Dear Sidney,

Thirteen it is,

at the threshold of high school,

a teenager.

I just love who you are.





endlessly fascinating to me.

A gazillion words and none could do justice in describing you.

Over the last twelve months, it has been such a gift to watch you grow your talents.

You are acutely aware of the needs of others, whether that be your horse, your best friends or your Momma. The way you engage with thoughtful questions and generous compliments makes each person in your presence feel loved and valued. That gift my dear will take you farther than any algebra skills ever could (apologies to your eighth grade math teacher).

Your drive is impressive. Would you do me a favor though? Give yourself a moment each day to pause and reflect on all you have accomplished. There will always be something else to strive for, but the here and now will be gone before you know it.

Thank you for your laughter, your cooking abilities so lovingly shared with your family, your attention to detail and for kissing me goodbye in the drop off line at school.

I’m very excited for your year ahead.

Happiest of birthday’s Sidney Reagan.



I promised you nothing sappy for this year’s birthday song. I failed. I love you baby girl.










In God’s house,

on bended knee,

he asked for my hand.

These girls, this man, this beautiful life and the journey that brought us together – yes.

When the giggles subsided, with tears flowing, we joined our hands and bowed our heads in prayer. Gratefulness poured out of me as I promised our heavenly father I would seek each day to be the wife, the mother, the women, he is calling me to be.

Our lives now joyful, together.


Born on this day 71 years ago.

A decade passed since the last celebrated with him.

His favorite pie, steak’s on the grill, a side of dry rub wings while we sat on the patio watching the deer dance down the hill. Daisy dog by his side.

Looking at the well-worn hands, holding the beer, you wouldn’t have guessed him a preacher.

Years spent weaving words together for his “day job” yet true joy came from moments spent in his yard on that hill or at his beach house, the constant battle with the encroaching prickly bushes.

Two days before he passed, as we stood around him, I rubbed his thumb.  The low hum of the medical devices keeping him alive became the background music as I stared at those hands, flooded with a lifetime of memories.

He and I on our knees inspecting my work done with hand shears trimming the lawn. Gentle correction to cut the grass shorter next time.

His hands on the steering wheel, another road trip adventure to some far-flung battlefield. His baritone belting out You are My Sunshine.

His hands a reflection of his message, of how he choose to live his life;

battle-scarred, worn rough from working and loving hard.

One day these words will fade but I hope its my hands the girls will remember, may they resemble his.








Each evening before sleep our prayers are joined.

Whispered words over the phone after little girls are tucked away.

The routine born from a desire to put our faith at the center of our relationship.

Before the I love you’s to each other were spoken, we had chosen to share our love for him.

108 nights have now passed.

Vacations, work trips, weariness and girls unable to sleep, but not one night interrupted; not one evening missed.

Our foundation on which we build this house.