Sometimes you need an adventure

I can't always explain a lot of my actions, though most of them make sense to me but not necessarily everyone else.

Like when I decide I need to drive to Tennessee and back in less than two days.

A few weeks ago, I found out that one of my favorite authors was going to be speaking at a free conference in a city not too far from Nashville, and without even giving it a second thought I immediately determined I would be in attendance. (I don't travel much at all, but I do have a history of a couple of sporadic trips that made people around me question my sanity.) I checked with Google to see how long the drive would be, and I decided driving more than 10 hours by myself might be kind of boring, so I texted my sister. This is how the conversation went:

Me: Wanna go on a short road trip to Tennessee at the end of September?

Steph: Sure!!!!!

She really didn't ask many questions, which shows just how great of a sister she is. She knew I had a purpose, and she knew I wanted company on my adventure—and she didn't hesitate or try to tell me I was being ridiculous. She just agreed to be there.

We started our trip on Friday morning, and I'm not going to lie: that drive is long. I mean, I know I went with my family to Florida over the summer, and we drove, but I didn't actually do the driving. Lengthy road trips are a lot more difficult when you're the one behind the wheel. There were moments when I thought our destination didn't actually exist, and we would be driving on the same perpetually never-ending one-lane road for the rest of our lives.

And then we thought we might die, instead.

It was dark at this point, and we were on the last long stretch before our next exit. We started getting low on gas—very low. I kept thinking we would see exit signs for gas stations, but it was one of those roads on which you might find yourself stranded in the middle of a horror movie. I was trying not to panic, even though my gas light had been on for a good amount of time at this point, and we still weren't seeing anything resembling human life in the area. There weren't even lights anywhere. I'm telling you—it was beyond creepy. I started praying that kind of desperate prayer where you're basically to the point of begging God to perform a miracle.

Horror movie moment miracle

And a miracle we got.

We suddenly saw a sign for a gas station, and I'm not kidding you when I say that it was the only thing in sight—no restaurants or businesses anywhere. (My sister had been searching for places on her phone, but she lost service. Of course.) So we pulled into this gas station that was completely empty (the store part of it was either permanently closed or smart enough to allow its employees to scoot out as soon as the sun set), except for an eerie-looking pickup truck sitting in the corner. Oh joy. I filled the tank as quickly as I could—though I obviously have no control of the speed of that thing—mainly because my sister kept saying we were going to be killed by the owner of the truck.

(I would just like to point out right now that I filled up 13.193 gallons in a 13-gallon tank. I don't want to hear your theories or reasoning as to why this happened if you know a lot about cars. I'm going to call the fact that we made it to that gas station a miracle and leave it at that.)

Thankfully, we never saw the owner of the pickup, and we made it out alive. We had talked about going to Nashville and going dancing or finding something fun to do that night, but when we got to our hotel, we showered and were asleep before 10 p.m. Party animals.

The next morning, I went to the conference—totally worth the long drive to hear Annie Downs say exactly what I needed to hear and then get to chat with her afterward—then I went back by the hotel to pick up my sister and start the trip home before noon. It turns out that super creepy road we were on the night before is lined with pure natural beauty, and I loved being able to see it in the light. It's amazing how your perspective on something can change so quickly when it's no longer in the darkness.

But I got to meet Annie

I honestly think one of the most important things I learned from this trip is that sometimes you just need people to be there for you. I mean, my sister ended up staying at the hotel to have a peaceful, agenda-free schedule to herself that morning, but she was there for me the whole trip. I've had some rough times lately, and she knew this particular weekend was going to be a bit hard on me, so she was just there. There wasn't anything special she had to say or do for me—she just needed to be there. My sister is my favorite person, and this trip strengthened our bond even more. Being in a car that long with one person in such a short turnaround will do that for you.

Life isn't always easy, and there will be times it feels like it's spinning out of control all around you. But when you have people in your life who will come alongside you and either spin in the madness with you or help slow it all down, it restores the joy and hope in your heart that you probably never lost in the first place. You have to be willing to let those people in, though. Life isn't meant to be lived all alone, and I hope one day I can also say yes to someone who needs company—whether it's a bizarre road trip or just sitting on some park swings and maybe even saying no words.

Just be there—it's often all a person needs to remember just how powerful love is in this world.

Shattered

I think a lot of times we place so much value on our phones, but we forget just how fragile they are.

Until we drop them.

I've had an iPhone for years, and I've dropped it so many times it's not funny. I'm honestly surprised it was in as good of shape as it was, because I am a klutz most days. But, by multiple miracles, I only had one tiny little crack in the screen in the lower corner. What's even more astonishing about that is the fact that I've never even had a protective case but instead opt for the cheap, awesome ones. My current case is a Spiderman one I got for $5 at Target. It's ok to be jealous of it.

I don't like bad things happening, but I really don't like them happening on Saturdays. Saturday is hands down my favorite day of the week—I get to sleep later than usual, go on a nice run when the sun is actually out, come home and watch College GameDay and then hours upon hours of college football, and just enjoy a day with no tasks or obligations whatsoever.

Saturdays are beautiful.

This particular Saturday was even more special, because I saw Mark Cuban at my gym. MARK FREAKING CUBAN. It took everything in me not to ask to take a selfie with him. He was doing abs (well, he was actually mostly just either texting or sending emails and occasionally incorporating some crunches), so I changed up my workout routine and did some abs before pull-ups. I mean, it just made sense. I looked at him. He looked at me. We smiled. And we both knew what I was thinking: You're the owner of the Dallas Mavs, and you are at my gym. Day made.

I opted not to request the selfie. He had come to the gym obviously to work out and take care of whatever was blowing up on his cell phone, and I wanted to let him feel like a normal person for a little while. Plus, I needed to go pump some iron so I could get home to watch the Aggies annihilate the Ponies.

Oy vey

When I got back home and got out of my car, my poor phone had no idea about the doom it was about to meet. I wish my phone had been in my purse, because then it would have been safer. But, no. Sadly, it was in my hand. The frustrating thing, though, is that nothing actually caused the fall. Suddenly I just felt it slipping from my grip, and I had one of those slow-motion-this-is-not-really-happening moments. You know the one. And then it was as if the cracks appeared too quickly for even the best eyes to see. Suddenly they were just there. Shattered. I cut my finger on the screen trying to unlock the phone just to make sure it still worked. Then I flipped it over to check on Spiderman—he was unscathed, thankfully.

I stared at my phone, trying to erase what just happened, but my efforts were useless. My phone screen was shattered, and that was that. The good news, though, is that the phone still worked. Sure, it cut my fingers each time I tried to slide to unlock the screen as shards of glass tore through my skin, and it was really hard to see text messages (or really anything), but it still functioned. It wasn't ideal, but it was enough.

There are times in life when we also feel like dropped phones: shattered, unpleasant to see, and perhaps like we're just cutting people's fingers. Yet, still like phones with shattered screens, we can still serve our purpose. You may be tired, but you can still love; you may feel broken, but you can still love; you may feel completely unloved, but you can still love; you may be struggling to see why things are happening like they are, but you can still love; you may not know how you're ever going to get out of whatever funk or struggles you're in, but you can still love; no matter what happens or how shattered life feels, you can always still love.

It's a choice.

Broken phone screens can be repaired, or you can buy a new phone altogether, and your problems with the shards will end. Similarly, you will also reach a point where you are restored and renewed. Getting there might be difficult, and you may face more struggles than you want along the way—like losing ALL of your contacts and not being able to find another Spiderman case (though I will continue to search EVERY Target in the area) when you replace a phone—but you will get to where you need to be.

I fully believe that God has a plan for everyone and a purpose for every single thing that happens in this world. Sometimes we go through seasons we don't want to face, but having fearlessness and patient endurance during those times will strengthen your heart and perhaps teach you that you truly can still love in the midst of whatever you must go through in life. And then perhaps you can show love to someone who feels like a shattered phone.

After all, with great power comes great responsibility.

Keep cartwheeling

I really love it when people do things that others think won't ever happen.

Like cartwheels.

I was at the park the other day, and there was a group of young girls running around, laughing, and showing off their cartwheel abilities. There was one girl in the group, however, who lacked the skills of the others. In fact, I don't think you could really classify what she was doing as cartwheels. As someone who was asked to leave the gymnastics world when her instructor saw zero potential in her, I felt for her. It's tough to be around perfect cartwheelers when you don't know the meaning of "keep your legs straight."

It made me sad, though, when I saw her go sit down by her mom and put her head down, while the rest of the girls continued to play. I know she might not be Olympics-bound anytime soon, but I didn't want her to give up so fast. I knew if she kept trying that she would nail that perfect cartwheel.

I'll be honest: I'm a dreamer. Sure, sometimes I get my hopes up only to have them shattered, but I like to believe in seemingly impossible things happening. I once spent an entire evening trying to jump high enough to reach a dollar that my brother had taped somewhere that he thought was out of my jumping range. Obviously I didn't care about the monetary value—it became all about proving him wrong and achieving my goal. Guess who was richer by the end of the night? I framed that dollar.

I love stories of people overcoming odds and surpassing expectations. It's a reminder that it's always important to keep hope alive. I don't like the Boston Red Sox at all, but how can anyone overlook the team's comeback against the Yankees after being down three games in the ALCS in 2004? Or Kerri Strug (I'm on a gymnastics roll right now) vaulting on one foot to lead her team to an Olympic championship in 1996? Obviously sports have many examples of people accomplishing what many others could only dream, but I think life is and always can be full of moments like these.

Go for the Heisman

I don't think it's impossible for someone to drop bad habits and have a complete lifestyle change; I don't think it's impossible for someone diagnosed with stage 4 cancer to be declared entirely cancer-free later (I've seen it happen more than once); I don't think it's impossible for a student with severe learning disabilities to graduate with honors and make the dean's list in college; I don't think it's impossible that places and people full of hate will someday be filled with nothing but love; I don't think it's impossible for the kid who strikes out every single time he's up to bat to come through and hit that walk-off home run in the championship game; I don't think it's impossible that the Cowboys will be good again one day; I don't think it's impossible that I will get my dramatic moment where I'm wearing a pretty dress and screaming "I love you" to a guy while the rain is pouring down (I don't even really like getting my hair wet, but it adds to the scene, obviously).

I believed Kevin Garnett when he yelled emphatically as the confetti poured from the ceilings: "Anything is possible!"

I used to see a lot of Adidas ads with the slogan "Impossible is nothing," and I really liked those. I mean, it's true. Impossible is nothing but a word and a mindset I don't want to have. Will everything I dream or hope to happen actually happen? No, probably not. In fact, I've had a lot of things not happen that I really thought would. (I'm still holding out hope for my gazebo, though). But I'm still going to believe all things are possible.

After all, even Jesus said that "with God everything is possible." (Read Matthew 19:16-30 if you want the scoop on that.) If He said it, I'm certainly going to continue to believe it.

I wish more people would believe more things were possible. I wish they would keep hope alive and not become so disheartened at the first sign of potential failure or bad news.

And I really wish that little girl would continue her quest for the perfect cartwheel.

Everyone needs compassion

There are some things in life that we can't take back but that shape our characters.

Like how we treat people.

For various reasons, the past couple of months have been rather challenging. We all go through different seasons in life, and some points are more difficult than others. The problem is, you can't always tell that someone is enduring hard times simply by looking at him or her. But the way we treat people can greatly impact them.

I remember a few weeks ago when it had been one of those days when it seems like everything was going wrong (seriously: I had marked with purple pen on my white shirt, burned my finger with a curling iron, accidentally texted completely the wrong person, and found out some bad news from a friend), and then a man who didn't even know me made me want to cry. (And, as I've said many times before, I don't cry often.) I was in my own little world, I guess, and I pulled into a parking space so I could get some froyo. As I was walking in, a man who was going into a sandwich shop next door started chewing me out. He told me he was signaling for the spot where I parked, that I was just a stuck-up wannabe princess, and that the world doesn't revolve around me. He then not-so-kindly reminded me that I need to learn to be considerate of other people.

He was fuming. Did I mention I was having a horrible day? Normally I would not have been that bothered by his mean words, but this particular day was an exception. I wanted to crawl into a hole—the kind of hole where only selfish, inconsiderate princesses go.

I'm not sure if it would have made any difference in his response to me accidentally stealing his parking spot if he knew how crazy things had been for me lately. Maybe he was just having a really bad day, too. Whatever the case may be, he made me feel the size of a kernel of corn. The late Maya Angelou said, "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

And she's so right.

I don't remember everything my teachers said when I was in school, but I remember which ones made me feel like I mattered and that I had potential in life; I don't remember what my mom said to me when I fell and scarred my knee on an epic bike ride, but I remember how wonderful she made me feel when she made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that helped me forget about the pain; I don't remember everything my sister said to me when she gave me the best pep talk in the world, but I remember she made me feel better and made me laugh; I don't remember every single thing the guy who gave me my first kiss said to me right before, but I remember how special he made me feel in that moment.

But we also remember the way we feel when those emotions aren't so positive.

The past two days one word has popped up in more than one place and echoed in my mind and heart: compassion. And everyone needs it. I can't say I'm completely kind to people 100 percent of the time—I mean, we are all human, so we are obviously going to fail once or twice or way many more times than that. But we can at least try. You never know what people are going through. Maybe the stranger who upset you is having a really bad day or in some very difficult season in life. Compassion. Maybe your coworker who said something sassy to you is having some family troubles at home. Compassion. Maybe the employee at the restaurant who didn't give you five-star service is struggling just to pay rent. Compassion. Maybe the girl who was walking too slowly in front of you when you were in a rush is going through a heartbreak right now and isn't that concerned with hurrying to the next place. Compassion.

Being compassionate doesn't mean you have to be a pushover—it just means you are more caring and loving toward others. I mess up so much that it's ridiculous. Yet, for some reason, God still loves me and shows me endless compassion that I definitely don't deserve. He does the same for you, too, whether you know it or not. And it's certainly not about deserving it, so we can't justify not showing another person compassion because he or she doesn't deserve it.

It's about love—something that needs to exist more abundantly, anyway.

Fearless takeoff

Sometimes it's really challenging to love your enemies.

You know, like birds.

The other day I was leaving God's gift to those in need of retail therapy (I'm obviously talking about Target), and I spotted a bird creeping around near my car. First of all, I don't like birds. Secondly, I really don't like birds anywhere close to my car. I don't feel the need to explain why. I figured the useless creature would fly away as I was approaching, but it didn't appear to be thinking about its takeoff at all.

I became mildly annoyed, because I was nervous I would run it over if it didn't move. And, even though I detest birds, I certainly don't want to be the cause of one's death. Especially in a Target parking lot. So, I put my bags in my car and then started trying to shoo the bird into the air. Some people started to look at me funny as I bent down chasing this bird—who insisted on hopping around on its feet to escape me rather than using the wings of flight it had been given—as I repeated, "Fly away, bird! Go to your home in the sky!"

I don't think this bird comprehended English. He must have flown in from another country.

I got close enough to the bird that I looked into its eyes (though very briefly). While I was expecting to be looking into some demonic force (Have I mentioned how much I hate birds?), I instead saw what, to me, looked like an intense fear. I don't think the bird was afraid of me in that moment—I think he was afraid to fly away. He didn't look hurt or like he wasn't capable of flying. He simply looked fearful.

As I stood up, a bird that looked like that bird's ugly twin landed beside him. I believe they had some type of conversation in their native tongue, and then they both flew off. Together. So perhaps the pesky creature just needed someone to come alongside him and fly away with him to give him some courage. Either way, the mere presence of another bird helped him realize his wings did, indeed, function properly.

It's kind of funny that this happened when it did, because I'm currently finishing up a book by Annie F. Downs called Let's All Be Brave that has been encouraging me lately to live out the motto I've been trying to follow for the past few years: BE BOLD. There's a quote from the book that really stood out to me: "We don't screw up by saying yes to the wrong things; we screw up by letting all the floats in the parade pass us by and never jumping on one of them for a ride to the end."

When I read that, it really made me think about all of the times in my life I've had the chance to jump on some really cool floats but passed up the opportunities out of the fear of not knowing what would happen. Or thinking I already knew what would happen and not liking the possibility. Whether it was because of fear of rejection or fear of failing or any other thing that would make me feel like I wasn't good enough or successful enough, I simply didn't jump.

I never told my crushes in high school or college or ever after that (well, except that one time two years ago) how I felt about them, and I've also never had a date or a boyfriend. I'm not saying those guys would have even felt the same way, but I'll never know. I left a really great college, because I was afraid of the changes taking place within my major—and I think I was also afraid of the fact that I was actually truly starting to enjoy a school I had always wanted to dislike. And I ended up having a horrible college experience after leaving there. (I hate having regrets, because I know everything happens for a purpose, but to this day it is one thing I wish I had done differently in life.)

But I'm not afraid anymore.

I don't want to be like that bird in the parking lot. I want to be able to fly without waiting for someone else to fly first. Sure, sometimes we need others to come alongside us and offer encouragement, but I don't want that fear to be in my eyes. I'd rather be willing to use the wings I've been given. I want to jump on floats in parades and not worry about the fact that I have no idea where they might lead or if they're even the right floats. I just want to trust that God knows what He's doing and will get me to where I need to be.

Even if that means risking comfort or my heart.

I don't live in a castle, I don't have a prince, my carriage doesn't pick me up each morning, I barely know what a white-picket fence looks like, I've never been to a ball, and animals don't sing with me as I go about my work throughout the day. And that's fine by me. A fairytale doesn't have to be what we were always taught it was supposed to look like—you're allowed to make your own and live it out how you see fit. Aside from the prince (well, not an actual prince), I don't want any of those things, anyway. But what I do want is to know that I am being bold in all I do. To quote Hans Christian Andersen, "Life itself is the most wonderful fairytale."

All of the "no" answers you face in life will make that one "yes" you finally hear so much better; all of the losses will make the first win taste so much sweeter; all of the failures will make your success feel even more well-earned; all of the rainy days you face will make the ones with sunshine seem so much brighter.

So use your wings—after all, you don't want to be like that incompetent bird in the Target parking lot.

What I hope they learn

Though the phrase "back-to-school" haunts many people, today it is good.

Because it's another opportunity to let people know they matter.

I honestly can't believe I'm starting my seventh year of teaching. I know it's trite to say it, but it just goes by so fast. Seriously, so fast. Wasn't I just a first-year teacher and praying I would know what I was doing each day I walked through those classroom doors?

I remember the feeling I used to get when I was younger on the night before the first day of school. There was always excitement and apprehension combined into one. Who would be in my classes? What would my teachers be like? Would I have lunch with people I liked? Would I have enough time after athletics to get ready and make it to class on time? Would I have a lot of homework? Had a lot of the people I knew changed over the summer? Would this be the year I finally got a boyfriend? (Obviously that last question was a "no" every year.)

As a teacher, the questions have changed a bit. What will my new students be like? Will I be able to meet the learning needs of every kid who walks through that door? Will they respect me? Am I actually doing a good job at this teaching thing? Will I remember to take care of all of the tasks I'm supposed to as a faculty member? Will I make a positive influence on these young people who have so many expectations of me? Will they leave my class better people who are ready to impact the world?

When I was a student, I thought teachers had it made. They showed up to work, taught us stuff they had already mastered, gave us a bunch of work to do, slapped a number on it for a grade, then got an entire summer off after the school year ended. Easy breezy.

And then I became a teacher, and I realized how ignorant I had been.

There's a lot more pressure than I ever imagined there would be in teaching. There are so many people depending on you, and, the strange part is, you want them to depend on you. Because you actually care for those kids. There hasn't been a single child who has come through that classroom door whom I haven't wanted to see succeed—even the kid who once told me that I wasn't God and that he hated me (and also threw in a few cuss words) when I asked him not to work on his history homework during my class. I still really wanted him to do well and realize his potential in life. I hope he eventually did.

We be ready

I know not every student is going to like me, and that's fine. But I want them to learn from me—really learn. Some of them will leave my class and never write another news story or edit another feature segment, and those may be things they forget about entirely, but I hope they take genuine life lessons away from here. I hope they know what it means to love and care for people. I hope they know what it means to try hard at something, even if it's something that challenges them beyond their comfort levels. I hope they know what it means to succeed. I hope they know what it means to fail but try again, anyway. I hope they know what it means to listen to people and respect their opinions. I hope they know what it means to have faith in something they can't see. I hope they know what it means to dance like no one is watching and not care what anyone else thinks. I hope they know what it means to be themselves, because they are wonderful. I hope they know what it means to laugh without fear of the future. I hope they know what it means to overcome obstacles when the odds are against them. I hope they know what it means to be valued and loved.

And, if nothing else, I hope they know that I care about them more than my words can ever say.

I'm going to stand in front of those kids today and for the rest of the school year, and I'm going to do my best to teach them well. There will be times that I make mistakes, and there will be times that I get frustrated with some of them. But, there will never be a time when I make them feel like they aren't important or loved.

Though I'm the one with the title of "teacher," I have done so much learning during these last six years. I've certainly learned more patience than I ever could have imagined, but I've also learned what it means to care for students as if they were my own kids. Teachers don't get upset with students who fail because it reflects poorly on their teaching skills—they get upset because they actually care about those kids and want them to do well. If you've ever seen the face and the excitement of a student who finally accomplishes something after trying so hard, then you would definitely understand. It's a sight that puts a permanent smile on your heart. And when a student writes you a note of thanks or lets you know that you in some way helped, it completely erases those moments of stress, fatigue and questions of why you are doing any of this that you sometimes have when your stack of grading starts piling up, and it seems like no one is listening to anything you're saying during your lessons.

Because this is why you do it: for them.

I'm going to start the new year today and try to memorize the name of every face who walks through the door. It will probably take me a couple of class periods to get them all down, but it will get done. I'm going to have fun with these kids. I'm going to have high expectations for them. I am going to challenge them. I am going to make them meet deadlines and learn practical communication skills. There will be times they are not happy with me. There will be times I am not happy with them. But I hope they leave each day with their hearts full.

Because every single person in this world deserves to know what it means to be cared for and loved.

I already miss my friend

There are a lot of firsts in life, and not all of them make me excited.

And today is one of those times.

Today I will walk through the doors of the high school where I teach to kick-start the year with another week of in-service. But, this year, I will walk through those doors knowing how different this school year will be, but I am going to try not to think about it. I cry probably about twice a year, and I certainly don't want today to be one of those times.

It will certainly be challenging, though, because I already miss my friend.

A lot.

This is my seventh year of teaching (and only at one school), and it will be the first year I face without my work best friend. I met Peltz in my first year, and it was more toward the end of the school year that we really started getting to know each other. Instantly, we clicked. We just sort of get each other. You know the time of person I'm talking about—the one from the quote: "The best kind of friend is the kind you can sit on a porch swing with, never say a word, then walk away feeling like it was the best conversation you've ever had."

There's something so special about having a work best friend, because—let's be honest—every single day at any job is not going to be full of sunshine and laughter. There are going to be times when you need to run down the hall, even if it's only for just a hug, and know that there is someone who is there for you. You share good news with each other; you share bad news with each other. You laugh together; you cry and vent together. You celebrate together; you mourn together. You talk things through together; you sit in silence and just be present when that's all that's needed together. You check up on each other; you have each other's backs. You give advice; you simply listen. You're just there together.

I will miss these

I already miss my friend.

I will never forget a few years ago around this time of year when a small emergency happened, and Peltz stuck by my side the entire way. We were at in-service, when I suddenly started having some severe pain. I have a history of ruptured ovarian cysts, and I had a feeling that's what it was again. I'm not lying when I say I literally couldn't move. We were playing some game with balloons (I swear we actually do stuff with curriculum during this week), and I had to sit down. When everyone was dismissed to go to their assigned areas, I stayed sitting. My principal came over and talked to me and decided I needed to go to the hospital. I texted Peltz, and she was immediately by my side then out the door to pull her car around to the back side of the building.

Peltz not only took me to the hospital, but she stayed with me the entire time. My parents came up there later to check on me (I think I had called one of them just to let them know—you know, in case I died. I'm not dramatic.), and one thing my dad said to me as I was leaving was, "That girl right there is a true friend."

And he's right.

After I was given the usual post-cyst instructions, we left the hospital. It was lunchtime, so we went through the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, and I introduced Peltz to Chick-fil-A sauce, which is the best condiment (next to ketchup, of course) to grace the nation. Ever. We ate in her car in the school parking lot, and she dared me to eat one of the sauce packets by itself—so, essentially, drink it. And I did. Because that's what true friends do.

A couple of years ago, we started taking what we call our "Wednesday pics," in which we usually look up and off into the distance. Sometimes we even coordinated outfits. The best was when for our final pic of the school year last year Peltz showed up with these precious tiny pink hats for us to wear. She always did little things like that. Wednesdays will never be the same.

I host the pep rallies for our school, and there was one last year in which I had to announce a bunch of candidates for the Homecoming court, and I needed someone to help me simply by holding the envelopes and possibly opening them so I could call out the winners of the underclassmen. Of course Peltz helped. She didn't say a word the whole time but instead was my Vanna and just followed me around the floor (even as I almost tripped on those mats in my heels). She was just always there for me.

I already miss my friend.

On thing that's so great about my friendship with Peltz, though, is that we are more than just work friends. We are real friends. Although it's going to be really tough not having her with me at work every day, I know that it's not the end of a friendship. I'm excited for the new opportunity she has in a different district, and I know we will make even greater efforts to catch up now that we don't get to see each other daily.

So, I walk through the doors today sad but not completely disheartened. Life is a journey, and sometimes you have to take pathways separately from people who have special places in your heart. But, just like little kids playing tag, you can always find each other back at home base. It's where you find safety, security, and trust.

Because true friendship can withstand anything that life throws its way.