Twenty-two years ago tomorrow I stood at the back of the church after the service. It was Mother's Day - a hard day for me as I'd given up hope of ever being a mother. A little Jamaicain lady in the church came up to me and gave me a hug. She whispered in my ear "next year you will be spending Mother's Day with your son". I just nodded. She didn't understand. There was no way that was going to happen.
Twenty-one-years ago tomorrow at 8:31 AM I looked into the beautiful brown eyes of the most precious baby boy in the world. Twenty-one-years ago tomorrow, I spent Mother's Day with my son.
Happy twenty-first birthday Ryan Guy! You are the most wonderful gift a mother could ever hope for.
I learned a very important Thanksgiving lesson this year. A wonderful meal and a memorable day have absolutely nothing to do with table decorations or a fully equipped kitchen. It's not as much about total organization as it is about total devotion. I had the rare opportunity to watch a perfect meal unfold in a setting that would have sent a seasoned, more mature couple into therapy. A perfectly choreographed dance couldn't have been more beautiful to watch. A meal to remember. An unforgettable day. Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Davis for inviting us to share in your first Thanksgiving dinner in your first home. Love you both!
I'm a child of the King! I'm married to the most wonderful man in the world. I'm the mother of a very handsome, talented and extremely entertaining nearly twenty-one-year-old, who has embarked on an adventure of his own as he serves his country as an army medic in the mid-East. I'm old enough to be getting mail from AARP, but young enough to enjoy shooting straw papers across the table at unsuspecting people in restaurants. I am fortunate to have some of the most wonderful friends a girl could ask for . . .sisters in every sense of the word. My husband and I have just recently moved from "Eden" in Florida to "the promised land" in the hills of Kentucky. Join with us as we begin our wonderful adventure on Goldens Creek.