Tag Archives: family

The Altars We Didn’t Know We Made (or Needed)

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Remember me
Though I have to say goodbye
Remember me
Don’t let it make you cry
For even if I’m far away I hold you in my heart
I sing a secret song to you each night we are apart

Remember me
Though I have to travel far
Remember me
Each time you hear a sad guitar
Know that I’m with you the only way that I can be
Until you’re in my arms again
Remember me

REMEMBER ME (LULLABY)

Let’s be honest—thanks to popular culture, there is curiosity around El Día de Los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. This Mexican holiday is celebrated on November 1 and 2 to honor and remember deceased loved ones. It is a joy-filled remembrance of life that involves building altars (ofrendas) with offerings, visiting and/or decorating graves, and sharing memories with family. The holiday blends ancient Mesoamerican and Spanish traditions into a celebration that welcomes the spirits of the dead for a brief reunion.

In recent years, this observance has taken on new meaning for me as more loved ones have passed from this life. It may sound selfish, but the idea of dedicating time to remember the most important people in our lives feels far more significant than some of the material-centered holidays we often celebrate. And while Día de los Muertos can be a grand, communal celebration, it can also be quietly observed in solitude.

Lately on social media, many creators have shared their stories, videos, and photos of their ofrendas. Some are elaborate and ornate, while others are simple and serene. Both are equally meaningful. At the same time, I’ve noticed conversations about who is “allowed” to participate, with some insisting on cultural credentials to take part in this day of remembrance. Yet, the overwhelming sentiment remains: we’ve all experienced loss, and the desire to honor those who shaped us is something universal.

A few days ago, I began putting out my Halloween decorations. As a 50-year-old empty nester, I don’t need to do this—and some might argue I shouldn’t—but Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays. I have such fond memories of it from childhood and of celebrating it with my own kids. What started as a plan to display a few old photos of my kids in their costumes quickly turned into a full-blown decorating session. On the built-in shelves, I decorated every corner, including two spaces where I already have photos of my mom and mother-in-law, and my sweet dog, Madeline.

These memorials stay out year-round. In realizing that, I saw that I had already created my own version of an ofrenda—a quieter one, perhaps, but deeply meaningful. It’s something I see every day. A space that holds memories 24/7. A space I could never imagine packing away. Every time I look at it, I thank God for blessing me with such beautiful souls in my life, even if only for a season.

In the Bible, altars were sacred spaces for worship, sacrifice, and offering—first built by Noah, Abraham, and others. They were places of remembrance, of unity, of meeting with God. Thinking about that reminds me of one of my favorite passages, Joshua 4:6–7, where God tells His people to stack stones by the Jordan River as a lasting reminder of what He did for them:

“In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them…”

Both the altar and the memorial stones tell the same story: that remembering matters. That marking what—and who—has shaped us is a sacred act.

I’m not going to tell you to build an altar in your home or decorate an ofrenda. But I will encourage you to make space for remembrance—a moment, a corner, a conversation, or even a prayer—to honor those who came before you and hold space in your heart. Whether through tradition, faith, or personal reflection, remembrance roots us in gratitude.

After all, memory itself is sacred.

Now, tell their stories.

Still Me at 50, Part 3: Boring by Choice, Fabulous by Design

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“For the unlearned, old age is winter; for the learned, it is the season of the harvest.” Hasidic saying

Don’t ask me what I want for dinner — I have no idea.
Ask me instead what I don’t want for dinner, and I probably won’t shut up.

One of the most beautiful parts of aging is wisdom. In fact, I think it’s the best part. Living five decades means I have very clear ideas about what works for me and what doesn’t. As a kid, I foolishly thought old people were boring — doing the same things day after day, with no excitement or mystery. Boy, was I wrong. Older folks curate the days they want. They sprinkle in excitement and mystery as it suits them. Old people are so cool.

I’ve tried — okay, half-heartedly — to become a morning person. I am now one with the fact that this will never happen. I’m a night owl. I’m all sunsets and stargazing and very little sunrise. Sure, I can wake with the sun if I absolutely have to. But it will never be my preference. I crave the quiet of night, when most of my time zone is tucked into bed, where they can’t call me, email me, or ask me what’s for dinner.

This is my peace.

Always a picky eater, I now fully embrace eating at home. Here is where all my favorite foods live — in my kitchen, made exactly how I like them. No more standing at restaurant counters wondering which entree I’m going to waste money on today. I don’t mind trying new places, but please don’t judge me when I immediately look for my standbys: sandwiches, soups, and salads.

This is my peace.

And while we’re fixing things: I have about a million brilliant ideas for making the world run more smoothly. (Just ask my friends and family, who lovingly decline every time I suggest they nominate me for President. Cowards.) Still, I stand by my platform: Let’s just make wearing black the standard life uniform and call it a day. As I’ve gotten older, my closet has morphed almost entirely into black — with a pop of color here and there for flair. I keep it real.

This is my peace.

Getting older doesn’t mean giving up excitement — it means getting better at choosing it. It means understanding what brings you comfort, what fuels your joy, and what you’re just fine living without. It’s not boring. It’s a beautiful kind of freedom. And for me, that freedom looks like tacos in my kitchen, black in my closet, sunsets on the hammock — and a little laughter tucked into every corner of the day…because I’m addicted to sitcom reruns.

ABOUT THIS SERIES: Still Me at 50 is a lighthearted look at life through the eyes of someone who’s not trying to reinvent herself—but maybe just tweak the coffee order. As I celebrate this milestone year, I’m reflecting on all the ways I’ve stayed the same (for better or worse), and laughing at how my younger self would probably high-five me for keeping it “real talk real.” These posts are part celebration, part confession, and all in good fun.

None of Us are Good at Tragedy

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All of the wrong things will be said.

And we will never hear enough of the right things.

The sadness, shock, and the fact that most of us are ill-equipped to deal with the bad stuff, the sad stuff, the unexpected, and especially grief means that we will likely screw things up. And we will screw it up more than once. I’ll say it again, none of us are good at tragedy.

As news of the D.C. crash broke, our sadness and disbelief quickly moved into blame, conspiracy theories, and political division.

If you’ve ever found yourself in a situation where you needed to offer grace, empathy, sympathy, aid, or any kind of support, you know that these things are not easy to do. Most of us spend our lifetime trying to avoid the bad stuff. It makes sense. None of this comes naturally. We are all flawed humans. No one wants to be in a situation like this. And yet, the reality is that we will experience tragedy and experience it more than once.

In these vulnerable times, we feel the need to clap back, answer back, and make sure that we’re heard…and maybe we shouldn’t. As we try to “do something,” soothe our own anxiety and find reason and explanation for the unexplainable, our sadness manifests itself as anger. Rather than crying, we lash out or worse—we post a zillion things on social media. According to therapists, everyone wants to be helped, heard, or hugged in times of stress or crisis. So often, in our attempts to satisfy these needs ourselves, we take the easiest route and cast blame while screaming at the top of our lungs, “This isn’t fair! It’s not right!” And it isn’t. The hardest part of tragedy and grief exists in the silence. Seeking to be helped, heard, or hugged may meet a need in the moment, but true healing is a long and slow process.

We can’t win here. People want answers, demand answers, and in the haste to give the people answers, we can say some pretty nasty things. We say unhinged things. We say dismissive things. We even make up things. We’ve been conditioned or maybe entitled to feel like we need to know and we need to know right now. Oftentimes we turn to authority figures, experts, and the news media for answers forgetting that they, too, are flawed humans who are also not good at tragedy. We love to make our politicians, law enforcement, religious leaders, and anyone who we don’t like or agree with into the enemy when we should be coming together in love, empathy, and understanding. While we can’t do much in these times of tragedy, we can honor others by offering prayers and extending peace.

You already know this, but these things are cyclical. We have quickly moved from disbelief and sadness to blame and now we’re learning the stories of the lives of the precious souls on Flight 5342 and in the helicopter that night. We mourn the loss while seeking answers and then we will wait. The news cycle, the political discourse, and life move on.

I am not good at tragedy. My heart has been broken enough times to know that this is part of life and no one escapes it. I take seriously the call to do no harm and offer my deepest condolences to the families and friends of those lost.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18

A (Figurative) Kneeler in Every Home (A Call to Act Rather than Complain)

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As a kid, I spent a lot of time at my grandmother’s house. I credit her with teaching me so many things (some of the biggest parts of my personality I can directly attribute to her), but the most important thing she taught me was how to pray. Through her, I learned that I was created on purpose and for a purpose. She took me to church and reminded me that God loved me unconditionally. She showed me that nothing was beyond forgiveness. In my opinion, she was the greatest example of a Christian woman I have ever known.

In her home, she had a kneeler. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a home with its own kneeler (before or since). It was a beautiful piece, made of wood with a lovely stain and it had a velvety cushion for your knees. (There’s a chance that my Papa made it, but I’m not 100% sure.) If you’ve never seen a kneeler I asked AI to generate what I can remember and the above rendition is pretty close. I was absolutely enamored with it! It was like having a church in your own house! The kneeler was designed to fit an adult, so as a small child, I couldn’t kneel and rest my hands on the top to pray. I knew you weren’t supposed to stand on the cushion, so what was a kid to do?

My grandma told me that you didn’t need a kneeler to pray. You could pray anywhere and at any time. While I knew that someday I would be able to reach the top of the kneeler, that little piece of assurance stuck with me. As a kid, I was plagued with nightmares. Praying helped. I’ve been a news junkie since I was in grade school and knowing about a big scary world caused me to worry and fear. Praying helped. Moving away from home and my support network was hard. Praying helped. Notice that I said that praying helped. It didn’t magically solve everything, but what it did do was deepen my faith and relationship with God. A God who pursues each of us, who hears and understands our worries and concerns, and reminds us that we are not alone even on the most friightening days.

It’s disheartening to know that so many disregard the power of prayer. It’s become a mode of attack in our modern culture to mock those who extend thoughts and prayers in times of crisis or as a way of offering comfort. Understand that praying people know that they are not lifting up their worries to a genie in the sky who will magically fix the ills of the world. Those of us who pray know that God is so much larger than that interpretation. The power of prayer is in the communication with our Creator. This is not lip service. Fervent prayer is action. It is often through prayer that we are called to act AND do more as we respond to the needs of others.

In the uncertainty of this new year, I have seen so many seek to complain and rile up their circles and communities. Many are calling out others, dividing families and friend groups, asking each other to take sides, and demonizing those who have differing thoughts and opinions. Several are canceling those who they once considered close and blocking people who they once called family or friends. This does so much more harm than good and it’s not taking place among those who don’t believe, this is happening within our own churches and communities of faith.

This is now a time for real in-depth conversations, in-person relationships, and profound listening. These things don’t take place in news stories, political chatrooms, or on social media. They take place around the table, in homes, and with open minds and hearts.

Please do not contribute to the hate, division, and fear that currently surrounds us. Pray and ask for discernment. Ask God to use you. Think before you speak (or post) so that you can be a source of hope and peace. Prayer is action. In this distressed world, many only contribute to the anxiety by spreading information that has not been fully researched or confirmed. News and information move at lightning speed and it is easy to get caught up in this vicious whirlwind.

At this point, I am again reminded of my grandma and her assurance that we can pray anywhere and at any time. I am more certain than ever that we need a (figurative) kneeler in every home to pray and hear God’s call and we need real-life, in-person conversations to listen and respond with compassion in order to truly make a difference, even if it’s only in our own tiny corner of the world.

This is not lip service. Fervent prayer is action.

In my distress I called upon the Lord; to my God I cried for help. From his temple he heard my voice, and my cry to him reached his ears. Psalm 18:6

GIFTED: A Childhood Christmas Memoir (Vignette Two)

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“A typewriter is a portal to worlds waiting to be discovered.” – Neil Gaiman

When I was eight I marched right into the kitchen and told my mom that I was going to college. She asked if I even knew what college was and I said, of course I do. It’s where you go after high school. And that was about as much as I knew about that. It wasn’t long after when I declared that I wanted to be a writer. I’m sure she wasn’t too surprised. I had been writing and illustrating my own books and telling bedtime stories to my siblings for years. Around 4th or 5th grade, I decided that I wasn’t going to be just any kind of writer, I would be a reporter and a reporter needs a typewriter.

At Christmas time I received a Petite 600, a portable little typewriter complete with a learner’s manual. I’m not sure how much of an odd ask it is to request a typewriter at Christmas time, but I’ll admit now that I was an odd kid. Opening that present was the beginning of a new era for me. And while I was not a good typist, typing was a heck of a lot faster than writing things out and that was good enough for me.

I remember writing stories and even creating my own family newspaper. I would play “newsroom” and “reporter” all the time. I would use carbon paper when I typed so I could create multiple copies of my newspaper to distribute. My sister and I even secured a Barbie 6 O’Clock News Play Set. The determination level was high.

I did go to college and became a reporter and as a blogger today, I’m still writing. Receiving a typewriter was one of my absolute favorite gifts. It was more than just getting what you want under the tree. The magic was in getting the typewriter you wanted because someone believed in your dreams just as much as you did. You can’t buy that kind of gift.

GIFTED is a three-part series about the best Christmas gifts I received in childhood. Take a walk with me down memory lane as I unwrap the magic of Christmases past.

GIFTED: A Childhood Christmas Memoir (Vignette One)

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“Christmas is a piece of one’s home that one carries in one’s heart.” – Freya Stark

The nostalgia of Black Friday shopping rears its head this time every year. Most people glorify the event, and as someone who tiptoed into these waters in the early 2000s, I never really experienced its full heyday. I’ve waited in pre-dawn lines and weaved through the crowds, but no punches were thrown, no shoving of any kind, and definitely no arrests. Still, whenever I think about Black Friday my mind immediately goes back to the 1980s when I was a kid and my Mom somehow managed to secure Cabbage Patch Kid dolls for me and my little sister.

I regret never asking mom for the full story, but I remember minor details. It went something like this: We desperately wanted Cabbage Patch Kids. We likely kept mentioning it and basically annoying my mom to no end. Miraculously the dolls showed up under the tree that Christmas! However, we both received boy dolls. First, I didn’t know Cabbage Patch Kids could be boys as all of my other dolls were girls. Second, my mom was prepared for our shock and confusion as she immediately told us we could adopt them as girls…if we wanted to. Her exact words were, “Peyton and Ramsey can be boy or girl names. So you get to choose.” Who knew?

Amanda had Ramsey and designated her doll a girl on the spot. This was easy to do because Ramsey had a gender-neutral outfit on. One hair bow later and she was all set! Peyton was another story. My doll was wearing a full-on football uniform. He had a helmet, a green jersey and white pants with a green stripe. Then my dad said something along the lines of maybe he’s named after Walter Payton. I knew who Walter Payton was and although my doll’s name was spelled differently, it all made sense to me. My doll stayed a boy. It was love at first sight!

We took those silly dolls everywhere. Back and forth to our grandparents, on car rides, and to bed with us every night. We snuggled them and dressed them in baby clothes. We took them to the grocery store. One of my favorite memories is that Amanda and I put both our dolls in the front of the cart and strapped them in like real babies and then we wandered off leaving my mom pushing around a cart of dolls while shopping. I remember that she wasn’t happy with us after all the strange looks she got that day in the store.

The following Christmas we received another Cabbage Patch Kid doll. Girls this time. Wanda was a cheerleader, the perfect match for my Peyton! I have a zillion stories about these dolls. We had so many adventures and eventually, I passed them on to my own daughter. While I’ll never know the full story of how my mom managed to snag our Cabbage Patch Kids, I do know that the magic of Christmas extends well beyond the day. It lives in these precious memories.

GIFTED is a three-part series about the best Christmas gifts I received in childhood. Take a walk with me down memory lane as I unwrap the magic of Christmases past.

“Griefing”…Marking Three Years (A Life Interrupted)

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I’ve taken to making up words. I guess that’s what happens after three years. We’ve moved past the point of surviving and here we are in this new reality—”griefing.” No longer adjusting to life without Mom as we are in fact living our lives without Mom. As you can imagine, this brings about a whole new stage of sadness.

While in survival mode the days blurred together. My mind began noting all of the things she was missing. All the milestones, events, holidays and ordinary moments. I would catch myself saying, “Mom should be here.” In survival mode you look at the calendar and note how much time has passed. In this early stage of grief you remember where you were in the days leading up to her positive COVID test, ER visits, hospital stay and ultimately her death. In survival mode you are doing everything you can to just get by. Griefing is different.

Griefing is living daily with this neverending sorrow. I feel like it’s a permanent stage, one you can’t escape. It feels like a step that will neither get better nor worse. The memories exist, but we are now making memories without her. I hate this feeling. The sting is still there, the tears remain just below the surface and yet there is this awful resignation. Understanding that this is part of the human condition doesn’t make it better. Knowing that millions of people feel exactly the same way doesn’t make it any easier. It’s this hidden current that runs through society and no one wants to talk about it. Ever.

It’s interesting to me that in the aftermath of COVID we are hearing more about prolonged grief and complicated grief as mental health conditions. Many are receiving these diagnoses and seeking treatment. And while I understand that some of the characteristics of these conditions are severe (such as the inability to resume daily activites, etc) I also think that our failure to cope with loss has more to do with a lack of communication and overall empathy for one another. I could go on and on about the societal demand to resume our work schedule, home life and the call to return to “normal,” but these things have become a staple of modern living and will lkely never change.

There are some things in life that we will never fully understand, death being one of them. Losing my Mother has changed my perspective on so many things. I now posess a form of patience and compassion that surprises me to this day. I have been humbled in a way I could have never imagined. Empathy has changed how I react to everything. I am different now. I am griefing.

Writing has been my therapy, the best form of solace for my grief. Who knows where I will be in this journey a year from now, five years from now or even ten (if I am afforded that luxury). They say time heals all wounds. It doesn’t. I’ll stand by that.

“A Life Interrupted” is an ongoing series of blog posts dealing with the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.

All the Pieces (A Life Interrupted)

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We are the living pieces of those who have loved us well.

Author unknown

Several years ago I came upon this photograph while scrolling through my social media feed. It immediately caught my eye. Never before had I seen such an accurate depiction of parenting. I remember at the time searching for the name of the artist or the title of the piece, the location of the sculpture, and any information that could offer a clue as to whether or not my interpretation was correct. I came up with countless Pinterest board pins, a few blog posts, and an entry on Reddit but no true identifying information. I immediately took a screenshot and vowed to continue the research at a later date. (Yes, I do things like that.)

Fast forward and this was the image that immediately came to mind when my Mother passed away in May of 2020. In my mind’s eye, I could see the pieces of the parent sculpture arranged to make up the form of the child sculpture. Sort of like a personified “giving tree,” the adult figure surrendering pieces of itself to the growing child he/she loves so much. In essence, the child was all the pieces of its creator…and thus all the pieces of the ultimate Creator. Did I still have the photo on my camera roll? I did a quick search. Yes, I still had it…safely tucked away between photos of my own growing children.

Today marks the second anniversary of my Mother’s death. This is a hard day. It’s hard not just because it marks the worst day but because it marks a series of the worst days. I texted my Dad this afternoon telling him that I have no real words and that the hurt remains the same today as it did two years ago. She is so dearly missed—and she has missed so many things:

  • grandchildren graduating from high school
  • a granddaughter earning her credentials to become a dental hygienist
  • a granddaughter earning her nursing pin
  • a daughter earning her Master’s Degree
  • grandchildren learning to drive
  • new house/cars
  • grandchildren’s sporting events/school dances
  • family vacation to the lake
  • and countless birthdays/anniversaries/holidays and special occasions

I’m sure I’m leaving a million things out and that’s just it…she has missed out and we have missed her in all the mundane everyday things, too. What we wouldn’t do to turn back time and walk into her house and find her there…

I feel like I have been on a two-year intense study into the anatomy of grief—why we grieve, how best to grieve, the cycle of grief, how to cope with grief, a pathway through grief, etc. It’s a course I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy and yet many of us find ourselves here. If I handed you my smartphone you would find bookmarked numerous articles, podcasts, books, meditation practices and graphics about grief and how to move forward. It’s a work in progress and from what I now know, it’s neither a straight line nor something you move on from entirely. There are so many parts, so many big and little pieces involved in loving someone deeply. I think that’s why this sculpture stood out to me way back when and why it still speaks to me today. It’s both a sad and happy reminder that we are in fact, all the pieces of those who have loved us, influenced us, and made us who we are today.

Now, I make it a purposeful habit to find my Mom in my own character, to see her traits and personality in my siblings, to find her best qualities in my children and her grandchildren, to see the parts of her that resonate within the people she loved and cared for—and I have not been disappointed! I see her best “pieces” show up as love, kindness, determination, creativity, strength, loyalty, perseverance, wisdom and so much more. These are the pieces of her that will live on through us and live on through generations as we share and tell her story and model all that she has taught us.

I dearly miss her. She is irreplaceable in my life, that much I know for certain. Like the child in the sculpture, I am her living pieces…we are her living pieces.

There are losses that rearrange the world. Deaths that change the way you see everything, grief that tears everything down. Pain that transports you to an entirely different universe, even while everyone else thinks nothing has really changed.

― Megan Devine

“A Life Interrupted” is an ongoing series of blog posts dealing with the loss of my mother to COVID-19.

From Gray to Grace

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Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it.  —Haruki Murakami

Last week’s tragedy will never make sense.  No answer will ever be good enough.  Understanding will likely never come.  A life cut short.  Senseless violence.

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ERNIE ORTIZ 1949-2019

It has been said that we’re all one phone call away from dropping to our knees. And nothing has ever been more true. Human life is fragile and fleeting. Most of us naively walking around as if we have all the time in the world, as if our days are not numbered, as if we have some sense of control…and sadly, we do not.  And while life itself is a gift, we don’t always live like it.  Our words, our actions, our brokenness speak for themselves reminding us that we are all fallible humans.  Even the best of us walk the line between sinner and saint daily.

So it is no surprise that at some point, we all find ourselves here…struggling with loss in its many forms, be it friendships, relationships, marriages, jobs, hopes or dreams, but I feel it is the loss of life that hurts the most.  It’s inescapable.  Unavoidable.  The grief, the permanency, maybe even the unknown…it fills our thoughts, occupies our hearts and often leaves wounds that never quite heal.

Statistically, death occurs on a bell curve with our most vulnerable moments at the beginning and the end of our life spans.  If you’re lucky, it’s something one only deals with during their latter days.  We know that death due to age, illness, and disease remain tragic, but a life taken too soon, a life snuffed out, a life robbed at any age hurts as if it’s been compounded tenfold.  Many will tell you that time heals all wounds.  Maybe.  More realistically though, time only allows for space between the hurt.

Finding peace is all circumstances isn’t easy.  In fact, it’s a lot of work.  If you’re not a Christian, I honestly don’t know how you do it.  For me, knowing that I have a God who walks beside me is something that I don’t take for granted.  When I am weak, He is my strength.  When I am lost, He is my rock.  Christ’s ultimate sacrifice reminds us that death doesn’t have the final say.  Uncle Ernie was a believer, I take comfort in that.  Our lives, our very existence is not in vain.  On the mountaintop and in the valley, there remains a plan and a purpose for each of us.

In the days and weeks to come, stories will be told and photos will be shared. In talking with family, we have chosen to focus on the “dash” and celebrate a life LIVED.  As poet Linda Ellis explains, “He noted that first came the date of birth and spoke of the following date with tears, but he said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years.”  And what a dash it was!  Countless adventures, innumerable memories, and a bounty of friends.

When you’re a kid, life seems so black and white.  There’s good and evil.  Right and wrong.  The lines are clearly drawn.  As we grow up, move from adolescence through adulthood, we realize that life is actually more of a marbled gray.  Dark shades, complicated, stressful, and uneven as we navigate day to day living among the broken, but intermixed with bright hues, beautiful, joyful, and full of promise!  As we all inch forward, I pray that we move from that marbled gray into grace!  Life is too short to live any other way.  Let us approach each other more tenderly and offer love, patience, and kind words…only then can we truly find resolve (and maybe even peace) along the way.

Rest Easy, Uncle Ernie.

For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. 

2 Corinthians 5:1

KEEP CALM, Summer’s Coming (15 Days of Sunshine-Inspired Songs) SONG 6

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Sometimes the best vacation is a staycation.  –author unknown

I love the movie, “The Wizard of Oz,” for many reasons…but especially for the line,”there’s no place like home.”  It’s just so true.  Of course, one never knows just how much they love home until they move away.  At least that’s how it was for me.  That’s why this next song made my summer music playlist.  I can remember coming home to visit my parents and my dad blasting this song on repeat FOR HOURS AND HOURS in the garage.  The funniest thing was that no one complained.  In fact, there were many times that I caught family members singing along!

“Heaven” by Los Lonely Boys came out in the summer of 2004.  I was in my late 20s, married with one child…and I was pretty much anything but hip.  But there’s something about this song that just makes you feel cool–regardless of age.  “Heaven,” written by a trio of brothers from Texas, captures a laid back summer vibe with its infectious chorus.  Peaking at No. 16 on the Billboard Top 100, the tune went on to No. 1 on the adult contemporary charts for 16 weeks.  Interestingly enough, the song also registered on the country music charts, too.  The song eventually led to two Grammy nominations and one win in 2005.  Their biggest hit to date, this song set the tone for so many that summer.

It doesn’t take much for me to remember that afternoon at my parent’s house.  It’s always a party when we visit!  Lots of family, food and laughter.  I can still see my son (a toddler at the time) working his dance moves outside in the garage with my dad.  Whenever I hear “Heaven” it puts a smile on my face and I am grateful for both summer and a place to call home!

Up Next:  SONG 7…”That’s when I had most of my fun….”