Celebrated hubby’s birthday.
Cooked him a nice lasagna meal with the family.
Hard to believe that this good-looking boy
would waltz into my life one day.
As an added bonus, gave hubby a surprise party with friends the next day.
He completes me.
He had a rugged, but kind, short-bearded face
Happy Birthday, Mark.
Filed under Birthday
Into my pre-teen years—although I tried to hide my true feelings—I became self-conscious, which developed into a guarded inferiority complex. While not as shy as my mother had been, I felt like an outcast: I came from a broken home, my family was poor, and I was still on the school’s free lunch program. My clothes were hand-me-downs. We didn’t own a car. I didn’t even own a bike, although I always wanted one. We didn’t go on vacations to Disney World, like the other kids bragged about, nor could we afford the latest trends or luxuries like others.
As I wrestled with these feelings of mediocrity, I became ashamed of my Puerto Rican heritage. I didn’t play the blame game, but felt second-rate, forever on the outside looking in. I determined not to let anyone see through my brittle exterior to see a weakling. In school, because I didn’t feel part of the “in” crowd, I enviously watched as the popular kids voted for class president, vice president, or secretary. In my mind, I believed the ritzy kids went to summer camps, swimming lessons, and Girl Scout meetings. After all, they paid for their school lunches, not the state. They wore the latest fashions, not hand-me-downs. Their straight, pearly whites glistened when they smiled. They even pronounced their words perfectly. They lived in big houses whose parents had “nest eggs.”
“Some are more privileged than others,” Grandma explained to me. “But we are all the same in God’s eyes.”
I wasn’t about to argue with Grandma’s statement. All I knew was that there never seemed to be enough funds to do anything extra. My grandparents were extremely frugal. They didn’t believe in splurging or in keeping up with the Joneses.
In the early seventies, several public schools were still racially unbalanced, so the federal courts stepped in. Miami’s school districts bused students from one neighborhood to another to achieve integration.
Busing made my life plummet from bad to worse. I attended Miami Shores Middle School, a predominantly white school where kids commonly called Hispanics “spics.”
Because I was of Puerto Rican descent, I was the target of their taunting. “You spic English?” they scoffed, using their favorite line. They even gave me grief about my naturally full-sized lips (something others now pay money to have done).
To make matters worse for me, my grandma—unpretentious and a bit old-fashioned—insisted that I wear dresses to school past my knees, even though other girls wore the trendy mini-skirts and mini-dresses. Almost all my clothes were second-hand, and at eleven years old—going on twelve—that bothered me.
“Grandma, this isn’t what the girls wear nowadays!” I groaned.
“Dis is what you’re wearin’, and you shouldn’t be ashamed. Your clothes are clean and pressed,” she said with finality in her usual accent.
I threw up my hands. “Grandma, you’re gonna make me get into fights!”
“You are a Christian girl,” she retorted, her eyes wide and fierce. “Dun you forget that.”
* * * *
Thanks to you, Grandma, I haven’t forgotten.
I’ll always remember my beloved grandma, who passed away in the eighties, whose birthday would have been July 26th. In her simplicity, she impacted my life and instilled in me values and principles I shall never forget.
© M.A. Pérez 2014, All Rights Reserved
All throughout my life, I’ve dealt with feelings of low self-esteem and self-worth. I felt undone, incomplete, or insignificant. Along the way, I realized this stemmed from my childhood. I did not ask for it. I certainly did not want it. But with an undeniably painful past and a seemingly questionable future, I muddled through life. I thought a man could save me, but he only tried to make me into his own image! I became his shadow, worshiped the ground he walked on, and was subservient to his every whim. I was truly lost, with no identity, no voice, no me. Yet I held on, not wanting to lose him then. By the way, that’s a perfect example of insecurity: the more easily threatened we are, the more insecure we are.
Beth Moore says, “Insecurity lives in constant terror of loss.” As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been reading Beth Moore’s So Long, Insecurity with the subtitle You’ve Been a Bad Friend to Us. Wish she had written this book 40 years ago! She says that insecurity is not only a woman’s battle. She identifies insecurity as a “profound sense of self-doubt – a deep feeling of uncertainty about our basic worth and our place in the world. The insecure man or woman lives in constant fear of rejection and deep uncertainty about whether his or her own feelings and desires are legitimate.”
I thought about myself as a Christian. Why, from time to time, do I still struggle with insecurities? Why does rejection crush me so? Why do I second-guess everything? Beth reveals an interesting point about herself in her book: “I not only lack security, but I also lack faith. I don’t just doubt myself, I also doubt God about myself.
Now I don’t know about you, but that struck a chord in me!
She goes on to say how some of us never seek healing from God for our insecurities because we feel like we don’t fit the profile. But insecurity’s best cover is perfectionism. Now there’s a mask for you!
What masks are you prone to wear? Looking back, I recall hiding the pain behind my smile.
A woman who has no self-worth or low self-esteem tends to hide behind a mask.
Note: Here’s a poem I came across: Don’t Be Fooled By Me
In the mid-1960s, as a girl with my grandparents, we would ride the Metro bus every Sunday to attend services at First Faith Cathedral. Once church was over, we hopped on another bus to downtown that took us to the Painted Horse, a favorite all-you-can-eat restaurant on Biscayne Boulevard. Adults ate for $0.99 and kids ate for $0.49. I preferred the hamburger steak with macaroni and cheese, and even though they displayed Jell-O in every color to choose from, my favorite: red.
After lunch, we would head for the Miami Public Library, near Bayfront Park. Grandpa would walk on ahead, while I strolled along with Grandma under her umbrella. We’d stop by a large pond filled with giant goldfish and feed them crackers. The park was located next to a waterfront where elegant boats and luxurious yachts sailed by. As I waved to them, I imagined how the rich folk lived.
Once we arrived at the library, I’d take the elevator to the children’s section on the second floor while my grandparents remained reading in the downstairs lobby. I strolled the aisles, running my hands across the binders of the books neatly stacked on shelves. I loved the smell of those books, the textures, the colors, and even the different lettering.
My imagination ran wild as I chose a fairy tale, sat on a nearby stool, and read about magical and faraway places. In my mind, I turned beautiful and clever all in one.
I pretended to be Cinderella, overjoyed that the glass slipper fit my foot perfectly and that my uncle, the tall Prince Charming, singled me out to dance. I imagined my brother as Hansel and I as Gretel, hunting for food, and then eating chunks of candy broken off the cottage with no evil witch in sight. I pictured myself as Little Red Riding Hood, who saved Grandma from the Big Bad Wolf. While reading, I became all those characters and more—until Grandpa called for me, saying, “Mary, time to go home.”
My real so-called adventures didn’t take me to faraway lands like those in the books I read. My adventures were riding around town on those city buses. If the bus was crowded, we stood while swaying back and forth. Back and forth. Grandpa held onto the straps. Unable to reach them, I held onto the bars instead.
“Mary, hold on tight now,” Grandma cautioned. Grandpa stood nearby, ready to steady Grandma or me if needed. I don’t think he enjoyed riding on the bus much.
When it was time, I liked to pull the cord to signal the driver to let us off.
“Now, Grandpa?” I asked, not wanting to miss our stop.
“Not yet. Be patient, young lady.”
“How about now?”
“I’ll let you know when it’s time.”
Eventually, the sunny, bright-colored Sable Palms apartment complex came into view.
“Okay, now, young lady,” Grandpa nodded.
I would kneel on the seat and reach for the cord, or sometimes Grandpa hoisted me up. I pulled on the cord fast, once, twice, and sometimes even three times for the bus driver to stop. Then swoosh the rear doors opened, we exited, and then the doors swooshed closed.
Palm tree-lined winding roads, landscaped and shaded, led the path to my grandparents’ home. Often, coconuts fell from those towering trees, and I’d run to pick one up for us.
I’ll never forget one day when we arrived home, I overheard Grandpa complaining to Grandma about standing too close to so many people.
“¿Tu ves, Ana?” he said, showing her something. “See? They stole my wallet.”
From the hall, I listened.
“Oh, no!” Grandma gasped, staring at his inside-out pocket in disbelief.
“We have to stand so close we are like sardines. Too easy for someone to put his hands in my back pocket, take my wallet out without me knowing.”
It made me sad to think someone would do something bad to my grandpa, stealing from him as if we were rich. Then again, maybe we were.
(An excerpt from Running in Heels)
© M.A. Pérez 2014, All Rights Reserved
I loved books then. I love books now. I remember the simple things in life as a child, with a vivid imagination that took me to wonderful, faraway places. What are some of your fond memories as a child?
So, I’m reading Beth Moore’s So Long, Insecurity. I’m not even past chapter four yet, and find myself re-reading and digesting the words on the pages. She states in her book that we all have insecurities, and most have enough insecurity to hinder us. As I reflect on whether I’ve ever felt insecure, I’m sad to admit that I’m well-acquainted with insecurity.
Beth Moore ties insecurity to a profound sense of self-doubt. Ouch! However, I think I already knew this. How many times have I determined to do something, only to change my mind? How often have I started a task only to lack the courage to move forward? My palms get clammy. My confidence deflates. My resolve wavers. My bravado crumbles. I bet I’m not the only one who struggles with this!
I’m a common woman sharing common problems seeking common solutions on a journey with an uncommon Savior.
The word rejection is also mentioned in the book, and that brings me to ask: Well, who in the world likes to be rejected? To the point where I sometimes think, if you reject me, I’ll go out of my way to prove you wrong—sometimes—despite my own hurt, creating my own misery. I can honestly say, I know my own flaws, or at least I’d like to think so. But the astonishing thing for me is reading what an insecure woman looks like:
She may easily cry, avoid the spotlight, and have a strong desire to make amends, whether it’s her fault or not. If someone gets angry at her, she has a difficult time not thinking or dwelling on it. The insecure woman sometimes feels anxious for no apparent reason; her feelings get hurt when she learns someone doesn’t like her, and she may even fear that her husband might leave her for another.
Talk about a lack of self-worth!
Well, I asked my husband what insecurities he saw in me. (Because after all, I know I have some.) And this is what he answered: The big one is when you feel like you’re not in control. Not having a say in something, and having a tendency to micro-manage. He said this goes back to my early years when others told me what to do and when to do it. What an eye-opener! While this was true during my childhood, it was also true in my first marriage.
Before I became a Christian, I struggled with insecurities, and now as a Christian, I still struggle at times. I learned a long time ago that I’m not perfect, but I’m forgiven. I’ve opened myself up to sharing some of these truths with you because I know they are life’s lessons. I’m still learning, and if there’s a pulse and breath in your being, then you are still learning, too. No one on this earth is perfect or has arrived. I’ve determined to work on my insecurities.
How about you?
© M.A. Pérez 2014, All Rights Reserved
Filed under Beth Moore, insecurities
From the beginning, I loved Mark’s adventurous spirit for the outdoors and watching him interact with my gang. He took us on weekend outings and summer vacations. They included dove hunting with my son, camp-outs on the beach, air shows, the circus, barbecues at the parks, and a vacation to Disney World. Even though raised in Miami, I had never been to Disney World and recall that I was as excited to go as the kids were.
Our all-time favorite excursion: A ten-day road trip to his hometown in California. We stopped in San Diego and spent the entire day at the zoo, the largest and grandest I had ever seen or strolled through. Our second day was in Los Angeles, where I knew we’d bump into Hollywood glitter to brag about back home.
I was right, too. Well, sort of.
To my shock, a few yards away, I spotted a celebrity in the crowd at Universal Studios. I saw the back of his head, and then he turned just enough for me to see his profile. He wasn’t Tom Cruise. He wasn’t Mel Gibson. He wasn’t exactly your Prince Charming … Of course, my kids didn’t know of him. Yep, I called out his name. He turned and waved right at me. It was him, all right. Tiny Tim! His song, Tiptoe Through the Tulips played in my head for the rest of that day. Ugh!
In Monterey, we cruised along the 17-mile drive, passing greenery, plush golf courses, Clint Eastwood’s home, and the infamous Lone Cypress tree we’d seen only in photos before. We hung out at Golden Gate Park in San Francisco and toured the Museum of Natural History. We stopped in Salinas, visited Mark’s aunt, and continued to Modesto. We spent the night at his brother’s home and watched the children happily camp out in their backyard under a full moon in a tent.
Come morning, on to Yosemite National Park. As far as the eye could see, the view was breathtaking, beautiful, and serene. We enjoyed a picnic, watched a waterfall nearby, and then the little ones wanted to explore. Wherever Mark led, the children followed. The kids trailed him, fearlessly climbing one rock after another. I never cared much for heights, so I took pictures on “lower” ground.
Just as I started to worry, weren’t there bears around? My kiddos raced back towards me, down the trail with Mark in tow.
“Mommy! Mommy!” they cried in unison. “Guess what?”
“Where’d you guys go?” I asked. “I started to get—”
“You should have seen Mark,” they said, trying to talk at once.
As Mark drew closer, I noticed his clothes were soaking wet, a sheepish grin on his face. Apparently, when he wanted to venture farther along the riverbank, he instructed the kids to wait for him while he climbed higher. But when it was time to descend, Mark found himself in a tight spot. The drop was much further down from where he stood to try to hop off. After some scheming, he threw his wallet and keys where the children were, then dove into the cold river and swam until he could gain a better footing and get back up on track.
Amidst the chatter, I teased Mark by saying he had really fallen into the river (instead of voluntarily jumping in). However, he and the kids insisted that he deliberately dove in when he ran out of options. We would joke about this for years to come.
Unknowingly, those voyages were just the beginning of wonderful memories my children shared with their step-dad, who, lovingly, selflessly, and so “bravely” (as my brother puts it) stepped up to the plate and welcomed us with open arms. That husband of mine became more than just a “step” dad.
It takes a strong man to accept somebody else’s children and step up to the plate another man left on the table…
~ Ray Johnson
I love my husband for striving to be the best Daddy he can be for my children. It seems to have come naturally to him, ever since day one, when we crossed paths some twenty-three years ago.
By the way, that special someone makes a great, fun-loving “Papa” for our grandkids, too.
© M.A. Perez 2014, All Rights Reserved
If you’re truly going to be significant, you have to add value to other people.
Recently, my husband and I attended a John Maxwell seminar, which we thoroughly enjoyed. A trajectory of wit coupled with wisdom ensued from this man’s lips.
Here are seven meaningful questions I jotted down and continue to reflect upon. What a great exercise!
Your turn! As you think about the questions above, how would you answer them?
1965
Out in Jersey’s bitter cold, the moon full, the trees rustled. Mama and I spent half the night shivering, huddled together on a bus bench—my head on her lap.
“M-Mama,” my teeth chattered. “I’m cold.”
“I am, too. Now, stay still.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“I know, Mary. Close your eyes. That bum. Where is he?”
We would have frozen if a kind woman hadn’t invited us up to her place to sleep on her sofa overnight.
Whenever Mama cornered Jimmy in a bar, drinking his pay away, after bickering over dinero, she’d remain with him. If I happened to be around, they sent me away, or Mama left me at home by myself. It saddened me how she preferred being with him rather than with me. Often, they’d stagger home and pass out in a stupor. Only then did the arguments cease and the fights end.
More often than not, I’d gone to bed with the sound of my stomach rumbling. Mama and Jimmy routinely barged in from a night of carousing.
“Mama, I’m hungry,” I mumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
“Why are you awake?”
“Can you fix me something to eat?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. It’s late.” She turned on the hotplate to fry a hot dog. A few minutes later, she’d have one for me rolled inside a slice of bread. “Here. Sit up.”
“Fix me one, too,” Jimmy demanded.
“Hold your horses,” Mama snapped.
As soon as I finished, I lay back down, my eyelids heavy. Eventually, the bright lights in the room faded. My parents’ fussing drifted away as sleep overtook me, but not before I heard familiar sounds. A can is popping open. Cursing. A slap. Sobs.
Unsure as to why, one evening Jimmy overturned the bed that Mama and I slept in. We tumbled onto the hard floor. As Mama struggled to rise, Jimmy pulled her by the arm and shoved her into a windowpane. Jimmy became aware of my presence, and after he flipped the bed upright, he ordered me back into it. I faced the wall, sniffling until I fell asleep.
The next morning, I awoke to the sight of a blood-spattered Mama hobbling on crutches. I ran to help her.
“Mama, what happened?”
“It’s nothing, Mary. Stop crying! I tripped, that’s all.”
I couldn’t help but wonder, Why did she think I didn’t know anything?
I knew some things. I hid loose change and planned to save enough money to take care of Mama one day. In my childish mind, I knew that one day we were going to live in a big house, have plenty to eat, and Mama wouldn’t ever have to worry again.
That afternoon, I heard cursing and knew it wasn’t good. A rattling sound echoed around the wall, as if something were whirling in a container. Then, to see Jimmy shaking my pink, plastic kitty bank upside down in mid-air, my pennies, dimes, and nickels clattering onto the floor, made me feel weak and sick inside.
I followed the coins that rolled under a chair and dove for them. I looked up, my eyes darting between Mama and Jimmy, hoping she’d do something. Mama called him a “jackass,” but that didn’t stop him. He couldn’t care less that I knelt there sobbing. He expressed zero shame as he scooped the scattered change into his pocket. My coins.
Later, Mama told me that Jimmy was just thirsty and to stop sniffling. “He’ll return the money soon enough,” she said. I knew that wasn’t true.
On my knees, I gathered up the broken pieces of my kitty bank. With no more tears left, I seethed, thinking, maybe Mama can take care of herself. And maybe I’ll never talk to her again. Or to Jimmy. And maybe I’ll run away . . . to my real daddy.
(Excerpt from Running in Heels – a continuation of Part I)
© M.A. Perez 2014, All Rights Reserved
Freedom isn’t free.
My 19-year-old grandpa, Florentino Mendez – 1916
Please take a moment to remember those who gave their time and even their lives fighting for the freedom we have each day. God bless America.
An hour later, reluctantly, I arrived at the clinic holding the door open, and ushering the girls inside. I noticed there were no other kids or parents scheduled at the same time as we were. I wondered if they had opened just for us. I rang the bell at the counter, took a questionnaire to fill out, and plopped into a chair. My girls busied themselves exploring their surroundings, investigating all the toys and books a-plenty.
The waiting room was kid-friendly, but it felt cold, like a funeral home. Cushioned chairs lined the walls, plastered with billboards regarding child safety laws. Small toys were scattered on the gray linoleum, and bookshelves were crammed with picture books and stuffed animals. A small fish tank rested on the counter, and a yellow Lego table sat in the middle of the room. Above the sign-in window hung a large round clock.
I wanted to flee, but I rang the bell again.
A petite, white-coated woman emerged behind the counter. She looked odd wearing glasses too large for her narrow face, with an over-exaggerated smile just as wide. She held a clipboard in her hand and glanced down, skimming the pages.
“The gangs all here?” she inquired.
I nodded. “Yep.”
“Right on time. I will be calling your girls one by one to go into the examining room.”
“Do I get to go in, too?” I asked.
She answered with a phony grin.“Won’t be necessary.” Then, she turned and called in a sing-song voice, “Anna?”
She and Anna Marie disappeared behind the door. I glanced at the clock.
I flipped through the pages of a magazine. Diana tossed a picture book onto my lap, which she wanted me to read. Glad to occupy some time, I made up the words and pretended to read to her.
Minutes passed before Ms. White-Coat, with her fake smile and tone, returned. Anna Marie skipped by, chewing gum, and joined her sisters.
“Diana. You’re next,” Ms. White-Coat chirped. Diana glared at her suspiciously, but when White-Coat produced a piece of candy, Diana’s face lit up. They vanished behind the door.
My mind scrambled as I paced.
What questions are they asking Diana? She won’t understand, nor will she be able to answer properly. They’ll trick her or have her repeat whatever they want her to say. What if they ask if her Mommy ever spanks her? Or takes things away? Or sends her to her room?
I wanted to drill Anna Marie about what Ms. White-Coat had asked, but feared the room might be bugged.
I stared at the clock, unseeing. The tick-tock of the second hand turned. I peered out the curtain and watched an ant crawl along the windowsill, carrying a big crumb in its mouth, too heavy of a load for such a tiny thing. Like I sometimes felt.
Diana wasn’t kept long. The door burst open, and she scampered out with a balloon in her hand and a grape BlowPop in her mouth. I smiled. She’s no dummy; she got what she wanted. I hope Diana gave Ms. White-Coat-Goodie-Two-Shoe a run for her money.
“Okay, I guess we have finished anyway,” she said out of breath. “That leaves you, my dear. Angela, right?”
My baby girl held onto my leg, shielding her face. “Mommy, no,” she pleaded.
“It’s okay, Angela. Mommy will be right here waiting,” I said.
White-Coat held a doll and, in her ever-so-fake-sweet voice, coaxed my daughter to go in with her.
Once the examination finished, another woman came out to talk with me. She introduced herself with a last name I couldn’t pronounce. I read her name tag: Gretchen. She told me that the physicals went well. The tests came out clean, and she saw that my girls were happy and that I cared for them. Yet, on account of our history of alcohol and violence, she deemed our home an unsafe environment for the girls.
Here it comes. I held my breath and stared at the floor.
“We understand your dire straits; however, due to your present condition”—I cradled my belly— “and financial situation, you have expressed that you have no other place to go. For this reason, we must remove the girls from the home today into a more stable and suitable environment.”
A wave of nausea washed over me.
She rambled on. “Before the girls can return home, you must provide a safe place for them to return to, or . . . your husband moves . . . .”
Lost in my thoughts, my mind spun; her voice faded in and out.
“. . . recommendations . . . ,” “. . . counseling . . . ,” “. . . seek professional . . . ,”
“. . . proper care . . . ,” “. . . unfit . . . ,” “. . . temporarily . . .,” “. . . so sorry . . . .”
Stability, I thought. Where were these jokers when I was a kid?
My baby kicked. I went back to the waiting area, feeling light-headed.
“Girls, Mommy has to go away now.” On bended knee, at eye level, I struggled to control my queasiness and hide the devastation in my voice. This is the darkest day of my life!
“You will be staying at another place for a short time . . . until you can come back home again. . .” I felt my composure slipping and didn’t want to say too much, as I didn’t want to alarm them.
“You’ll have fun.” A tear escaped my eye. “Remember, Mommy loves you so much. . .” I felt I might freak out at any time, bawl in front of them, and never stop.
“Give Mommy a kiss. Mommy will see you again soon. I promise.”
Anna Marie focused more on the toys in her hands than on what I struggled to convey. She nodded when I gave her a kiss and a tight squeeze. Diana repeated, “Bye-bye,” hugging her balloon instead of me.
But my two-year-old Angela clung to me tightly. She wouldn’t let go and began to cry hard. Somehow, she understood. She felt my pain.
After kissing and hugging the girls, I trotted away as quickly as possible, leaving them behind with a CPS worker. Sobbing in the elevator, I couldn’t breathe. My heart ripped from my chest. Seeing black spots, vigorous waves thrashed about in my head. I felt like a drowning child again, greedily grasping for air; only this time, CPS sharks encircled me, and I was the bait.
I was five-and-a-half months pregnant. I cradled my belly, holding my unborn child in the safety of my womb. They won’t take this one away from me!
I numbly attended a brief court session and had to consent to relinquish temporary custody of my daughters to foster care. I went through the motions of that ordeal alone, but remembering the details afterward remained a blur. When I arrived home to the empty apartment, the quietness jarred me. I imagined my girl’s chatter and giggles. My head echoed with what a failure I was. Hadn’t God given me three innocent beauties to care for? My own heart felt like I’d surely die from brokenness. And guilt.
“Where are the girls?” Donny demanded after he came home and looked around.
“Where do you think they are?” I growled. The look of shock on his face drove me forward, fueled by rage. Before he uttered another word, I lashed out, “CPS took them so they can be someplace safe. They have a right to a healthy, normal childhood that I never had. You’re not going to take that away from them!” I ran from his sight, locked myself in the bathroom, and bawled my eyes out.
“Mary, come on,” Donny pleaded. “Whatever it takes, we’ll get them back.”
He almost sounds like he cares. “Go away.”
“You’re going to get yourself sick. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“Leave me alone.”
“You’re going to have to come out sooner or later.” His voice trailed away.
“I can’t stand you!” I shouted.
But I hated myself even more.
(Although more in the book, this completes the excerpt from Chapter 32, “Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace.” To read Part One of this chapter, go here. In posting this for you, my readers, the emotions of those three dreary months as a young, struggling mother were some of the hardest I’d ever gone through. Prayer sustained me. God’s Grace got me through.)
© M.A. Perez 2014, All Rights Reserved
Filed under Memoir
From Heart to Heritage
NEW! Book Club Edition
Reflexiones del Corazón
I just want to thank Mandy for making me a hero in her garden. I was deeply touch and wanted to share my appreciation by adding her link on my sidebar. Click the picture below to view her blog. . .
Reflections From the Heart 