My Butterfly

By C.G. Morelli

I am convinced that these heavenly beings exist and that they provide unseen aid on our behalf.
~Billy Graham

I've never claimed to know what happens to us on our way to the final destination, whatever it may be. Probably unlike most, I find a sense of solace in not knowing, in accepting that our time on this planet entitles us to nothing. The natural order of things dictates that it is best some things go unsolved. But something extremely curious happened recently.

I am a teacher, and I've spent the better part of a decade discussing literature, grammar, and writing with middle school students at a private school in the South. In my classroom, I've always subscribed to the notion that a good teacher plays no favorites.

But Emma was special.

She perpetually exuded a youthful exuberance and a steady ease with all aspects of the world around her. When she looked at you with her dark eyes and flashed her trademark smile, you walked away knowing she genuinely cared. She dedicated her life to helping anyone she could, from her own brother, to a first-time acquaintance, to a ladybug that might have found itself caught in a spider web.

When a car accident killed her at age sixteen, I spent a good day or two in outright denial. How could anything possibly extinguish the spirit that was Emma? And I was not alone. The sheer outpouring of stories from colleagues, friends, former students, camp counselors, coaches, about the many ways this young girl had touched their lives was both astounding and admirable. They helped to soften the blow a bit, but none of us could truly express the impact Emma had made during her short time on this planet.

And then I was given that final opportunity, when Emma's family asked me to deliver the eulogy at her service. My first thought was, of course I'll do it. I'd do anything for Emma. My second thought was, how in the world will I be able to pull this off? My third, and many subsequent thoughts thereafter, was a cataclysmic, unintelligible jumble of outright panic.

It wasn't the words that worried me. I knew that such a unique and vibrant girl would basically write the piece for me. Instead, it was the prospect of speaking about such an emotional topic before a packed church. And there was the underlying fear that, despite wanting to deliver a few minutes of perfection for Emma, I simply didn't have the strength or the fortitude to give her what she deserved.

But I pushed on anyway and, after writing the eulogy, I began practicing the hard part. I read and re-read the words throughout the day prior to her service. I performed it in front of the mirror. I read it to my dogs, to my girlfriend. I even dialed up loved ones in distant states to deliver Emma's eulogy over the phone. And each time, I was met with the same fate: a few unimpeded lines followed by noticeable cracks in my voice and long bouts of uncontrollable sobbing. I found it impossible to separate my emotions for sweet Emma from the words I wanted to share with the community. I was never able to reach the final lines.

The folly continued into the next day, and with each re-reading it became clear my efforts were an exercise in futility. I simply didn't have the strength to pull it off, and my anxiety level was reaching the boiling point. With only an hour to go before Emma's service, I decided to give it one more shot. Silently I asked Emma, possibly the most resilient person I'd ever met, to lend me some of her strength. But secretly, I had doubts even she could help me.

I was wrong.

I headed out to my patio for the final practice round and began reading the first few lines to my girlfriend. The sun was warm but pleasant on my back. About a paragraph into the piece I felt the familiar scratchiness in my throat and the sting of tears forming behind my eyes.

And then suddenly, as if in perfect response, I saw her fluttering.

Her black wings danced through the air like patches of velvet and skimmed across the top of my page. A blue and purple blotch on her back, the shape of a large, round eye, seemed to wink at me briefly as she lit on the myrtle flowers and listened to me. I paused for a moment -- just long enough for the recognition to sink in -- and then a feeling I can only describe as pure serenity washed over me. I finished the reading without flaw and folded the pages into my jacket pocket, for I knew everything would be okay.

When I arrived at the church and examined some of Emma's belongings, which had been displayed in her memory, I couldn't help but smile when I noticed one of her drawings hanging high above a collage of photos dedicated to the loss of her first tooth.

It was a purple butterfly.

And when I rose in the pulpit to deliver my words to the parish, that same feeling of serenity given to me by my butterfly washed over me.

My knowledge of the true nature of eternity still falls short, and for as long as I'm given the privilege to grace this Earth I shall never strive to understand that which is not meant for my understanding. But every time a butterfly flickers and sways through my yard on the warm summer breeze, I will know without question that Emma has dropped by to check on me.

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The Great Family Cook-Off

By Pauline Hylton

Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first.
~Ernestine Ulmer

"Do you think they see us?" I whispered as I peeked over some sweet-smelling cantaloupes. My almost-grown daughter, Sarah and I hid in the produce section of our local grocery store.

"No. They're too busy inspecting chicken breasts. I thought you said we only had fifteen dollars to spend. What if they go over?"

"They forfeit, and we win!" We high fived each other.

Thus began The Great Family Cook-Off.

We drew names. Fate paired the men against the women. Though I lacked the killer competitiveness prevalent in other family members, and the only prize was "bragging rights," I could literally taste victory.

The rules were simple. Each team would create a dish from a fifteen-dollar budget and any extra ingredients on hand in our kitchen. We traveled home from the store in our family van, tight-lipped about our purchases, joking about our upcoming victories.

Our opponents secured their position near the refrigerator. Sarah and I set up adjacent to the pantry. After much consultation, Sarah and I opted for chicken quesadillas since we had all the ingredients. It was colorful so it would plate well, and who doesn't like quesadillas? Plus, we had an extra culinary surprise up our salsa-spotted sleeves.

My husband is a master in the kitchen. While I tend to "throw" together various items from the fridge, Tom crafts his entrées. He carefully chooses and inspects for visual appeal and freshness. After his meticulous choices, he begins to create. A pinch of this is added to a smidgeon of that. He tastes and stirs. When he is satisfied, he plates the food. Tom can serve buttered toast that makes you gasp with delight.

My daughter described our cooking differences to a friend like this: "Mom makes four things at once from whatever is in the fridge, and I usually like one of them. My dad concentrates on one item, and it's fabulous."

Even with my seeming handicap, I persevered. The reputation of womanhood throughout history hinged on the outcome of our contest.

Our male counterparts cut, sliced, and diced. The aroma of sun-dried tomatoes and garlic permeated the kitchen. I almost panicked.

"Micah, get sweet onions out of the fridge," Tom instructed our son.

I started to sweat.

We sautéed and simmered. Both sides sneaked sideways glances at each other.

It was time. The men served sautéed lemon chicken with capers, cilantro and sun-dried tomatoes. They plated the food on a large white serving dish with two sprigs of asparagus shooting off from a cut lemon placed strategically in the center. Paprika adorned the edges, composing a perfect balance of colors, complete with a heavenly aroma.

We spread the quesadillas artistically around an Italian ceramic platter painted with whimsical flowers. We added a sweet corn and tomato relish over each piece of chicken. Colorful peppers and sliced limes dotted the dish. A bowl containing sour cream, salsa, and two small yellow peppers that surrounded a lone peapod sat in the center of our creation.

Time for the taste test. We adjourned to our dining room, placed cloth napkins on our laps, and asked the Lord for a blessing -- as I silently petitioned Him for a victory.

Both were tasty, almost dead even. Tom and Micah's masterpiece was pretty and moist, but lacked Tom's usual panache. Ours was attractive, and yummy, but your run-of-the-mill quesadilla. Still, we hadn't decided.

After we finished the main course, Sarah and I pulled out our secret weapon. Dessert.

We had enough money in our budget to purchase store-bought cookie dough. We spread rocky-road ice cream between the warm cookies for an amazing culinary delight.

Time for the vote. Tom mumbled something about cheating and declined. Sarah and I registered our vote for all women everywhere. Micah remained silent.

"So what do you think, Micah?" Sarah asked.

There was a long pause and then Micah looked up, hands covered in chocolate and vanilla ice cream. "I don't know. All I can think about right now is this cookie."

Yes, victory is sweet.

The best fifteen dollars we ever spent.

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My New Best Friend

By Carol A. Strazer

Watch and pray, lest you enter into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.
~Matthew 26:41

My husband Bob and I took turns puffing on our last cigarette until all I held was a charred filter. In a nearby planter, I partially buried it with other cigarettes. They reminded me of miniature headstones. While I gazed sadly at the tiny cemetery, I said farewell to my best "friend" of twenty-two years.

We, my cigarette and I, met the summer before my senior year in high school. Terribly shy, I was delighted to be included in a summer picnic with a few of my classmates. After lunch at the city park, the other girls lit up. "Wow," I thought, "this is grown-up stuff." I pictured sophisticated ladies holding cigarettes between polished nails while dashing gentlemen flicked silver lighters.

When a friend offered me drags on her cigarette, I readily accepted. Soon she corrected my crude attempts saying, "Inhale and exhale, like this."

"This is easy," I told myself. "All I have to do to be accepted is smoke." By dusk, I was hooked.

In the decades that followed, I smoked at least 154,000 of those gleaming white tubes of tobacco. I could always depend on my "friend" to give me a boost, calm my fears or blow away my anger. My doctor disagreed. He said my friend gave me bronchitis, asthma and poor circulation. When he said my buddy and I would have to part, tears filled my eyes, and I choked out, "Really?" He just nodded.

Following his orders, I tried to quit. I refused to buy any more cigarettes. If I didn't have them around to tempt me, I reasoned, I wouldn't smoke.

When smoking friends visited and left my home though, I grabbed the ashtrays, searching for viable butts I could finish. I had flashbacks of Seattle's Skid Road's homeless retrieving discarded smokes from the dirty sidewalk and I chided myself.

I gained weight, eating instead of smoking. Soon I broke down and bought cigarettes. I was skewered on the old adage, "Quitting smoking is easy, I quit many times," but I couldn't resist my cigarette "friend's" siren call.

A luncheon with a former smoker reinforced my guilt and frustration when she inquired about my attempts to quit smoking.

"You know I quit," she said. "I don't even think about it. When I decide to do something, I do it. No problem... easy as pie."

I stared at her, secretly imagining throwing that pie right at her.

At another lunch, this time with a friend who still smoked, I heard, "I know I should quit. But this isn't the time. You know the divorce and all."

I thought that getting a divorce would be a perfect excuse to keep smoking.

I tried every stop smoking technique I knew. Once I quit for three weeks, but always found a good excuse to start again. My husband was determined to stop too. I thought if we both quit at the same time, it might be easier. When I heard a local church was sponsoring a smoking cessation program, we signed up.

Bob and I snuffed out our "last" cigarette and entered the church auditorium. After the program director's brief introduction, the room darkened and scenes from an actual lung cancer operation flashed on the screen. The grim images erased all desire I had for cigarettes that night.

Terrifying facts may work for a while, but we learned it takes more than fear to erase an addiction. Successive nights of instruction bolstered our weak intentions. We learned more about tobacco's harmful effects and healthy alternatives to smoking. Fellow smokers supported our efforts.

When our leader suggested asking for God's assistance, I realized that was one technique I had not tried.

I begged God for His help. Without His intervention, I knew I would smoke again.

In the morning, when I craved a cigarette with my coffee, I prayed. When a friend offered me a cigarette, I prayed... and refused. After dinner, when a smoke would have tasted the best, I prayed -- always the same prayer. "Lord, I'm helpless. Please help me. I can't quit." And I truly believed I couldn't.

Early one morning, I woke, prepared coffee and drank an entire cup before I realized... I hadn't craved a cigarette! Astonished, I held my empty cup and looked out the window. To the dawning sky, I whispered, "You did it, Lord. You really did! Thank you!"

It had been three weeks, just when I usually started smoking again. My craving for cigarettes had really died. Before, my nicotine addiction had screamed for relief. Now, there was silence. I could live without cigarettes.

Later I helped a group of anxious smokers and told them how many times I'd failed to quit. I recounted my winning technique... I asked for God's help and He answered my prayer.

Thirty years later I live high in the Colorado Mountains where I hike, kayak and ski with my husband and grandchildren. I'm free -- no longer a slave to cigarettes, thanks to my Best Friend.

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Where's Your Focus?

By M. Sean Marshall

What we see depends mainly on what we look for.
~Sir John Lubbock

Middle of August. Washington State. Twelve-year-old Boy Scout with a forty-pound pack. Six days of fun-filled hiking with the Scout troop for fifty miles through the middle of the Cascade Range. Sounds like a great adventure right? Well, that's at least what a younger, more naïve version of myself was led to believe.

We said goodbye to our moms who dropped us off at the trailhead. Eagerly, we turned away from the highway, said goodbye civilization, and headed into the mountains. It didn't take me long to feel that maybe this fifty-mile hike thing wasn't going to be everything our Scout Leader had said it was going to be. It seemed the trail only went in one direction, uphill. And when we wanted to stop for a much needed break, we couldn't. The mosquitoes were just so bad! They were in our ears, eyes, even our noses! It was better to just keep moving to try and stay ahead of them.

When we reached camp after an exhausting first day I wanted nothing more than to eat a warm meal and then go to sleep. I got everything ready. I got out my mess kit, fired up my stove, and cooked some delicious pasta. Boy did it smell good! Now there was only one thing left to do -- grab my fork. As I leaned over to grab my fork, the handle on my mess kit broke. I watched as my meal plummeted to the ground. I had knocked my dinner over and it lay on the ground, covered in dirt and pine needles, mocking my hunger. I ended up nibbling on some granola bars and beef jerky and spent the first night longing for my bed at home.

By day two of the hike, I was convinced that nature was out to get me. The endless hills, the hordes of mosquitoes, and with every step, I seemed to get a new blister. But I trudged on. By the late afternoon my scoutmaster and I reached camp first and were glad to be rid of our heavy packs. Finally some relief, right? Well, the catch was that my buddy who was carrying our tent was still a couple of hours behind.

So in the meantime, I tried to cook some dinner, again. I'm happy to say that my mess kit worked well this time. I'm not happy to say however, that the heat of my stove attracted all kinds of bugs. Now they must have thought that my food looked delicious because they kept landing in it and getting stuck. It got so bad that at one point, my pasta looked like it had fresh ground pepper on it! I gave up on yet another dinner.

At this point, all sorts of thoughts raced through my head. My muscles and feet ached with pain. My stomach groaned with hunger. I looked to the sky, wishing there was some way a helicopter could come and take me away from the madness.

I looked over to see my scoutmaster seemingly oblivious to everything going on. Who was this guy? Didn't he see my predicament? Now this was the kind of guy that just belonged in the woods. He was a big, strong, manly man. I think he even wore a flannel shirt with suspenders.

I was feeling pretty sorry for myself now and in my moment of self-pity, I didn't want him to see me. So I wondered off and found a small thicket of trees where I could hide. Can you guess what I did next? I sat down and I cried. That's right. I cried. A tired, little, sore, hungry, pitiful Sean sat alone in the wilderness crying. I didn't know what else to do! After my moments of self-pity, I realized that I was awfully close to where the rest of the older guys would be coming up the trail. I pulled myself together and wiped away the tears. Well, the evening finally came, along with my tent, and I tried to sleep away my troubles.

What happened the next morning was incredible. Looking back, I really consider it a blessing -- a key learning point in my life. The morning of the third day found us hiking along a beautiful ridge. The views were amazing! It hit me in that moment that I had been focusing on all of the wrong things! How could I possibly feel sorry for myself when there was so much beauty and majesty all around me? I made up my mind right at that very moment that I would focus purely on what I did want and not anything that I did not want.

As if like magic, the mosquitoes seemed to disappear. The trail flattened out. My muscles stopped aching. I soaked in every ounce of beauty I could. The rest of the trip was incredible. It was late Saturday afternoon when we finished our trip. And I came home a bit less of a boy and a bit more of a man.

Often times, I feel, we go through life with our focus only on ourselves, on our problems. There are bills to pay, traffic to deal with, quotas to meet, businesses to run, etc. But there is so much good in the world and so much beauty all around us! All we need to do is simply change our focus. When our focus is shifted from the inside and changed to the outside, I know, from personal experience, that life truly becomes abundant.

So the key to managing that emotional stress is to change your focus. My question is: where's your focus.

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When My Teacher Saved My Life

By Christine Catlin

If nature had intended our skeletons to be visible it would have put them on the outside of our bodies.
~Elmer Rice

All it took was a tear in my geography teacher's eye to save my life.

I had been battling an eating disorder for over six months -- living off a half cup of cereal for breakfast with no milk (120 calories), a small cup of low-fat yogurt for lunch (80 calories), and a half cup of pasta with tomato sauce for dinner with a half cup of milk (300 calories). I don't know how it all started. Maybe it was when my brother called my skinny body fat, maybe it was when my dad congratulated me for being more muscular than the other girls on my volleyball team, maybe it was watching my mom exercising and dieting all the time. Whatever it was, my eating disorder hit me hard. I ran on the treadmill for twenty minutes before school, I biked three miles to get to school, I went to Nordic Ski practice for two hours after school, and I biked three miles back home. Pounds melted off me and I felt strong, fit, and fast... until my symptoms began to hit me hard.

I became chronically cold -- shivering in eighty-degree rooms. I became pale and weak. I was dizzy and light-headed, almost fainting when I stood up. But I loved my new body. My previous too-muscular thighs had become thin and sleek. My round facial cheeks faded into sharp angles and high cheekbones. I was addicted to improving my body.

Then, one day in May, my geography teacher pulled me out of class.

He was my favorite teacher in the world. He was funny, kind, and like a father to me. He seemed to always keep an eye out for me. He made me feel special.

When he pulled me out of class I was shivering from my eating disorder-induced chills. He shut the door behind me and looked me straight in the eye.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "You haven't seemed quite right in class."

"Yeah," I lied casually. "Just tired." I feigned a yawn and looked away.

I realized he was staring at me oddly, so I looked back in his eyes. I was shocked to see his eyes looked wet. An uncomfortable knot formed in my stomach.

"Christine, I don't know what's going on with you, but I want you to know that everyone here cares for you. You're strong, beautiful, and smart. I want you to beat whatever it is you're going through. I don't want to lose you. You understand?"

"Y-yeah," I said, awkwardly, before hastily retreating back through the door to my seat.

During the rest of the class I didn't make eye contact with him. I sat in my seat with many confused thoughts going through my head. What was wrong with me? Why was I starving myself? How did he know?

When I got home I almost passed out again. Hunger gnawed at my stomach like a knife, but I couldn't make myself eat. I just couldn't. When my mom came home I averted my gaze, before impulsively deciding to speak.

"M-m-om?" I asked, my voice breaking. "I think I need to go to the hospital."

I expected her to break into a panic, asking me what was wrong, but to my surprise my mom looked at me calmly and replied, "I know."

That evening I was driven right to the eating disorder hospital. I was admitted into the top floor, where I was moved into a room with other identical, teenage stick figures. I didn't show up to school for the last three weeks of class. Instead I lived at the hospital in a small bedroom. I slept, ate, then ate again, then ate again. I ate six meals a day. I had lost thirty pounds in a month, had a heart rate below forty, and I was at a high risk of sudden death or cardiac arrest. I didn't want to die. Instead, I ate everything served to me.

Never had food been so delicious. I felt as if it was the best thing in the world. The sourest strawberry tasted like a piece of heaven. A piece of chicken seemed to melt in my mouth like a piece of cheesecake. Food... food... food. My deprived brain couldn't stop thinking about it.

After three weeks I moved back home and steadily gained all my weight back over the next few months. My thighs that I had hated so much came back. My cheeks reappeared. My prominent ribs faded back from my skin. At times I cried, feeling as if all my hard work had been for nothing, but soon I began seeing myself for who I really was. I was strong, smart, athletic and... beautiful.

Now I am going in to high school. Although many of the girls I met at the eating disorder center have relapsed, I know that no matter what, I will never fall into such a terrible loop. Instead, I think of my favorite geography teacher, and the tear in his eye, and remind myself that no matter what, I have all the friends and family I need to support me, without killing myself through an eating disorder.

I never got to see my favorite teacher again after going to the hospital, but I won't let him down. After all, it's not every day your geography teacher saves your life. Without him, I wouldn't be around today.

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Our Royal Jet

By Sally Kelly-Engeman

A daughter is a gift of love.
~Author Unknown

My husband, Jim, and I were enjoying a quiet evening and planning a Caribbean cruise when our phone rang.

"Hi Mom. I've got a little problem."

Flattered that Kathy, our animal-loving elder daughter, still valued my advice I listened. "That dog I rescued several weeks ago is very loveable, but she's too hyper for our other dog. I've decided that with Dad traveling so much and us kids gone, you need a pet to keep you company. She'd love running around your huge fenced backyard."

Caught unprepared, I swallowed a sigh. How could I tell my elder daughter that I relished my quiet time without hurting her feelings? "Dad's right here. Why don't you talk to him?" Like any sensible wife, I passed the phone to her father.

While they chatted, I recalled how Kathy and her husband had gone to a Seattle restaurant several weeks earlier. While dining, they noticed a small dog shivering in the rain as it wandered outside in the parking lot. When Kathy mentioned it to the server, he said that someone abandoned the puppy a week earlier. Restaurant employees had been feeding her, but none could give her a home.

After dining, Kathy took a box of leftovers and fed them to the dog in the parking lot. By the time she reached her car, the dog had devoured the food and followed her. When Kathy opened her door, the dog jumped inside.

Rain continued to fall so Kathy talked her husband into stopping at the veterinary clinic on the way home. After Kathy explained the circumstances to the vet, he examined the dog and commented that the puppy was a rare Sheltie-Basenji mix and in good condition except for cigarette burns in several places on her body. Unable to let the abused dog go homeless any longer, Kathy adopted her.

She named the dog Jet because she soared like the jet airplanes Kathy flew regularly as a flight attendant. Now, it seemed that Jet was too flighty for Kathy's other dog. One of them had to go. So what did Kathy do? She did what every clever daughter does when she has a problem. She called her parents.

I should have known better than to let her talk to Jim. He always was a pushover for his daughter's requests. He agreed that we'd adopt Jet.

A few days later, Kathy called and advised us that she had followed her vet's suggestions and given Jet a sedative, put her in a traveling kennel and boarded her on a plane. Jet would be arriving in Denver in a few hours.

We drove to the airport and as soon as I saw the small orange puppy, with the white blaze on her forehead and white-socked feet, huddled in her travel kennel, I melted. Jet resembled a little fox and looked at me with frightened brown eyes when I opened the kennel door. Shivering, she staggered out and collapsed at my feet. When I picked her up and gently stroked her soft fur, she licked my fingers and snuggled in my arms.

For the first week, she avoided Jim whenever he had a cigarette in his hand. As days passed, she became more comfortable with us. My husband's gentle ways soon won her over. She greeted him at the door when he returned from work each day, "helped" him with yard work, and slept at his feet when he read the newspapers or watched TV.

I soon learned that Basenjis were often royal dogs of Egyptian pharaohs. They don't bark, but Jet's Sheltie genes did, so she was a great watchdog. In keeping with her royal status, we let her sleep on a bed in a spare bedroom, but otherwise, she wasn't allowed on any of our other furniture.

Some mornings, I awoke to find her asleep on the floor beside my side of the bed. She became my shadow and stayed close whether at home or on our daily walks. As days passed, she played out in our backyard, calmed down and became a very affectionate and disciplined dog. She kept off the furniture and responded when called. She even walked regally as we strolled our neighborhood, where curious people frequently asked if she was a pet fox.

One cold winter night, months later, while Jim was out of town on a business trip, Jet and I went to our respective beds while winds wailed and slapped snow against our windows in below-zero weather.

I fell into a deep sleep quickly. It was still dark when I heard Jet whine and felt her paw rub my shoulder.

"What are you doing on my bed?" I grumbled. Winds were still howling and I was in no mood to take her outside in that weather. When she continued to whine, I sat up and quickly realized the house was too hot. Something was wrong with the furnace!

With Jet at my heels, I raced to the furnace room. Fortunately, I remembered Jim's instructions on what to do if this very event happened. Had Jet not awoken me, the overheated boiler might have exploded and damaged our home. Jet had saved my life!

After that, Jet seemed to know that she had earned special privileges. She waited until we were asleep, crept up on our bed, curled against Jim and pressed her paws against my back. Sometimes she even pushed me out of bed.

What could I do? Royalty demanded royal treatment.

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The Tent

By Lindy Schneider

We tend to forget that happiness doesn't come as a result of getting something we don't have, but rather of recognizing and appreciating what we do have.
~Friedrich Koenig

Water hit me in the face and trickled down my shirt. "We've been attacked by munchkins!" I hollered at my husband as I ran after our five-year-old son and three-year-old daughter. We were a family armed with water guns and giggles, and somehow the kids always got their best shots on me. My mom's eyes crinkled with delight as she watched us play while cradling our infant son.

"Lindy," she said, "you and Tom are more like older siblings to your kids than parents." This was an observation, not a criticism and Tom and I received her words like a badge of honor. We didn't take life as seriously as we probably should have. Our marriage was easy and our children a delight. We let the kids stomp in rain puddles and stay up too late. We felt we had been given this amazing gift of three little personalities and we were privileged to know these beings before anyone else. It was like we were harboring three beautiful secrets that we would introduce to the world one day.

When Tom and I married we knew we wanted to have kids and experience America. We had our own design business and could set up shop anywhere, so we did. We lived in some of the best tourist spots in the country. We lived in Atlanta, Georgia through its gorgeous spring months. We enjoyed Colorado's delightful year-round climate. For a time we lived in a two-story farmhouse, rich in character, on a pumpkin farm in Illinois and helped with several harvests. In the Northwest we chose to live in a little fishing village in the shadow of Mount Rainier. Later we moved to Montana where we were literally surrounded by mountains and taught our kids how to ski. The houses in which we resided varied widely. One was expansive with all the amenities, while another was a little duplex in desperate need of repair. Each one enriched our lives differently, but none as much as when we lived in the tent.

"The tent." Whenever I say those words my husband smiles knowingly. That was the one place in which we did not choose to reside. Tom and I had been living in the most impressive house we had ever rented. It was a two-story in Washington State with picture windows all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. We had bedrooms enough for everyone plus a writing room and a room for me to do my illustration work. The windows looked out on a lush, green meadow bordered by tall pines. We were often surprised by deer that were curious enough to peek into our family room window. We would have stayed there forever if it hadn't been so wonderful.

Now, we like wonderful. We like amenities and everything that this house had to offer, but so did the realtors, and because they liked it so much they were able to sell it right out from under us.

Although this complicated our lives and added to our expenses with deposits and moving costs, we were not worried. We had one really good design client. This company not only kept our bills paid, but also took the majority of our design time. They had us create newsletters, brochures and advertising pieces. We hadn't needed to pursue other clients, so we didn't. That, however, turned out to be a mistake.

The same week that we got the call that we had thirty days to move out of our house, we also got the call from our one and only client. He told us he had hired in-house designers and would no longer need our services.

Difficult circumstances, but not insurmountable. We planned to get in the car and hunt for a new place and new clients. That is when the final blow came. Literally! Our car's engine blew up and we were done. We were thirty-four years old, had three kids and found ourselves without a car, without a job and without a home.

As we had always done before, Tom and I put our heads together and brainstormed survival plans. We borrowed a beater pick-up truck from his brother-in-law and when the deadline came for us to be out of the house, we moved most of our belongings into a storage unit. We had still not found a place to rent so we took our tent and our sleeping bags and a few changes of clothes to a state park and set up camp. The kids were delighted! We had been on many adventures with them and this was just one more, but not for me.

The tent was meant to be a weeklong stopgap measure, but new work and another house were not forthcoming. The reality of being without a home was setting in and I began to feel fear and frustration. We weren't camping, we were surviving, and as the days rolled on with no income, our checking account dwindled. The prospect of having the required deposit and first month's rent to get into a new place was fast diminishing.

My husband began each day by driving to his office in town to buy a newspaper and searching for housing and jobs. Daily I shook out sleeping bags and amused the kids with nature walks and berry picking. My job was to keep them happy while I hid my own fear of the future. As long as the weather stayed warm we could continue this way, but early fall frosts were not far off. The days of no work and no house turned into weeks of anxiety.

One night when the three children were asleep in their bags, Tom and I talked quietly about our worries. I was feeling the full burden of our homeless and jobless situation and could not stop the tears from rolling down my face. Tom rubbed my shoulders and leaned in close. "We are the most blessed of people, you know," he said softly. I looked at him incredulously.

"What do you mean?" I sobbed. "We have nothing!"

Then he gently replied, "Honey, we have everything that matters right here. We have the kids, we have a roof over our heads, and we have each other."

It seemed so simple -- too simple -- but I knew he was right. I told him, "If anyone heard you say that they would think you had lost your mind!" We began to chuckle and then we began to laugh! We laughed and hugged until our tears of desperation turned into tears of tenderness.

We lived thirty-three days without a home that year. Miraculously, the landlord of a duplex trusted us to move in without having a dime of deposit to give her. Since that summer we have moved less often, and made contingency plans for unexpected hardships, but we have never forgotten our days in the tent. That was where my husband and I became grown-ups in our hope, in our faith and in our love. We make a point to vacation in the tent every summer just for pleasure. It is there that we remember we have everything that matters.

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