In fear and trembling...

In fear and trembling I wait...
Will you remember or have you forgotten me?
Will you speak
or pretend you don't know me anymore?
In fear and trembling I wait.

Everyone seems so excited now
The Savior of the world has returned
to Jerusalem
And we will be fed
given jobs
not be lonely anymore.

Right?
Everything's going to be alright now.
He's going to bring in
the new, the better, the complete.

Like little puppies
at the sound of their master's voice,
they begin barking,
frantically wagging their tails
so excited
their little hearts might just pop
right out of their chests:

He is here
And all good things are coming
All will be well
Because he is here
And we will never be alond again.

But we are not puppy dogs
Still part of us are
Stephen Vincent Benet wrote
"we like to raise a man to the highest power
and then throw bricks at him." 

We want a leader
We want to belong
We want our problems solved
And peace on earth
We want
And we want
And we don't know how
To stop wanting...

Not puppies
But children
Waiting
for their dad to get home.

Some wait for years
Praying so hard,
Will he remember me?
Will he come home this time?
Will he still like me?
Will he be nice?

It's hard to wait
But sometimes
It's even harder
When what you have waited for
Finally arrives
Reality hits you
And all the fantasies
of how perfect
it would be
is over.

Holy week
is every week
We start with expectation
And hope
But the story unfolds
Differently than we planned

In less than a heartbeat
We trade one god for another
We abandon Truth
Because it's not the Truth
We were looking for
Because it's dark
And we can't see
Anything.

We kill off love
Because it wasn't there
When we needed it
We punish it
We abandon it
Because we believe
It abandoned us first...

We want what we want when we want
Part of this week
Is learning how to wait
Without fear and trembling

To forgive the suffering
That just comes with being human
To see who is really right
And who is really wrong
And face the light
That really feels
Enough

We begin the week
In fear and trembling
And it gets much darker
And some will give up
And leave forever

Yet, if we are willing to
walk into that darkest night
and not drown in its blackness
if we can stay the course
which is always too long
and too hard
we will find
He remembers

He remembers

He remembers

Love, Cindy

Persephone

Persephone and Mellville.
I think that would sum up my Lent.
"from hell's heart I stab at thee..."
A few days ago, I told the priest I came to confession because I knew I had to forgive God for what He allowed to happen.  I was told I was on shaky theological ground. Really? 
If from the point of view of understanding God, yes, that is correct.
From the point of view of someone who is suffering or greiving, I stand on solid theological ground. To get pissed at God means I still have a relationship with Him. I still expect to have a relationship with Him. I am working toward a relationship with Him.  And I was (and probably still am) pissed.
I don't mind so much that, as I am healing in my heart, trying to open it to love again, I am somewhat struck down with some serious physical problems. I don't mind that. But to look at my children hurting because their father, who lived too far away and was perhaps much too involved with only himself, has died...that pisses me off.
I have always spoken with confidence that God answers all of my prayers.
He is well aware that I did not like this answer.My children need that relationship, which is now impossible to have.  And I am pissed (I've used that word three times and yes, I know what it means. It means I am angry).
Funny, as I have tried to compose the thoughts to follow that last one, I realize that I was somewhat successful. While my kids did not have the storybook relationship with their father, as I continually tried to make happen...they definitely had more than I ever had. That perhaps should calm me dow
Grief work is strange.

But it's not just Mellville and Moby Dick...it is also Persephone.

It's been over a month since Bob died. I went to two doctors this week. Got news that I should get a sonogram and biopsy. A woman my age should not be still preparing her body to bear children, she said.  We need to fix that now.  And I said, "I like that part of my life. What about Sarah? and she laughed and said "That's in the Bible." (Obviously doesn't take things quite as seriously as I do)

So she want to fry my body parts so I won't lose blood and get too weak again. Of course, she said, "We have to rule out cancer."  Argh...just go away...if God wants me, He can have me. I am not afraid to die.  I am, however, quite honestly, afraid of suffering. I own that. You'd be a bit off if you chose to suffer. And yet...it is a gift...to suffer.

And that brings me to Persephone. Without really paying attention too much, the vernal exquinox arrived three days ago.  Persephone was let out of her prison to bring back spring to the earth.  I knew what God called me to do. As I was lowering my garage door (Still broken after the power surge in January), a snowflake caught my eye. And I knew what had been tugging on me for a week really had to happen. I didn't know why, but I knew that if I did not make my pilgrimmage, I would not return from winter this year.
So I humbled myself, somewhat unwillingly, and said, "God I give this to you. I give all of this to you." And I took on my task...and asked why about a thousand times. As I took each step through what I had to do, I did not feel better...well, better enough...I always want more.  Anyone who knows me, knows I am always hungry for...everything. More books, more music, more food, more love...it just doesn't end with me. But I did what I needed. I walked through each step. 
I walked into one building.  The children were rehearsing for a musical: Annie. I looked at the stage and remembered that which I never knew. I watched the kids giggling and acting silly, singing "The sun 'ill come out...tomorrrow." And I smiled at God..."jerk! You expect me to fall for that one?" and I laughed, because love is always playful.  Had he not been playful, I probably would not have listened. Then I went and found myself a beautiful upright Yamaha...and it was exquisite to play.  I sat in the music theory room...and remembered how hard it was for me to hear inverted chords...and that was why I stopped studying music.  That and the general belief about myself that I could never do anything beautiful. But that was so long ago...

I came out into the bright sun and wished I had not worn the black turtleneck.  I walked back to the car, still not understanding anything of what was happening. Yes, there were more things, but I leave them out, some things have to wait. I looked at the clock tower, the library, the observatory, the jet.  I understood more, but I didn't cry. I thought, I"m done. I'm letting it go. It's goodbye. That life is over. New life coming. But it was clear my heart was not growing soft from the experience, it was growing colder. That's how you deal with things, I told myself, you stop feeling. Mr Spock told me that. His race survived because they shut down all emotion. I've done it before and I can do it again.

I lied. I sat in my confusion and pain all afternoon. And then, because of the love of others, I came out of the cave...as I knew I would. I had gone to the medicine man and I was back in love with the One who brought me out of darkness before. She said my stress level was extremely high and hesitated on giving me the prescription for sleeping pills. I assured her I just needed sleep. I knew I was not thinking clearly. God told me what to do...and as much as I hated it, I did it. But I still didn't understand.

Then, at the Stations of the Cross, my first night to go this Lent...it hit me like lightning. All my whining and self-pity was revealed to me for what it was. I do have a right to feel my feelings, yes...but I also suddenly understood everything...and I felt ashamed of my own anger...and blessed. How could I have forgotten? What greater gift is there than perfect love? I finally felt it again. The bond between mother and son. I had felt it more than once this week. In spite of everything...in spite of the fact that not a single thing seemed to be going right...it was clear that everything was going to be alright.  And I wept like a baby and got snot all over my friend's shawl. She was smart. She didn't ask me a single question. She just held me...and she smiled and said, "It's about time."

Persephone had risen from hell and returned to bring in the spring.

I can be such a fool.

Love, Cindy

Teach your children well

Long ago, I wrote, so I wouldn't lose my mind. Still have most of those journals. Now I struggle with writing differently.  There are so many options now. And it is clear now that I don't have to worry too much about the words getting burned in the trash...and forgotten...but now a more difficult problem arises. In cyberspace, nothing goes away.  And while there exists inside me a primal need to be heard, the question becomes: who will hear it?
That thought can stifle creativity easily. Some thoughts, I think, are better left in the dark. These days, not much is left in the dark. The things on TV now, even the news, is so very soul destroying.
There are things that need telling, explaining...yet I fear so much about explaining them. 
You may think of me as quite liberal, especially as I write the way I do. I am not liberal...and I am not conservative. I seek justice and truth...and I don't care too much on which side of the fence it falls. 
I wanted to write about pornography, but I don't know exactly how. It is so prevalent and subtle. I had no idea what an industry it was until, in my 20s, I made a comment to a friend. I did not enjoy too much my husband's attentions. She gave me a stack of magazines. They were...very interesting. I didn't understand then, and now, older and alone, I understand. Some part of me refuses to be treated as an object. That was what I learned in those magazines: if I could allow myself to accept the role of object, I would have lots of company. I would never be alone. What they don't tell you in those magazines is how love has nothing to do with it. 
So it boils down to this: if you don't want to have a child with me, and raise it together, then don't ask me for things you don't deserve. And if I am not totally committed to a life long union with the one I choose to be 'father' of my children, they I have betrayed everyone: the man, my children, myself.
And the lies we tell ourselves to make a relationship "work" just destroys our souls even further.
I hate bringing these ideas up, because I feel perhaps I am being too harsh in a world that doesn't have a clue about what it means to love.
But many of the conversations this week have been about this most scary subject. I could go through telling you about how I convinced myself that my behavior so long ago was appropriate and logical...oh how I relied on that word: logical. I learned too early that I was just an object...to make yourself comfortable with what others tell you that your are...
oh the violence we do to ourselves to live up to another's expectations!  And we don't even know we are hurting ourselves, we want so desparately to be loved and accepted!

How do we teach our children? What do we teach our children? If you didn't get the basics of what real love looks like as a child, how can you possibly teach your children? I lived in constant fear for my children, that someone might hurt them. That I was as helpless as a parnet as I was as a child from evil that is always looking for a way in...Now I look at my grandchildren...I know the statistics...and I wonder...how do we make the lies stop?  Is it really possible to keep them out of harm's way, or are we only able to teach them how to defend themselves when evil approaches?  A black belt in Kung Fu? (there is some gleeful satisfaction in kicking evil's ass now and then, but what might make is permanently leave? or is that impossible?)

These were not the words I intended to write today. I've already forgotten why I turned on the computer. And I must get to church an dthen the hospital.

Perhaps it was this new pope: Pope Francis.  I see him as the  beginning of the ending of evil.  A Jesuit. Now let's see how a Jesuit tells me how I am to live out my life. I am curious and I believe he might share with me a truth I have yet to hear. More than that, I think he will care well for the poor. The poor include not just the defenseless children in the womb, but the defenseless children in families who have forgotten that their children are still gifts when they are five or ten or fifteen years old.  That will be exciting.

Pager is going off. Gotta go.

Teach your children well. All the hard, scary stuff too...and love them well.

Love,
Cindy

If I had words...

I'd make a day for you.

I recall thinking, as I looked at the VHS I rented from the Tom Thumb, that it was going to be a stupid movie. A movie about a talking pig. Really?  Looked stupid. But I had young children, and these G movies were few and far between, it seemed.  Gotta try them all.

And in less than five minutes after I began to watch it, I realized it was going to be one of my favorite movies of all time.  All because of a pig theology that seemed brilliant...and contradictory. 
That all pigs would board a truck that would take them to heaven, which must be beautiful because no pig ever returned to the farm after entering the truck...but Babe...who saw his mother get on the truck only understood one thing, and cried out, "I want my mom!"

And I was hopelessly in love with the movie.

"I want my mom!"

Theology in four words. I've written about it before, perhaps even on this blog.  "I want my mom!" From the moment we leave the womb, on some level, we desire to return to it. We want to go home to the one who loved us literally, with all her being, who gave her life to us and for us...whose heartbeat we recognized as our own, who sang to us from the moment we became a single cell, and rocked us and kept us warm...and so carefully cared for us after our shocking birth into a cold and hard world...

"I want my mom!"

The mother that raised me, told me, that she always knew when I finished my bottle, because she could hear from the kitchen as I threw it against the wall...shattering it, she told me. I guess I was pissed. Even then. I wanted my mom. Why didn't anyone hold me? 

When I was old enough to understand some things, I recall my Uncle Chuck holding me. I recall the feel of his silk shirt against my cheek, little bumpy things under it, which I later learned was hair (he had very curly hair on his chest) and I remember only one conversation, it comes back to me at unanticipated times: "Your father really loves you, Cindy. He just doesn't know how to show it." And he would dry my tears and I would beg him to never leave me. But he did. And that is another story.

It came up again today in conversation with a woman I respect so very much.  We both have the same kinds of problems. We both think like engineers about many of those challenges. We are both grateful for our lives. We both know that we can learn from each other. We both respect each other's ideas.  It's kind of easy because we are not related, so we don't have too many expectations of each other. We both recognize we have many expectations from our families, and in particular, our children.  We want to be a blessing to them...and a blessing to ourselves, too...but it is so very hard to do. 

"I want my mom!" 

God kind of answered that request (okay, demand) for me in her friendship.  She will be as close as I can get to having my mom alive, my biological mom that is...and much of me is content with that love. I truly feel she expects little in return, doesn't really need anything from me, but we enjoy our friendship very much.

How I wish I could have that much comfort with my children!  I don't understand why we make loving our own families so very complicated! But we do.  Why can we not respect our own blood the way we respect the strangers that enter our lives?  Perhaps my thoughts are skewed. Perhaps there really are families that live Norman Rockwell lives.  I wish I knew how to let my children know how much I love them.

If I had words...
I'd tell you
Of that deep joy
Inside my heart
When I first knew
You existed.
Yes
I was scared
And I felt alone
But I also felt
Like I had been given
The best gift
in the whole wide world.

I wasn't ready
I was too young
But there was
a certain magic
and hope
in knowing
a little baby
was growing
inside.

I had dreams for you
before you were born
I thought
concert pianist
president
doctor
lawyer
happy
beautiful
complete
sacred
love.

I made clothes for you
I learned to make
baby food
from scratch
I painted a room for you
made curtains
pulled a broken
rocking chair
out of the dump
painted it white
with yellow daisies
I made you a stuffed kitty
and placed it in your crib
waiting for the day
when you would sleep there
and I would sing to you
and hold you
feed you
clean you
read to you
and love you as best I could

Those moments were only the beginning
of many firsts
learning how to mother
how to hold on
and more painfully
how to let go

The good moments are easily forgotten
inside the disappointments
and wars
of what I wanted
and what you wanted

I get that
we both had to learn
to grow up

I wish I had words
for what is happening now
But I don't have any words
to go with these feelings
yet

I do get it though
But I'm not ready
To write about it here
what it is like
to lose one so suddenly

I can only say
that I remember
how much I wanted her to stay
but she didn't
or couldn't...

How much I wanted him to stay
But the world took him away
And I never really got over
losing him

But I hear him
over 40 years later,
telling me
it's going to be alright.

I believe him.
I think that's what your dad would want you to know
It's going to be alright

If I had words
I'd say it pretty
But I don't

Love, Cindy

Meteor

In a flash
it arrives unexpectedly
flying across the night sky
catching it first
peripherally
the brain unable
to know what it sees
yet knows
something familiar
something exciting
is happening
now

That green flashing moment
When something as
outrageous
as love
reaches out
takes you by surprise
and you are never the same
again

Once
it happened under a palm tree
with  butterfly kisses
and Pink Floyd
a wet southern wind
slowly drying
our temples
as we held hands

Once on a beach near midnight
Waves rushing in
on my heart
curly haired boy
scoops up sand and says
"Here!"
And drops a tiny shelled animal
into my hand
It tickles
my heart

It happened
in a chair
by the pool
In a strange state
I looked up and saw
My best friend
Reading a book
Taking notes
And smoking a cigarette
I thought
Forever

But the meteor
aligned all
that was inside me
and said
This one matters most
This one will change your life
Forever

And he did.

Cindy March 6, 2013

Sabotage

Doesn't take much
to move from good to bad
Skating away on the ice
Not caring if I'll fall through

The war rages on
words alone
Who I was
Who I am
Who I will be

The Past tries to claim the Present
violently
My stomach turns
On the dance
But the music has stopped
And I have forgotten
Where I was going

Red balloon
where did you go?
There...
I see it
drifting away
in the sky

I tried to sing
I tried to dance
But the music was too loud

And I take the pillow
lean over on the sofa
and fall asleep.

Red hair

My mother...the one that raised me...had beautiful long auburn hair. I would stand in the doorway of the pink bathroom and watch her sit at the dressing table, brushing it out, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly...then twisting it into a beautiful cinnamon-y bun and pinning it with auburn hairpins. 

"The woman named Tomorrow sit in her chair...
and fastens at last the last braid and coil and turns and drawls,
"Well, what of it? My grandmother, Yesterday, is dead.
Well, what of it? Let the dead be dead."

And the doors were cedar and the strips on the doors were gold,
and the girls were golden girls and the panels read and the girls chanted,
"We are the greatest city, the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was!" " 
 

I have some version of that Carl Sandburg poem in my head...something I read when I was a freshman in high school.

I walked into a room of chaos, and I was drawn to the beautiful red hair. The beautiful, long red hair on the boy. I took his hand, waving around the room, into mine, and stilled it. I held it tightly. And I said, "You are going to be okay. We are here to help."
And the mother kept apologizng to me for him, concerning his behavior.  I watched her listen, and then talk, to the doctor. 
"He's such a good child...I just don't understand. It has to have been an accident."

I ignored what was said and looked at the boy, "We are going to listen. I promise." He looked at me for a moment, and then began flailing  around, fighting the demons he saw.

I called to the good in the room...I heard them all. The family...I spoke words I knew they could hear...and when I began to pray, an extra hand entered the circle. I didn't even see her in the room.

But I understood it all.  Being there gave new meaning to my own suffering. Forced me to see again into that messy humanity where right and wrong are not so clear. 


And I was so pissed at God. I knew what he was showing me, too. And I screamed at God in my head, in the milliseconds between doing my work...how dare you take me here...now...I hate you. I do not want to think about this.

And yet, I knew the boy's pain...and heard the mother's denial...

"How can you be sick? You have had a perfect life."

And it goes back to that perspective thing.

Young man

Do not give in

To the despair

That tempts you so.

Take comfort in

My hand.

I have known, too

misunderstanding

expectations

hungers

that as yet have names.

Take my hand

with you in the darkness

and let

this present pain out.

I will be your witness

sign the paper

that says

it is true

it really happened.

This present pain

is your gift.

You did not die.

You will stay awhile longer

And learn

how to love

without hurting

so much.

Perspective

I held my grandchildren last evening. Each one of them, some for a long while, others for only moments. I looked at my son...and I knew he would never be the same again. His wife, too. And though I have not seen my daughter, I know it already. Nothing will ever be the same again. 

I've spent a lot of time trying to put band-aids on my bad choices. I had three amazing conversations yesterday, about dreams and day dreams.  About suffering. I have to be careful with how I write about it just now. But later, if I'm still alive, I'll write it better...if I can remember. But even now, as I have wondered why I bothered so long with trying to fit into the Catholic Church, I began to even question the existence of God. I mean, perhaps I really did make God up, so that I wouldn't have to feel so lonely...

But for me, nothing about yesterday supported such a premise. First the woman with the dream, how very descriptively she spoke of an open wound...and in a matter of a few minutes, she told me all about herself...it was a resurrection, it was poetry and it was a priceless gift. Then an accidental shooting. I was so angry with my friend this week, when she said to me, as I was remembering the shooting that occurred when I was 8 years old. She asked, "You didn't shoot her on purpose, did you?" And I just stared at her. I said nothing. Then I said, "How could you think that?" And I explained to her again, that through counseling, I finally found the moments I blocked out...and what really happened that day...but I was outraged. How could she think that of me, after knowing me for years? 

No one really knows anybody.

I didn't go visit the little child.

But instead, God had something else in his back pocket. A family in tears turned out to be a marriage breaking up. I mean, they'd given it four whole years and they were nearly 25 years old now...it's just not going to work. He won't do what I want or need. She won't do what I want or need.  And the children, well, what good is all of this for them? I listened for an hour. For someone who is not a marriage counselor, I feel pretty good about how I handled it, but I kept feeling God's hand, slapping me in the back of the head, "Are you listening yet? Do you get it? Do you see what you need to do? Or am I going to have to slap you again?" 

No one really sees anyone.
We only see what we want to see.
And nobody really wants to grow-up. 

The open wound needs healing.  It has to stay open for a time. And maybe it will heal in an open position...the crack in the beautiful, priceless vase might just need to keep it's wound, it's scar...we cannot forget what that crack taught us...because we will...we are human. We need reminding. 

I was tired and I feel into a deep sleep, in the middle of the afternoon. I woke feeling refreshed. Seriously. I remember, because I usually wake up tired.

The next call was a lonely single mother. I sat, or rather stood, an hour with her. A lot of anniversaries about her.  And she spoke with such truth and beauty about all the things happening in her life and the life of her child. She told me about it: what she wanted and what she had. No one really gets this poverty thing. No one really bothers to listen to the poor, to see how amazingly smart they are...this woman was not playing the part of victim. She got it. She was able to accept all the help she needed and still maintained her identity, and her dignity. And she told me about some important things...and I could hear God again, "Are you listening yet? Do you see now how your life matters? Do you understand how only you could have handled this moment the way it needed to be handled? Are you listening?"

As I held my granddaughter, she asked again, "Can't you come to the funeral tomorrow, Nana?" I rocked her. "No, honey, I can't. I have to work." and she was so sad. There is just no way I can make this hell better. There are people who blame me for the divorce, and probably blame me for his death.  Then there are those who will feel sorry for me, which is just as annoying. I am a victim. There is the "clan" who will live and die to protect the "clan."  Their will be the politicians, jockeying for their seat at the table of honor. My daughter needs a punching bag...I get it...she needs it to get through this...but I will not be the target today. She needs to focus on her father, not on me. And the grieving widow, who for me, in my anger, I wonder what exactly she is grieving.  I am still not convinced that she loved him.

Perspective. It blinds me from the truth. It's shade darkens the things I do not want to see and plays into my hands, where I am the victor.  It is a game and for now...with my gift a tongue that can slice through steel, it is best I let them judge me without my presence...and beg for forgiveness later. I do not like to lose...and I am incapable of being grace-filled today.

My anger, my perspective...goes deep...and has been growing for years. 

My son needs to know, to understand, none of this is his fault. Perhaps he knows. He seems so much like me, though. When we take the blame for someone else's feelings, we fall to the second commandment. We play God. I do that too often. It is hard, in real suffering, to not want to make it go away...but suffering, like anger, is a gift. Just as joy, and happiness, and gratitude...but our humanness, our near to godliness, sometimes takes us down a road best untraveled...but still we go...when we think we can fix it. There are a thousand lessons to learn on this road. And I think every one of them will hurt. And every one of them, if we let them, will heal us.

O what a tangled web we weave...

Wounds opening and closing. An accident. Unreasonable expectations in marriage. An unwillingness to try. A desperate need to forgive. An acceptance of truth. A choice to feel a little pain to avoid great and useless pain.  A rest. And the holding of life in our arms. Little feet. Big feet. The feel of a hand in mine, a gentle kiss, a look, a giggle, a head resting on my chest...and the intense awareness that we are all here for such a short time. 

It's about perspective. And knowing that mine is not the only one.

Love, Cindy

Left Over Right

My daughter told me
"Left over right, Mom,
That's how to keep your shoes
from untying themselves
while you walk."

Important advice.
I was walking into the lioness's den
And I wasn't sure
if I would survive it
"Left over right,
and you won't trip over
your own laces."
Your own story.

I needed good shoes
to walk into this desert
where I had never gone before.
I went on an errand of mercy
for my children
I thought,
"They must know I am not afraid
to face the one who won.
The one to whom
They could stay connected
to their father
through her."
I would be noble...
and forgiving...

I failed.
                At everything.

Left over right.
She told me how to not trip
over myself.
I thought I listened well enough
But I was falling
                            falling
                                       falling
down.

I have had experiences of heaven and hell.
(The real ones, not these earthly adventures)
But I walked into another hell
And the pain of it.

Why?
Left over right.
Do it and you can stay the course
you are running...
What was mine?
Why was I there? 
Was it for my children?
Or for me? 

Left over, right?

Now that was a new thought to ponder,

My strength to survive almost anything...
(well, I have survived everything so far...
obviously...)
made me blind to the big truth staring me
in the face
The one I did not want to see
The one I refused to believe:
Left over, right?

Yes, left over.
Left behind.
Unwanted.
Unnecessary for the plan anymore.
Baggage.
Left over.
Right.

That hurt.
A bunch.
But only for a little while.

Dealing with the words of friends and family
"Get over it."
"Stop thinking about yourself."
                                                "But I have to think about me,
No one else does."

And there is was.
The truth.

I don't get to win ever battle.
Sometimes I lose the war.
And a great warrior
Will get ANGRY about losing
But a great warrior
is never defeated.

Here in the desert,
each thing I thought belonged to me
I have handed over
or God has taken away.

Here in the desert,
in each grain of sand,
there is a mirror
showing me
an aspect of myself.
Some good.
Some bad.
Some to keep.
Some to throw away.

In this tiny grain
I hold a truth
the messenger:
my angry daughter
walking in her own desert right now.
"Left over right."

She said,
"Left over right
and you won't trip anymore
when you walk
or run."
She did not say:
"Left over, right?"

Sometimes we need a comma
Sometimes we don't
But we must stay still enough
Stop running to
Or running away
Long enough
to know the difference.


Love, Cindy
March 2, 2013