The title sounds glorious. I refuse to give in to the melancholy that stalks me today. The calendar turned from February to March and with it, a cold stone came to life in my stomach, reminding me of the reason why I dread March.
I have dreamed of my daughter this past week. From what little I remember, a very young Jolene had a baby.
Then I woke up and . . . realized the falsity of the dream.
I thought this year might be different. I breezed through February.
In any case. . .your prayers are appreciated, as always.
But the magnificence of March shows in other ways.
My oldest granddaughter (by marriage) turns eighteen this week.
Jaran will be thirty-four in less than two weeks.
We arrive at St. Patrick's Day. I've always believed my great-grandmother arrived in America from Ireland, but my recent research on ancestry.com suggests otherwise. I may not be Irish at all. But as long as I have a bit of the blarney, that is all that matters, is it not?
This month I get to teach an online course to members of a national writing organization. The timing is perfect, to keep me too busy to worry overmuch about the anniversaries.
This week I hope to hear back on two writing projects I submitted. I may be on the cusp of getting even busier.
Oh, yes, Jaran will deliver my new computer as soon as the weather cooperates on a weekend.
I have several reasons to rejoice this month.
Including Jolene, up in heaven, who might tending to a heavenly nursery even as I write.
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