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welingerinwinterscarf

Scarf designed by Christiana Lambert for Knotty Tie, Co. in 2016 (sewn by an employee who is a resettling refugee).

I have all the words—and they’re just running rampant in my head and not getting out into the world. I have so many words that—forgive me—I’m not going to find it possible to “mind the metaphor,” as my friend used to caution.

I returned to work just under a year ago (anniversary date=02.01) and have yet to find my way back to my writing routine. But what a year this past year has been—exactly not the year for me to go silent. Heck, what a week it has been.

How many of us have been rendered almost speechless daily by the changes wrought on our nation? You’re just trying to do your part by performing the work you are paid to do and then you come home to discover yet another congressional action or executive order has happened—and you are stunned. Stunned that what it meant to be the United States of America can change so radically in such little time.

As I sat in church this morning, I listened to lessons from the lectionary (a three-year cycle of prescribed bible verses that many churches follow) that seemed hand-picked for just the times in which we are living. Coincidence? Not likely. Micah 6:8’s exhortation to “do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God” and Matthew’s beatitudes (the “blessed ares” that turn the power of this world on its head) as well as 1st Corinthians’ talk of the seeming “foolishness” of following Christ’s ways are words I needed to hear to remember that God is in charge—even if His not-so-subtle message is that we’re going to have to walk our walk for Him in the days and months ahead.

I have one writing prompt this week and it’s to write a prayer to pray at choir this coming Wednesday. What follows is my brainstorming for my assignment. I originally chose that date because Wednesday is almost Candlemas, which is celebrated on February 2. Traditionally in the church, February 2 is the day that commemorates the presentation of the infant Christ in the temple, as the date follows 40 days after His birth. Candlemas also was when families would bring in their candles to have them blessed for the year ahead. We here in America celebrate Groundhog Day on that day as we look for a furry critter to predict whether spring will arrive early or come as planned. From a strictly chronological viewpoint, February 2 is halfway through the winter—a time when we either start to wonder if spring will ever come or when the slightly longer days remind us that spring’s arrival is getting closer.

This year it seems we are stuck in the darkness of this particular winter of our discontent. We can hardly look ahead to spring. We are a nation in discord with members of our own families, with neighbors, and with other people of faith—as well as with our traditional enemies (both personal and national). Well, that groundhog has already seen the shadow—and it is the shadow that holds our prejudices and fears as well as our turning away from the pain and suffering of others.

But Candlemas is all about blessing the candles—which were the only source of light for homes in the days before other light sources were invented. Those simple sources of light were all people had to brighten the remainder of the year. In other words, the Presentation of the Lord is the ceremony that reminds us that He is the Light of the World. And that we who follow Him are called to be that light not just in our own homes, but also in our home that is this earth.

I don’t have a clue as to how we’re going to fix this mess our country is in, but I know God does. He knows how He’s going to mend the fractures amongst people who follow Him as well as with those who profess another faith and those who profess no faith. And I think it’s going to look an awful lot like people walking their faiths in order to bring about light.

In the words of Henry David Thoreau, “We loiter in winter while it is already spring.” No matter what the calendar says, we have all the light we need to fight this darkness and bring on a period of growth. I’ll just continue my quote-fest here by adding the motto of my alma mater (Wittenberg University): Having light we pass it on to others.

Having light (that means we already have it!), WE pass it on to others.

I can’t tell you why but during one of the darkest national times in my experience during one of the traditionally darkest months of the year, this typically stoic Lutheran kept wanting to throw her hand up in the air while singing about the beatitudes in the hymn “Blest Are They” (by David Haas and Michael Joncas). (Might it be God, perhaps?)

Providing blessings and bringing light into this current world is going to look a whole lot like walking—walking among those who are poor in spirit—for theirs is the kingdom of God.

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(c) 2015 Christiana Lambert

(c) 2015 Christiana Lambert

Once upon a time I was a small-town girl living in a lonely world—well, while attempting to get my career started in the metropolitan area where I have since lived for over 31 years. I first came to Denver to study book publishing at the (University of) Denver Publishing Institute, returning a month later for good.

I didn’t find many openings in book publishing so I set out to information-interview the local publishing companies. After one such interview, my car (of the same vintage I was—young for human years, but old in car years) broke down at the side of the road—fortuitously by a gas station that still had working mechanics on site. The young mechanic got me back on the road (for free!) and I returned to the faraway suburb where I was staying with my mother’s friends during my initial job search.

Fast-forward (slow-forward?) almost 30 years and I answered a job post (through the Publishing Institute’s job listing) for the same company I visited right before the car’s roadside drama. Morton Publishing is still in the exact same location, although expanded, yet the people interviewing me were much younger than I was, including one I knew from yoga. I did not get that position but later that year Morton contacted me about doing freelance proofreading for them as they went through the busy preparations for the annual textbook releases. Completed two books for them in 2014 and four in 2015.

This loop in my life looks even more orchestrated when I think about how I met and married a man who owned a house less than a mile from Morton. I have lived and socialized and worked out in the same community as where the company is for almost 28 years. For 11 of those years I have attended the yoga class where I originally met someone who would eventually work at Morton because another student—who later joined our yoga class—worked at the company.

Over the years I’ve deviated from my original dream to work in book publishing. I began in magazine publishing, but fell into (and learned to like) numbers work there. I reasoned that I could do numbers work in a variety of industries, so I moved into a financial reporting business. At one time I was even an accountant—and, yet words kept calling me. I eventually wrote articles and compiled detailed charts for magazine articles. And then—through that yoga class—I connected with an author who needed an editor for two projects over many years.

And, now, I start a job as assistant editor at Morton in just over week. As my daughter pointed out, “It took you 31 years to get that job.” Right—while the company was growing, and while I was adding to my skills as well as raising a family.

Don’t stop believing.

(About the photo.)

(c) 2016 Trina Lambert

(c) 2016 Trina Lambert

If you saw me this past weekend you might wonder just how and why I became coated in the dust of ages. Well, about once every 10 years or so I have to clean out the office—whether or not it needs it. Truth? It needed it.

However, changing around the office is not exactly a new year’s resolution project, despite the timing. I likely would have lived with the hidden dust behind the furniture longer if we hadn’t needed to find more space. I am formally welcoming an officemate—well, a human one beyond the two or three dogs that often hang out in here when I am working at my desk. Welcome, Christiana, to the office down the hall. The dog hair is plentiful (although not as much after the recent cleaning spree) but the commute is short.

My daughter recently finished additional schooling (a certificate in graphic design) to round out her BFA and has begun her job search. But as a fine artist/graphic artist, she’s always going to have work-from-home projects in the pipeline and since this is her home for at least the near future, I’d rather those projects not take over the living room too often. We’ve already tried out working in the same space while she created and completed projects for her courses and, so far, we seem to be able to finish our work without causing each other trouble—but more space would allow that to happen with a whole lot more ease.

And in this 1940s office, more space means moving on up—at least as far as storage goes. (“Moving on up” is also the phrase my husband Sherman and I chose for 2016.) No more (horizontal) credenza that has served me a little too well over the years. Sherman and son Jackson moved it for use in our basement. So grateful for their efforts—and that neither of them died during the process. Yes, moving furniture in this 1940s house is often a life and death pursuit.

Non-hipsters that Sherman and I are, we had never really considered that homes such as ours are exactly what IKEA furniture is designed for rather than for those modern suburban homes with up-to-code doorways and large rooms with few walls. My friends, we are no longer IKEA innocents, but after a two-hour trek checking out everything (I mean everything) the store sells, we decided that for now we’d stick with the cheaper (and much bulkier) close-out vertical wardrobe we found at Lowe’s. Should the both of us (my daughter and I) one day decide to make our fortunes full-time in this space, we will likely put some of those fortunes toward IKEA and its Tinker-Toyification of storage solutions.

But for now we’re settling for sturdy upright storage and a whole lot less dust. I love how the office is shaping up but what the heck am I going to with all those piles I’d rather just forget crowding the dining room table and other furniture? The point of keeping my daughter’s doodads from spilling into the other rooms is moot if I replace them with my own.

Dust in the wind I may be, but without tackling my own copious baggage and putting more than a little of the dust from that baggage into the air by cleaning and moving it out, I’m destined to be held back by the whatchamacallits and thingamajigs I have collected. When my days on this earth are done, I’d rather that stuff and dust are not the only legacies I leave behind.

Pardon the dust—it’s got to get a little dirty in here first in order for me to move on up.

(c) 2013 Trina Lambert

(c) 2013 Trina Lambert

Hello—long time no write. Oh, I have some good excuses—paid work, volunteer work, cleaning for family, and being with family, etc.—but the truth is more along the lines that I don’t want to be just one more angry voice in this year of discord. So often I have reacted to what I’ve heard and read this year with anger. Lucky you—I’ve pretty much saved those frequent rants for family and friends.

I am still waiting for a Rodney King moment this year—not the “beat on Rodney” moment, but the “Can’t we all get along?” Rodney moment. Seems that if that’s what I’m waiting for I’m just not going to write in 2015, you know what I mean?

But we’ve reached one of my favorite times of the year: Advent. I’m not talking about the Decembers of “spend, spend, spend” or too many great Christmas carols turned into “are you serious?” pop versions or calendars full of “must-dos” and little empty space. I’m talking about waiting in the darkness for a light that comes to save us from ourselves and our petty human ways. I’m talking about how a little child shall lead us. I’m talking about God Immanuel.

And, boy, don’t we need a God with us these days? Not the God referenced in all the various and opposing opinions expressed in the public arena, but a God who sent his son to change us from our petty humanness. A God who asks the lion to lie down with the lamb. A God of peace. Peace on this earth? Can you imagine?

Last night in choir practice, our group of very human singers was struggling mightily with a piece called “Magnificat” by Halsey Stevens. Stevens’ “Magnificat” is an arrangement with many changing time meters and notes of discord between parts that mar any perception of harmony—except in the resolution of the final notes at the end of the piece. I get what the metaphor expresses—about just how jarring was the angel’s revelation to Mary that she would bear a child—a child not conceived in the usual way and a child of God in a human form in a way that had never happened before. But that is not the Mary of Luke’s Magnificat passages.

Oh, she was greatly troubled at the angel’s initial greeting: “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.” (Luke 1:28, NIV) Yet after she asked questions and received his answers, she was all in. “I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May it be to me as you have said.” (Luke 1:38, NIV)

Next Mary visits her cousin Elizabeth. Before Mary can say anything to Elizabeth, the Holy Spirit fills Elizabeth and Elizabeth knows that Mary is indeed blessed to be the mother of God’s child. Other than asking why she would be so favored, Mary does nothing but accept what she is called to do.

However, she not only accepts, but she also sings that her soul glorifies the Lord and her spirit rejoices in God. There is so little discord in her song.

The Mary of this story glows—she is all light.

Thirty years ago I saw such a Mary in an obscure play (The Christmas Miracles) at the local performance venue. The pre-fame Annette Bening became this acceptance and joy in a manner that sticks with me always, especially when I hear the words of Mary’s song.

May it be so with me—that I not dissolve into discord and misgivings no matter how dark the times. That I not let the darkness swallow me and keep me from bringing forth the kind of light—pale though it may be to the Light of Mary’s story—that I myself am called to share.

In these dark times we need to be lights in a world that would rather stay in darkness. We need a little Magnificat right now, right this very minute . . . we need a little Magnificat right now.

(c) 2015 Christiana Lambert

(c) 2015 Christiana Lambert


Winter term, freshman year, on a bleak, white-washed January Ohio day, I showed up for the first day of that necessary evil of college: composition or expository writing or whatever you want to call the class each college makes you take to ensure you write well enough to get through any future college writing assignments. That day I met my future academic adviser, though I didn’t know it yet. The major hadn’t chosen me yet so I still had the adviser assigned to me before I showed up on campus. Dr. B. seemed the picture of one of those common caricatures of what a literature professor is like—he was a former beatnik with a salt and pepper early Beatles’ style haircut who rode an old black bike across campus, keeping his small manual typewriter set in the mesh basket attached to the front. He wanted us to call him by his initials or his nickname, but I stuck with the formal “Dr.” whenever I addressed him. I was way more uptight than this man, but we got along just fine, nonetheless.

When I left for college, I wrote well enough—you know, for a person who could apply basic grammar rules. My papers made sense and I could say what I meant. Still, like most of my peers, I did not write well enough to test out of the basic composition class. At the time I put that down to a writing prompt that had something to do with the Iran Hostage Crisis. As I mentioned in the previous post, I was really not into thinking that deeply at that point in time, but I’m pretty certain the reason I didn’t test out of the class was because I needed to take it not because of the difficulty of the prompt.

What I learned most in his class was less about writing with correct grammar—because I already did that well—and more about how to create writing that sounded fresh in a variety of settings. Yes, we could insert fragments (incomplete sentences) as long as we applied them sparingly and used our pens to indicate we knew what and where they were. (Excuse me while I apologize to him right now since it appears I often ignore his “sparingly” rule regarding usage of fragments—sorry, Dr. B.)

However, the fragments are just something that really resonates with who I am as a writer. I imagine I might write better if I stopped making quite so many asides. Not that I’m stopping. (Mark that frag. for Dr. B.) What mattered most was that he taught me and all my classmates the difference between writing in passive and active voice. He challenged us to circle every instance of passive voice we used in our papers and to leave as few as necessary in the final drafts. Even if I hadn’t majored in English or chosen to write/edit, I would have needed to learn this—hey, I think everyone needs to know how to write in active voice. Not only does writing become more immediate with active voice, but using it also forces writers to search deeper for just the right verb, something that tends to develop a more creative process.

To this day, I struggle to get through a book that distances itself through passive language. Maybe reading all those (mostly ancient) philosophy texts my first weeks in college influenced the amount of relief I felt from learning how to bring about some clarity in writing! Yet, I have read books on topics such as probability, process management, business, psychology, and DNA but only if written well—which for me tends to mean the writing uses active language. Even the chemistry and astronomy textbooks I proofread last fall avoided most usages of passive voice—the writing spelled out concepts in a straightforward and accessible manner that should aid future students in applying those concepts to the associated exercises and experiments.

Some of life happens to us—passive voice sometimes works in the tales we tell of those stories, but not always—unless, of course, we are deliberately trying to downplay the action. Imagine the emotional and visual difference between saying “I was hit by a car” versus saying “A car hit me”—one creates distance and a sort of matter-of-fact impression of the news while the other projects a strong picture that could lead to a more visceral response. Nonetheless, the first statement is exactly how my mother finally admitted she did remember after all that a car hit her first before she came home and fell again. Though my mom had a story to tell, she did not want to do so—she deliberately fell back on passive voice to obfuscate the facts.

Don’t make the mistake of using passive voice when you really want others to hear your story, though. Doesn’t matter if it’s an annual report for a business or a technical how-to piece or the story of how your mother broke her foot—if you want the reader to stay with the story, write in active voice as often as you can.

(Even after a car hit my mother, she healed well. Thank goodness we soon found a doctor practiced enough at listening to seniors that he could interpret passive voice narratives meant to conceal health and/or safety concerns.)

(c) 2011 Christiana Lambert

(c) 2011 Christiana Lambert

Good morning! And, yes it is. Yesterday, no matter how the day progressed, I could not find any energy. What’s different today? Not a whole lot—that’s the crazy part. Do you suppose that our energy levels ebb and flow naturally but our controlling natures just refuse to accept that?

Of course, since my personal controlling nature doesn’t really want to accept that I’ve been thinking maybe I should get a Fitbit device that records the quality of my sleep and maybe the results would explain all about my inconsistent energy. Then I could say, “Ah ha! No wonder I felt tired.”

Or not, right?

Yesterday, neither my brain nor my body had any desire to do anything. Was neither depressed nor distressed so I thought if I would just get up and move to a new space, my perspective would change enough so that I could get myself going. However, despite this strategy and its frequent application, I could only manage to putter at best. Was the sort of day when I needed non-negotiable activities on my agenda but, unfortunately, had very few of those scheduled.

It wasn’t the prospect of an open day that did me in—it was who I was that day and how I felt that slowed me down so much. I tried to write, really I did. I was certain that if I went outside and moved a little and focused on some minor gardening tasks that the change of location and activity would get either my brain or my body to sharpen and move forward. But no, after said gardening tasks, I went back to a torpor in which I could not even write about something as minor as those gardening tasks.

Today I am writing—in the morning—and looking forward to getting out the door to exercise. I also have other tasks in front of me on my desk that don’t seem daunting at all.

What’s different? I had a similar amount of sleep, similar aches and pains in the night, similar diet, etc. The only thing that seems different today is my energy level.

Are these patterns just part of the mystery that is life or is there something I can do about them, for goodness’ sake? Should I accept the consistency of inconsistency or—by accepting—am I giving in to something over which I could have power?

Maybe while I have all this energy I’ll go climb some mountaintop in order to find some guru to ask.

P.S. I know that it’s afternoon by now, but I’ve been too busy being active to sit back down and edit these words until now. This morning’s run was not easy but at least just the thought of putting on my running shoes did not make me tired as it did yesterday. Have not climbed mountains nor spoken to gurus but I have been moving. Hooray for today’s energy.

(c) 2013 Christiana Lambert

(c) 2013 Christiana Lambert

“Reluctantly crouched at the starting line . . .” (from Cake’s “The Distance”) we couldn’t wait to peel out when the lights turned green. Those were the days when there wasn’t much to do but “cruise the ones” at night during high school. I’m a fairly cautious driver, but that didn’t stop me from burning off the line in my mother’s car, an innocuous looking green Mercury Comet with a white roof that had some get up and go. (Little did I know then that my driving style was contributing to the late 1970s oil crisis, even if I didn’t drive that much.)

During those same years my need for speed was also being met on the running track. In that case, I aimed not to jump from the starting line, but keep the kick for the finish—something I did so well that in the last month of my high school career my coach decided I made a better sprinter than I did a long distance runner. Despite all those miles under my feet, he was right about that. Even if I’ve never been a star at any distance, I do love the rush at the end, arms pumping, eyes fixed on the goal, and the wind blowing past my ears.

Well, life in my 50s has not been nearly so zippy. In fact, after my bulging disc injury at the end of my 40s and lots of physical therapy and exercising on my own, for a long time I was happy just to get back to walking in a zippy manner.

As for driving a zippy car, that hadn’t happened since my turbo Dodge Shadow pooped out way sooner than it should have. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my Honda CR-V—which our daughter still drives—but you’re never going to confuse that car with a car that can pass easily in the mountains—or even go up a hill without a whole lot of effort. And my parents’ Mercury Sable I inherited has a V-6, but, seriously, it’s a grandma-mobile—it’s a good road trip sedan.

So when my husband suggested getting a MINI Cooper, I had no strong opinions either way. Cars just cost too much money any way you look at it and I’ve rather stopped thinking about what I might want in a car. Then when my husband, son, and I took it out on a test drive on hilly County Line Road, I started to remember—not that I had much experience on hills growing up in my absolutely flat hometown, but I did have memories of zipping along County Line Road in my Shadow and loving how easy those hills seemed.

Well, almost six months and 6,000 happy miles later, that MINI Cooper and I (as well as every other driver in our family) have zipped around quite a bit. Hills, roundabouts, curves, highway entrance ramps, mountain inclines—those places are where the MINI excels—and/or accelerates, as it were.

As for me and my own two feet, I remain mostly not-zippy. But every once in awhile, thanks to PT, yoga, and a lot of focused work, I still have it in me to try to fly for a short distance. At the end of last night’s track practice, where I consistently hit my times 100 meter, after 100 meter, on the way to a consistent pace for a 20-minute run and three more timed 200 meter runs, I turned off the watch and just zipped through the last 200 meters as fast as I could. Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah!

Nothing like going from zero to zippy from time-to-time to help me stay satisfied with the slower pace in much of my life—that’s what keeps me going the distance.

(c) 2014 Sherman Lambert

(c) 2014 Sherman Lambert

My husband Sherman has reached the point at his employer where he needs to use up a certain amount of personal time (vacation and/or health-related) in order not to lose them at the end of the year. Most years he has trouble doing so. He was raised in an entrepreneurial family where days off were days when you didn’t earn money. His family still seems to regard time off with a bit of suspicion.

Be that as it may, he has chosen to work outside the family which means that while he doesn’t get to make all the decisions in his daily work, he does have certain set benefits. Still, taking rest doesn’t come easily to him. Although I’ve suggested he could take off some days to do relaxing things such sleep in, read, and ride his bicycle, he seems to feel better about using vacation days when he has a specific place to visit or activity to do.

He’ll take days for traveling vacations, visiting family, camping, helping his relatives, and skiing, but beyond that he doesn’t have much imagination for how to use them. In fact, when he and I have gone to “time share” presentations in Mexico (trust me, you don’t have to want to buy a time share to get roped into those—in fact, saying “no” a thousand times over is very much work), eventually the salespeople start insulting his inability to relax. Not only is this guy not going to buy a time share, but he also doesn’t even understand why people travel, seems to be the gist of their harangues toward him. Pretty soon, they’ll throw us in a van and take us back to our car in disgust.

Well, we didn’t want their time share anyway—but they are wrong that he can’t have fun—unless they are talking about the type of fun that requires traveling to expensive far-flung locales—which, of course, is their type of fun—you know, the kind of fun that pays their commissions.

Last Friday, with the snow uneven and crusty, Sherman conceded he’d rather do something other than ski for his planned day off, even though it was killing him to see such a quantity of snow on the mountains this late in April.

(c) 2013 Trina Lambert

(c) 2013 Trina Lambert

So we took our daughter Christiana on what we considered as goofing around for all of us, but also as a business trip for her—the three of us visited the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo in Colorado Springs, about an hour to the south of Denver. You see, this particular zoo is the zoo with the largest (18!) giraffe herd. And, well, our daughter is a giraffe artist these days. This was a research trip for her, even if it was just rest for her father and me.
(c) 2013 Christiana Lambert

(c) 2013 Christiana Lambert

She loved the giraffes, and not just for art’s sake and all the photos she took that will work into her projects. I haven’t seen her light up like that in a long time. This was just the kind of stress relief she needed after a long, hard semester that included major surgery and recovery in the middle of it. Plus, talk about giving her father joy on one of his own breaks from work.

Sometimes when our kids grow up, we forget to play together.

(c) 2013 Christiana Lambert

(c) 2013 Christiana Lambert


Sure, our family still skis in a group, but going on this sort of outing doesn’t require the same sort of planning, expenditures, and physical effort. This was just simple fun together and a great way for Sherman and Christiana to take a break from his work and her school assignments. And yet, it was so enjoyable to visit a zoo without having to pull our “child” in a wagon—which is an especially good thing since the zoo’s name does not lie. Just because we took a break from daily life, however, didn’t mean we weren’t exhausted from that break. Ah, maybe that’s the real reason why Sherman doesn’t yield too often to taking time off.

Then again, there’s nothing like smiling a lot to get you ready to get back at it—and that’s another kind of yield altogether.

Christiana, 1994, wearing giraffe buttons and a big smile.

Christiana, 1994, wearing giraffe buttons and a big smile.

Autumn-weary moss roses and purslane after a long summer of blooming.

Autumn-weary moss roses and purslane after a long summer of blooming.

Out here in Colorado, there are always debates about water usage and landscaping. Bluegrass lawns? Xeriscaping only? A combination?

In places where natural water is unreliable, we need to realize that when we pick plants more suited to this environment, we then have more control on how much intervention will be required to keep our plants happy or even if those plants will stand a chance at surviving.

Plants that naturally grow in this place are resilient—just as we would like to be. Well, what we really would like to be are people who get to experience all the perfect conditions we desire in order to bloom in unmatched splendor. But, lacking those conditions, we need to be ready to face the elements—and bloom anyway.

Xeromorphic plants are those that conserve water usage and tend to have fairly tough greenery.

Take the humble moss rose or portulaca grandiflora. These plants love most conditions, but hotter and drier is even better for these colorful bloomers. I’ve grown them in many containers, but where they especially thrived was when planted in a shallow, rusty wagon, placed to take the maximum beating from the afternoon sun. Yet, instead of baking, all they could do was self-seed and expand into a full wagon-load of ever-changing multi-colored blooms. If a hailstorm cut those blooms to pieces, the next day fresh moss roses would open with even more vigor. These flowers can even handle too much rain and a little frost, even if they do look a little beat down for a bit—before they bounce back to full form.

Life is full of unpredictable conditions—better to be a moss rose who can make it through almost anything than a plant that only thrives when things go just so.

And, thus, I’m mostly leaving you with pictures. Well, other than of relaxing activities such as my delicious nap today and my soak in the tub—I will spare you those images. Thank goodness for small favors, right?

Christiana petting giraffes on our trip to the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo.

Christiana petting giraffes on our trip to the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo.

Running.

Running.

Road trips.

Road trips.

Reading.

Reading.

Singing in church.  (c) 2010 Christiana Lambert

Singing in church.
(c) 2010 Christiana Lambert

Walking dogs.

Walking dogs.

Now, off to grab 40 winks–or more.

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(c) 2009, Christiana Lambert