Helen? I thought her name was Granny.

When my mom told me on Monday that Granny had died, I cried. I cried, because it's hard to lose anyone you love. Even if it's expected, and inevitable, and your granny was 93, and her health had been deteriorating for the last few years. I cried because I already missed her. I missed her smile with the crooked tooth that she was always too self conscious of, and seeing her on any given day in one of the many pastel colored wind-breaker jackets she owned. I missed that she would tuck kleenex in the sleeves of those jackets, and fill the pockets with hard candy. And I missed that she always offered up hot tea at her house, and that when I was young, I could always count on her not only buying me the most beautiful Easter dress, but also sewing a bell in the skirt. Because that made it special, and encouraged twirling.

There was a BIG party going on in Heaven Monday night. I can almost see it. Granny was probably wearing teal pants, a sleeveless blouse, and her ruby earrings- because those could be dressed up or dressed down. I bet when she met Jesus she made a drawn out exclamation of, "ohhhh!", and gave him one of those hugs where she shook Him a little bit. Because those were the best kind of hugs Granny gave. The ones where she was filled with so much love for the recipient, she just had to shake it all out. And then when Jesus stepped aside, I bet she cried. I bet she cried tears of joy over seeing the faces of those she outlived, and hadn't seen in years. Her parents, her siblings, Nagyneni and Bacsi, her old neighbor from Longwood, Sheila, and best of all, her healthy husband who had been waiting to see her for almost 20 years. You see, I never really knew my grandpa when he was well, but that is not at all the case when it comes to my granny.

There were a lot of things that Granny was good at. She was a good gardener, a good crocheter, a good pinochle player, a mighty good cook, and a good Tiger's fan. But when it came to being great, the role of Granny was where the thrived.

It's hard to decide where to start with her. Probably with a little clarification that Granny didn't really go by "Granny" until I was a preteen. She was simply Grandma before that, until one day the family showed up at her house, and she declared that from that point on, she wouldn't respond to anything but "Granny". And the woman stuck to it. Ignoring requests for grandma until the transition had become official. and it worked. Even this past weekend as I was updating friends on Granny's health, I referred to her by name, "Helen Major", and as I continued on, Audry says Katie leaned over to her and whispered, "Helen? I thought her name was Granny". I smiled when she told me that story, because though joking, it was so true. Granny was far more than just a granny to our family. In fact, I remember one time, hearing her say to one of my friends parents, "I might only have 5 grandchildren, but I'm a lot of people's Granny".

New Years Eve 2002

high school friends in Granny's hat collection

My college roomies all wearing hats that granny made :) Go Green!

I'm proud to have had the Granny that people wanted in on. A Granny where kids at school knew she cooked every Wednesday, and wanted an invite over. "Is it spaghetti tonight?" some would ask. seeing as that was a crowd favorite. Even though my answer was always, "I don't know". You see, Granny kept the answer a secret, claiming "horses hooves" were on the menu if you tried to call ahead for details. I think she thought people wouldn't show up if she was serving something they didn't like. But that would have never happened. We just played her game, and week after week, people showed up. Because when you walked in the door, the smell of chicken and rice, or stuffed cabbage, or roast beef would clear up any false claims from before. And what my granny started those Wednesday nights was embraced by family and friends alike. and Biblical. In the book of Hebrews, it says, "and let us consider how we may spur one another on towards love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another- and all the more as you see the day approaching."  It might be out of context, but the roots of the message hold strong. Granny had established years ago that her contribution to our family would be providing a place to meet and a satisfying dinner. Every Wednesday. And with it, instilled in our family, the importance and benefit of meeting together. We know about each others lives. The joys, the pain, the hurdles, celebrations and about upcoming vacations. And it's a priority. I love telling people of our weekly tradition. That there's an open door policy, that these days rotates between my parents, my uncle, and my cousins place. That we squeeze around kitchen tables, drink wine, and eat full course meals. every week. A lot of people stare back slack jawed. Because like that scripture says, far too many people today are in the habit of not gathering together with their families. But not mine. And we can give thanks to Granny for that.

Speaking of the scriptures, my Granny is the first person I ever remember telling me about the Lord. I remember her telling me about Jesus, and prepping me with instructions on what to do when we got to Mass on Christmas day. Years later, as an adult, and a believer myself, I admire the confidence she walked with in the Lord. She got dealt some tough cards in her day, but always always always held strong to the steadfast love of Christ, and the goodness of His promises. And it came naturally to her. When my family would gather on Christmas and Easter to join her for Mass, she would show her loves off to each other. Her family and her church.

 I remember hearing of her travels to far away places. Trying hard to imagine what it was like for a younger version of her, and a healthy version of my grandpa to explore places like Hungary or Mount Rushmore, and collecting matchboxes from each place to prove their stay. A smile would stretch across her face, her mouth would open a little, her eyes would brighten as she pulled the memories out of storage with a long "yeaaaaah", and the stories would flow. She loved telling the one about how everyone got a lei when they stepped off the plane in Hawaii. As she motioned the way they put it on everyone, she would squeezed her eyes shut for a moment with a smile, and tell her listeners of how beautiful they were. And I remember thinking that if that's what being old is about, I don't know why so many people complain.


My granny had all sorts of stories that would draw me in. And even after hearing lots of them time and time again, I always listened. It was part way about respect, but I think a lot of me loved the way she would recall. Stories about when she was a little girl and how my grandpa, a boy from the town over, would fix her dolls. Stories about growing up in a time where going to and from school was uphill both ways, but she was lucky to have had a brother that would give her piggy back rides. And that for fun, her and her 6 (yes, 6!) siblings would go sledding on her mothers bread pans. I just couldn't fathom as I tried to envision myself squeezing into one of my moms 9x13 cake pans. It was just a different world. One of my favorites though was when she would talk about the picnics on the farm. Friends and family would show up with food in tow, and the seats of picnic table benches and folding chairs would be filled. And with the crack of a few beers and a potluck spread in front of the company, it turned out Granny had always had the gift of giving people a reason to be together. And I remember deciding a long time ago, that someday I was going to be like that.

She was a woman who took care of people. Every grandkid she had experienced that first hand. Whether it was my cousins Nic and Cory living with her for a while, or me and my sisters spending summer days there while our parents worked full time; we all were well versed in time with granny. We spent many days watching cable (our house didn't have it), sprawled out on rose colored carpet propped up on crocheted flower pillows. we all felt loved, and safe, and cared for under that roof. We had fun there too. There was a slight incline in her front yard that made it ideal training ground for mastering the front walk over. 7-11 was right down the street, and granny would often give us permission to go in her wallet for dollars to get slurpees. And a basement filled with all sorts of stuff that served just as well as a playground. Where we always found the stationary bike way funnier than it should have been, would roll out her absurd amount of rugs, and made up games like "wheelchair race" and "who can find the funniest looking person in Uncle Franks class photo" that hung by the telephone. In the summer, I survived on a steady diet of salami and mustard sandwiches, Pepsi, and mustard pretzels. Often granny would slice up green pepper, sprinkle them with salt, and we'd sit around the kitchen table and play cards. We were never that good, but we had fun.


Granny was a good teacher too. Not only did she teach us the rules of Rummy, but more times than I can count, she showed us the art of her crocheting. "see" she would say. And with a "one, two, three, four, five" under her breath, her crooked fingers would go to work on the most beautiful of baby hats.


She taught me how to make dumplings, and kieflies, and noodles for soup. I only wish now that I tried harder to retain those instructions. She taught me how to play the lotto, showed me how to dance the chadash in her living room, how to tell if a tomato was right for picking, and showed by example what it means to really live out wedding vows.

 Even though I was young, my appreciation for the commitment my granny had to her husband was real. I always just accepted my grandpa as "sick". He had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's before I was born. So naturally, I never had to the opportunity to know him any other way. But what I did know was that for years she slept in a twin bed beside his hospital bed in their house. And when his food bag would be empty, she was quick to refill it. and she would always do whatever she could to make him most comfortable. It comes as no surprise that with being a Nicolas Sparks fan, my favorite book of his is The Notebook. I love telling the embarrassing story of sobbing the whole night after I first saw the movie. The commitment of that couple reminds me time and time again of my Granny and her love and commitment to my Grandpa. I know their marriage was filled with "for better" parts, but a lot of what I knew growing up were the "for worse"-- and the "in sickness" parts-- But she kept her word on every one of those vows, and it wasn't til death did they part- 15 years after his diagnosis.  It was all there. Love in action, and I had a first hand look at to what that meant in real life.

 One of my favorite ways to pass the time at granny's house was to play dress up. She had a closet full of unique and beautiful dresses, a couple hat boxes, and a pair of pale pink heels covered in lace - so tacky, yet so loved. It's because of her that I believe it's okay to dress up a little extra if you feel like it. I remember picking out my favorite dress - it was either the salmon colored one that was flowy or the sleek silver one- pinning it into place and walking down the hallway to show her. And at the end of that hallway, there was always a compliment waiting-- and it never got old.

Granny was so good at supporting her grandkids. Whether it was reminding us we were beautiful, coming to support our dance recitals, or really any event at school, it was pretty much a given, Granny was always there.

Audry, officially pictured out.

She always had ice cream and Domino's pizza in her freezer, Pepsi in her fridge, sour cream and onion chips in her cupboard, and a rotating assortment of candy displayed on crystal in her living room. Her house was a dream. It was a place where childhood was encouraged to stay a while. Maybe it's because most of my memories there took place during long summer days, but it worked. I had a childhood I love thinking back on, and I do so fondly. In that house we sang and danced along with old VHS tapes of Singing in the Rain and 42nd Street. We were encouraged to stretch out on beach towels in her driveway and catch some summer sun, and rode our bikes up and down that same driveway as granny sat outside and watched, mastering her role as granny.

I don't do mornings well, and there were a few years where granny would come over to wake my sisters and me up for school. Those years I couldn't get enough of red flannel (I've thankfully since outgrown that), and almost daily I'd be awakened by the shaky voice of my granny singing about the lady in red, and how the fella's were crazy about her. If it were anyone else in the world, chances are I would have thrown something at them. But since it was Granny, and from what I remember, I mustered a smile, and got out of bed without much fight. It was like she was magic.

 My Granny was always cool in my book too. My youngest memories include her always having a stash of Juicy Fruit gum in her purse. She was like Mary Poppins. The supply was seemingly endless. Even when I would be over her house sick, she still managed to earn cool points. Letting me drink 7-up,  control what we watched on TV, and even one time buying me the worlds biggest candy cane, because she knew it held big pull in making me feel better. She was right. And I can't even begin to tell you about how cool it was when I first realized my granny was born in 1919, the same year as Edy's Ice cream. And do I even need to bring up the gumball machine she had in her bedroom. Who else can say their granny had that?!

I have this button jar that sits in my hallway closet that tells a story of time. It's behind a door a lot like the one that same jar used to live behind at her house.  The door pulls open with a flat brassy knob, but unlike hers, doesn't resist much against the carpet. That closet was full of towels, and sheets, and on one of the lower shelves was the button jar. I remember spilling them out on occasion, thumbing through them, and thinking of how long it must have taken to gather such a full jar. Was this button from a dress or a shirt? which button was first in the jar? and thinking about the time it must have taken to collect them one by one. In reality, it's just a glass jar and buttons. But to me, it was one of the many things about granny and her house that was a constant and familiar. and I love that I get to have that piece of hers as my own.

There's a saying I just heard for the the first time recently. It says, "do not regret growing older, it's a privilege denied to many." -- and I realize that by making it to 93, this doesn't exactly apply to Granny. But it has made me think about how growing old really is a privilege. Because of the years that she had, granny got to spend 40+ of them doing in my opinion, what she did best. Loving her grandchildren. And although this week we are giving her a proper farewell, she won't ever really be that far away. Because whenever the family sees Nic's meticulous attention to the skills of his trade, or when Cory brings up a family favorite story, when Sara shows us her dedication to work, or when Audry bakes, and when I someday give people a reason to gather, she will be there.  A living legacy in the lives of the grandchildren she loved so well.

 Always on our minds and forever in our hearts.

Boots on the Beach.

Sometimes life comes at you hard. Work drains you, stresses build, and disappointment creeps its ugly head at the worst times.

Usually I'm a fighter with the heart of an optimist. I want to be tough, so I play resiliently, and stand my ground. I tell myself I can handle things. I remind myself of my blessings, face forward, and carry on. But every now and then, a suggestion rolls into play that is exactly the answer I wasn't looking for. And it's a relief to know that my Jesus is looking out for me via the people I hold closest.

On Monday, January 23rd, I got an email from my friend Krista at 8:30am (the minute I start work) as follows:

"ugh. I already hate today... and I'm in serious need of a little getaway. I'm literally going to look at some plane tickets to see if there is anything reasonable to go anywhere warm. want to go with me?"

two hours later I had had an email in my inbox with this title:
":Fwd: Expedia travel confirmation - Feb 24, 2012 - (Itin#14261925...)"

Friends and travel are my release. An ongoing item on my bucket list is to go one place a year that I've never been before. Experiencing new places in general, rejuvenates and inspires me. Which means boarding a plane that was headed towards the beach, with a carry on and friend in tow, held as much promise of overall healing as the therapeutic massage and vitamin D packed sunshine that was promised on the other side of our flight.

The 4 weeks between booking and go-time was short enough to free us from months of agonizing vacation countdown, yet far enough away to give us space to daydream about what the trip could be. I want milkshakes. I want to walk on the beach and a starbucks coffee. "How about driving with the windows down, and stopping wherever we want?", suggested Krista. "Perfect", was the only word I could think of in response.

And even though our GPS sent us to a hotel that was on a strip stacked with way too many trashy "surf shops", and right across the street from a seasonal "theme park", if you saw the view from our sliding glass door, you'd have no complaints either.





We stood on the deck of our optional upgrade, and admired the way God crafted this country to go exactly that far East, and then opted to drop a vast ocean, right there. amazing. We gathered our magazines, gummy bears, and sunglasses, took a seat in our matching chairs, and had nothing on our agenda beyond decompressing. "I'm going to tell baby Mast that this was his first trip to Myrtle Beach", said Krista as she lovingly acknowledged her belly. I sipped from my coffee cup, smiled, and told her how I was pretty sure that was the first way I had ever been to St. Louis. Via my mothers womb. And it definitely counts.









I love group vacations where laughs are multiplied, and chatting rarely takes a break; but there's something about traveling solo with a friend that was new, low key, and easy. We had plans and no plans at the same time. We knew we wanted room service one morning, seeing as we are both advocates of getting out of bed as late as possible, whenever possible. So with one order of french toast, a veggie omelet add ham, and 2 calls back from room service to confirm it was a veggie omelet ADD HAM?!... our first plan was checked off the list.



The rest of the weekend followed similar suit. The great thing about having limited plans, is the space it leaves for opportunity to grow, and experiences to happen. We went for massages and got complementary foot soaks. And when we weren't in a rush to leave, the BK onion ring eating hair stylist stopped Krista to ask if she could attempt to tell the gender of the baby using a pencil, string, and paper clip. I mean, why not? When in Rome...



We traveled some of the best roads that state has to offer. Roads lined with lush trees that don't take the Winter off like they do back home. Roads lined with beach homes and sand. Roads that led to dead ends that didn't bother us. Mainly because we liked the roads so much the first time we traveled them, we were far less than mad when given the opportunity to have a second look. We drove down a road that had a sign that read, "Sunset Beach - this right", and with a "I want to go there" from Krista, we were off. And when we found it, it was exactly what we didn't know we were looking for.









We wore boots on the beach. We walked and talked, and walked and didn't talk. The cool weather leaving a practically empty beach for us to explore. And the crispness of the air making the blueness of the sky an exact match for what you would dream up on a day like that. For a while we just sat. We let sand get in our boots, and made attempts to catch sun flare in the lenses of our cameras to take home with us.





We road tripped up to Wilmington, and made it everything a roadtrip should be. We rolled the windows down, gawked when appropriate, did our best to keep up with Luda on the radio, and made stops for whatever we wanted.... including souvenirs, once in a lifetime photo ops, and dinner at the best Mexican meets BBQ place we'll ever eat in our lives. We played the roll of tourists, grew in friendship, and as if having a pregnant lady in the car needed an excuse to get milkshakes for our drive back to Myrtle Beach, we did that too.







It was a tiny trip, only 3 days, but was so full of some of the best things in life. Falling asleep to the ocean, watching way too many episodes of Friends, relaxation, wind in our hair, french fries, day dreams, cute waiters, airbrushed t-shirts, ice cream, sleeping in, no dishes to wash, rental cars, and having special time with a friend on her last big trip before her and her husband welcome a sweet baby boy into this big, beautiful, fun world.







Even though life can come at us hard, it can also serve up some of the best of times. And sometimes, it takes stepping away from the monotony of day to day to realize how good life really is. And then, before I know it, thankfulness has a way of sneaking up to remind me of all the good that is capable of getting packed into my one small life.





Even when we left on Monday morning, it wasn't without one last reminder of how much good even a Monday morning is capable of :)





We came home refreshed and thankful for the gifts that only spontaneous trips with the best of friends are capable of. enriching, fun, and packed with all sorts of unexpected goodness.

wedding bells and tales to tell.

There's something that's almost intoxicating about air that's filled with anticipation. Especially anticipation that surrounds the wedding day of one of your dearest friends.

There was a buzz around the bridal boutique, as bridesmaids and friends alike floated around from room to room with mimosas in hand and and their hair done up. The bride looked beautiful without any makeup; her skin tanned by the summer sun, and topped with a wedding day glow. Our Linds could have rolled out of bed, walked down the aisle, and still been able to gather whispers of how stunning she was, because she really is that beautiful.



Having the opportunity to be a part of the wedding day of a dear friend is something to be cherished. They're days filled with victory. Where true love has won, and God is at work, solidifying another piece to the puzzle of life. Being able to witness such an event, and share in the joy and commitment that is so meaningful to the people involved, gives my heart the opportunity to beat in its fullness.

I've been a part of a lot of day 1's. Where euphoric smiles are passed around from family to friend to pastor to bride. Where bridesmaids and groomsmen stand tall in support of their loved ones, and where two people who have found the love of their life become husband and wife. I've seen each marriage take its own unique path, yet each from the same starting point of faithful vows, and a "you may now kiss your bride". Each route with both the expected and unexpected. With times that really test the strength of two becoming one, and times with newfound joy, that not even the best of dreams could stir up.



I've always been a rather experience driven person. Always looking forward to the next event that has the power to break up the day to day. It can be a spontaneous outing on a week night, a week long trip with my best friends - 10 years in the making, or in this case, celebrating a momentus day with my dearest friends. I thrive on promise filled events. Weddings are always filled with hope. Always a celebration. and Always give back more than you give. And when you mix that into wedding days that belong to your nearest and dearest friends, you can't lose. I want to call it bittersweet. But there's not too much about them you can really claim as "bitter". I think it's moreso the realization that with a limited amount of close friends, means a limited amount of the monumental celebrations that weddings are. So the anticipation of those weddings build for weeks, and months, and even times years; to play out in these individually cherished days.

For Linds and Zach, all us girls from college watched their relationship grow from afar. And as time passed, Linds made sure to bring him alongside her on trips back home, and shared with him, her love for all things Michigan... especially 240.



And as we celebrated with the newly defined, Mr. and Mrs. Mosayebi, we took it all in. It's amazing really, what happens between the day to day that creates a moment like a wedding. Because even though they had a trip to Hawaii, shared experiences with TFA, owned a house, and already had a godson together, it was all those little inbetweens that made them what they had become that day. Husband and wife. Toasts were given by family and friends. Moments were discussed of interesting emails and first encounters. And in the midst of it all, loving glances went back and forth between bride and groom, as the lines of their love story were retraced for all to hear.



dances were danced, and glasses tipped. And as the bells that were rang for the new couple to kiss chimed less and less frequently, and people started to filter out of the beautifully decorated canery, a new antisipation started to build. This big night was ending, but the celebration of husband and wife, and what that meant for the next chapter of their love story was just beginning. The travels they would take, the challenges they would meet, the family they would grow! A future together so big, you couldn't successfully predict it if you tried. So as the clock struck midnight, and the last of the party goers were guided out the doors, we sent them off with a glowing multitude of sparklers...



almost as bright as their future as husband and wife.

ambitious.

When Sunday turned out to be half as warm as Friday's mid-80's, it might have been slightly ambitious to make the seasons first trip to the Silver Dairy...

But there are some things that even double jacket cold weather can't ruin.

like chocolate dipped chocolate ice cream.

:)

"our boys".

That's what Audry and I affectionately call our favorite players on any given Detroit sports team. Last night, the phrase was used to speak of our beloved boys in red. When we got in the car post game, Jay-Z's, "On to the Next One" was appropriately playing; and after exchanging a set of smiles that beamed with satisfaction, we headed home. "Our boys did it", Audry said through an unfading grin, high on the victory of a team that tied up a playoff series 3-3 after being down 3 games to 0. Our boys lived to see another day, and it was food for our Detroit sports loving souls.

I've always liked playoff hockey. I love the confidence that's seemingly infused in a team like the Red Wings. I love that it's assumed we'll be in the playoffs yearly, because no matter how much you might love any other team more, the numbers don't lie. It's a fact that our boys current 20-year post-season streak, gives them the longest active run of any team of the four professional sports leagues... Now that's impressive. I love when the Joe is packed with painted faced kids and pompon shaking parents. I love hearing echoed chants of, "let's-go-red-wings!" in the background as Mickey Redmond keeps the outside world updated on the happenings down on the ice. And I love playoff beards [even if the baby-faced captains of my lifetime never seem to be quite able to grow them :) ].

You know I love my city, and you know I believe that life is filled with things that are worth celebrating. Which probably explains why my heart is filled with equal parts optimism and grit when the playoffs roll around. Because like a lot of things in this city, the celebration of victory requires a hard fight.

I'm a sucker for nostalgic commercials. There's one on TV now that shows highlights from the teams of yesteryear as they went on to win the Stanley Cup. Awesome goals, skating that defies physics, and the ultimate sight... the hoisting of the cup. And at the end of it, there's a shot of confetti raining down over a victory parade with the words, "history makes a mess" across the screen. It gives me chills every time. I've skipped school and work to be at those victory parades. I have vivid memories of Scotty Bowman giving a celebratory speech in Hart Plaza, while a giddy team smiled behind him as they eyed the thousands that joined their party. I remember seeing our boys drive by in red Corvettes and thinking that my Detroit boys looked so good in those Detroit designed cars. And I remember what it felt like to walk those streets with other fans and feeling the closest I'll ever get to being a crack addict... because I just wanted more.more.more.

So it shouldn't come to much of a surprise to you that when I find myself amidst the playoffs, there are a lot of feelings and emotions that race through me. I love the anxiety of the opposing team being too close for comfort to our goalie. I can't control the, "get that out of there!" shouts, and deep sighs as one of my boys clears the puck down center ice. I even kind of like the rawness of the way I bristle a bit when one of my boys gets tripped or an elbow to the chin. How I won't back down until they get the justice they deserve, and someone gets thrown in the penalty box. But how I can always justify when a Wing throws off their gloves to punch someone in the face... because I mean, seriously... would you just stand there?!

I love throwing on my Wings shirt and red shoes, I love hoping that Bertuzzi will start a fight or that someone from the other team will find out what it means to be "Kronwalled", but most of all, I love this...

photo borrowed from bleacherreport.net

The hockey smile.

I mean it... It's one of my all time favorite things. In the time it takes for a tiny puck to cross over the goal line, an entire game goes from being in the big leagues to feeling more like the pee-wee leagues. You don't see celebrations after scoring like that in any other professional sport. The high-fives, the hugs, and man oh man... those smiles. Sirens blast, fans cheer, and my boys light that place up.

photo borrowed from Freep.com

I love it when my boys succeed.

I love that that success is reflected in gap filled smiles, skips on skates, and arms raised high. This time of year, one more "W" for my boys really is the best part. I'm sure that sometime tomorrow there will be a youtube link in my inbox that will take me to a Red Wings highlight clip. And in the message box will be something pertaining to our boys needing us to be fired up for them going into game 7. And we will. Because after all they are our boys. And when they're doing what they can do to raise not only that cup, but our city... we will do what we can to rise to the occasion as well. Red shoes and all.

Go Wings!

EACH.

I've been a part of a lot of memorable things in downtown Detroit. I've been to a block party in front of Michigan Central Station, I've seen a friend debut his art at a gallery showcase off of Michigan Ave., and I was one of thousands that cheered Justin Verlander on to his no hitter at Comerica Park in June of 2007. My heart swelled with pride when I walked the streets of Detroit in 2009 as NCAA fans from all over the country came for a visit to cheer on their teams in the Final Four at Ford Field, and I've been in awe of everyday people who've run marathons along the Detroit River.

You see, moments like that fill me with an energy that is unmatched by anything else. Moments where I get a glimpse of the potential of the city. Moments where streets are filled with people, and restaurants have waits to get in, and where life is pumped into the veins of a city that is too often dismissed as dead.

Saturday was a day that I'll add to that list of things that happen in Detroit that make me proud.

Aud eyed the skies as we drove down 75 to meet up with the other EACH walkers Saturday morning. "I wonder how many people are going to decide not to come because of the rain", I said. It was dark, cold, and windy. The wipers were on, the skies were grey, and we were both armed with rain jackets and umbrellas. Chances were it wasn't going to be comfortable, but we were committed to walking in prayer for the city and its people. And with the walk scheduled to go on at 9am, rain or shine, turning back wasn't really an option.

EACH (Everyone A Chance to Hear) is a movement taking part in the Detroit area. In a nutshell, it's a commitment from over 500 churches in Metro Detroit to spread the gospel, and to do our part to rebuild the city. The walk on Saturday was dedicated to prayer, but the full vision of the EACH mission goes far beyond that. In addition to prayer, believers in Metro Detroit are committing one million man hours to physically build up Detroit between Easter of this year and 2012. It's amazing.

Some might have shrugged it off to coincidence that by the start time of 9am the skies had cleared and the sun stretched its long rays all the way down to the parking lots in front of Comerica Park, but I know better. And as Audry and I waited to meet up with friends, we heard one elderly gentleman say to another, "look at the heavens opening!". Umbrellas were closed, and with a joke by one of the pastors about how it was helpful to have a local weatherman on the planning team for the walk, the events carried on as scheduled. And not one drop of rain fell on the group as we worshiped together.


There was a lot of representation from different churches, as pastors from all over the area stepped up to the mic to share greetings, scripture, and what their encouragement and vision was for EACH. It was powerful stuff, and mixed between the songs of worship were words of truth. Truths that reminded us of the following:

* The ground we were standing on was holy.

* There was healing happening in Detroit.

* Our city will rise. Because if Jesus is powerful enough to rise from a tomb, what makes you think He can't take a city like ours, and bring it to life?

As emotional and spiritual as it was to be worshiping with upwards of 20,000 believers in a parking lot in Detroit, my favorite part of that time probably had to do with a lone man in a red shirt. As voices were echoing the chorus of "How great is our God", I noticed a man standing in the window of an apartment, many stories up. He had the window open, and after taking a few pictures, was just standing there... watching. Watching because I'm sure it was the first time he must have been woken up on a Saturday morning, in the city of Detroit, to 20,000 voices singing praises to our creator. And trust me, it was an awesome sight. I had chills, I had watery eyes, and most of all, I was filled with thankfulness for all the people gathered, and their partnership in doing something positive, in the name of Jesus, for the city of Detroit.



Attorney Shannon Holmes, Director of Detroit's Human Resources Department shared the following scripture in the words she delivered to those gathered, "... if my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves to pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive them their sin and will heal their land" - 2 Chronicles 7:14. And so with that, the appointed thousands took to the streets, and prayed for our city to be healed.

The walk was 1.6 miles. It went from Comerica Park, down Woodward to Jefferson before turning around and back to where we started. There were praise bands from different churches on random corners, filling the route with music; and as far as the walkers went, the group included verbal praisers, scripture readers, singers, silent prayers, and more impressively, one body of believers.

There are days when I get discouraged with what's happening in Detroit. Days when I'm disappointed, and am not sure what the answer to my question of, "what is going to make this better?" is. But shortly after the walk, the scripture from Matthew 9 came to mind, "the harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few"... And I thought, "20,000 people doesn't exactly sound like a few". I know the work to be done in spreading the gospel and building up a crumbling city isn't going to be easy. But, I also know that it does something for your confidence in movement actually happening when you know you've got at least 19,999 other people wanting the same thing. and showing up.

I was encouraged by the turnout, and for the most part found myself thinking, "I'm so glad this is how we're reflecting Jesus today". I can't tell you how proud I felt seeing person after person thank Detroit police officers for not only coming down that day, but for being willing to serve daily in our city. These were people I was proud to walk alongside on Saturday, and it left me inspired about the year of service to come. Detroit is going to be transformed.

I'm excited that I've been chosen to be a part of something like this. I'm excited for the events that are yet to come in the name of this movement. I'm excited to sign up to do my part in chipping away at those one million hours for our city, and I'm excited to see what it will look like to have us Christians bring more Heaven to Detroit in the coming year.

For more information on what's going on with EACH, check out their website @ eachtoday.com .

Remembering where I hid the baby.

It's common knowledge that Audry is the family baker. But when time got short on Tuesday night, I had to step in to help the baker finish her Mardi Gras masterpiece.

Aud: "you know, this is what it would be like if we had our own bakery."

Me: "slaving away over frosting and pounds of cream cheese at night?"

Aud: "yup."

And so there we stood. Opposite each other at the kitchen counter. While the neighbors were going to bed, and as the clock struck 11pm, we were only getting started.

Audry worked hard to kneed the dough, and I created the filling (that when looked at as a whole was rather excessive - 2 pounds of cream cheese?!!?). So work we did. I manned the hand mixer, casually wiping away any sugary cream cheese that propelled its way onto the counter, and Audry rolled and stretched the dough, occasionally asking, "does this look 36 inches yet?"

If you're wondering, Yes, there was meaning to our "burning the midnight oil: bakery edition" madness.

The reason is tradition. When my cousin Teri joined our family years ago, she brought with her stories of growing up in New Orleans. All over her house there are fleur de leis', she loves talking about NOLA's streetcars, and you can bet that when the Saints won the Superbowl, she was telling everyone about how much she wished she could have been down there for the celebrations.

Last year, to bring a bit of home to Teri during Mardi Gras, Audry made her a Kings Cake. It's a Louisiana tradition, that is basically a cake where the colors of New Orleans (in sprinkles!) are used to decorate it, and a tiny plastic baby is hidden inside. There's more to it, but for not.boring.you.with.the.details purposes, I'll keep moving on. What you need to know is that whoever finds the baby in their piece is supposed to make/bring the cake to the next celebration. See. It's a fun tradition!

watch out... baby on a mixer!

Anyway, last year you would have thought someone surprised Teri with a member of her family when Audry walked through the doorway with that cake in hand. Teri's face lit up, her mouth dropped open, and an exclamation of, "you made a Kings Cakeeeeee!" sounded from her mouth. She loved it.

To have a family tradition exist, someone has to start it. So with 2010 being the inaugural year, 2011 had expectations of a Kings Cake being at the first family dinner after Fat Tuesday. I love the thought of Teri bringing our family that tradition. It's doubtful we would have ever had it without her, and because she packed it away to bring with her when she moved North, my whole family gets to share in the fun of the Mardi Gras season! We love it.

and if you were wondering, my mom left Audry a message tonight, "don't worry about who got the baby. Last night when I was cutting a piece for Nic to take home, it fell out and i just squished it back in for them". So I guess another year worked out nicely. Looks like mama Moiseeff is off the hook, and Ms. New Orleans herself will be providing the cake next time ;)