I have a list of posts I've written and have yet to publish.  I probably never will.  None of them are any good.  I haven't felt much inspired lately.  When I sit down to write about our days or muse about my children, the words fail me.  So I write for myself and let the posts stay saved, never to be published.  I am ashamed to admit that most of the time I feel like writing, it's because I'm bothered about something.  And no one wants to read constant complaining posts.  I won't ramble on now about how homesick I am , or how much I dislike the area we live in, or all the small things that have annoyed me over the years.  I think I've hinted enough the few times I have blogged about how I've struggled to be happy since we moved, and how desperately I've longed for home.  I've let a lot of small things, I mean a LOT of small things, get under my skin.  Things that, honestly, are not important. 

Then I recieved some news that brought everything into perspective.  Bad news that isn't mine to share.  And suddenly those little annoyances that yesterday were the Most. Offensive. Things. Ever. are not a big deal.  I see people whom I love dearly struggle with loss, sickness, separation, lonliness.  I've spent a lot of time lately remembering when my life and the lives of my friends was carefree, and everyone was, for the most part, happy.  Then we all grew up and the other side of life happened.  Tragedy, lonliness, terrible news-- crap that sucks happened.  When that real crap creeps into life,