So last night my dad talked Lya into trying his onion soup creation, which led to Lya talking me into it…and surprisingly it was good! We ate and watched Lya’s new movie of choice, Sleepover, which is about some jr high girls having a sleepover then going on an adventure scavenger hunt against another group of girls where the prize for the winning team is the best and coolest lunch spot at the High School.  I say that it is Lya’s new favorite, but I think she likes to put it on mute, make her own lines to the actors, and laugh as she makes fun of how corny it is all played out better than she likes to actually watch the movie.  The laughter only grew after that because then Lorraine came over and we all giggled and squealed as we wrestled and tickled each other…maybe it was just Lya that was doing the giggling and squealing..and I was the one doing the tickling…Lorraine was doing laundry.  Shortly after that Lya left with Lorraine because she wanted to spend the night with her, that only meant that my dad and I were left to take care of Pax the  Moodle. I love Max.  We all do. My dad may say he doens’t, only because he doesn’t think that we see him playing with Max…he’s not that sneaky hahaha!

Well, I’m going to go…I hope I did this well!

Stephanie

Michael y mis hijas in Stephenville.  It was such an incredibly beautiful weekend.  We got rain Friday and Saturday, not a lot, but rain nonetheless, and we were spared the hail and wind with which so many places around us were battered.  It was COOL and wonderful.

Duane Godwin came by, and we had a wonderful talk, exchanging wonderful tidbits of information about Lorena.  He calls down there periodically to talk to her.  Duane and Nony were two of the first people we met when we came to Stephenville, and Duane taught Lorena in some of her classes at Tarleton.  Nony is from Chihuahua, Mexico, so she and Lorena were paisanas.  The Godwins had lived in Spain, and we had traveled in Spain.  It just seemed that we were inextricably linked from the first time we met.  Their first granddaughter was named Rainey because their daughter Holly liked the name (that she heard when Nony baby sat Lorraine.)  Lorena loves the Godwins dearly, I could not function without them, and the Godwins have proven to be Angels of deliverance for us in so many ways.

Mary Kay Nussbaum got back in touch with us.  She and Lorena still have a high tea appointment that they have not kept.  Mary Kay is still working on her teaching certification.  Our children will be blessed when she gets it because she will be an incredible teacher.  Mary Kay, it is good to have you back in touch with us.

Gaurav Gupta and Supaporn Netramanee also reestablished contact with us.  They have gone through some tough times, but they are tough people, and I am so much richer for having them in my life.  I really feel as though they are family now. 

Several folks have called us trying to get more info on Lorena.  I am sorry for the little information that I have, but what I have, I put on here.  She sounds much stronger.  I asked if she has been having them put her in the rocker more often — and she indicated no.  I told her she needs to do that.  I instructed her to have the nurses ask Carlos if there would be any problem with it.  If not, she should request it for the additional exercise it would afford her, for the sense of accomplishment it would give her, and for US!!!  She agreed that she should be rocking herself more often, and I hope she follows through.

I had more cloves-flavored French onion soup today, and it is surprisingly good.  Not, of course, that I plan to ever make it again.  Last night, Lorena laughed at me again when I mentioned that I had had cloves-flavored onion soup for supper again.  I then asked her if she would like for me to send her a bowl so she could try it.  She laughed again very hard, and Miguel, her nurse and the moderator of our call, said, “She say, ‘No!’”  Oh, well, I guess that means that I get to eat the rest of this 50 gallons of soup myself — as the enticing aroma of onions and cloves wafts through the house…  I asked the girls if they would like to try some when they got home this evening, and they ALL TOO QUICKLY assured me that they had already eaten AND WERE TOO STUFFED TO EAT ANYTHING ELSE!  Yeah, right!!!  Wimps!!!

Some of you have probably seen the recipe email that Herb and Marion Wooten sent me:  I inadvertently deleted it, or I would have stuck it on here.  It begins by asking what do you get when you mix flour and water?  The answer, of course, is PASTE.

Then it asks what do you get when you mix flour, water, eggs, milk, sugar, etc., and bake it.? The answer is:  A CAKE.

It then asks, what happens to the glue that you got when you mixed the flour and water initially?  The answer:  that is what makes the cake stick to your hips…

Michael here in Stephenville.  I just heard a CareFlite helicopter fly over — and that sound chills the very marrow of my bones.  I grew to hate that sound in Germany, and it brings back horrific images of telling Lorena goodbye at the Stephenville hospital and watching my student being flown off the school parking lot a few years ago.  I was certain my student was flying to his death.  I was extremely fearful that Lorena was.  Everytime I hear that CareFlite come over, I know that someone’s life, probably many someones, will never be the same.  Traumatically.  I hate that sound, but I am so thankful that it is there.  Just like so much of life, the dichotomy is crucial…

The sound of the CareFlite also reminded me that I did not finish my blog last night.  I was exhausted anyway, and with the additional roller coaster rides of Lorraine’s Opry performance and Lorena’s phone call, I was almost asleep when I posted the entry in the wee hours this morning.

Stephanie did not go to Rainey’s performance last night.  She was at a memorial service for a young friend (17) who solved his problems earlier in the week by sticking a shotgun under his chin.  I cannot imagine what his family is going through.  My prayers are with them.

Yesterday, Steph came in where I was, sat down, and began telling me how she would want her “funeral” service to be.  We have a broad flow of Irish blood mixed in our American mongrel mix, and I was amazed at how much it sounded like a traditional Irish wake.  I know that Steph doesn’t know much about Irish wakes…

She does not want a traditional funeral.  She wants a party, complete with music, dancing, strobe lights, and refreshments.  She wants a very informal celebration of her life by her family and friends, and she stressed repeatedly that she wants it to be fun.  She even named off specific songs that she wants to be played — and why she wants them.

I sat here listening contemplatively as a wise father would do, nodding my head, asking perceptive questions, and making insightful comments — even as it felt as if someone had kicked me in the gut.  I hate thinking about something like this MUCH worse than I hate the sound of that CareFlite.  Most of the time, that CareFlite is an abstraction for me.  Talking about a memorial service for my daughter could not possibly be more personal.  Thinking of my own death is infinitely less traumatic for me than considering the death of one of my children.  I have absolutely no fear or reservations about my own death.  However, absolutely nothing could possibly be more painful than burying one of my daughters, and I would die a million deaths the day that happened.

At the same time, I know little Stephi is growing up.  Children should know about death.  That said, they should not have to contemplate their own deaths.  That is just not the way life was meant to be.  Adults, on the other hand, must contemplate our deaths because that has to figure in our life plans and contingencies.  We will all die, and whether it is for purposes of evaluating our lives or for planning for the financial well-being of our families, the disposal of our property, the custodianship of our children, the emotional concern for our families, or whatever, we must consider our deaths.    Stephi is becoming an adult, and I am proud of her.

I need to update my will.  For years, I have planned to do that.  This reminds me.  I need to talk about this with the girls, and we need to discuss with each other (and write down) what we want if the unthinkable happens.  Girls, I know you read this, so let’s do it.  It won’t be pleasant, and it won’t be fun, but it should be done.

I sincerely pray that I am dead and buried decades before any of my daughters are — and that Lorena will be holding and comforting them after I am gone.  Mirroring Stephi, I do not want a traditional funeral.  I want a joyous celebration of my life by my family, my friends, and my many, many special ex-students, because, all things considered, my life has been a hoot.  I know that I will be watching and laughing at all the remembrances of the guy who drank soap water and spewed suds all over the kitchen until Lorena gave me vinegar to drink “to cut the suds”; the incomparable cook of clove-flavored onion soup, flaxseed soup, and microwave-boiled eggs; the goofus up on the roof in the thunderstorms under the towering oak — blowing leaves off the roof; the driver of my original-owner ’78 Ford Pinto; the object of so much laughter and ridicule; their own, personal Rodney Daingerfield…  Most importantly, though, I would want them to know how incredibly much I love them all, how deeply thankful I am for them, and how indescribably rich they have made my life…

Michael in Stephenville.  Today has been a real roller coaster of
a day, most of it wonderfully exhilarating.  I just got back from
Lorraine’s Opry debut (which was a smashing success) and have already
reported back to Lorena in a very emotional phone call.  The phone
call was really tough, with Lorena crying harder than she has cried in
a very long time.

[Rainey then (April, 1987: 
passport photo made before her first international trip to the
magnificent  flowers at Keukenhof in the Netherlands with her
godparents Javier and Socorro Almeria and their daughters Christina and
Margarita.)]

First, let me report on Rainey’s Opry performance.  Rainey did not
get to rehearse with the band, and this was the first time that she has
ever performed with a live band.  All of the other singers were
either professional or were from the Metroplex with extensive performance experience, and  one of
them  is a long-time country  recording /touring
artist.  Rainey sang a couple of songs at the beginning of the
show and another song at the end of the show.  She was really
nervous before her performance, calling me and complaining that for the
first time ever, she could not find the keys that she was going to
perform each song in.  I reassured her and told her not to worry
about it because she is a natural performer.  When she got up to perform, all the butterflies would disappear.

She was also very concerned about her outfit, wondering where she could
get boots and a  hat.  I pointed out to her that until recently,
female country singers did not sing decked out as cowboys…  In
fact, most of the country and western male artists did not
either.  In fact, I have a real problem visualizing Willy Nelson as a
cowboy.

Rainey wound up wearing black capri pants, a white blouse, and
gold-and-white heels.  She looked very professional and quite
elegant, and she wowed the audience.

The first song she sang was Patsy Cline’s “I Go Walking After
Midnight”, and she was great.  That got everything off to a
wonderful start.  The second song she sang was “Blue Moon of
Kentucky” — and it was a learning experience.  Rainey did great,
but the timing was off, she had several false starts, and it just did
not sound right.  Afterwards, the band apologized to her. 
They had not gotten to practice with her, and it turned out that they
were each playing a different version of the song. 

For her last song, though, she sang “Bill Bailey” — and she nailed it
perfectly.  She was ecstatic, as were we.  Kathleen Stripling
has been working with Rainey’s voice, and she and Molly came out to
lend their support.  Of course, sweet little Jeremy had come
also…  Rainey was asked to perform throughout the month of June,
and we will see what develops from there.  I mentioned to the
owners of the Opry that Stephanie and Lya also sing, and they want the
girls to perform together.  I think they would love that.

I got home from the performance to discover a couple of calls on my
cell phone.  Duane and Nony (and Anna), Lorena has not received
your sympathy cards yet.  She cried a bit when I mentioned that
you had asked about them.  I queried her, and she indicated that
she was crying because of the combination
of missing her parents — and missing you and the rest of us.  I
also think that part of her crying is just gratitude that you were
thinking of her enough to send a card.  Have I told you folks how
much I love you???

I then told Lorena about Rainey’s performance and mentioned how proud
Lorena would be of her little one.  Lorena began crying very hard
and very loudly.  I knew the feeling.  During Rainey’s first
song, I sat there in the audience and cried quietly because Lorena was
not there with me witnessing Rainey’s incredible debut with me as she should have
been.  One of the family asked Lorena there at home why she was
crying, and I explained that I was sure that it was a combination of
pride for Lorraine and her accomplishments and sadness that Lorena was
not getting to witness these milestones with the rest of us.  When
they asked Lorena if that was true, she very quickly and tearfully indicated that
it was.

I then told her that Rainey had told me before the performance that she
was going to dedicate her performance to Mamá — and, once again,
Lorena cried long and loud over that revelation.  At that point, I
informed Lorena that I was going to have to end the phone call if it
upset her too much — and, besides that, I couldn’t tell her about the
performance.  She quieted her sobs, so I continued with a
general discussion of our day as she sniffled.

Then I read yesterday’s blog posting to her.  Sure enough, she
laughed as hard as she had cried before.  She seemed to find the
clove-French onion soup tale as titillating as several of you other sadistic
folks who have ridiculed me so mercilessly since I revealed my cooking
disorder or handicap or faux pas or whatever you would like to call it.  In
fact, she laughed so hard that I told her it sounded as if she were
laughing at me and not with me.  She very quickly, still laughing very loudly, verified my
suspicions.  I also reminded her about the eggs-in-the-microwave
adventure — which elicited another huge laugh.  [By the way, I
don't need all of your snide comments, all of you know-it-alls who have
called me up to taunt me.  And, yes, I have a degree in
mathematics with several physics courses -- but it still makes sense about cooking eggs in the microwave...
until the egg explodes...  Ha ha ha!!!  I guess the yolk was on me!!!  There!  Now are you happy???]

I didn’t tell Lorena about my losing yesterday’s posting — and having
to recreate the whole darned thing…  That was the lowest point
of my day…

But Lorena’s miracle continues.  To God be the glory!  Thank you all…

Michael y mis tres señoritas aqui en Stephenville.  Lorena is going to get an earful tonight — and I am already anticipating her heart-warming laughter.

Lorraine and Lorena, two of my favorite Mexicanas, during happier times.  (2003)

Lorraine one year ago.   

Rainey had an early morning audition this morning out at the Stephenville Opry.  Lya and Maximus Stupidus spent the night out at Steve and Julie’s house last night.  Rainey had to go out there to take Lya in with her to the audition for moral support.  [I would like to get all three girls singing together, because they all have wonderful voices.  We (all of us, including Lorena) used to sing together everywhere we went, driving or walking or here at home with me banging on the piano or torturing the guitar.  I will always treasure those wonderful days.]

But I digress.  Back to Lorraine and her audition.

Rainey sang “Blue Moon of Kentucky” (and she is GOOD!!!)  The guy at the Opry asked her what country music she likes, and she started rattling off her favorites:  Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, Tammy Wynette, Dolly Parton, Hank Snow…  He stopped her, amazed, and asked her what in the world a girl her age was doing listening to that old stuff.  She explained that she had always listened to that music, and she just liked it.  He then said, “All the girls come out here these days, and all they know is New Country, pop, and rock.  I won’t even put them on.  Be out here at 7:00 tonight with a list of songs you would like to sing and the key you would like to sing them in.  You will be going on stage pretty soon after that.”  Needless to say, she is tickled.

We stayed a few decades behind the times here at home, and we were pretty eclectic on top of that.  The girls’ teachers at school were always laughing about the girls’ responses to questions on assignments in which they had to list their favorite artists and stars.  Invariably, on their lists of favorite stars would be Julie Andrews, Ginger Rogers, the Marx Brothers, Charlie Chaplin, Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, Judy Garland, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, Katherine Hepburn, and so on.  The teachers would be amazed that the girls even knew who those folks were. 

We listened to and sang a really eclectic mix of old hymns, folk songs (“Hambone”, “Here, Rattler”, “Old Dan Tucker”, “Shortenin’ Bread”, “Froggy Went a Courtin’”, etc.), Stephen Foster songs, vaudeville tunes (“Bicycle Built for Two”, “Shine on, Harvest Moon”, “Five Foot Two”), songs by the Lennon Sisters, a lot of Scottish and Irish folk songs, mariachi, Mexican folk (“Los Colores”, “El Condor Pasa”, “Cielito Lindo”, “Gavilan”,  “Pajarillo Barranqueño”, “La Llorona”, “La Zandunga”), Gilbert and Sullivan show tunes, just about everything that Rogers, Hart, and Hammerstein ever wrote, Country, Western, blues, and much 60′s and 70′s pop and rock.  Lya’s favorite radio station plays classic soft rock, and the girls are heavily into Carole King, Carly Simon, the Beatles, the Monkees, the Carpenters, etc.  They love Frank Sinatra, Michael Buble, Andrea Bocelli, Sarah Brightman, etc., and they also like and sing many of the Latin romance songs such as “Beso Mi Mucho.”  They knew all the lyrics of the the old musicals up to and including Grease, and they would sing and reenact them endlessly.  [We had some neighbors a few years ago with several daughters/cousins/friends around the same ages as our girls who were just as into Grease as our girls were.  It was a little disconcerting to come into a house full of little girls singing, "Look at me; I'm San-dra Dee lou-sy with vir-gi-ni-ty..."]

Anyway, I am proud of mis hijas, and I guess I will be out at the Opry tonight wishing with all my might that Lorena could be there with me to listen to our little Rainey. 

Lorena will get a big kick out of Rainey’s Opry debut, but her biggest laughs will be reserved for yours truly.  My culinary legend grows!!!  I am going to end up a bigger name than Emeril.  In fact, I will probably be known as Eminemeril [due to the bad rap I am getting for my cooking.]  The bad thing is, it isn’t my fault.  Just like St. Andreas, I am the victim of a smear campaign who does not deserve the bad publicity I get. 

A while back, I got a hankering for French onion soup, so I bought a big bag of onions.  500 pounds or so — or so it seems.  They were real nice onions when I bought them, but recently they could have starred in a movie named something like Good Onions Gone Bad.  [Needless to say, it would have been a real multi-layered tearjerker with lots of "a peel"...]  These onions had really degenerated to the point that they were starting to poison the very atmosphere of our loving home.  In fact, they had become real stinkers…  I came home from school one day last week, opened the door, walked into the house, and IMMEDIATELY decided that the onions were going to have to be converted very quickly if there was to be any hope for their salvation.  [Simultaneously, I learned that onions don't have to be cut to make me cry...]

[Please let me interject at this point that I am well aware that one's eyesight changes with age and that I am in need of visiting my optometrist some time this decade, so you need not point that out to me (as many of you would so kindly do...)  Not, of course, that this has anything to do with my story.]

Anyway, I decided to baptize my onions in a rich beef stock in order to translate them to that heavenly plane.  Thus, I was frantically exorcising the bad from the onions, preparing my stock, and organizing my other ingredients even as the girls are preparing for their evenings out, asking me a million questions, and driving me [even more] bonkers.  The recipe called for a cup of dry white wine, so I had to open my last bottle of Riesling.  [Of course, it would be unpardonable for one to let a bottle of good Riesling go to waste just because a recipe called for one cup of wine, so...]  And I was trying to carry on several phone conversations at the same time…  I don’t multi-task real well…

Caramelizing the onions took quite a while, but it went well until I added the sugar to complete that step — and then got personally involved in a very touching phone call.  Suffice it to say that the onions caramelized wonderfully by the time I got back to them, but I had to change them to a different pan, [and I have not worked up the nerve to scrub the first pan out yet.  The recipe said to remove the onions when they reached the color of mahogany -- which I did.  The recipe, though, didn't say anything about the bottom of the pan being the color of ebony.]  I then started adding all the other ingredients with my poor eyesight aided by a thousand distractions, some very good Riesling, and a circulatory system flooded with adrenalin from thinking that I had cremated my onions instead of merely converting them.

In goes the bay leaf.  The three minced cloves of garlic.  The quarter teaspoon of thyme (which made me aware of how little thyme I have left)  [If you've got the money, Honey, I need more thyme..."] The wine would wait until later.  The quarter teaspoon of powdered cloves.  Cloves???  Hmm…  Yes, cloves.  It said so right there.  Who would ever have thunk it???  Cloves in French onion soup!!!  [I remembered a wonderful concoction I enjoyed in the Strasbourg area of France each spring during strawberry season that consisted of fresh strawberries, sour cream, a liquor of a forgotten sort -- and fresh ground black pepper.  The first time I saw them grinding black pepper on my strawberries, I was really taken aback.  But it was delicious...] Wow!  Cloves in French onion soup!!!  I couldn’t remember any of those wonderful French onion soups in Europe tasting of cloves, but…  Oh, well…

Then I started slicing and browning my French bread as the tantalizing aroma of caramelized onions, good Riesling, and cloves wafted in my nostrils.  Next, I covered my browned slices of French bread with grated Gruyere and Swiss cheese which I baked as my soup finished…  Ah…  I dipped myself a big bowl of soup, topped with French bread topped with melted Gruyere and Swiss, and…  Delicious…  Different than any other French onion soup I had ever eaten before…  but delicious…  I think…

I was slurping and making drowning noises into the phone as I savored my soup and tried to keep it from scalding the inside of my mouth.  I was explaining to my caller that I was enjoying my wonderful French onion soup when I was asked what the ingredients were.  Slurping, puffing, and blowing around my soup and my scalded tongue, I listed the ingredients until I got to the cloves, at which point the caller incredulously asked (and I quote), “CLOVES???  In French onion soup???”

Smugly, I said, “Yeah.  Cloves.  In French onion soup.  [Fetching the recipe.]  It says, ‘One-quarter teaspoon of powdered cloves’ right here in the recipe.  For spiced tea.  Right next to the recipe for French onion soup.  Which mentions cloves only in reference to garlic cloves…”  I got a preview of what tonight’s call to Lorena will be like as I listened to the laughter issuing forth from the telephone…

I guess you can call me a slow, dyslexic Emeril.  Each time he adds a zesty new ingredient, he yells, “Bam!!!”  I guess I can’t tell my “B”s from my “D”s, so I will add cloves to my French onion soup and, later, yell, “Bam!!!” 

MY soup is certainly more individualistic than those run-of-the-mill onion soups they serve in France.  I never once ate one of their soups that made me nostalgic for the chewing gums of my childhood.  Mine does!!! 

Lorena will laugh long and hard.  Just as she did about my linasa soup.  [I don't remember exactly on here where I detailed my infamous flaxseed soup adventure, but the girls still graciously remind me -- and Lorena -- about it just about every phone call to her and any other time that there is a receptive and jaundiced ear available.  Brats!!!  Its health benefits are indisputably obvious, however, seeing as how none of us have died since eating it.  To my daughters' surprise...]

Lorena did not laugh quite so hard when I bought our first microwave in Germany (to civilize my poor little backwards Mexican girl) and showed her how to boil eggs in it.  She wanted to go on a picnic, so she was going to boil us some eggs.  I, however, as the sophisticated American and loving husband, rushed to her rescue.  Gentling chiding her for her understandable ignorance and touting the wonderful, time-saving expediency of modern technology, I put an egg in the microwave, set the timer with a flourish, punched the Start button, and, puffed up with importance, stood waiting expectantly for my moment of triumph.  BOOM!!!  The egg explode in the microwave.  Lorena did not seem to be impressed. 

Flustered and upset because my demonstration had obviously been sabotaged by a defective egg, I hurriedly began cleaning the microwave as Lorena started to boil some eggs.  I tried to tell her she was wasting her time, but she seemed determined to forego the miracle of modern conveniences.  I, in the meantime, was amazed at how many little nooks, crannies, and crevasses there are in a microwave oven — and how much egg white and yolk those recesses can hold.  Even after one has cleaned them repeatedly.

(In the meantime, Lorena graciously informed me that her eggs were boiled, and she was running cold water over them to let them cool.  However, I was undeterred.  Just like Davy Crockett on the last day of his life, I was a man on a mission…)

It was clean!!!  [Well.  Clean enough for my purposes.]  Get another egg.  Get Lorena’s attention after calling her back into the kitchen from wherever she had wandered off packing her picnic paraphernalia after obviously getting bored watching me clean Humpty Dumpty’s guts out of the microwave.  Place egg [with flourish] into microwave.  Set timer.  Start.  Wait.  BOOM!!! 

Microwave window has again become something that should be on display in Hell’s Museum of Modern Art.  Completely baffled at how I could possibly have received two defective eggs in one carton, I opened the microwave door once more and began wiping up egg goo, starting with the sick mucusy globs that were dripping off the microwave door onto the floor.  (Lorena, meanwhile, had turned away to finish her picnic packing.)

With gritted teeth, seething brain, and queasy stomach, I clean the microwave again.  Summon Lorena once again.  She says for me to forget the microwave and to come on; she is ready to go on the picnic.  I, however, have a point to make.  For some reason, Lorena is impatient and skeptical (to say the very least.)  I am frantic.  The demonstration MUST work this time.  Ready.  Set.  Go.  BOOM!!!

Eggs guts literally run out around the door of the microwave this time even before I open it.  Another @#$%!& defective egg!!!  Lorena tells me she will be waiting at Marion Wooten’s apartment until I am ready to carry the picnic stuff down to the car.  She really would like to go picnicking, though.  Today…  Something about the tone of her voice disconcertingly suggests that she really is not ready to convert to microwave cooking and that, seemingly, she is not even remotely interested in learning how to boil eggs in a microwave…

At that point, I decided, in the interest of international relations and to do my part in the quest for world peace, that retreat would be the better part of valor.  I quickly cleaned the microwave one last time, loaded the picnic supplies and Lorena into the car, and began trying to make it up to her.  I have been trying to make it up to her ever since…  [Since then I have learned that one should not try to boil eggs in a microwave.  In fact, the microwave owner’s manual stated quite bluntly NOT to try to boil eggs in the microwave.  It said they would explode!!!  Duh!!!  I could have told them that!!!)

Lorena, though, has been nice enough, now and then, in the years since then, to remind me of this unpleasantness.  In an effort to give our daughters wonderfully touching and warm familial vignettes to pass on on to future generations, she has even been thoughtful enough to share this memory with them.  And she has shared it with numerous family members at reunions.  And with total strangers at the mall.  She really likes to cheer people up.  She is good at it, too.  They always laugh.  And look at me.  And laugh some more.

I have several more gallons of wonderful clove flavored French onion soup if any of you are interested.  Let me know quickly though, because it will undoubtedly go quickly…

Oh, yes, and I just found the cup of wine that I was supposed to put in the soup…

I can’t wait to hear Lorena laugh…

Her miracle continues.   To God be the glory!  Thank you all for your prayers and your support!!!  (And you had better not laugh at me!!!)

Michael and the girls here in Stephenville.  We are doing well.  We get to try to talk to Lorena in a few minutes, so I will prepare to present.

We had a super visit with Lorena again.  [This month, our phone bill is going to be outrageous.  Lorena spelled to Angie on our last call, so we were on the phone for about an hour.  Then tonight, the girls, especially Lya, were manic; she read her autobiography to Lorena that she has prepared for school, and its presentation is very close to real time...]  However, the call was great.

Roberto was Lorena’s nurse tonight.  He told us that Lorena can now roll both her arms around on the little therapy skateboard.  [This is a little skateboard-like device to which one of her arms is strapped as she sits at the table.  She can now move both arms (probably pulling them in toward her because that is easier.)  That, again, is great news.

He said that she is doing great and has been laughing constantly.  Roberto is a great one to know laughing, and he will be a wonderful companion for her.  Extremely personable and with a great sense of humor, he will keep her on her toes mentally, and laughing has to be great exercise for her as well as being good for her spirit.

We were blessed by a load of laughs tonight.  One of Stephanie's friends is very gay.  He is a really nice guy, president of his class, etc., but definitely of a different persuasion.  Anyway, as class president, he is expected to go to his senior prom, so he asked Steph if she would be his date.  She quickly agreed, and she and Lya had a blast with Mommy telling stories about Taco (his nickname.)  [I was rewarded with a huge laugh from Lorena when I suggested that he was a soft Taco.  I probably got some demerits in my book of life as well...]  The first time Lya met him, he had brought Stephi home and asked Lya if they had some hairspray.  Lya couldn’t find any, but he found a can of conditioner, so he tried to spike his hair with it — without success.  Lya found some other goop they use, so he tried it, but, again, it didn’t meet his approval.  He told Lya that what he really needed was some hair gel. 

Aha!!!  Lya went and got the get they had bought to spike Max’s mohawk.  [My mouth was hanging open throughout this discussion.  I certainly did not know that I had paid for gel to spike a stupid poodle's mohawk!!!]  However, she brought the gel, which apparently fit the bill perfectly.  The girls were whooping and hollering throughout the story, and Lorena’s laughter was a beautiful accompaniment.  Apparently, at first Taco was reluctant to use poodle gel, but the girls pointed out to him that it made Max look GREAT and Max really liked it — and Max is a boy, too…

Both of the girls started reminiscing with Lorena.  Both of them had to tell Mommy what reminds them of her.  Stephie said the big Mommy reminder for her is dill; it reminds her of Mommy and spring.  We always raised dill in the garden and in planters in the kitchen, and Lorena used it constantly.  She would make Turkish cucumbers in yogurt with dill on it, tomatoes with lime juice and dill, salsa with lots of dill and cilantro, dried shrimp salad with plenty of fresh dill — and I am salivating so that I can hardly type. 

[I told Lorena that just the smell of good cooking reminds me of her, and the girls quickly and very graciously pointed out that I sure don't get many of those mnemonic triggers around this house.  Brats!!!]

Lya started then on White Diamonds perfume (Lorena’s favorite.)  My little raconteurs then started remembering all different kinds of things and discussing them with Lorena, and I just had a roller coaster ride down memory lane.  It really was great to remember the good times and to hear Lorena — and my girls — laugh so hard and so much. 

Roberto told us that some day he will come to Texas to see us.  We told him he had to bring Lorena with him.  We reminded him again that our house is his.  We owe him and all the nurses and therapists more than we can ever repay.

Lya then began reading her autobiography.  Interminably.  It was great, but it was LONG.  Finally, I told her it was going to have to be a serial, with the next installment coming next phone call.  Lorena and we really enjoyed the conversation, though, and she is sounding better each time we call.

Lorena would definitely appreciate this obituary sent by Herb and Marion Wooten.  (Herb, I apologize for never posting your D-Day photo.  It has gotten mixed in with some of our other photos, and I am going to have to find it again…)

 Obituary:

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Mr. Common Sense.
Mr. Sense had been with us for many years.  No one knows for sure how
old he was since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic
red tape.

He will be remembered as having cultivated such value lessons as knowing
when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm and
that life isn’t always fair.  Common Sense lived by simple, sound
financial policies (don’t spend more than you earn) and reliable
parenting strategies (adults, not kids, are in charge).

His health began to rapidly deteriorate when well intentions but
overbearing regulations were set in place.  Reports of a six-year-old
boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens
suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher
fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Mr. Sense declined even further when schools were required to get
parental consent to administer aspirin to a student; but, could not
inform the parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an
abortion.

Finally, Common Sense lost the will to live as the Ten Commandments
became contraband; churches became businesses; and criminals received
better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense finally gave up the ghost after a woman failed to realize
that a steaming cup of coffee was hot, she spilled a bit in her lap, and
was awarded a huge financial settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust, his
wife, Discretion; his daughter, Responsibility; and his son, Reason. He
is survived by two stepbrothers; My Rights and Ima Whiner.

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone.  

Mike Dacus sent me the following.  Amen…

Heroes

“Where are the heroes of today?” a radio talk show host thundered.   He blames society’s shortcomings on education. Too many people are looking for heroes in all the wrong places. Movie stars and rock musicians, athletes, and models aren’t heroes; they’re celebrities.  Heroes abound in public schools, a fact that doesn’t make the news. There is no precedent for the level of violence, drugs, broken homes, child abuse, and crime in today’s America. Education didn’t create these problems but deals with them every day.

You want heroes?

Consider Dave Sanders, the schoolteacher shot to death while trying to shield his students from two youths on a shooting rampage at Columbine High
School in Littleton, Colorado. Sanders gave his life, along with 12 students, and other less heralded heroes survived the Colorado blood bath.

You want heroes?

Jane Smith, a Fayetteville, NC teacher, was moved by the plight of one of her students, a boy dying for want of a kidney transplant. So this woman told the
family of a 14 year old boy that she would give him one of her kidneys. And she did. When they subsequently appeared together hugging on the Today Show, even Katie Couric was near tears.

You want heroes?

Doris Dillon dreamed all her life of being a teacher. She not only made it, she was one of those wondrous teachers who could bring the best out of every single child. One of her fellow teachers in San Jose, Calif said, “She could teach a rock to read.” Suddenly she was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s Disease
which is always fatal, usually within five years.  She asked to stay on job …and did. When her voice was affected she communicated by computer.  Did she go home? Absolutely not! She is running two elementary school libraries! When the disease was diagnosed, she wrote the staff and all the families that she had one last lesson to teach …. that dying is part of living. Her colleagues named her Teacher of the Year.

You want heroes?

Bob House, a teacher in Gay, Georgia, tried out for Who Wants to be a Millionaire. After he won the million dollars, a network film crew wanted to
follow up to see how it had impacted his life.  New cars?  Big new house?
Instead, they found both Bob House and his wife still teaching. They explained that it was what they had always wanted to do with their lives and that would not change. The community was both stunned and gratified.

You want heroes?

Last year the average school teacher spent $468 of their own money for student necessities … workbooks, pencils .. supplies kids had to have but
could not afford. That’s a lot of money from the pockets of the most poorly paid teachers in the industrial world.

Schools don’t teach values?
The critics are dead wrong.

Public education provides more Sunday School teachers than any other profession.. The average teacher works more hours in nine months than the
average 40-hour employee does in a year.

You want heroes?

For millions of kids, the hug they get from a teacher is the only hug they will get that day because the nation is living through the worst parenting in history. An Argyle, Texas kindergarten teacher hugs her little 5 and 6 year-olds so much
that both the boys and the girls run up and hug her when they see her in the hall, at the football games, or in the malls years later.

A Michigan principal moved me to tears with the story of her attempt to rescue a badly abused little boy who doted on a stuffed animal on her desk .. one that said “I love you!” He said he’d never been told that at home. This is a constant in today’s society .. two million unwanted, unloved, abused children in the public schools, the only institution that takes them all in.

You want heroes?

Visit any special education class and watch the miracle of personal interaction, a job so difficult that fellow teachers are awed by the dedication they witness. There is a sentence from an unnamed source which says: “We have been so eager to give our children what we didn’t have that we have neglected to give them what we did.”

What is it that our kids really need?  What do they really want?

Math, science, history and social studies are important, but children need love, confidence, encouragement, someone to talk to, someone to listen, standards to live by. Teachers provide upright examples, the faith and assurance of
responsible people.

You want heroes?

Then go down to your local school and see our real live heroes . the ones changing lives for the better each and every day!

[P.S. (In this case, P.S. stands for "pre script" I guess.)  Thanks to those of you who have been praying for our prayer requests.  Be sure to read Jean Gilliam's comment on yesterday's post referencing little 7-year-old J.E. who had his heel severed in a lawnmower accident!!!)  If I may borrow Lorena's favorite saying, "God is so great!"]

Michael and the mad Mexicanas in Stephenville.  Today was long and tiring, but after work, as I went to the store to buy some temporary stuffing for these girls (and one of the times I am most thankful I did not have sons is when I am checking out at the grocery store) I saw bunches of grapes, bunches of bananas, and bunches of Lorena’s friends.  Nony Godwin was there, and we had a wonderful visit.  I have never seen the Godwin’s wings, but I am certain beyond the shadow of a doubt that they are angels.  They certainly seem to be heaven-sent, and I do not know what we would do without them.

Anyway, it took me an hour to pick up my few groceries.  Between Nony, Debbie Thompson, Cynthia, Greg, and the dozen other folks who asked me how Lorena was doing, I did not know if I was going to make it home or not.  I told Lorena last night how many folks ask about her — and how many hits this blog has had — and she cried.  Hard.  She was so scared that her friends and acquaintances would forget her.  That would never happen.  So many folks have mentioned in the past that they want to host her coming-home party.  The loyalty that she engenders in her friends is beyond comprehension.  I envy her that…

Now, about last night’s fantabulous telephone conversation.  Angie was our moderator, which is great because she always communicates with us much better than any of our other moderators do.  When we called last night, they had just returned home after Angie had chauffeured Lorena and the nurse around.  The fact that they had had a wonderful day was abundantly evident in that they were both downright giddy, LOUD, and laughing about everything.  Angie always teases Lorena (exactly as a just-older sister would be expected to do), and Lorena responded to her teasing beautifully.

Now, on to what I learned.  Saturday, the family celebrated Jorge’s birthday at Jorge’s house.  (Jorge is just older than Angie who is just older than Lorena who is just older than Alma.  Yes, there will be a test, so you had better pay attention…)  Lorena had a wonderful time, and she has improved enough that they actually gave her a couple of spoonfuls of cerveza (which she really liked) and a spoonful of vino rojo which she did not like.  (Angie teased her that she has lost her appreciation of cheap wine…)  Lorena laughed many times as we discussed the party, and she obviously enjoyed herself immensely.  She has always been extremely close to her family, and, even with the death of Mamá and Papá, the family has much to celebrate with Lorena’s improvement.

So there Lorena was, in the center of her family’s festivities, eating papaya, mango, orange, lima, watermelon, cantaloupe, pineapple, and banana-nut bread, sipping beer and wine, listening to the music and watching the dancing, laughing and fellowshipping with her family, having a joyous time…  I guess I was completely stupid not to keep her here in the nursing home…

Eventually, Lorena grew tired and needed to rest, but the party was too loud and distracting — and Lorena was not nearly ready to go back home — so Angie took Lorena to her place which is just around the corner from Jorge’s house.  There, they laid Lorena on Angie’s bed, an act that precipitated copious tears from Lorena.  Concerned that she was hurting or disturbed about something, they began asking her their “20 questions” to try to find out what was wrong — to no avail.  Finally, they asked her to spell what was wrong.  Her answer was heartbreakingly poignant:  for the first time in over three years, for the first time since her stroke, she was lying in a real bed on a real mattress, and she was simply overcome by emotion.  Apparently, they all cried together there for awhile.  (Once again I am reminded of how much we all tend to take for granted, or, at least, I know I do.  I cried several times during the course of our conversation, and this was one of them.  I love to see Lorena reach these milestones.)

Lorena lay in the bed for short rest.  Actually, I am sure she LUXURIATED in the bed rather than merely lying in it.  (I know that I do when I go to bed now after far too many cramped, sleepless, agonizing nights watching over Lorena and far too many bus trips, flights, and terminals — which I feel are so ironically named…  I cannot believe that I ever took a nice, comfortable bed, upon which I can stretch out and SLEEP, for granted.  God forgive me for being spoiled…)  Anyway, after her nap, she wanted to sit up for awhile — but not in her wheelchair.  The fires of rebellion had been stoked, and she wanted to be set in Angie’s recliner — which she was and where she sat with gusto, laughing and luxuriating in it just as she did in the bed.

After Lorena had rested a while longer, they returned to the fiesta.  Having had lain in a real bed, and having had sat in a nice recliner, she had now grown too rebellious to go back to the status quo.  She did not want to sit in her wheelchair after they had wheeled her back into the party.  She asked to sit in Jorge’s rocking chair.  Caprichuda [spoiled or capricious girl] that she is, she was soon sitting in the rocking chair overseeing the festivities like a queen sitting on her throne surveying her domain.  [Lorena would love that simile, by the way.  It would tantalize her Romantic streak.  One of her Spanish ancestors was a baron, and she has always wanted to learn more about him.  (Obviously, though, judging by the size of her family, none of her ancestors were barren...)]

The party was a huge celebration (for Jorge’s birthday, for Mamá’s and Papá’s reunion, to exalt the family and the legacy of Mamá and Papá, to show family solidarity after the trauma of their passing, to commemorate Mya Naomi’s arrival into the family, to celebrate Jorgito’s engagement and July wedding, to cut loose and have some fun after the agony of illness, death, and adjustment to life without the head of the clan…  And God only knows what all else they were celebrating.  Such as the ability to celebrate, to laugh, to commune together.  I envy them that.  I tend to be pretty envious these days.)  Lorena, however, took the celebration to a higher plane, and I am sure there was not a dry eye in the house after her display.  (I know there was not one here as Angie was telling us – and my heart thrilled to hear Lorena laughing delightedly in the background.)  I am also certain that the party was Mexican-fiesta loud BEFORE her grandstanding, but, afterwards, I am equally sure that it undoubtedly registered on a seismograph somewhere.  Anyway, Nacho or Alfonso, one of Lorena’s brothers (Angie could not remember which one it was), looked over at Lorena to discover that she was using her right foot to rock herself in the rocking chair!!!!

Folks, that is AWESOME!!!  Remember that here in the States, all her doctors told us repeatedly that she would never breathe normally again, that she would be fed through a stomach tube the rest of her life, and that she would regain no motor function.  The only hope (curse?) that we were given was that she would LIVE (as a fully functioning brain trapped inside a completely quadriplegic body) until she died, probably of pneumonia induced by a lung infection.  Now, here she was sitting ALONE in a rocking chair, sans tracheotomy, sipping beer and wine from a spoon just as any good Texican-Catholic-Baptist would do, while ROCKING herself using one of her feet.  The party erupted.  I am surprised that the Nayarit riot control forces were not called out…  Please understand that she would not have been in any danger of tipping over from her rocking.  In fact, I am sure her rocking was barely perceptible at first, but it is a HUGE milestone.  I am indescribably proud of her and humbled by her.  (I am equally sure that she will be sitting in a rocking chair very frequently from now on…  She will see to that!!!)  Needless to say, the fiesta was a huge success…

Lorena is still seeing the naturist who massages her with his homemade suction device (made from a baby-food bottle attached to a vacuum pump) and who coats her down with his green gluey goo made of magical herbs, seaweed, jungle plants, and who knows what else — and then wraps her in toilet paper and ace bandages until she looks like a cheap Haunted House mummy.  However, she is adamant that he is helping her, so I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he is.  And I thank God for him.  If he is doing nothing else, he is giving her hope which is something no doctor here in the States gave her – but which EVERY doctor who has seen her in Mexico has extended to her.  I thank God for all of them as well.

The naturist sees his seemingly endless stream of patients in his simple jungle “clinic” on the outskirts of the pueblito of Aguacate a few miles outside Tepic.  The clinic is a simple whitewashed concrete block house whose open garage has been made into a crude waiting room complete with folding chair, a couple of crude benches, and a couple of car seats.  It is shaded by citrus and avacado trees and features chickens and dogs running around.  When it isn’t raining, many patients and their companions will seek the open air in the shades of the trees outside while they wait their turn.  Quite literally, he has patients coming from all over Mexico. 

His methodology is admittedly crude and primitive.  The most sophisticated piece of equipment in his clinic is the aforementioned suction massage device.  The only other electronic device I have seen there is the old oscillating fan that stirs the tropical air around in his simple waiting room that has always been jammed with patients when I have accompanied Lorena there for a treatment.  Initially, he examined Lorena by tapping on different parts of her body, by flexing and releasing her appendages, by soliciting reflexive movement, and by manipulating her head and skull.  After his first cursory examination, he promptly diagnosed that her brain was still swollen from the trauma of the stroke, and that the first necessity of treatment was to reduce its swelling in order to increase circulation to it and, thereby, to facilitate her recovery.  In short, he wanted to make her look like someone out of a classic Three Stooges hospital skit…  Which he promptly proceeded to do…

So, for that reason, her hair was cut Sinead O’Connor short in order for the goop to be applied to her scalp without creating a nightmarishly messy and painful coiffure.  (I shave my head, and I would tease her that my hair was longer than hers…)  However, the naturist has now decreed that her brain swelling has diminished to the point where it is no longer a problem — SO SHE IS EXCITEDLY RE-GROWING HER HAIR!!!  (I called her a show-off when they told me that, and she laughed gleefully.  I am quite certain that she was not laughing WITH me…)  She claims that she feels much better in every way — and she certainly sounds as if she does!!!

The next bombshell they dropped on me is that they have ordered a “therapy table” for her.  I do not understand exactly what its function is, but it is to be used somehow to lift her upright in a sling to start mimicking her walking, to place her weight upon her legs, hips, and back again, and to start retraining her body to support her and to walk.  That is not a bad goal for a “hopeless quadriplegic”!!!  They stressed that the therapy table is from somewhere in Europe, so I did not feel quite so bad when they told me it cost over $9000 USD.  That is okay.  I still should be able to retire before my 250th birthday…  And if it would aid in Lorena’s recovery, I would gladly let them flay me alive…  I wish you could all hear her delighted laugh…  (Just add the therapy table to my bill.  It won’t be long before folks will be confusing me with the U.S. government…  Fortunately, red has always been my favorite color, but this is ridiculous…)

This news, in turn, led to more teasing and laughter.  It seems that Lorena has been enjoying the earthly pleasures of eating and drinking a little too much for her own good.  (I still get misty eyed remembering how ecstatic she was, and how ostentatiously she would savor food and drink, when they started feeding her by mouth.)  Yes, folks, it seems that she has succumbed to the sin of gluttony so that the doctor has now put her on a diet!!!  (Insert delighted Lorena laughter here!) 

Actually, she has gained enough weight that the doctor is concerned that the straps on the sling upon which she will be hoisted in her “standing”/
“walking” exercises might cut into her hips and thighs.  He wants to reduce her weight to make the exercises easier on her and on the therapists.  Obviously, she is not wasting away…

I remember those days of horror here in the hospitals and the nursing home when she would be fed improperly via the PEG tube.  Air would be admitted into the tube, with her liquid diet poured in on top of the air, trapping it.  She had to be agonizing, lying flat on her back with a stomach full of trapped air.  The inevitable would soon happen as her stomach would rebel against the offending air and expel it (forcefully!) in the only way it could.  I had heard of projectile vomiting, but I had never seen it before.  I saw her many times, lying on her back in her hospital bed, vomit out over the foot of the bed. 

I had never known how traumatic vomiting is for a quadriplegic with a tracheotomy — nor how terrifying.  I quickly learned that it is just as traumatic and terrifying for family members witnessing the episode and assisting the quadriplegic.  Frantically, I would try to comfort her even as I tried to clear her tracheotomy so she could breathe and tried to summon help from the staff.  She would be crying as close to hysterically as she could as she lay in her lake of vomit.  Subsequently, she would have to be undressed, bathed, and dressed again, the bedding would have to be stripped, the mattress washed and sanitized, the floor mopped, the bed made again, and she had to be put back in it.  [I would usually have to make a scene to get them to brush her teeth and flush her mouth to try to offset the effects of her stomach acids on her teeth and to try to get some of the taste out of her mouth.  She couldn't complain, you know...] To compound this, remember that she would be hooked up to an I.V. and a catheter — and sometimes to oxygen.  It was Dante-esquely horrendous.

Even worse, after she had vomited, she would be given no more nourishment or water — in case she was ill.  I acquiesced to the “superior” medical knowledge the first few times.  Then I started making scenes worthy of the most notable Shakespearean dramas.  I KNEW why she had thrown up her meal!!!  I KNEW why she showed no signs of fever or any other symptoms indicating an illness.  She had been induced to vomit by medical ignorance.  Within a short time, to many of the nurses’ obvious annoyance, I began to oversee her feedings, manipulating her PEG tube myself, kinking it before it was opened to prevent air from entering it, then kinking it again as soon as the last liquid disappeared down it, finally to cap it as quickly as possible. 

Nonetheless, occasionally I would be out of the room — or in a sleep-deprived stupor — when she was fed, and we would once again get to do the heart-stopping, stomach-turning vomit drill.  Normally, she would be given no more food or water until her next scheduled feeding, but I started screaming until they would at least replenish some of the water she had lost.  I would get irate when she would be deprived of water after vomiting, even as the urine collecting in her catheter bag would turn dark amber.  (I find that I am gritting my teeth and my pulse is pounding as I write this…  Ah, the good old days…)  I once saw her go over 24 hours with no appreciable nourishment or hydration because she vomited after three consecutive feedings.  That was before I learned to be obnoxious…  Needless to say, she WAS wasting away here in the States.

Heartlessly, I deprived her of our advanced medical knowledge and cutting-edge technology here in the U.S. by taking her to uncivilized and backwards Mexico.  Surprise!  Surprise!  Surprise!  (Thank you, Gomer!)  She has not thrown up even once since her international translation — and she has not been ill even once.  [The doctors here in the States had told me that lung infections and other illnesses would be ever-present in her life for the rest of her life with her in the condition she was in...  Not only would they be a constant in her life, but they would probably kill her.  In Health South in Fort Worth, MRSA almost did.] 

Thank God for backwards nations like Mexico where common sense is much more common and where doctors and nurses CARE for their patients instead of just “caring” for them… 

Wait a moment while I slap myself.  Lorena had some wonderful nurses, technicians, and therapists here in the States, and I am painting everyone with a bitterly broad brush.  Both of us probably would not have survived had it not been for some of those caregivers here in the States who really gave good, loving, conscientious, capable CARE.  Were it not for the sleep I was able to get when those blessed folks were on duty, I hate to think of the consequences my lack of sleep might have precipitated.  And they did give me hope.  Faith and prayer gave me hope as well, but in a sleep-deprived mind, in all candor, nothing can possibly bring one as close to God as death can…  Those wonderful caregivers know who they are, and I am incapable of expressing the depth of my gratitude to them.  Unfortunately, I never saw enough of any doctor except the one who almost killed Lorena to have any idea of how caring they were…  [And I want everyone to know that I exempt Dr. Ong here in Stephenville from my diatribe.  He "accepted" Lorena as a patient because he was a family friend, and he performed his role valiantly.  I shall forever be grateful to him.]

Back to the oh-so-much-more-wonderful-here-and-now…  Lorena is being put on a diet (to her great glee).  Needless to say, everyone teases her mercilessly about it – but you can bet she is not suffering any because of it.  So I will bite the bullet (smiling as her beautiful laughter echoes in my memory), listening to the “cha-ching cha-ching” of our medical bills growing exponentially.  Another of Lorena’s favorite sayings was that time is much more valuable than money because money can be recuperated whereas time cannot.  Lorena is losing time, so I am being stupid to worry about money.

And I have rambled on way too long here.  If you have suffered through this mess and are still with me, thank you — (and you really are masochistic, aren’t you?  [LOL]).  God is our refuge and our strength.  But we view you, our friends, as some of the most valuable, beautiful gifts God has given us.  We thank Him for you, and we thank you for your prayers and support.  Lorena’s miracle continues — and her laughter grows more joyful every day.  To God be the glory. 

Michael y las tres Marias here in Stephenville.  We just completed a WONDERFUL phone call with Lorena.  Angie was there and moderated it.  I am too sleepy tonight to post it on here, but I took notes, and I will blog it tomorrow.  Suffice it to say right now that it was WONDERFUL!!!!!  We really got a kick out of it.  Her miracle continues!!!  To God be the glory!!!  Until tomorrow, I will try to sleep — but I may very well be too excited, as sleepy as I am.  Good night to all.  We love you!!!!!

I just received an urgent prayer request to pass on to you: