Right now, Zoe is in my lap, and she's doing good. Her dark eyes are staring up at my glasses and she's very comfortable. For those of you out there worried about "quality of life," I'll offer that her quality of life is very good. So we're going to work hard to get her home soon. That's what Zoe is telling us.
Zoe is telling me other things. Each day is precious, and the moments we've been given are special opportunities to be the people we were called to be.
That's why I stood on the porch outside some old friends this weekend. We hadn't parted on the best of terms back then - ok, we parted on absolutely awful terms back then - and neither of us have done anything special to renew our friendship. The result was passable - the kind of existence that allows for, when you see them in the store or in a hall somewhere, you nod and smile and wave. Good enough for a wave.
A wave. But that's not what Zoe was telling me. So I rang the bell.
I told my old friends the whole story, even invited them to the blog. But mostly I told them that whatever is between us, whatever it is...time and pain or anger and sadness....it has to stop. We can't live like this anymore. Like Switchfoot says, "We were meant to live for so much more." Zoe certainly was.
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