Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Goodbye, Little House


I said goodbye last night. Not to a friend or family member -- though it felt like that. To my house. In many respects, I said goodbye to it 4 years ago, when I moved out and became a landlord. Not that I haven't spent a fair amount of time tending to it -- and its residents -- since then. But I emotionally divorced myself from it to a large extent and, frankly, avoided thinking about it as best I could. 

I've been happy in my new home. And I spent a lot of time being unhappy in my old one. I did love it, though. 

I bought that house all by myself. (Okay. the bank played a role, as well, but I was the only one who signed on the dotted line.) We moved into it when Riley was getting ready to start Kindergarten. In hindsight, the purchase of a little-bitty house with a ginormous yard at the height of the housing bubble might not have been the best choice for a single mom with a full-time job and saddled by debt. I never had enough time or money to pretty it up the way I'd have liked. 

And, oh my God, the yard work. There were times when I'd end up with a dozen lawn bags at the curb. And it's not like I was good at it or knew bupkus about what I was doing. I just slogged through it as best I could. I remember a neighbor once remarking he'd never seen anyone spend as much time on their yard as me. What he left unsaid -- perhaps out of kindness -- was, "for such little return." One of the delightful features of my house was the fact that it was flanked by gargantuan oak and maple trees. Great for shade in the summer but not so great for growing grass. So mostly I mowed dust, with a little bit of grass thrown in for good measure.

Not that there wasn't plenty of maintenance needed inside the house, as well. Yours truly learned to install light fixtures, a garbage disposal and under-the-sink plumbing all courtesy of the little house that couldn't. The benefit of these adventures -- in addition to teaching me new skills -- was that they made for decent blog fodder. I'm no HGTV, but longtime readers of this blog may recall my many DIY tales. 

For such a small house, it came with big responsibilities, and I'll be honest -- I wasn't always up to the task. Still, it kept Riley and me warm and safe and cozy for seven years. Then it (arguably) paid for itself by gamely serving as a rental property for three more. 

But the time has come for us to part company. I can actually afford to sell it now, and I'm tired of being a landlord. So my little house will have new owners come Friday. 

I've spent the last couple of months sprucing it up to sell. Had it thoroughly cleaned, put in a new water heater, had the AC and furnace serviced, put in a new sewer clean out, invested in some serious landscaping. It looks a damn sight better now than it ever did when I lived there. Yesterday afternoon, it passed reinspection by the City of Manchester, so it was all ready to go. Except for the shed. 

One of the bonus features of my little house was the garden shed out in the backyard. It was fairly good-sized -- big enough to house not only the lawnmower and leaf vac, but also multiple boxes of stuff I should have thrown out years ago but never got around to. I couldn't just leave it there.  But I didn't really know how best to dispose of it either. Unfortunately, during this transition time, my trash service ceased and someone (presumably the trash removal company) removed my trash cans. I picked up one of those dumpster bags from Lowe's, but then felt weird about leaving a bunch of old papers and books and stuffed animals and such out at the curb like that. 

My Mom was kind enough to offer up my folks' trash cans as an option. All I'd need to do was cart the stuff a mile up the road to their house. (One of the other reasons I loved my little house -- having my folks close by while we lived there was a Godsend.) Still, I was dreading this task -- I knew all too well that mice and mold had been hard at work in that shed. 

I reluctantly made the trek back over to the house last night, multiple heavy-duty garbage bags and a pair of work gloves in hand. As expected, the boxes were covered in mold and mouse droppings. The contents were the same. One by one, I removed each box from the shed, set it on the ground outside, removed the lid, and gingerly picked through the shredded contents to see if there was anything that needed to (and could) be salvaged. 

One of the boxes contained old photos -- wasn't expecting that, as I thought I'd kept all of those inside with me. Most of them looked to be duplicates of ones I have elsewhere and most weren't in any condition to be saved, but I did pluck out a few of Riley as a baby and toddler which didn't look too sketchy. 

There was a box of old pregnancy/motherhood books. One of old greeting cards, notes and, sadly, the collection of business cards my former co-workers and I used to write silly quotes on when we were out drinking.  I contemplated separating those and attempting to copy/re-create them, but given their condition, realized I just wasn't up to the task. As it was, I had a mouse jump out of one box and scurry over my foot. I yelped loud enough I'm surprised none of the neighbors came out to see what was going on. 

The last -- and saddest -- box I opened was one which had stuffed animals in it. Some were mine, though most were Riley's.  "Bunniper," the large, lime green and blue bunny who'd been a mainstay of my childhood, and "Morgan," the dalmatian who'd kept me company in college and law school, were at the top. They were in sorry condition. There was no salvaging to be had from that box, though I did snap a photo of them for posterity. 



It was a very Velveteen moment. I've a lump in my throat as I write this. 

I removed and bagged up what I could, carted it up to my folks' house and loaded it into their trash can. While there, I snagged a Mic Ultra and returned to the house to sit on the patio and say a final goodbye.  









I sipped the beer and looked out at the large yard that I used to have to tend. I don't miss that. I will miss the deer visits and the quiet mornings/evenings sitting on the deck. A little. Truth of the matter is that the mosquitos usually chased me back inside fairly quickly. 

Inside, I took one last walk through. Said goodbye to my room, which doesn't look all that much like my room anymore since it's painted gray. Said goodbye to my kitchen -- which is one of the best things about that house. It's huge (relatively speaking.) 


I know it sounds weird, but I thanked my little house for being a good home. It challenged me at times but it also saw me through a lot. It was a good home. 


Goodbye, Little House. Thank you. 










Friday, June 1, 2018

Breaking Through (Diary of a Slacker - Fast Approaching 50 Edition)

So...I may have been overly ambitious in this endeavor -- in terms of exercise, weight loss, and certainly in terms of writing about it. (There may be a connection there.)  It's been slow going, with a bit of one-step-forward-two-steps-back thrown in. 

I haven't started running yet. I did purchase a new pair of running shoes (two weeks ago), but they're glaring at me from the closet right now. I aim to break them in this weekend. (Aim.) On a more positive note, I have been keeping up with the walking/getting my steps in. 8,000 a day minimum, which I've boosted back up to 10,000 per day the past two days. I did a rough calculation via the MyFitnessPal app and it appears that it takes approximately 23 steps to burn 1 calorie. If that is accurate, that means the extra 2,000 steps per day burns fewer than 100 more calories. Which doesn't seem like all that much bang for the buck, but it surely can't hurt. 

On the weight loss front, it's been verrrrrrrrry slow going. Weighing in every morning, I wouldn't expect to see huge drops between measurements, but there's been a good deal of up and down. Which wouldn't bug me so much on mornings when I know I over-indulged the day before but is extremely frustrating when I haven't. It's no wonder people struggle with dieting. We like seeing results! Now! 

I'll be honest - I'm not seeing them, yet. My shape is still out-of and my pants aren't appreciably looser. BUT...I have moved the needle a smidge. As of this morning, the scale says I weigh 158.7. I was seriously hoping to be about 9 pounds below that by now, but I need to give up the illusion that the Fat Fairy is just going to melt my fat cells away for me. I'm the Fat Fairy and if I've any hope of becoming the Not-So-Fat Fairy, I'm going to have to step it up. Or forward. With my nifty new running shoes.  

I am taking some encouragement from having broken the 160 barrier. My intermediate goal now is to break through the 150 barrier by the end of this month. That should be achievable if I stick with the current eating habits and ratchet up the activity level. But even if I'm only another 5 pounds down by month's end, I'll take it. Just gotta remember that slow and steady wins the race. 


Tuesday, May 1, 2018

I Walk in Circles (Diary of a Slacker - Fast Approaching 50 Edition)

I walk in circles. Literally. Most nights, I can be found making the circuit from kitchen to family room to hallway to living room to dining room to kitchen in an utterly pedestrian (no pun intended) attempt to get my steps in, because unless I have a tremendously walky day, I usually get home still needing 3-4,000 if I'm to meet my 8,000 steps-per-day goal. 

Could be worse. I could just be walking on a treadmill. As bad as running on a treadmill is, walking is far worse in my view. And with the weather warming up -- had to take a break from writing this to go put on shorts and put my hair in a pony -- I'm hoping to move more of my walking to the outdoors. (I'm sure Pringle would be happy to oblige.) 

But for now, I've been doing laps 'round the first floor. It helps when there's a game on -- I can follow along fairly well, catching a glimpse every 15-20 seconds. Having the phone in my hand also helps -- I catch up on e-mails, check out social media, play a little WWF or Candy Crush, even do some of my editing while I walk. (Gotta love technology!) 

This evening, as I circled, I ventured back into my TimeHop app to see what I'd been up to on this date a year, two, five ago. I happened upon this gem:


As I noted when I shared it, "This MAY have played a role in the extra lbs I’m carrying." I mean, I don't have definitive proof, but I've more than a sneaking suspicion. 

The good news is, I finished up my 8,000 steps shortly thereafter. And, that puts me 86+ under my daily calorie allotment. I'm cautiously optimistic that Mr. Scale's going to be rewarding me with weigh-ins that start with a "15" by next week. And if I can stick with it and get them down to the "14's" by month's end, I might just actually start looking forward to swimsuit season. Sort of. 

Sunday, April 29, 2018

Diary of a Slacker - Fast Approaching 50 Edition

I'm turning 50 in four months. (Earth-shattering, I know.) And oooophhh am I feeling it. My bones and joints ache a lot. (David can attest to this because I excel at whining.) And my fit-and-trim-I've-been-training-for-triathlons-and-half-marathons physique is almost a decade in the rearview mirror. 

I used to write about my fitness efforts fairly frequently. Not so much to brag (though I'm sure lurking not too far 'neath the surface was a certain amount of pride/vanity), but mostly to keep myself accountable. And poke fun at myself. Plus it was seemingly solid blog-fodder. 

I've drifted away from both. And I feel it - both physically and mentally. So...I begin again. And maybe I'll stick to it a bit better this time. Or for a little while, anyway. It's sort of a half-century birthday present to myself. (Only it's not quite as fun as my new (to me) Nissan Rogue. But it also doesn't come with a car payment, nor does it require insurance.) 

In early 2017, I actually made some headway. I was running 3 days a week and I'd gotten my weight down to 147 (which is still 12 lbs over my goal/ideal, but it was measurable progress.) And then...the crud felled me. Whatever nasty, alien funk it was (started as pink-eye, which I'd never had before, migrated down into my chest, then back up, winding up as an ear infection -- which I've also not had since I was a little kid), it had some serious staying power. And so, by the time I finally felt human again (8 weeks later), I had lost the running habit and motivation. Sloth is such a wicked temptress. 

I made a couple half-hearted attempts after that - mostly just trying to "get my steps in." (Have I mentioned I have a snazzy new(ish) Fitbit Alta? Thank you, David!) Even that wasn't much of an effort, though - I lowered my daily "bar" to 8,000 steps. Which isn't sedentary. But doesn't come near to qualifying as active. Especially when I wasn't even hitting that most days. 

Oh, and I started tracking my food intake again with "My Fitness Pal." (I do love gadgets and apps!) Trouble with that is it's easy to get lazy with it, too. So, like, on a "bad" day, if I knew I was going to blow past my 1200 calorie limit, I'd just stop recording so I wouldn't have to face the angry red negative numbers on my screen. 

That's the key to anything like this, of course. You have to have accountability. You have to truly commit. You can't just half-ass it. (Not that I would mind shrinking the size of mine by about half - more on that in a moment.)  So I'm going to write about it. Even if no one else reads it (because this is just a little speck of a blog on the internet unlike my other writing gig - but I'm a little freer to let my hair -- and flab -- down here.) 

So, what does knockin-on-fifty's-door look like?  Setting aside the more visible wrinkles and such, it looks like a muffin-top, jiggly thighs, an outsized rear, and legs and arms utterly lacking in definition. None of it pretty. And a bit hard to swallow (ha! the irony!) for a girl who used to be "the skinny one," even if I did always have not-so-skinny hips. (As an aside: I do understand gravity, but why, if I have to be disproportionate, must I be bottom-heavy, rather than top-heavy?!) 

I do realize that weight isn't everything when it comes to tracking fitness -- pants fitting better and pant sizes trending downward is truly the better measure for me -- but it's one of the easiest things to track. So I figured it was time to get a new-and-improved high-tech scale.  (Again with the gadgets!) This one syncs with my phone app (Weight Gurus) and measures BMI, water weight, and a few other things besides just lbs, but mostly I like it because it lights up and is easier for my also-old eyes to read. 

I got my new handy-dandy scale Monday night and, once I figured out how to get it synced with my phone, weighed in at 166.2 lbs. That's a lot. Considering the fact that I got down to 117 when at the peak of my training days. Which, by the way, was too skinny, I readily admit. As noted above, my goal weight is 135. So, that means subtracting 30ish pounds. Not 5 or 10 -- 30. Ugh! 

Perhaps in an effort to encourage me, my new scale did cheer me up the next morning with a weigh-in of 162.7. (Behold the benefit of early morning weigh-ins!) And, by Friday morning, I was down to 161.8. I haven't weighed myself this weekend -- and doubt I'd like what it says anyway because I've not been eating all that healthily. (What? I had a wedding to go to. And stuff.) 

To my credit, I've been meeting my 8,000 steps-per-day goal with my Fitbit since April 1st (with 3 days' exception -- all of which I made up for the following day -- except I still need to make up Friday today. I need to get out and get walking as soon as I finish this!)  I've also made it back to the "Y" several times for a run on the treadmill. Still working on making that routine/habit. Can only do a mile at a time at this point, and a 12-minute one at that. But I'll keep working on that. My sister and I have tentatively discussed running a half-marathon in the fall. I'm not sure about that. It's been 5 or 6 years since my last one and my knees aren't holding up all that great. But I'm not ruling it out either. My brother just ran one and he just turned 60 -- he's no slacker!

I'm early in my journey, so aside from the arguably promising direction the numbers on the scale are trending, the results aren't really visible yet. Nothing reinforced that more than my adventures in trying on dresses to wear to my co-worker's wedding yesterday.  It was a black-tie event, so I felt like I needed something a little more formal than what I had on hand (that fits.) 

So yesterday morning, I headed off to Macy's -- they're having a 30% off sale for cardmembers! And they had a HUGE dress selection. (Huge as in quantity, not dress-size.) I grabbed 6 to start with -- all size 12's. They all fit, but the more form-fitting ones emphasized my fat belly and rear far too much for my tastes. There was one that was absolutely gorgeous -- cap sleeves, fitted bodice, pleated skirt. 


I loved the fit until I turned sideways and learned a harsh truth: 


It looked like I had an unfortunate bustle in my hedgerow. So to speak. I finally settled on a less-pleaty, more form-fitting Calvin Klein:


And because it was more form-fitting, I decided I needed a body shaper of some sort. I tried a couple of high-waisted contraptions - size Large. One of them I couldn't even pull up over my hips/butt. And all I could think as I wriggled and wrestled with it was how grateful I was that I hadn't gone shopping with one of my sisters or friends. Because they'd have been laughing mercilessly at me, I've no doubt. And maybe snapping a blackmail photo. Hey, listen, I get it -- I'm no longer the petite young thang I once was. But if that thing was a "Large," it was maybe for a large toddler. And I don't think toddlers should be wearing body shapers. 

I finally settled on a body-suit body shaper of some sort. It did help -- I didn't look lumpy in my dress. But I still looked to be about 5-6 months pregnant. Which I'm not and haven't been for over 16 years. 

I've got a long way to go. But I'm hopeful confessing my slacktastic ways here will help with that. 

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

Kevin

The legal market wasn't great in the early '90's. In fact, CNN ran a story to that effect which featured shots from inside the library at my law school -- including a view of the back of my ponytail as I sat hunched over a desk, studying, during one of my rare stints there. There weren't a ton of good prospects for a "B" student -- even from a top school like mine. As graduation neared, I remained jobless. And worried.

I can't recall who the kind soul was who alerted me to a new listing posted on the bulletin board outside our Career Counseling office, but I made a special trip down to school just to eyeball the letter indicating that a large law firm in St. Louis was hiring.  I wrote down the firm's number but not the name of the letter's author, naively assuming that the receptionist would know where to direct me when I called. 

She didn't. I struggled to recall the name I'd seen signed at the bottom. "It started with a 'K,'" I told her. She concluded it must have been their Business Administrator, "Ken," and put me through to him. "Ken" wasn't the author. Nor was he at all interested in helping me figure out who had actually sent the letter. I almost gave up right then.

But I needed a job. So the next time I was at school, I took another gander at the letter. "Kevin." It was Kevin who was looking to hire an associate. I called back to the firm and asked to speak with "Kevin," hoping like heck I'd pronounced his last name correctly. Right or no, I was put through to Kevin and, soon enough, had lined up an interview with him and another young partner, Jeff. They'd both recently made partner and were planning to share an associate.

The interview went fine, as I recall, though a senior partner, Sam, sat in on it, too, adding to the intimidation factor. I was introduced to several other attorneys. Had nice, brief chats with them all. Felt okay about it as I left, but also had been on the receiving end of enough rejection letters already that I was prepared for the let-down.

Kevin called me at home sometime after that to offer me a job. Only it wouldn't be for him. He explained that Sam was in need of an associate, as well, and had exercised his seniority to call dibs on me. 

I got off the phone with Kevin and immediately called my best friend, Denise. I was crying. She asked why. "I got a job," I sobbed. "Then why are you crying?!" she wondered. "Because I have to take it."

It isn't that I wasn't grateful. It's just that "insurance defense" sounded dreadfully boring. And the pay was absolutely lousy. (One of my good friends from school had gotten a job at a "silk stocking" firm across the street -- for exactly double what I would be making.)

But it was a job. And I soon came to love both it and my work "family." Sam, after the initial uber-intimidating-getting-to-know-you period, became like a second father to me. And Kevin, who had been Sam's associate before becoming a partner himself, was like an older brother. (In truth, he reminded me very much of my actual older brother.)

Seven years after I began working with Sam and Kevin, they (along with Jeff and another partner, Debbie) left that large firm to start their own. RSSC was born. I was honored that they invited me to be a part of their new venture. 

I still worked primarily with Sam but at times worked with Kevin, as well. He was a great go-to for difficult insurance coverage questions and savvy trial strategy. He helped Sam and me with a mock trial on one of our most difficult cases. I wouldn't say he shot from the hip, but he jumped into it without a ton of preparation and still tried a hell of a case. 

Kevin was also the go-to for all things techy. He had a fine appreciation for technology and advocated its incorporation into our practice. He was one of the first people I knew to get an iPhone -- and I will never forget the day he introduced "Siri" to us in Sam's office. He asked her the traditional "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck?" He asked her to find Sam's home address and she got confused -- and seemingly increasingly irritated the more he asked of her. Finally, he said, "I love you." To which Siri replied contemptuously, "I don't even know who you are." We had a good laugh over that, and I teased him that they sounded like an old married couple. 

Initially, Kevin headed the firm's continuing legal education program. He handed that responsibility off to me several years in but was kind enough to serve as a speaker when asked. Programs which qualified for ethics credit were always the toughest to cobble together and Kevin was a saint for preparing several very thorough presentations on professionalism over the years. He would hand me a detailed outline -- though we'd inevitably only get through half of it as, between him and Sam, the war stories were always plentiful (and much more fun than the outlined material.)

And Kevin had some stories. He could tell you the history behind the term "red herring" -- and frequently used that one during closing argument at trial. He's the one who first told me about "Biff the Wonder Dog," a paper bag puppet created by one of Sam's other associates in answer to Sam's overly cautious insistence at one point that one needed to object to one's own questions during a deposition. Perhaps my favorite part about Kevin sharing a story was the way he'd have just the slightest hint of a smile on his face as he told it, and then his full grin would jump out at the end.

Though he and Sam are both tall, they have markedly different gaits. Each distinctive in their own way. I'd often spy Kevin and Sam heading out to lunch together and smile watching the two of them amble off together, thoroughly absorbed in a discussion of matters quite serious and intellectually challenging, no doubt. 

In the early days of the firm, the partners took turns hosting the Christmas party at their houses. Kevin and his wife, Lesa, hosted one year and, as the evening wore on, we found ourselves gathered around the piano singing carols. I was reflecting back on that fondly this past Christmas. I miss those days. 

In the fall of 2013, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Kevin, who'd already battled cancer several years earlier, was doing battle with it again. I recall being in his office and joking that we were in the sick ward wing of the firm. Not that cancer is a laughing matter -- it isn't -- but it helped to keep a sense of humor. 

I got off easy, though. Mine was caught early and responded well to traditional treatment. Kevin's was more insidious and, sadly, hell-bent on taking him from us, though he fought it mightily.

He came and visited with me in my office this past summer. He looked good. He was wearing a yellow shirt and it flattered him - made his color look good. He didn't look ill, though, after a time, I could tell he was tired.

Heather (another partner) and I had an opportunity to visit with Kevin and his family a short time ago. He'd gone on hospice and was at home. The morphine kept him from being able to participate much in the conversation, but we knew he was there and listening. He said hello when we came in. We had a nice time chatting and reminiscing with Lesa and the kids as we sat by his bed. He said a quiet, "Bye," when we left, and I replied, "Bye, dear." I wanted to say more...but then didn't know quite what. So, I did what I always do -  I started writing.

You can rest now, Kevin. Know that you will very much be missed.


Monday, January 1, 2018

Write Now



Pretty much every year for the past decade one of my New Year's resolutions has been to write more. And I've actually done just that -- in some years, at least.  

Last year, I even managed to land an official writing gig, which was a very pleasant surprise. I do love getting the opportunity to share my thoughts on a larger platform. But it isn't suited to all things I feel like writing. (Unlike some, I refuse to accept that all things are political. I love my politics, but sometimes I need my space from them.) 

So this year, in addition to writing at RedState, I'm returning to the Septic Tank. No promises as to quality -- or even quantity. Just that I'll be doodling here a bit more, relying on it as a creative outlet. 

I've made other resolutions -- and goals -- too. The past couple years, I've simply taken my list from the prior year and built upon it. Which has resulted in a couple of my resolutions actually becoming habits (yay!), though others have repeatedly fizzled out. That whole exercise/running thing, for instance -- last year, I got off to a great start -- I ran three times a week through January and February and into early March. Then I got sick. Sicker than sick. Sickety, sick, sick, sick, with ungodly amounts of snot and phlegm and aches and coughing and oh, that seriously sucked. And it knocked me out of my running almost-habit and here I sit, almost a year later, with about 10 extra pounds to show for it. Oh - and a membership at the "Y," which I'm paying for and haven't been using. 

Which reminds me of another goal for which I've been aiming for quite awhile but often seem to miss the mark -- fiscal responsibility. On a positive note there, though, I did cancel my (almost-never-used) Costco membership on Saturday and...much to my surprise, was refunded $110 I hadn't been expecting. So, I'm going to take that as a good sign and set my sights on building from there. Fact is, we're already over 9 hours into the new year and I've not yet spent a dime. So maybe there's hope for me yet!

As hinted above, there were some positives from last year's list. For example, I did a much better job of setting the phone down while driving. Not going to claim I was perfect on that front, but significantly improved. (Now if I could just convince my fellow commuters to join me in that endeavor!) 

I improved my work habits, which involved working harder, but also working smarter, and that paid off not only in terms of income but also outcome -- and funnily enough, an improved stress level. I have rewarded myself for such by prettifying my office. I don't care if people tease me about the glowing Himalayan salt orb on my desk - it's fun and colorful and makes me smile. Same goes for the burbling mini-fountain and the Scentsy burners. And don't even get me started on all the fun little "See Jane Work" desk accessories and my color-coded system of paper clips, binder clips, folders, and pens. (Yeah - if I'm going to improve on the fiscal responsibility front, I probably need to steer clear of office supply stores.) 

Best of all, in the fall, I returned to church after slacking off in that department for too many months. I adore my church. And I'm a stronger, saner, more serene person when I'm dialed into it and my faith. Which helps everything else fall into place. Funny how that works.

As always, I'm a work in progress -- and profoundly grateful for the people in my life who love me in spite of that. So, here's to 2018, and the hope that my first post of next year will find me reflecting on this one warmly. *Cheers*







Saturday, March 25, 2017

The Myth of the Finite Pie

I've heard this phrase before, this notion or myth of a "finite pie," though typically in relation to financial or economic discussions.  It occurred to me, moments ago, as I took a break from my semi-busy Saturday to pray for a friend's injured son, that I've often bought into this myth in relation to prayer: that it's finite; that I can use it up, so I'd best choose my prayers carefully.  

In fairness, humility is a positive trait, as are restraint and moderation. And certainly, a reluctance to treat prayer like a wishing well or gumball machine isn't a bad thing.  But it's starting to sink in - how silly it is to ascribe my limitations to the God of the Universe. I realize I do that a lot. And in doing so, I'm subconsciously attempting to make Him in my image, rather than recognizing that the reverse is what is true.  

I know this, but I'm learning to know this: That it's okay to pray for things both big and small. He's got this.