Prayers

I stopped in a beautiful grotto this morning to light a candle and pray for David, who is about to begin his senior year at college.

The past three years have flown by so fast that I can scarcely believe this is his last autumn as an undergraduate. I walked around the sunlit, flower-filled, bustling campus and reflected on the joy of these years - and clearly remembered bringing him here as a freshman.

What a privilege it is to send our son to a Catholic university (even though we are not Catholic), where there is art everywhere to remind us of the love of God, our compassionate Mother, Father, and Spirit.

Prayers for the people involved in the crash we just missed on Interstate 90 yesterday...
Prayers for the incoming freshmen...
Prayers for all returning students...
Prayers for families everywhere...
Prayers for the sick, the dying, the grieving...
Prayers for the joyful and celebrating.

Thank You, Mother-God, for revealing Your Self in everything.

Random Thoughts on Religion & Faith

I'm sitting in our cozy family room, watching through the windows as the breeze stirs the madrona trees, and makes whitecaps on the water. The wind is from the North today, so there is a blue, cloudless sky, and the tide is running "in" - from North to South - so strongly that it looks like a river out there. The power of the water and the changes in its appearance will never cease to delight me.

I grew up spending my summers on the shores of this water - Puget Sound - and it is where my heart is, and always has been. Now, my daughter's ashes are in this water, and someday, those of my parents - and mine - will also be set free in it. I like the idea of our remains mingling together in the same salty body of water that holds so much life, and so many happy memories, for all of my family.

Yesterday, I was thinking about my faith. It is rooted in Christianity, but it is no longer what I think people would call a "religious faith." I don't go to church very often, and I hardly miss going. I miss certain people and fellowship, but what drove me to stay out was the infighting over doctrine that arose in our absence (when we were in Seattle for Katie's treatment). I expected to return to the bosom of the church that had nurtured us, and where I had served as a deacon, Stephen Minister, LOGOS volunteer, etc. But while we were away, a horrible fight blew up like a tornado, and ripped the church apart. After Katie's death, I could not enter that fray - and it was still going on. It has been resolved, after many of the members were driven out, but I cannot seem to drag myself back there. I have been to Mass with my Catholic friends, and that is a wonderful experience, except that I'm not allowed to partake of the Eucharist, which I miss. So I just study, read and pray here at home.

It occurred to me yesterday that one reason that I don't mind missing out on church is that my faith has changed so much. I'm not particularly religious, but I am faithful. I don't think I will fit in most churches, because my beliefs have been so shaped by my experience that I am a bit radical. Experience truly is the key test of religion, for me. If it held up in the hospital, then I believe it; if it's too intellectual - just a theory - then I have no time for it. I will give you an example of this: I now see Jesus and his mother, Mary, as a gift from a loving God - a gift, not just as objects to worship or emulate (though I do try to follow his example and teachings - he is my Lord), but as PATTERNS, like the instructions in sewing a garment. Patterns that we will be conformed to follow, if we are willing.

If Jesus and Mary are simply objects to look at and think about, little is required of me. I can remain comfortably distanced from the drama and the pain and think to myself, "So radical! So violent, those Bible days and times! Who could imagine a crucifixion now? I'm so glad we've progressed beyond that savagery...and I can learn from his forgiveness, surrender, generosity, healings, words and attitude." I used to see it like this, and it's so much easier, to take this sort of academic approach than it is to enter the story.

Without my consent, I entered the story on October 10, 2006. It really began on the 9th, the day of Katie's ultrasound and first CT scan, when the mass in her abdomen was discovered. That night, Gregg and I lay awake in bed, frightened and not talking, - me with a cold, leaden feeling in the pit of my stomach. I entered the story of Mary and Jesus that night, and I began to learn within a few weeks that this wasn't just a teaching story, wasn't just the Bible, wasn't just a cultural phenomenon, or even just my Lord and his mother; this was THE WAY things are, the pattern, and I was being called to walk in it after them.

Walking the way, companioning my daughter as she struggled to endure each round of treatment and the massive, invasive surgery to remove her tumor was as close to the story of Mary and Jesus as I had ever come...and I gradually recognized something new in it. God loves us so much that He put this story in our path, to teach us what this world is like. We are not alone, unobserved. God's own Son was called to walk the path of suffering, to show us how to do it, but also to show us that NO one, not even God's own Son, escapes suffering in this world. It's a broken world. We are here to live and do our best in it. We ARE God's hands and face for one another, in this place. (There are other traditions that teach the message in other ways, and this, to me, is further evidence of God's loving provision for ALL of His people, everywhere, in all times.)

I was given a "Mary" role, but also experienced my own "crucifixion," in suffering. My Mary role was "standing at the foot of the cross," Katie's cross of suffering, and suffering with her, watching her and helping to ease her symptoms. I had to let her go, and I had to keep out of her way as she went. I had to do that, and do whatever I could to soften the experience for her, to hold her in love, but not hold on to her. I had to let go, and make it as easy as possible for her to go - all the while, my emotions and feelings were screaming, "NO! She can't die! I want her here with me! I can't live without her! I love her! I need her here! Please!" But I couldn't give way to those emotions and feelings, because my job was to make the unthinkable as easy as possible for Katie to endure...to accompany her, to take the fear out of it (as much as possible), to let her know that each step was held in Love, - that she would always be loved.

In that experience, I found the love of God in a new way. I found, by Grace, that He loves us so much as to allow His own Son to do it first, and then to preserve these accounts, so that, two thousand years later, we know the story. Mary had to watch her son suffer and die a horrendous death; God knows how I feel. Jesus begged His Father to allow "the cup" of the experience that was coming, to pass from Him. He pleaded with his Father: if it was possible, please find another way. Apparently, it wasn't possible - for Jesus, or for Katie.

This story, as harsh and as difficult as it is to understand intellectually, has brought me great comfort. I feel known, understood and cared for. I feel God did this for me, for us, to teach us THIS IS HOW IT IS HERE. It's not about me, or Katie, or Gregg, or David, or Ben, or Carin, or Michelle, or Henry - and it is about us, all of us. This place is broken in certain ways, and we are God's hands and His face for one another. Stuff is going to happen that we don't like, wouldn't want, and will avoid at all costs; some of that stuff will happen anyway. He cares; He loves enough to send His own Son through it ahead of us, to show us that it will happen, and how to do it.

It's not what I thought Love looked like. It's not what I wanted Love to look like - I wanted Love to look like rescue. But it is Love, when you look at it from a certain angle - the love that is solidarity, understanding and union. And for that, I am grateful.

Acknowledging Heaven & Hell, Here & Now

"Compassion means to suffer with, to live with those who suffer. When Jesus saw the woman of Nain he realized, This is a widow who has lost her only son, and he was moved by compassion. He felt the pain of that woman in his guts. He felt her pain so deeply in his spirit that out of compassion he called the son to life so he could give that son back to his mother."  - Henri J. M. Nouwen

When I read this, I immediately thought of Jesus' mother, Mary, and how he saw the pain of the woman of Nain. I wondered if he saw his own mother's suffering before it happened, and raised this woman's son in solidarity with what was to come to his own mother. Then, I wished that he could have done the same for me, for so many of us who are grieving our children's passing. It's always difficult to live without Katie, but the holidays are especially painful for grieving people.

Then I thought about growing up in Christian Science, and how much I loved reading about every healing that Jesus did for those he met. We read those stories in the gospels over and over again (as well as stories of the prophets healing people in the Old Testament). We were taught that the healings were the proof that God is Love, is perfect Principle, and would enable us to heal as Jesus did. When we experienced spiritual healing (without medicine or material aid), it was considered proof that God is good, and that Christian Science is Truth. That's what I used to believe with my whole heart, and I had many years of healings to show for it.

But many people's illnesses were not healed; people died, and some of them died in a state of a sort of ignorant neglect. That always bothered me, and it was somewhat hidden - not openly questioned or discussed.  Accepting medical intervention was considered to mean failure, giving up the faith, and a sort of adultery towards God. I did not use medicine until David was born. After I submitted to many hours of labor-inducing drugs, he was delivered via emergency surgery; and then, all of my questions broke open afresh. I asked and asked and asked why prayer alone had not been able to help us through his delivery, and NO ONE could answer to my satisfaction. No one was even willing to say, "It's a mystery that we don't understand." I was told by a church elder to "turn the page on it." But how do you turn the page on a near-death experience without first trying to understand it? Sweeping unanswered questions away doesn't lead to peace, growth or trust.

The Christian Science religion has its roots in the 19th-century intellectual freedom of New England; it was considered by its followers to be a real Science, like mathematics, and science was deemed infallible. Well, my own experience showed me that that just wasn't true; it failed, and it failed spectacularly. Nowadays, we see science as having aspects of art, and the more we know, we see just how little we know.

I had to move on from that belief system. I didn't find answers to all of my questions, but I found relationship with God. I found God as Presence, as Love, as One meeting me where I am, and that is infinitely more comforting than an imaginary Principle which doesn't bend, or care about us as individuals. I also found a suffering God, a God who allows suffering and participates in it (Jesus on the cross), and I am still mystified by that. But so is everyone else, and they are admitting to it, thanks be to God. It just IS. When bad things happen, it doesn't necessarily mean that we made a mistake; it is the way of the world in which we are living, the "human condition." In order to live in any kind of integration, we need to be free to see and to ask questions. That is the way of the scientific method.
So we come to Richard Rohr, a Catholic monk whose words and whose take on God and Jesus make sense of the mysteries for me. He doesn't pretend to have answers to all of the questions, but he is unafraid to look at them openly and to name the reality he sees. Father Rohr's work speaks to me, has helped me through the hardest parts of my life thus far, and is helping me now. I will never cease to be thankful that I was introduced to Fr. Rohr well before Katie became ill with cancer. Here is today's message from him, regarding Advent, and life:

"When we demand satisfaction of one another, when we demand any completion to history on our terms, when we demand that our anxiety or any dissatisfaction be taken away, saying as it were, “Why weren’t you this for me? Why didn’t life do that for me?” we are refusing to say, “Come, Lord Jesus.” We are refusing to hold out for the full picture that is always given in time by God.


"When we set out to seek our private happiness, we often create an idol that is sure to topple. Any attempts to protect any full and private happiness in the midst of so much public suffering have to be based on illusion about the nature of the world in which we live. We can only do that if we block ourselves from a certain degree of reality and refuse solidarity with “the other side” of everything, even the other side of ourselves."

-Adapted from Preparing for Christmas with Richard Rohr, pp. 5, 7

So the suffering of the woman of Nain (which Jesus alleviated), the suffering of his own mother (Mary), Katie's suffering, our suffering over Katie's illness and passing, and the suffering of so many others with the tragedies, illness, disaster, corruption and death that occur in this world, are to be seen and understood as part of the deal. We live here; it's like this. What will we do about it? Try to secure our own happiness at any price, even to the point of denial of what is in front of us? Or try to alleviate that suffering by doing whatever we can for good with what is put in our path, this day?
 
If we try to keep ourselves "safe" and "happy" what (or who) are we worshipping? Does it work? Has it ever worked?
 
Spending months in the hospital, co-existing with an illness that had the potential to take our daughter's life away at any moment had a profound effect upon me. I stopped looking far ahead. I had to live in the present, because (I learned) it was all I had. We didn't know if she would die in this moment, or the next, or in a year, or after we were all old people. We didn't know; the doctors didn't know. They didn't even know for sure what kind of cancer she had; they just knew that it was threatening her life, NOW. So we suffered in love, in fear, in hope, and in efforts to alleviate her suffering. We bore it with her. Practicing that for months on end created a kind of endurance.
 
This isn't talked about often nowadays, but human beings need to learn how to bear suffering. It is part of the school of life.
 
 "³ ...we^[c] also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; ⁴ perseverance, character; and character, hope. ⁵ And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us." Romans 5: 3-5
 
To be honest, I love my cozy spot here on the yellow couch; I don't like suffering. I don't toil in a coal mine or labor in a field in the heat of the midday sun. I do not pretend to suffer as the world's oppressed and poorest people do, laboring in unsafe and corrupt conditions. Some of the "hell" of this world is here, however, in grief and broken dreams and lost savings and confusion as to what is next. And much of the "heaven" of this world is here, too, in love, peace, friendship, gifts, purpose and meaningful work. Both are present; both must be acknowledged. I am thankful for the heaven, as I work to lighten the hell. And I am thankful for the work that God has done in me through my suffering.
 
As one of my favorite books is titled, "Everything Belongs."

"We continually ask God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all the wisdom and understanding that the Spirit gives, so that you may live a life worthy of the Lord and please him in every way: bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God, being strengthened with all power according to his glorious might so that you may have great endurance and patience, and giving joyful thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of his holy people in the kingdom of light. For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves..." - Colossians 1: 9-13

St. Aloysius Gonzaga

Today is the memorial day of St. Aloysius Gonzaga. I'm interested in him, because David will be attending the university that bears his name. The university is well-known in our state, but the origin of its name is not as familiar to those of us who are not Catholic nor alumni of the university.

You can learn more about St. Gonzaga here, here and here.

Aloysius Gonzaga (also known by his first name of Luigi, Luis or Louis) died a very young man (in his early 20s), and so is one of the patron saints of youth. When I looked him up online, one of the sites stated that he died on this day in 1591 in Rome, Italy, of "plague, fever, and desire to see God." That stopped me - he died of illness AND a desire to see God. That must have been a powerful desire, indeed.

Two of his writings were quoted: the first one is to Mary, the mother of Jesus, and the second is a letter to his own mother, Marta, before his death. Both of them are heart-felt and thought-provoking.

"O Holy Mary! My Mother; into thy blessed trust and special custody, and into the bosom of thy mercy, I this day, and every day, and in the hour of my death, commend my soul and body. To thee I commit all my anxieties and sorrows, my life and the end of my life, that by thy most holy intercession, and by thy merits, all my actions may be directed and governed by thy will and that of thy Son." - Saint Aloysius Gonzaga

"May the comfort and grace of the Holy Spirit be yours for ever, most honored lady. Your letter found me lingering still in this region of the dead, but now I must rouse myself to make my way on to heaven at last, and to praise God for ever in the land of the living; indeed I had hoped that before this time my journey there would have been over. If charity, as Saint Paul says, means “to weep with those who weep and rejoice with those who are glad,” then, dearest mother, you shall rejoice exceedingly that God in his grace and his love for you is showing me the path to true happiness, and assuring me that I shall never lose him. Take care above all things, most honored lady, not to insult God’s boundless loving kindness; you would certainly do this if you mourned as dead one living face to face with God, one whose prayers can bring you in your troubles more powerful aid than they ever could on earth. And our parting will not be for long; we shall see each other again in heaven; we shall be united with our Savior; there we shall praise him with heart and soul, sing of his mercies for ever, and enjoy eternal happiness." - from a letter to his mother by Saint Aloysius Gonzaga

That second prayer has a deep message for me, personally. Seeing "God's boundless loving kindness" in his own impending death is quite a leap for anyone; to face his death - and its future impact on his mother, knowing that she would soon be grieving for him - with this insight and loving counsel for her is truly inspiring. What a heart of devotion and service he had! I have a feeling that Gonzaga will offer an education for me, too, as well as for David. For the "boundless loving kindness of God," I am thankful.

Patient Endurance

ka'tie'less, a.  1. Without Katie

ka'tie'less-ness, n.  1. The state of being without Katie.

I've read that cancer patients and their families typically suffer from symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the disorder that plagues rape victims and combat veterans. On many days, I feel as if I suffer from it. I have horrendous flashbacks, bad mental pictures - from the days in the hospital, and on hospice care - that flit onto the screen of my mind, and stick there, randomly. I have to make a conscious effort to come back to, and remain in, the present. If I stay in the flashbacks, I suffer the horrors again; if I leave them, I leave memories of my daughter.

I've been feeling anger in my grieving, lately. Perhaps it's just a phase; I don't know. But I am not someone who is really at ease being angry; I prefer to live with gratitude and love. I think anger, left to grow, becomes toxicity, and I don't want my life and my work to be laced with toxic anger.

"There is nothing that pleases the Lord so much as praise. There is
no test of faith so true as the grace of thanksgiving. Are you

praising God enough? Are you thanking Him for your actual blessings

that are more than can be numbered, and are you daring to praise
Him even for those trials which are but blessings in disguise? Have
you learned to praise Him in advance for the things that have not
yet come?"   - Anonymous

After reading this quote first thing this morning, I confess, I felt angry. Because if this quote suggests that the trial of Katie's illness and death was/is a BLESSING,  NO, thank you!

What would that mean about God?

What would that mean about Katie? Her life is a blessing, but her suffering and death? I don't see it that way. Being Katie-less isn't a blessing, in disguise or otherwise.

As I read further (in a daily devotional), here is what I found:

"These then were Christ's inward virtues: humility, charity, and

patient endurance. These three virtues Christ our Bridegroom

practised during all His life, and He died with them, and paid our

debt according to justice. And of His generosity He has opened His

side. Thence flow forth the rivers of well-being and the sacraments

of bliss. And He has ascended in power, and sits at the right hand

of the Father, and reigns in eternity." - THE ADORNMENT OF THE SPIRITUAL MARRIAGE, by St. John of Rusybroeck (1293-1381)

For sure, I learned more humility on the cancer ward; I had never lived with life-threatening illness, never lived in a hospital, never been a nurse. I was new, I made mistakes, and learned to laugh at myself. Charity was natural, as we love our children deeply. But patient endurance is not something I was taught at home, nor have I observed it being held up as a desirable virtue in our culture. Fixing, changing, improving, earning: yes. Patient endurance? That sounds like failure, like lying down and giving up. But it's not.

I think patient endurance may be the only non-violent way to deal with something like suffering and death from an incurable disease.

Patient endurance is what I saw Katie (and many other kids in the hospital and on caringbridge) exemplify. I also see it in their families.

Patient endurance means entering hell on earth with those you love, so no one has to suffer alone.

Patient endurance means staying when everyone (including you) wants to run away.

Patient endurance means witnessing horrors you wish you'd never seen, and offering comfort and love in the midst of those horrors.

Patient endurance means listening to words that cut your heart.

Patient endurance means feeling fear and facing into it.

Patient endurance means knowing that there is no reasonable hope for the outcome you want, but hoping for the best anyway.
Patient endurance means getting up every morning, no matter how tired you are, to face whatever comes next.

Patient endurance means dealing with what is thrown at you, moment by moment.

Patient endurance means gratitude for the smallest joys.

Patient endurance means looking for the good and the humor in the moment.

Patient endurance means learning to live without what you want.
Patient endurance means learning to live with what you don't want.

Patient endurance would not be possible, for me, without God.

"But He said to me, My grace (My favor and loving-kindness and mercy) is enough for you [sufficient against any danger and enables you to bear the trouble manfully]; for My strength and power are made perfect (fulfilled and completed) and show themselves most effective in [your] weakness. Therefore, I will all the more gladly glory in my weaknesses and infirmities, that the strength and power of Christ (the Messiah) may rest (yes, may pitch a tent over and dwell) upon me!" - 2 Corinthians 12:9 (Amplified Bible)

Put in other words:  "...so I wouldn't get a big head, I was given the gift of a handicap to keep me in constant touch with my limitations...[and] push me to my knees. No danger then of walking around high and mighty! At first I didn't think of it as a gift, and begged God to remove it. Three times I did that, and then he told me,

'My grace is enough; it's all you need.

My strength comes into its own in your weakness.'

Once I heard that, I was glad to let it happen. I quit focusing on the handicap and began appreciating the gift.

 It was a case of Christ's strength moving in on my weakness. Now I take limitations in stride, and with good cheer, these limitations that cut me down to size—abuse, accidents, opposition, bad breaks. I just let Christ take over! And so the weaker I get, the stronger I become." - 2 Corinthians 12:7-10 (The Message)

I'm not there yet. I am still "focusing on the handicap;" I want my daughter!

I will never believe that it was God's will for Katie to suffer and die. I believe that His will, for all of us, is good, but that - for some mysterious reason - this is a broken and flawed world that we inhabit.
 

Perhaps, now, patient endurance for me means learning to live with this "thorn," this "weakness," this horrendous, stupendous, enormous loss, this Katieless-ness, with patience, and enduring it with as much grace as possible.

I am thankful that God knows that we need a pattern, and that He has given us Jesus, Mary, Saul (who became the Apostle Paul, and who wrote the letter quoted above), and Abraham, Moses, David and others whose lives can teach us patient endurance (if we are willing to learn). And I pray that this anger will be transformed into loving energy.

The Man on the Cross

My friend Diane Walker just posted a beautiful piece on her blog about the image of the cross, and its effect upon her worship & spiritual life as that part of her has changed over time. It's worth reading.

I read her words with understanding, and have experienced some of the same feelings that she described. Having grown up in a church without even a cross displayed in it, I now love gazing at the crucifix with Jesus upon it. I was baptized as a Presbyterian when I was 40 years old, but now am not sure if I am more at home there, or in the Catholic, Episcopal, Native American or Buddhist world view. Seriously.

I haven't been to church more than two times since Katie became ill. She entered the hospital in October of 2006, and passed away 10 months later. Yesterday marked exactly one and a half years since her passing. If you do the math, that's roughly 28 months of life without participating in church community.

I am very much "on the fence" about joining a church community again.

This is not because I have lost my faith. I have not lost my faith, but it has changed. I love God. That is the key to understanding me, my faith, and my world view. I love God, and I desire union with Him/Her, pretty much on a daily basis. I miss the Eucharist, and would love to partake of it frequently.

I tend to love the Catholic Church, but I don't agree with a few important things that would probably prevent them from admitting me as a member. I love God too much to leave Him/Her out entirely, so Buddhism is sometimes a stretch. My dear Presbyterian church has been through so much turmoil since Katie got sick (not related to that, of course) that, when I think of returning to it, I get a queasy feeling in my stomach. It feels to me like contemplating moving back home, after your parents go through a violent, nasty divorce & then a reconciliation; they may have a great counselor working with them, but the invitation to live with them again includes the potential for pain and suffering repeating itself. I can't quite face adding the potential for more pain and suffering to my life, at this point. Of course, it's just potential pain and suffering; it's not a certainty. But the possibility is enough right now to keep me from crossing the threshold.

Now, after experiencing what we did with Katie, from the beginning of her "mystery illness," through her treatment, surgery, despair, renewed hope, recovery, and finally, the necessary surrender of hope (and her dying), the image of Jesus on the cross is probably the most powerful image, for me, of God's present understanding of --and solidarity in love with-- us. With Jesus' mother, Mary, standing at the foot of the cross, it illustrates the fact that some awful stuff is just going to HAPPEN, and we are going to have to DEAL with it, but always with His help and love. That is why it is so powerful, to me, to see that Man on the Cross. Because not only is he a symbol for me, but also of me, and of all of us, here in this life. And by the grace of God, we have this symbol for a reality-check, a truth-teller, but also as an assurance that something is going on here that is more than it appears...something deeper is happening, when it seems that all is failing, all is pain and all is lost. That "something" appears to me to be Love, continuing to operate when all else is breaking down. Love brings with it meaning, sacredness, and gives us a reason for hope.

A Posse

When we were told for the third (and last) time that Katie was going to die, after the initial shock wore off, I started to think: maybe Katie could use a posse. I was thinking of the best women I know who have already passed away. I started to call on them in my mind and heart: Please come and be ready to meet my daughter when she passes. I want her to be surrounded with mother-love, and I need your help; I can't go with her. Please be waiting for her, with your love.

These are the women I thought about:

Diane Fuquay, MD, my friend and Katie's & David's pediatrician

Auntie Bernice, Grandma G's sister
Marie Poulsen, a dear friend and mentor of mine (seen here holding Katie)

and Helen Katzung, my mother's best friend (and an "auntie" to me).

I don't know whether or not it worked, but it comforted me to ask the women who have been dear to Katie and me to help us. I also thought alot about Mary, the mother of Jesus, and I prayed for mercy and gentleness, love and no fear. We did receive that.

I believe it was Diane who met Katie as she was passing.

Since Katie's birthday (March 8), it's been driving me crazy that I couldn't find her FIRST birthday photos. When she was in the CICU following her surgery, I decided to do a little scrapbooking, to keep my hands busy, and to give way to my urge to DO SOMETHING, without making a complete nuisance of myself with the nurses. Of course, as the days went on, the nurses taught me how I could help take care of Katie, and that was much better. But during the times when I couldn't help much, I tried working on Katie's baby book. (My closest friends will know right here just how bad things were. I do not like scrapbooking. At all. I love photos, but I do not like the process of putting them in albums. I only do it so we will have photo albums to enjoy. Katie and I both love LOOKING at photos.) I didn't get very far with the scrapbook, but I remember one lovely nurse bringing in paper for me to use to make the backgrounds for the pages. What a sweetheart.

When I was putting Katie's birthday slideshow together for the blog, I couldn't find any photos of her on her first birthday. I felt like a "bad mother" for that. We didn't have digital photos then, either, so I'd have to actually, physically FIND them. If you know what we've been through in the last year and a half, you will know that it's hard to find things around here now. Plus, I separated her baby photos from the others, in order to take them to the hospital to put in the scrapbook. Apparently, they are still in a bag.

However, today, when looking for the photos of the women in Katie's Posse, I found these:

They are of her first birthday cake, which I made using a rocking-horse cake mold. I decorated it, and if you look carefully, you can just make out a 1 on the saddle. I thought I had found the photos of Katie with the cake, too, but I am going to have to look again. I guess I'll find those another time. If I took myself too seriously, I'd worry.

Oh, well.