?

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Posted in thankfulness