Sunrise, Sunset

Six months before I turned thirteen, I informed my parents that I wanted a bat mitzvah. Prior to that time, we didn’t belong to a temple.  I had never attended Sunday school. Once I made this request, however, my parents sprang into action. They hired a private Hebrew tutor for me, we joined a temple, and, most importantly, they booked Nifty Normans for the party. I chose my theme (telephones) and my color scheme (silver and pink.) I designed my dress (half sweatshirt with glitter, half taffeta skirt) and we booked Michael Jackson-style breakdancers to perform.

Looking back, I can acknowledge that I knew exactly what I was doing. My desire for a bat mitzvah was not based on an intense desire to read from the Torah or to claim my place in Jewish society as a woman. I wanted the party.  Everyone at my school was having a bat mitzvah.  I wanted one too.  I wanted to fit in with my peers.

Flash forward to suburban Phoenix, 2015. My 12 year old daughter wants to fit in, too.   But her needs are very different than mine.  There are very few Jewish kids in her school.   She will not be attending bar mitzvahs every weekend. She wants to blend in.  She wants to be just like everyone else.  She is not having a bat mitzvah.

We are disappointed, yes.  But as a family, we decided that we still want to celebrate her 13th birthday together.  We all agreed that we would use the money set aside for her bat mitzvah to go on a special trip instead. The kids helped plan the trip.  We had several discussions about where to go and what to do.  We made our decision and booked our dream vacation.  We leave in a few weeks.

Our trip is to Paris.

Last night, our family sat down and discussed what we should do. We talked about terror and fear, and how it feels like there is nowhere safe in this world anymore. We explained to our kids what the world was like before September 11, 2001. We told them that life wasn’t always this scary.

Due to a bad case of bronchitis, I completely lost my voice this week. I never realized how much I used my voice until it was gone. I use it all the time- to yell at my kids and the dogs (and, let’s face it, my husband.) I use it to voice text. I use it to argue when I see injustice, which seems to be everywhere these days.  After a full week of cough drops and antibiotics, I still can’t speak. But I do still have a voice.

When I turned thirteen and had my bat mitzvah, I became a woman in the eyes of Jewish law.  But I was very quiet and timid then.  I didn’t speak up very often.  I didn’t want to be different from anyone else.

In reality, I didn’t actually become a woman until I turned 40.  That’s when I began this blog. When I started to write, I found my voice. And in using my voice, I am able to speak out on things that enrage and frustrate me, and to find humor in even the mundane moments of daily life.  I’m finally comfortable standing out from the crowd.

From the ages of 13 to 39, no one ever came up to me and thanked me for making them feel that they were not alone. Not one person ever contacted me to thank me for saying the things they were too afraid to say.

Once I turned 40, went on tour and started this blog, my life changed.   For the past three years, someone has thanked me every single day.  Whether I have made you laugh or cry, or helped you slug through another moment amongst the insanity of our world today, I have heard you as loud as you have hear me.

My daughter Lauren does indeed have a Jewish identity. She has been attending Jewish sleep-away camp for several years.  She absolutely loves her Jewish friends and the customs that they celebrate together each summer. Our family attends Temple on the high holidays.  We host or attend Jewish holiday celebrations all year long. Last year, her big brother had a bar mitzvah and she participated in the rituals and the joy that accompanied his personal Jewish journey.  She has helped me build and nurture a non-profit foundation that has helped hundreds of children in our community.  Her life is built around the very definition of the Judaism which is to help others.  In Hebrew it’s called “mitzvah.”

So even though my daughter is not getting up on the bimah to read Hebrew, we believe that we are helping her to become a responsible Jewish woman. We are teaching her about the power of her voice and that sometimes, actions can speak louder than words. As long as it is safe for us to do so, we are hoping to teach her that even the simple act of visiting a country can show the world that you will not let fear win.

My daughter lives in a scary time, and I feel bad about that. On the other hand, she lives in a country where a woman might finally get to become president. She lives in a time when women like Oprah, Ellen and the women of the View dominate daytime television because they have strong voices. (When I was her age, the only people allowed to speak their voices on t.v. were men- like Phil Donahue and Johnny Carson.) She lives in an age of female CEOs and business owners, and powerful female voices like Adele, who can bring the world to her knees simply by saying “Hello.”

My hormonal pre-teen daughter is exhausted all the time. School is more challenging than ever, and her after-school activities are ridiculously all-consuming. With the little free time and energy that she has left at the end of the day, I want to try to help her to find her voice. I don’t expect her to find it today any more than I actually believe that a thirteen year old girl should be held accountable as a woman.  I understand her desire to simply blend in for now.

There is no age limit on when a Jewish girl can have a bat mitzvah. But somewhere out there, there is an age limit for each one of us.  We have no way of knowing when we will lose our voices for good. The women around me seem to be losing their lives earlier and earlier.

I need to teach her that at she grows up, she will have a very important role in our society.  Not just as a Jewish adult, but as an American woman.  She has to learn how to help change the world for good.  Hopefully, sometime soon, the moment will come where she can figure out how to stand out from the crowd.  She will figure out what she can do with her own voice to join fight against violence and crime and terror.

And if that moment doesn’t come with a party and a DJ, I’m o.k. with that for now.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Sorority Rush

I have had many titles in my life: daughter, sister, lawyer, wife, mother and stationery-company owner to name a few.  When I was a junior in college, I had another title: President of Rush for my sorority.  My job was to help choose the women who we believed were fit to carry on our sorority’s legacy.   It all seems silly now at 43 years old, but at the time, it was very important to me.  I wanted to make sure that we found the next generation of strong, independent, and truly special women.

One of my first sorority friends was Robyne.  Robyne was the nurturer in the bunch.  One of six siblings, she always took care of those around her.  Her freshmen year, Robyne met a boy named Marc.  They dated for several years, and because he was a fraternity boy, he “lavaliered” her. (Note to readers: This meant they were “very serious.” The next step was called being “pinned” which meant that they were pre-engaged.  I think.)   When a girl got lavaliered, a special meeting would be called.  No one knew who it was. The lights would be dimmed, and we would all gather in a circle.  A candle would be slowly passed around several times until the special girl received it and blew it out.  Everyone clapped and cheered.  These ceremonies always made me depressed.  I was never lavaliered or pinned.  I blame several unnamed boys for depriving me of this experience.

After Marc finished law school, they were married and lived in New York and Chicago, but they love me so much that they ultimately moved to Arizona. Their first child was a girl named Avery.  Avery turned 13 yesterday, and we all attended her bat mitzvah.

Avery was always pretty special.  She entered the world a little too early, and at first she only weighed a little over 1 pound.  Not letting her small size stop her, she fought hard for her devoted parents. She grew up to be a happy and funny kid and has turned into a pretty awesome teenager.

Girls these days wear some pretty ridiculous clothes.  They wear super short shorts with their butts hanging out or tight leggings that are just not supposed to be pants, and they wear “half tops” that expose their little bellies.  My kids have dress codes at their schools, and each and every day, girls are sent home for wearing inappropriate clothes.

For several years, Avery has decided that she’s much more comfortable in clothes that are designed for boys.  She wears jerseys from her favorite teams (like her parent’s alma mater Michigan State University- go Spartans!)  She wears athletic shorts. She likes to play all sports, including football.  Everyone enjoys hanging out with her.  Kids don’t really notice much that her hair is much shorter than a lot of girls her age.  They don’t care that she loves to wear baseball hats and cleats.  All they know is that she’s fun to be with.  She’s a great big sister to her little sister and little brother.  They both adore her.

Yesterday at Temple, while she became a “woman” in the eyes of the Jewish religion, she wore a boy’s suit.  At her party last night while she danced and laughed, she wore another really nice-looking grey suit.  Lots of girls her age wore very short dresses and super high- heels that no adult could possible walk in, let alone dance in.

During the Hora, I watched Avery, hoisted high up on that chair.  She was smiling and waving to all of her friends and family, who were beaming with pride down below on the dance floor.  I began to cry.

I thought of the sorority house where I first met Robyne.  Each year as we chose new “sisters,” we talked about the values that we wanted to see in our sisterhood as the years went on.  We all agreed that we wanted women with a strong sense of leadership, and the courage to always be true to herself.   We wanted women just like Avery.

Avery: I know you read my blog even though some of them are very inappropriate for you, and you have to sometimes sneak and read them at school.  I am so proud to know you and I can’t wait to watch you grow up.  Becoming a bat mitzvah technically means that you are an adult.  But I know that deep inside, you are still figuring out who you are.  That’s  totally o.k.  Your mom and I always joke that 30 years after our own bat mitzvahs, we are still figuring out ourselves, too.  Neither of us really know what we want to be when we grow up.  Neither of us really knows yet who we are.

You are so lucky.  I was not like you when I was 13.  I was more like my own 13 year old daughter: trying to fit in and hoping that people liked me.  I wanted to be exactly like everyone else.  It’s totally fine to be like that.  But it’s also pretty cool to want to be exactly who you are right now.  It’s actually quite amazing.

I hope that when I finally grow up, I can be just like you.

Mazel Tov.  I love you.

Love, Ally


Posted in Uncategorized | 8 Comments


My 7 year old son is being held hostage by a terrorist organization.  Their mission is monetary.  They are greedy and calculating.  The goal is pure financial gain.  Their preferred method of torture is mind control.

Their name is Apex Fun Run.  And they will stop at nothing to get what they want.

Not since the Girl Scouts has there been such an insidious enterprise designed to exploit and manipulate innocent young children.

The Apex Fun Run is clever.  They show up at your child’s school on an otherwise normal fall day, claiming that they are there to help.  But just like Rooster and Lily St. Regis, they are not Annie’s real parents.  They don’t want her back.  They only want the money from Daddy Warbucks.

Before they know what hits them, Apex swoops in and grabs all of the children. They herd them all into the cafetorium. They hold a “pep rally.” Physically fit young men and women dressed up in neon sports uniforms blast loud music and dance around to current pop hits.  They whip.  They nae nae.  This is no pep rally. It is mass hypnosis. It is Jonestown all over again. And our children are drinking the juice.

“We come in peace,” they say.  “We are here to save you from your taxpayers. They hate schools. They don’t care about education. They hate you children. They want you to go back to one room classrooms and outdoor plumbing.  But not us.  We love you.  We want to buy your school new computers. We want to give each one of you an iPad. ”

“But we need your help. Your task is simple. One day very soon, there will be a “fun run.” On that day, you will run for miles and miles until we tell you to stop. Don’t worry: we will play very fun music while you run. We will provide you with very small bottles of water. For each mile that you run, your family will give us money. And we will give you prizes. These are prizes that you can’t get anywhere else in the whole world. If your grandma pledges that she will give $1 per every mile that you run, we will give you a small sticky hand made of plastic.  Or plastic beach balls with our logo on it that we didn’t blow up yet. Get your dad to pledge $5 per mile and we will give you a rubber chicken. So, today, when you go home, you must ask every single adult that you know for money.  We have a lot of really cool prizes that we definitely didn’t buy from Oriental Trading Company. These cool prizes include bracelets that allegedly glow in the dark and toy helicopters that will break the minute you get it home. You want those prizes. You need those prizes. Ask your aunts and uncles for the money.  Go around your neighborhood and knock on doors, even if you don’t know your neighbors.  Are they child molesters or murderers in hiding from the parole board?  It doesn’t matter to us.  We don’t care how you get the money.  Just get it and bring it to us.  And remember: if your mommy doesn’t give you money, she doesn’t really love you.”

During the “pep rally” aka Branch Davidian meeting, the teachers are also put under the Apex spell by their David Koresh-style leader.  They are told to offer the children donut parties and extra recess for their pledges.  Whoever gets the most out of state pledges in one day gets no homework for a week or a month.  Fuck it, tell them they can teach the class for the rest of the year if they get their parents to put it on Facebook or Twitter.  

The final act of mind control that is imparted to these children is to teach them the art of annoyingly talking about the fun run. The Charles Manson of Apex, with his toned abs and muscles, wearing his neon shirt, tells the children that they must keep talking about the prizes. They are ordered to continually ask if we can call grandma or grandpa to get them to up their bids. Their little brains are manipulated to keep going for hours at a time: just keep on talking about the free recess they will get or the pizza party they will have on Friday. If only they get more bids. More bids. More prizes. More bids. More prizes.

It’s the “Queen Bicycle Song” torture method. Just keep playing it over and over until your victim is so tired of hearing about it, they will do anything to make it stop.

My child is in there somewhere.  I know he is.  Apex can’t hold him forever. Even the girl from “King of Queens” managed to break free of Scientology. The fun run will be over soon. We will get our boy back.

But for now, I must forget about looming my student loan payments or that pesky mortgage. I gotta get him these bids. I gotta get him that money.

He NEEDS that one of a kind plastic spinning top. And he NEEDS the Apex baseball cap. He NEEDS all of the prizes.

And I really, really need him to shut the fuck up about all of it.


Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

My first political cartoon

Momontour’s Dictionary


(pronunciation: A-pathetic.) adjective.

Definition: America’s response to mass shootings.

“Another one? Wow. That’s sad. Do we have any more chips?”







Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment


She came out of cheerleading practice holding something.  I, as usual, was waiting for her in the car. Hiding, actually. I am not a good cheerleading mom.  I have spent hours sitting in the lobby with much more knowledgeable mothers, pretending I know the terminology.  Through years of watching my daughter in cheerleading showcases, practices and competitions, I am still no closer to knowing what a “full-out” or a “whip” is than I did when we began this activity four years ago.

I have, however, learned one very important thing about cheerleading: as the team’s flyer, my daughter tends to break things in her body. Only one week back into practice this past August and she had already broken her foot.  (Previous broken body parts have included her pinky finger, and the other foot.) After six weeks in a cast, she was back at practice, and I was back waiting for her in the car. When practice ended, she walked out of the building and headed towards me, sitting in my usual illegal parking spot in the tow-away zone.  She was holding something on her neck.  As she got closer, I saw what it was: an ice pack.

“Well,” she said, as she slowly got into the car, “I fell on my neck tonight. I think I sprained it.  I can’t really turn my head right now.”  Tears began to fall from her eyes.  “Why do these things always happen to me?”

Feeling my body fill with sorrow, I turned to her and said, “Honey, it’s time you knew the truth.”

“About what?” she asked.

“About why you keep hurting yourself in cheer.”

“What is it?” she asked, her eyes growing wide with fear.

“You see, sweetie, you are a Jew.  Jews were not built to be athletes. It’s not part of our genetic make-up. It is not your fault. It’s just part of who you are.”

“But the Jews wandered for years in the desert!” she cried.  “That takes a lot of physical strength!”

“We wandered, honey.  We didn’t run or jump or tackle each other along the way.  We strolled.  That’s why it took so long for us to get there.”

“So you are telling me that Jews can never be athletes?  Is that what you are saying?” She was enraged.

“No, Jews can play sports.  But we do ‘nice sports,’ like tennis and golf.  We can play softball. We can even swim laps.”

“So we don’t have any famous athletes from any of the other sports?”

“No, we do.  It’s just that you can google ‘famous Jewish football players” and a list will appear.  You can’t google ‘famous non-Jewish football players’ because that’s basically everyone else. Same with basketball or soccer or gymnastics.  And usually we can’t do volleyball because we are too short. Our bodies were just not designed for contact sports, or ones where you fall and get hurt, or ones where you need to be tall.”

“What about professional dancing? Like ballerinas? Can we do that?”

“No,” I said sadly. “That requires having a very tall frame. And skinniness to the point of starvation. Jews are not very good at withholding food. That’s why we only do it one day a year, as punishment.”

“So, what are you saying?  That I will never be good at something I love?  Is that what you are saying?  You would never say that to Sam or Aidan!”

“Well, Sam is an actor, and Aidan likes math.  Those are things that Jews are actually designed to do.”

And with that, we pulled up to our driveway.  She was furious. She got out and slammed the door and started to run up to the house.

It had been raining that night. The gravel was slick.  I watched her run fast towards the front door. Then I watched her slip and fall.

“Slip” and “fall”- two words that sound like they are sports terms.  And they are, in a way, associated with a sport.  A professional sport.

So don’t be sad, my Lauren.  One day, your Jewish genetics will give you a unique athletic advantage. In this game, you will choose a side. You can chase and even tackle your opponent. But in the game of law, you use your brain to leap over obstacles and to out-maneuver your opponents, instead of your body.

And the only thing you will break, hopefully, will be the bank.


Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Yom Kippur Sorry List of 2015

In honor of Yom Kippur 2015 (which is, in actuality, a totally different numbered year in the Hebrew Calendar): I present to you my current “I’m Sorry” List:

I’m sorry that I press no when they ask me if I want to end childhood hunger at the grocery store checkout keypad. I really do want to end childhood hunger, but I feel like there has to be another way.

I’m sorry that I eat things with gluten. I don’t know why, but I feel really guilty for that lately. For example, someone will tell me over lunch that they are gluten-free and they seem to be sad about it. But then I just nod and eat my bagel. I feel really bad about eating my gluten in front of you and I do apologize. I think it’s that I don’t really understand gluten allergies. Is it like peanut allergies and if I eat the gluten-filled food near you, could it possibly fill the air around you and make you sick? Can I kiss you after I eat gluten?  I really need to read up on this more.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t get into “Mr. Robot.” I tried to like it. All of the entertainment magazines said it was the best t.v. series of the summer, but I really didn’t understand it. My personal favorite show of the summer was “Odd Mom Out” because I am pretty sure it is actually based on my real life and no one wants to tell me because they don’t want to give me the royalties.

I’m sorry that I didn’t see “Straight Outta Compton” this summer. I really wanted to, but I just can’t sit still for 2 and a half hours. That’s too long for me, guys. These days I choose my movies based on their length, not on things like storyline or plot. I’ll see anything if it’s only 93 minutes.

I’m sorry that I have become cynical about award shows like The Emmys. When I was younger, it used to seem like the actors and actresses were beautiful royalty at a really cool ball. Now it seems like 4 hours of famous people giving awards to other famous people, none of whom make their living by trying to find a cure for cancer. Also, may I add, if you are going to an awards show and you are nominated for an award, please don’t tell us you “didn’t have a speech prepared.” You are really an asshole. Sorry. But when I was a kid and I showed up to school on a day where the teacher warned us several times that there could be a pop quiz, I was ready for anything. No teacher would allow a kid to waste 5 minutes of the test shouting about how they were so surprised about this and that they had not prepared anything.

I’m sorry but I think that when Hollywood pats its back about how non-racist t.v. is these days and then they only cut to black people clapping in the audience, that’s actually pretty racist. It’s like they are saying: Hey America! Here’s a whole bunch of black people who agree that Hollywood is not racist! So to you folks back home, please look at the strategic shots of all of the people of color in this auditorium tonight. They really are here… with us!

I’m sorry that my third child has not had much of a childhood. I’m pretty sure that when my older two kids were 7 years old, we took them to see The Wiggles in Concert and to “Finding Nemo” the movie. This past week alone, I took my 7 year old to see the horror movie “The Visit” and to the sex and murder filled musical “Chicago.” His favorite song is “Bitch Better Have My Money.” I’m sorry baby boy.

Finally, I’m sorry that I’m the only one in the world who realizes that Donald Trump is living out a real life version of “The Producers.” You guys: he never intended for it to get this far. Donald wants to be a failure. You are just not getting it. It was a joke. He he keeps saying the worst, most offensive things possible on purpose. He wants to be a bomb. But his Republican supporters are just like the clueless audience in “The Producers,” singing along to “Springtime for Hitler” and giving them standing ovations every night. Please, everyone, watch the movie. You will see what I’m talking about.

Finally, I’m sorry to say, but I love Bitmojis. I do. They are less offensive to me than emojis, but I cannot explain why.

Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Stagedark 2015

The highlight of the summer for a camper at Stagedoor Manor, an overnight camp in upstate New York, is parents’ weekend. Throughout each three-week session, campers audition for, are cast in, and rehearse one amazing stage production, which can be either a musical or a play. The shows are performed on a 3 day final celebration called parents’ weekend.

Family members of campers arrive from all over the world to see their actor shine on stage at Stagedoor Manor. There are roughly 14 shows put on each session, and each show performs twice during parents’ weekend. Half the shows perform a Friday matinee/Saturday evening combo and the other half performs a Friday evening/Saturday matinee duo. In addition, a small group of selected campers are asked to perform in the annual camp “Cabaret.”

This past summer was my son Sam’s 5th at Stagedoor. He was cast in a production of “The Wiz” and was also asked to perform in the Cabaret. His show was performing Friday evening and Saturday matinee. We saw the show Friday evening and then again at the Saturday matinee. Craig and I then decided to go back to our hotel to rest until we returned to camp to see the Cabaret, which didn’t start until 10:30 p.m. Most of the hotels for parents of Stagedoor campers are about 45 minutes away from camp. We knew that Craig needed a nap if he was going to make it to midnight to see Sam’s Cabaret show. (I probably needed one too, but I am completely unable to nap. I am only able to sleep at times in which people want things from me.)

On our way back to our hotel, we got a call from Sam that there had been a bad car accident just outside of the camp. A speeding car had struck an electrical pole and all of the power at Stagedoor Manor was out. The power company said that it might take hours for it to go back on. With no power, there would be no shows.

Craig and I waited out the power outage from the comfort of our hotel. We were both concerned about the situation. Craig showed his concern by immediately falling asleep. I changed into my jammies and cozy socks and lay awake. I stared at the hotel walls and ceilings and wondered about the source of all of the stains. I attempted to read a novel that I brought with me, but ended up playing on Facebook and feeling the usual pressure I put on myself to “like” everyone’s statuses and pictures.

Then I went to the lobby and stocked up on candy and ice cream. (Just in case the power went out for us… you know… 45 minutes away and nowhere near the camp.) Around 8:00 p.m., we wandered to our friends’ room down the hall to await word on the camp and the shows. Our friends were just as stressed as we were. They had stocked up on cookies and chips.

We all sat together in that Courtyard Marriott hotel room and ate and wondered…would the lights come on in time to do the shows? Would we have to drive at 11:00 p.m. to go to camp to see shows that likely wouldn’t start until midnight? Would we have to remain awake until 3 or 4 a.m.? Could any of us physically stay up that late? We were all over 40 years old, for God’s sake! We should have been asleep hours ago! And most importantly, we wondered: would we soon run out of candy and cookies? We pondered starting an online rumor that rival camp French Woods was behind the power outage. We came up with the hashtag “frenchwoodsdidit. We were so proud of our knowledge of hip things like hashtags, and then we discussed summer movie camps from the 1980s. I got up and did my “It just doesn’t matter” monologue from “Meatballs.”

Back at camp, the kids grew restless. Half of these shows had only performed once, on Friday afternoon. Many parents were unable to arrive at camp until Saturday. If the power didn’t go on, they wouldn’t get to see their child’s show at all.

For many campers, it was their last night of their final session at camp before they headed to college in the fall. There were traditional award ceremonies and special moments for graduating campers that still needed to be held that night.

At about 9:00 p.m., someone at camp found a generator and fashioned a small light onto an outdoor stage. Slowly, campers made their way up to the stage to sing a song or tell a funny story. Family members and parents found spots on the ground to sit and listen. As the night went on, the entire cast from each of the 14 shows got up onto the stage and sang a few songs or performed a few scenes.

At about 10:00 p.m., awards began to be handed out by staff members. The Cabaret performed a few acts. Senior campers gave goodbye speeches. As the night went on, they sang and danced and held hands and cried. All of this was in the dark, with one small light illuminating the stage.

The power never came back on. At midnight, all shows were canceled. We received word back at our hotel that there would be no need to come. We went back to our room and Craig right to sleep. I took an Ambien and ate more cookies.

Many people left that night very disappointed. Several parents never got a chance to see their child’s show at all that weekend. Senior campers would never be able to perform their final show on the camp stages that they had loved for so many years.
Craig and I would never get to see Sam perform in the Cabaret that he had rehearsed so hard on for three weeks.

Such is life, right? Unexpected disappointment is everywhere. Not just with missed events that we flew hundreds of miles to attend, but with people who we thought that we knew, and with a world that we used to think was safe.

During times of struggle and sadness, we can spend hours, days, or weeks at a time wandering in the dark, wondering if the light will ever come on. I sit here tonight in the dark on so many things. I wonder how life can be so unnecessary cruel, and scary and unfair for so many people that I love. I worry all the time about everyone.

I want to get up and turn on the light. I want to be able to plug in the generator, put on some music and sing. I want to be able to freely dance, even though I can’t see where I’m going.

I want to be like those who were part of Stagedark 2015, Session 2. Those people who were able to find some joy amidst massive disappointment. Those kids who chose to dance and sing and celebrate in the glow of a small light.

Looking back, I wish we had gone back to Stagedoor that night to wait out the blackout. The parents who stayed and sat and watched said it was an unbelievable experience to see such hope come from such a hopeless situation. Many said it was way better than any show they would have seen that night. The word most often used to describe it was “unforgettable.”

It’s a lot easier to hide in your hotel room and wait out the bad times. But that’s not always how we should embrace the blackout that can surround us. We need to get out of our pajamas, put down the chips and cookies, and head towards the darkness. Don’t worry, the lights will come on eventually. We might not know how long it will take. But that doesn’t mean we can’t get out there and find hope and joy amongst the sadness.

We can learn way more about the wonder and beauty of life by embracing the darkness, instead of hiding from it.



Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment