Observations on "A Grief Observed"

This is a repost of a brief review I wrote for the GCPC Women's Newsletter. As the book is a worthy read and this venue may find other interested readers, I thought it warranted sharing, again.

I picked up “A Grief Observed” with great expectations. It is, after all, authored by C. S. Lewis. But I admit to being uneasy upon reading the introductions and first chapter. The theology seemed off. I had, perhaps unfairly, opened this book with the assumption that Lewis was unassailable in matters of Christian doctrine. Then I was reminded that Lewis, while a highly-skilled and rightly-renowned apologist, was a lay theologian of Anglican background. He was not trained in Reformed doctrine, and my expectations had to be reworked in order to fully appreciate the value of this excellent and substantive little book.

So let me be straightforward. This book was never intended to be an examination of Biblical doctrine on death and the after-life and should not be read as such. It is, however, a remarkably-vulnerable account of one man's experience with grief and how it affected his faith.

Lewis' book is a raw, honest, and introspective record of reconciling beliefs with reality and how that can, sometimes, be a murky, drawn out, conflicting process. This book gives permission to feel the real effects of grief and wrestle with it, acknowledging that no two experiences will be the same. Grief is unique to the bearer. But the balm is always faith.

Lewis returns to this again and again as he wages internal war over feeling a failure for questioning God's plans and good purpose. Even as he laments his perceived lack of faith, calling it a “house of cards,” he goes on to recognize God's hand in restoring and rebuilding it. This is an encouragement because we know that struggling over the weakness of our faith is an indicator of God's continued perfecting of it, and Lewis is not alone in this. If we have not already experienced loss of his magnitude, we likely will. Sharing his personal struggle offers the reader commiseration and, in it, comfort and hope.

I recommend this book, not as a road map to navigating grief, but as a thought-provoking glimpse into one man's journey through it. One of the great values of this book is that it reminds us to be keenly aware of what our priorities ought to be and that the lifelong refining process is purposeful and desirable.

The Difference a Year--or Three--Makes

Every now and then over the last few years I recalled...yes, I had a blog, once. The thoughts were fleeting, just enough to feel a pinch of sentimental regret without being nearly present enough to inspire any lasting motivation--and easily suppressed. But finally, yesterday, I decided I should write something, again. I have, in large part, shied away from it because I honestly felt I had nothing of consequence to say. But that cannot be the whole truth. So much happens in the course of a day, let alone a year. Or three. Why not mull it over in the way I like best, if for no one's sake but my own? So here I am. Writing. A full paragraph where one sentence might have sufficed. (I suppose not EVERYTHING changes...though much does.)

The exteriors are the most obvious place to start. Our home alone has undergone a delightful transformation, awash in new color. I am not sad to see all vestiges of the old, dull brown removed. Though it became familiar and, for that reason, welcoming enough, I do not miss it at all. The house already feels like the cozy retreat it should always have been, though only recently made over. Even my eldest son, who strongly objects to change of all sorts, is quite content with the calming green of the Simply Sage with the warm Spice, cool Elephant Skin, and fresh Vintage Linen accents.

Venture inside and the attuned eye will make note of other alterations. Larger shoes piled in the entry way and laundry room, a pile of journals on the hall table, more notches recording the inches of bare-footed, growing children, a piano for developing musical interests, and the lack of baby things...toys, cribs, high chairs. These were long ago passed on, replaced by big beds with fire-truck sheets, brothers' hand-me-downs, and a mish-mash of adult-sized chairs that nonetheless makes a complete set at the long dining table.

Now let us revisit those notches.

My firstborn has grown half a foot. He reaches to my nose. When we hug I no longer feel I am holding a child. He fits in a way that is other, and I know it is just the beginning of this transition. Soon he will grow in spurts, not inches. It will be no surprise if he has surpassed the top of my head by this time next year. I wonder what those hugs will feel like. Will it still feel like a mother's hug when he towers over my 5 foot 2 and envelopes me with his long arms? He is so astute. He amazes me. We have conversations, and I forget he is 11 because we discuss mature things in a mature way. And this is good. We discuss faith and doctrine, principles and politics! And then, because he is 11, hard, pressing things, too. Peer pressure. Purity. Pimples. Perseverance and hard work. I pray for his discernment and for the strength to continue in what is right.

The next is 10 and not far behind. I pray tear-filled prayers for them all, but most often for this one. There is so much of his Daddy in him, and this is a wonderful thing. I treasure seeing it, reveling in the sweet glimpses of what my dearest might have been like as a young man. But all those similarities, the great passion, the great potential, and the great need, lend to many difficulties. We, especially his Daddy, so want to spare him the harshest of the struggle. And yet I know, too, that we cannot spare him all of it--and shouldn't. Trial is very often God's sovereign tool for shaping and refining our character, a truth I encounter in practice more and more myself. And I want this for my child more than I want ease. Wisdom is essential, here. And I know my need of it daily.

My dear first daughter, she is a beauty. I do not know where she gets it, though her Daddy would chide me for saying so. She is lovely inside and out, and selfless. Selfless in a way I doubt I was at that age. She is always looking to help, anticipating the needs of others before they can think to ask for it. I worry over the way she pours so much of herself into pleasing others, hoping that I can gently direct her in the difference between loving and serving well and hanging your self-worth upon the approval and affirmation of others. She is insecure in this way. I see echoes of myself there and am sad for it. I want to encourage her as she grows that she might be far less burdened than I was and have been, that she might know, now, that we have all that we need in Christ and there is so much freedom there.

The third son brings adventure to my life every single day. In three years he has made the fewest strides in terms of height and continues to be my littler man. He seems completely and mercifully unaware of where he stands, literally, in comparison to others, which is a relief to my anxious Mother's heart. But he has a personality that far outshines his stature. He is confident and daring and full of energy. In three years his speech, once a worrisome concern, has improved greatly, and his love for books is finally translating into the ability to actually read them! These are the strides I boast in. He is without a doubt his own person, remarkably independent and content in it, both silly and serious, conscientious but also creative. I am by turns delighted and exasperated with his behavior, having to remind myself of all the challenges unique to raising a 7-year-old boy--and without comparing him to his brothers. He is a mystery I am still discovering.

My second daughter--here the changes become even more evident.

(Side note: We refer to the pronounced effects of canine age over time as "dog years," and it seems to me some similar concept should apply to small children.)

These "child years," as I have decided to call them, flew by with successions of milestones, none of which I chronicled here. Three years ago this precious babe was a toddler with tiny pigtails. Now she sports a cute bob because she will not let me arrange, let alone brush, her hair. She combs it herself and leaves it at that. She has her own sense of style, too, and I have decided, against all my inner Type-A protestations, to let her run with it. Her attire never matches or coordinates, though I have no doubt it is, in her mind, entirely purposeful. If she had been born decades ago, she could have been a bohemian "flower child," almost unfailingly happy, constantly flashing a sincere, brilliant smile, and always ready to give the best of hugs. She is brave, and she is tall. As tall as her older brother, in fact. My prayers for her are not as clearly defined as the others yet. The changes in her have been many, but I am still learning her strengths and weaknesses, as she is. And so I pray mostly for God's protection and care and that He would grow in her a deep understanding of the hope to which she know clings with a child's faith.

For in the last three years the middle four have all, like their eldest brother before them, made that profession of faith and prayed that simple prayer to their God, placing their trust in Jesus, His Son, their Savior. Every prayer I offer up on their behalf ends with my petition that they would love and know Him more, maturing in this faith, not remembering a day when they have not walked closely with Him. I pray this, too, for my "baby," though he is my baby no longer. He has not yet made that step for himself. But he prays. And I love to hear him pray, to hear the whisperings of his soft heart.

If you have kept up, that means he is speaking now! Gloriously-full sentences. Never-ending questions! He is four, after all. How is that possible, this baby? He runs and jumps and climbs and dances and just made himself lunch. And he laughs with an infectious, joy-filled laugh. He is alone with me, now, all his older siblings at "big" school, and I am enjoying it in ways I did not anticipate, shoving off the guilt of it in an effort to savor every precious moment. Guilt threatens often, though, as the bittersweet recognition comes that I did not have this time, "real," singular time, with any of the other children. I hope that lack will not hinder them in unforeseen ways, just as I hope it will not hinder and spoil this one. But what fun we have! And the places we go!

Soon, very soon, we hope to visit a dear friend for a day trip. She has had big changes in these three years as well. A chapter in her memoir could be aptly titled, "There And Back Again," though neither of us would be so bold as to steal outright from Tolkein. (Blogging doesn't count, somehow.) And we miss her. This is a hard change.

Other changes have been hard, too. In these three years my grandfather suffered from Alzheimer's disease and died. It was a difficult, painful death, and I cannot forget the anguish he was in at my last visit. The memory is tempered only by the sure knowledge that he now knows heavenly peace and rest. I wish that I had been able to see him more than I did. In his confusion, he did not know me, but I would like to think it was a comfort--to my father, at the very least. Six years in Virginia and I have fallen in love with this place. But I miss my family, supporting them and loving on them. That is a hard thing, more so with the birth of a nephew and two nieces in this three years of time. And, soon, a new brother-in-law.

I, on the other hand, will have no more babies, which, for me, has been a new normal. It took at least a year for my mind and body to begin accepting this fact, and I was, in many ways, thoroughly ravaged from mid-2012 until mid-2013. It was a reality that I did not emotionally grab hold of readily, and my body did not make the task easier. After years and years of pregnancy and nursing, I did not seem to know that hormonal equilibrium existed apart from that. I cannot describe that year as anything other than frustratingly manic, filled with mood swings that felt more like tidal waves. High days filled with overwhelming panic and anxiety. Low days filled with dark, despairing feelings and pervasive disinterest. Eventually, slowly, gradually, things seem to have evened out--for the most part. I cannot pinpoint when that occurred but, in three years, I am finally adjusting to this normal.

This normal where my children are growing up, and I am finding my place--and my peace--in the midst of that. I have run two half marathons and a mud race. I have coached soccer teams. I have spontaneously painted my kitchen cabinets. I have written fan fiction! I have attended the Women's Bible Study at our church. I have joined the music team. I have agreed to co-lead a mentoring group. I have discovered wines that I enjoy and butterscotch in baking! I have gotten two thoughtfully-designed tattoos. I have made new friends and deepened relationships with "old" ones. I have turned the pages of excellent books--as well as a few I will never reread. I have taken my first girls' weekend away in years. I have prayed a lot. I have fallen more deeply in love with my husband.

I have walked through hard with him, too. We went through another shoulder surgery, followed by months of intense physical therapy, some of which I still do for him regularly. This I do willingly now and, I hope, graciously.

You see, I accepted his chronic pain years ago. He was thus limited when I married him, and we did make vows to be faithful in sickness and in health, after all. But for a good length of time my prevailing attitude was that this was "his" thorn, the ongoing trial God had allowed for the perfecting of his character and the deepening of his faith through humble perseverance. I did not see how I fit in, other than to patiently put up with it. I did not see. And I was not very patient, though he has always been more patient and understanding with me than I deserved.

But God has shown me in these three years that it was never just my darling's thorn. It was ours. We are one. Why did I not understand the fundamental significance of this before? It has been for my good, as much as his. To teach me to be more selfless, more caring, more compassionate, more empathetic, more gentle, more thankful. To give me opportunity to love and serve well. What better gift can I give him? What better example can I model for my children?

It has been a good journey, these three years. And this has been a long entry, one I hope you will forgive should you actually make it to the end. Perhaps I will write more often, now, and, perhaps, be less wordy in the future. But this is just a shadow of what could have been shared. All that we experience colors us in ways both unmistakable and imperceptible, and it will all bleed into my future musings. Hopefully, if you read, you will read hues that were not there before. Hopefully, the changes I, too, have undergone in these three years will be more evident--and all for the better.

The "Boring" Life

A friend of mine posted something amusing on my Facebook page this morning. Murphy's Laws of Motherhood. You know what it's about. If you change your clothes, the baby will spit up on you. If you tell a child no, they will. If you want them to sleep, they won't.

I spend the day working to maintain a practical schedule that incorporates my to-dos and meets my kids' needs. But it can only account for a certain amount of the unpredictable. Really, motherhood is managed chaos. The only thing predictable about it, is that there WILL be unpredictability!

Some days have a little more of this craziness than others though. That was my Monday afternoon. I had a dentist appointment, and I had planned to the minute everything that would need to be prepared and accomplished in order to exit the house and arrive on time. Of course, that would be the day of multiple fits, the dogs refusing to go "potty" and repeatedly tangling their leashes, the baby pooping in his new diaper as we're about to walk out the door and, the icing on the cake (or last straw, whichever witticism seems most appropriate), my toddler falling out of the car while I was occupied getting the baby settled and before I could buckle her in...and busting her lip. She screamed and flailed, and I tried to slow the flow of blood with my shirt, which I didn't have time to run back inside to change. And so I put the whimpering child in her car seat, with her fat lip growing ever plumper, feeling more than a little harried and disheveled (and now dirty!) and...of course...I got behind someone going 45 mph in a 55 mph zone all the way to the dentist when already running late.

Days like that just feel so infuriating! Who ever said life the plain old family life was boring?! It is anything but that! And while sometimes the unpredictability can feel overwhelming and stressful, at the heart of it, and the point of the cute little post on my wall, is that in the middle of all this mess is a family I love and delight in!

Sure, I cringed today when my toddler daughter came running the minute I turned on the water in the kitchen sink, as if I was filling it with hot, sudsy water for the sole purpose of her enjoyment and play. It would be so much easier to have straightforward and uninterrupted dish duty. But right when I was beginning to grit my teeth over all the water she had poured on herself and the floor, she cheered me with a "Beep, beep Mommy" and a little hip bump to move me out of the way as she stretched her arms into the water.

Motherhood has never been boring! Even the repetition of daily tasks is infused with the unpredictable! And it's oh so sweet, even in the mess of it all, to see those little grins and just give in to this "boring" life...and it's mud-holes and skinned knees and sleepless nights and tears and drawings on the wall and Tu-tus and too-big boots and Legos and Hot-wheels and laughter and bugs and grass stains and dog-eared books and hugs...and love!

Night Terror

I've been through the baby stage six times now, and my kids are all great sleepers. I don't run to them every time they fuss in the night. More often than not, they fall back to sleep without difficulty. But my little Renn has been having a rough week. For reasons I was unable to pinpoint, he started waking up multiple times throughout the night, crying uncontrollably. This crying, this has been different. It sounds, desperate. It sounds, not normal. But when my husband or I try to soothe him, he is almost inconsolable. It's been exhausting and frustrating.

I've gone through every explanation I can think of. Congestion? Sinus pressure? Ear ache? Headache? In an effort to rule out anything that might be causing actual pain and require medication, we went to the doctor yesterday. I was anxious. My gut told me this wasn't going to be a physiological thing, something medically treatable. But, in order to be thorough, we went anyway.

The doctor pronounced him a perfectly healthy baby. So...the problem is more than likely behavioral. The doctor suggested that Renn was either experiencing some very intense separation anxiety or experiencing night terrors. Just the sound of that was scary.

I went home and researched it. That's what I do. I get information so I can get a handle on the situation, regain some control. Unfortunately, though children usually outgrow night terrors by adolescence, there is no real treatment for them. They just...happen. This, this is terrifying to me.

I don't have many dreams myself, but when I do, the scariest ones are about losing my husband or children. Some harm befalling them. The scary thing about the possibility of night terrors? Not necessarily the thing itself, but the fact that something could happen to my child that I could do absolutely nothing about. Couldn't prevent. Couldn't help. Couldn't treat. Couldn't control.

I realized how little I understand about life with less-than-normally-healthy children. Nothing. Perhaps I could offer encouragement or sympathy to someone in that position. But empathy? No. What do I know about a child being afflicted with something that you can do nothing about? I know so many who walk that hard road on a daily basis, and I am in awe of them. I cannot even pretend to know what their days, and dreams, are like.

But don't I know that God is sovereign in all our situations? Mine and theirs. That nothing is outside of His control. That He gives grace that is all-sufficient for every circumstance. I know this, and yet I fear to be tested in it.

We kept him in our room last night, not only so that his cries would not wake any siblings, but also so that we could observe him and get a better grip on the potential problem. After listening to his sleep pattern, his noises, his rolling around and his eventual cries, I think it's possible that he's experiencing an extreme separation anxiety rather than a traditional night terror. He seems to work himself up to the desperate cries after coming to the realization of his solitude rather than suddenly erupting in outbursts of screams and cries.

I can't help but feel relieved. To have an idea of what he's going through AND know that it's something we can work through. It's a blessing. I feel a little ashamed of my relief. Why should we receive such a blessing when many others don't? I don't know. But I'm thankful! I'm thankful for the knowledge that no matter what, my children are in the Lord's hands. He has ordained ALL their days. Some day, one of them will face something that is completely out of my hands...and I'm praying that won't be the terrifying day it could be, because I've already surrendered them to His.

My Valentine

This weekend my husband was cleaning out our closet and found my DD2-14. Military discharge papers. Strange, it was 13 years, to the day. I clearly remember stuffing the few civilian clothes I had into the army green duffel bag. I remember the surreal feeling of my Squad Leader, star man and PT elite (it was all stitched onto his PT shorts to prove it), approaching to wish me well, the first civil words he'd ever spoken to me. I didn't have to stand at attention anymore, but it was hard to break the ingrained habit. I remember walking out of the barracks. They seemed deserted. Everyone else was at class. I remember the long walk down to the gate...and passing through it. I remember feeling so lost and yet so free.

I checked into a little motel in town. Alone with my thoughts and all the time in the world. Time to think over every thing that had led to this moment. It already seemed like a lifetime ago that I had hurried across the apron in the dark, clutching the gray teddy bear he had given me for Valentine's just a few days before. I remember trying to shield it with my body, keeping my head down just enough so as not to attract attention, but walking with enough stature and confidence so that any upperclassman passing by would leave me alone. The bear in my arms was just another thing they'd love to harass me for, but I held onto it with a vengeance as I sped to my barracks before TAPS rang out across the grounds.

Sitting there alone, I waited for him. We were headed to his home state, Indiana, for a few weeks. It didn't help my case at all. I wasn't leaving FOR him, I assured everyone. And I wasn't. He hadn't talked me into anything. I wasn't running away with him, though I suppose that's what it looked like. I just wasn't ready to go home. I wasn't prepared. I knew my parents didn't really understand yet, although eventually they would. And I knew I couldn't expect them to be happy with my decision. I'd had phone calls, emails and messages from former teachers, mentors and other concerned adults trying to reason with me about the consequences of such a momentous choice, as if I hadn't long agonized over it myself. I couldn't to go back...to the disappointment.

I can't recount how many cadets, upperclassmen even, came up to me after it was all finalized and confided that they, too, wanted to leave, but they had Grandpa's expectations to live up to or so-and-so back home living for their achievements. For many, it would be too hard to go, no matter how much they wanted to. They felt it was easier to stay. Their empathy provided little solace. Staying wouldn't be easier for me. The other difference between me and them? I didn't really WANT to leave. I just felt like I didn't have another choice.

Basic, or BEAST, as we called it then, had gone well. I knew my knowledge front and back. I kept up with the guys in my company, even besting a few of them, which didn't do me any favors. One of them sabotaged me during a leadership training exercise by purposely ignoring my commands. But I tried to take in stride, it came with the territory. Academics were straightforward. No real difficulty there. I joined the Glee Club and loved it, even traveling around New England for performances.

Then everything changed, so fast. In November I failed a PT test. By two sit-ups. I still remember that morning, because it was the beginning. True, I should have been better prepared. But it was also 0 dark 30 during a New York winter wearing nothing but PT shorts and a t-shirt, and my muscles seized up. It didn't matter what I had done or could do. It only mattered what I did that day. Of course, when you're a soldier, that's everything. If you can't muster up when called upon, nothing else matters. I understood that, and I wanted to redeem myself.

Then, I got a concussion. I had to stop training, because any physical exertion brought on dizzy spells and a massive headache. Retaking the PT test at that time wasn't an option. I went home for Christmas leave discouraged...but not yet broken.

When I returned, I still couldn't get my feet under me. I struggled for the first time. It didn't make sense, so one morning I hung back from breakfast formation to go to sick call. It wasn't long before the results came back. Every college student's nightmare. Mono. Except, this wasn't just any college. There was no contingency plan for that type of illness then, no protocol. I went to class just like everyone else. I got up when everyone else did, stood in every formation, attended every drill, went to every intramural swim meet. It was exhausting.

The doctor put me on "profile." That meant I was technically allowed to "rest" during certain activities. That didn't go over well. Upperclassmen dropped by my room to make sure I wasn't napping and, if I was, they woke me up. I was hazed for missing one night of "duties." The upperclassman yelled in my face, "If you're not vomiting blood, you show up next time." I remember praying I would pass out right there in the hall and make him eat his words. But I didn't.

The other female plebes started to distance themselves, because I was making them look bad. Most of the male plebes were condescending at best and outright mean at worst. I tried to keep up...but I started falling asleep in my classes. My last remaining stronghold was slipping away. It felt like I was losing everything. I couldn't exercise, couldn't do all my work, couldn't sleep and couldn't talk to anyone about it. If I tried to discuss it with an officer, my upperclassmen would inevitably get in trouble...or hear about it. I was already on everyone's bad side, there was no way I wanted that reputation to be permanent.

I was backed into a corner, and the only person who listened was my husband, who served as a Ring and Crest representative with me. He was the one who finally pointed out that maintaining my health and sanity meant something. He didn't talk me into leaving. He didn't sway me one way or the other. But he did make me feel like there was at least one person in the world who wouldn't be disappointed if I did. He made it okay for me to consider it as an option.

So I did. And he did too. His term of service was complete, and his status following a shoulder surgery was questionable, at the very least making him ineligible for the branch of service he had hoped to pursue. We understood each other and stuck together. I knew people whispered about it, TAC officers asked probing questions about our future plans with knowing glances. But I wasn't leaving for him, and he never asked me to...although, he would probably say he left for me, and doesn't mind saying it. Serving in the military is an honorable profession, but he envisioned a different kind of life for himself and hoped I would some day be a part of it.

God brought him into my life right when I really needed him, and I know he would do anything for me. Drive all night after a 12-hour shift to see me on our anniversary. Move across multiple states to be near me. Work three jobs when necessary so that I could stay home with our children. He would do anything I ask and many things I don't, and I know it. I love and appreciate all that he does for me, and that gray bear still sits on our bed after ten years of marriage. Just having him in my life is truly the best Valentine's Day gift.

Many things have changed in the last 13 years. We've all moved on. I'm content with the life God has for me. It's full of blessings I could never have imagined, and I'm thankful this week for the reminder that no matter what has changed over the years, my husband's love and unconditional support for me haven't changed at all.

Day 20

476) the dollop of whipped cream on my little girl's tongue
477) the excited smile when she realized I wanted to share
478) the full-arm stretch as my baby awoke from his nap
479) the answer to prayer, the final Children's ministry position filled
480) the enthusiastic faces of my children going through their Valentines
481) the excellent and much-improved handwriting of my son
482) the cooperation of my two oldest during our drive home from school
483) the good news of additional work for my husband
484) the all-sufficient grace of God
485) the refund check from the doctor's office
486) the goofy smile of my son, accentuated by fruit snack-front teeth
487) the sweet smell of fresh pineapple
488) the sight of my son wearing a too-large Storm-trooper helmet
489) the lovely, white daisies
490) the stately, purple tulips
491) the elegant, cherry-red vase
492) the smooth, creamy, rich, dark chocolate fondue
493) the delicate cubes of pound cake
494) the sweet, juicy, large, red strawberries
495) the dainty, vanilla-cream wafers
496) the squares of Rice Krispie treat
497) the golden, cream-filled cookies
498) the fluffy, miniature marshmallows
499) the salt-encrusted pretzel sticks
500) the rectangles of crunchy graham crackers

Day 19

451) the sense of smell
452) the post-nursing, morning snuggle with my contented baby
453) the distinct laugh of each child
454) the strange and fascinating ability to dream
455) the opportunity to serve church families in the nursery
456) the many dedicated Sunday School teachers
457) the Children's Worship coordinators and volunteers
458) the impromptu finger-puppet show of my son
459) the marker-ed Goatee on my son's face
460) the sight of my daughter smashing the stinkbug with a heavy roll of duct tape
461) the kitty-cat sheet turned into a Cupid's toga
462) the thoughtfulness of my little one, retrieving the well-loved toy of her brother
463) the light swirl of drifted snow, blowing in the wind inches from the ground
464) the fantastic fantasy world of Harry Potter
465) the Biblical example of Rebekah, both faithful and fearful
466) the aroma of simmering, hearty Beef Stroganoff
467) the feeling of wearing heels around the house, just because
468) the sight of my daughter, covered in a gold throw blanket, pretending to wear an invisibility cloak
469) the rolling boil of water
470) the well-worn, maroon Airborne t-shirt of my husband
471) the twisting curl of egg noodles
472) the bright orange of fresh, sliced-open carrots
473) the sapphire blue of my baby's eyes
474) the ice cream treat for which my husband made a special grocery run
475) the joy of hearing "I love you" every day