I alluded the other day to my plans for the weekend. I was supposed to be doing something like this:

Instead, I am doing this:

My new friend Cintia, whom I met at the Type-A Mom Conference, invited me to go with her to a Women of Faith event. I went to one quite a lot of years ago — eight or nine, maybe — with a group of women I hardly knew at the time. I don’t remember much of the event itself, but I do remember the very emotional prayer- and tear-a-thon we had in the hotel room. It may not sound all that lovely, but it really was.

I was looking forward to sharing that sort of thing again. But then I woke up this morning feeling like a flaming bowling ball had lodged itself in my midsection. I’m not sure if it was nerves or something I ate or a bug. (I’m leaning toward Something I Ate. Rockford thinks I might be lactose intolerant. He’s usually right.)

Whatever caused the problem, though, I spent most of my morning laying in bed, shaking my fist at my bad luck and being angry at myself for being too weak to power through it. Then my daughter came in to bring me a drink, pat my head and tell me she hoped I was feeling better. And I realized this: If I couldn’t be there, at least I am here with my sweet family.