She Was a Level Headed Dancer...

Craig and I never really had a song. Actually we might have, but we were really tipsy for a long while and can’t remember a lot. Plus, we had questionable judgment. So I am quite sure that if we had a “song” during our courtship, it was probably something by Snoop Dogg or Britney Spears.

A few weeks ago, Bonzo sent me a link to this song, and said that it reminded her of us.

I was so excited. Isn’t it exciting when you get a glimpse into who people think you are? Because, seriously, none of us really knows what we’re like, do we? I anxiously listened to the song. Well, really, I clicked on the link and couldn’t get it to work and yelled and cried about how much I hate my computer until Craig ran downstairs to avoid property damage and gently moved the mouse and it worked immediately while I closely monitored his face for any traces of smugness. I hate this whole process which repeats itself several hundred times a day.

Then we listened to the song. And I got the chills. Craig and I replayed it maybe six times. We decided that John Prine must have been WATCHING THE TWO OF US when he wrote this song.

It’s called “Spanish Pipedream” and it’s about an unsuspecting guy who walks into a bar and meets a topless alcoholic dancer who has some strange ideas about life. And despite the fact that he should probably RUN, he marries her, because he thinks she might be on to something. Also, because, well, she's topless. And they build a house in the country, kill their TV, and have a bunch of kids who eat peaches and find Jesus all by themselves.

Obviously, there are some important differences between us and the couple in the song. For example, we prefer pears to peaches. But the rest is pretty much dead on.

Craig loved the song as much as I did, and he got teary and we decided that it was our song. We had a moment.

This is how I have been telling this story to myself. But last night when we were getting in bed, Craig said “what are you writing about tomorrow?” and I said “Our song.” And he said “What’s our song?” And I stopped what I was doing and looked at him very scary. And he looked at me blank and terrified.

And then I started thinking back to what really happened that morning. And the replay looked very different. I remembered details like these: Actually, the whole time we were listening to the song, Craig was on his Blackberry. And then I remembered his facial expression, which sort of suggested that he hated the song. And then I remembered how he kept saying “awww,” and “sure, honey” and “uh-huh” without looking up at all. Hm. I wonder how many of my beautiful experiences are not really how I write them in my head? Whatever. I don’t want to know. I try never to allow other people’s lack of participation to get in the way of shared moments.

So whether Craig knows or not, this is OUR SONG. Thank you Mr. Prine and Ms. Bonzo.

Also, please have a wonderful New Years Eve. We are off to one of our favorite places in the world. When I come back, I’m SURE to have stories.

Please pray or think hard about Sister Rachel, who is going into labor any second, and also about any monkees who might not have people to play with tonight. One more thing. There is a very special monkee who I love, and she is waiting for her babies to come to her from Ethiopia. They are ferociously faithful and hopeful and beautiful. I want their babies in their arms STAT. Can everybody keep them in their hearts and prayers? This is their year, I know it. And let’s all wish and hope and pray for healing for all monkeekind. And for Jennifer’s hair. Check out the fan page for details. It’s bad.

Monkees- 2010 is going to be a magical year, together.

Lovelovelove,

Glennon

Go Jesus...

It's ya birthday..

We're gonna party like it's ya birthday....

-brilliant, kelly kelly

A Hull of a Gift

Happy Christmas Eve, Eve Monkees. Today's post is about The Hulls. Read this to get the background.

“If we have no peace, it’s because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.”

Mother Teresa

It’s important to use the right words to describe people. Words can create categories in our brains and hearts and when we categorize people, it’s easy to start thinking in terms of “them” and “us.” That kind of thinking can be dangerous, because it’s not the truth. If there is one thing I know for sure, it’s that we all belong to each other. We are all just one big, messy US, and that makes us responsible for each other. In our suburban lives we probably don’t use unfair laws and violence to separate and insulate ourselves from people…to pretend that the categories “them” and “us” exist… but I think sometimes we accidentally use words to the same end.

That’s why I have trouble using or accepting the terms “less fortunate” or “needy” to describe those who could presently use a little financial help.

The toughest and most enlightening job I ever had was teaching third grade at a school made up largely of recent immigrants in Annandale, Virginia. Once I accepted an invitation to the home of a beautiful little girl from El Salvador. Her family welcomed me into their teeny, unfurnished home and they fed me and hugged me and rocked what seemed like a million happy babies and all the big kids giggled and glowed. They worshipped their father and adored their mother. They served me as a cherished guest in their home. They didn’t have much by way of material comforts, but I left their home with an understanding that they were a very, very fortunate family.

And we have all seen news story after news story about families with every material wish granted, millions in the bank and the world at their fingertips, but they fall apart anyway. They seem pretty unfortunate to me.

So “less fortunate” doesn’t work for me, and “needy” doesn’t either. Unless I’m referring to humanity in general. Or unless I add a describing word. For example, “Hello, friend? Are you financially needy at the moment? Nice to meet you. I am emotionally, spiritually, mentally, and culinarily needy today. I’ll add more tomorrow.” This type of thing. We all have needs. We are all needy. Just in shifting categories at different moments and seasons of life.

You know that feeling you get when you actually have something that someone else needs? It’s so exciting. Because mostly, we are all a bunch of needers. So it’s nice to step over to the giver side, every once in a while. To feel needed, useful, powerful, worthy of helping. Giving makes us feel less lonely, and more significant. And those are our greatest needs…to feel connected and important. That's why Jesus taught us that it's better to give than receive. Because giving fills a bigger hole in our hearts than receiving does. And the good news is if we don't allow ourselves to be too proud when we give, then we don't have to feel embarrassed when we're in need. Because I think we are here partly to learn how to give and receive gracefully. And I'm just grateful when I'm awake enough to respond to His invitation... to join the beautiful cycle of loving and being loved. It feels good.

So today, I’d just like to say thank you to the Hull family. Especially to Lakisia, Mama Hull. You shared your family’s needs with us this Christmas, and in doing so, you offered some needy Monkees true Christmas Peace...the remembrance that we belong to each other.

We are so grateful.

Merry Christmas, Hulls.

I Saw Tisha Kissing Santa Claus....

One of my earliest and most vivid Christmas memories is standing in the corner of Mrs. Bush’s fourth grade class surrounded by four very tall children who were yelling, laughing, and pointing at me. They were calling me stupid and I was near tears, but I refused to back down because I knew I was right and they were wrong. You see, The Simpletons kept insisting that SANTA DIDN’T EXIST. And I was ready to defend my faith in the Red Man to the death.

Bubba and Tisha really set me up.

My family made it very, very hard not to believe. Every Christmas Eve after mass, we sat together on the couch and read Christmas stories. After the last line of “On the Night Before Christmas” Sister and I ran up the stairs and climbed into our bunk beds where she fell asleep immediately and I stared at the bottom of her bunk. This happened every night, not just Christmas Eve. My entire life I have been too excited to sleep. Another post perhaps.

A few hours after being tucked in, we would hear bells ringing outside of our window and we’d pop up in bed, deliciously terrified. Tisha would crack open our bedroom door and whisper “GIRLS, he’s HERE!” And we’d shake and cry a little, grab each others’ hands and follow my mom to the top of the stairs. The three of us crouched together in a little huddle and peeked downstairs to see SANTA CLAUS IN OUR LIVING ROOM. He’d sit in my dad’s chair for awhile, eating cookies and talking to “Jack Frost” about what good girls we’d been. Then he’d get up, open his sack, and put our presents under the tree. Sister cried and buried her head in my mom’s neck the ENTIRE time. After a few minutes, Tisha walked us back to our room, tucked us in again, and we’d hear the bells once more outside our window. In the morning we’d find chewed up carrots all over the front yard because the reindeer had dropped them when they flew away.

It was all enough to make a believer out of me. For a very, very long time. Don't even get me started on the Tooth Fairy.

When I was in fifth grade, Bubba and Tisha sat me down and told me that Santa was actually the clown of Christmas, but the spirit of Santa was real. The Santa Spirit was loving and helping and giving. And Bubba showed me his Santa suit and explained that the Santa in the living room was actually him. I was sad, but also excited. If a kid has to discover that Santa’s not who she thought he was, finding out that he’s actually your dad makes the blow easier to take.

Ironically, the day I found out that Santa wasn’t “real” was the day his magic came alive. Because my parents invited me to participate in a Christmas miracle. It turned out that Bubba wasn’t just Santa for Sister and me. That wasn’t actually his Santa point.

One Saturday every December, Bubba got suited up and went to a center for special children and young adults. He would set them each on his lap, even those who weighed more than He, and tell them all how good they’d been and how special they were. He’d bring them presents and joy and some Santa friendship. And he invited me along. So for a decade, I got to be Bubba’s elf every Christmas.

And when Sister got old enough she became Elf Number Two. ELF NUMBER TWO.

It was special.

One of my favorite Christmas moments of all time happened Christmas Eve 2006. Craig, Sister, Bubba, Tisha, and I had just put Chase to bed and we were expecting Bubba to suit up and begin the Santa performance. But when we asked Bubba when he was going to get started, He and Tisha shook their heads, smiled, and passed the Santa Sack to Craig.

Anyone who knows Craig can imagine how thrilled he was about this passing of the torch. Craig has taken the Santa tradition to new heights, literally. Last year he climbed onto the roof so the kids would see him “taking off” through the skylight. He also was so desperate to be seen in his Santa glory that he decided to stop by the grocery store and pick up a six pack. He will not be doing either of those things again this year.

Thank you, Bubba and Tisha...for always, always keeping the magic alive for Sister and me. And now for the rest of us.

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a goodnight.”

Love, G

Little Drummer Girl

Come, they told me… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

Our Newborn King to see… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

Our finest gifts we bring… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

Today before the King… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum, Rum Pum Pum Pum, Rum Pum Pum Pum,

So to honor Him… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

When we come.

Baby Jesus, Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

I am a poor boy too… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

I have no gift to bring, Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum, Rum Pum Pum Pum, Rum Pum Pum Pum,

Shall I play for you… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

On my drum.

Mary nodded… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

The ox and lamb kept time… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum,

I played my best for Him… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum, , Rum Pum Pum Pum, Rum Pum Pum Pum,

Then He smiled at me… Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum

Me and my drum…

Amanda and I sat on the kitchen floor last Friday and listened to The Little Drummer Boy again and again and I cried and cried. Amanda snuggled deep into my lap and she kept turning around, cupping my chin in her hands, tilting her little head and saying, “Are okay?” Are okay?” I nodded, held her tight, inhaled her neck and used all of my senses to take her in. I marveled at how she could offer me so little, how she could, in truth, be such an incredible drain, and how I could still adore her so completely. How I could cry just thinking of her. How I’ve memorized every roll on her thighs, every red streak in her hair, the feel of her velvety cheek, and every expression her face has ever made. How there is nothing she could ever do to make me love her any more or any less. How she is already everything she needs to be for me. How she is a reflection of all that is true and good in me, because I made her.

When she started rubbing her eyes, I put her inside her crib and watched her fall asleep. I love her most at the moment she decides to trust me to keep her safe, and so her eyelids close and she falls away and just breathes. And when she awakens and I walk into her room, she turns her face toward me, throws her arms in the air and says Mama, and it’s enough to drive me to my knees in gratitude and awe and never get back up.

God gave me my little girl so that I might understand how he feels about His little girl.

I know, with my whole body, mind, and soul, that the way I love my baby girl is the same way God loves me. He has memorized every hair on my head and he watches me sleep and wake and when I cry He pets my hair and says “Are okay?” He has never, ever let go of my hand. When I run, He follows, and He never grows tired or weary. His plans for me are more beautiful than I can dream and He wants me to come to him like a child because that’s the way He loves me most. Empty handed. Utterly dependent, with no gifts to bring. He looks at my face and my outstretched, empty hands and He sees his little baby girl. The little girl He created. I don’t have to be a grown up with Him. I don’t have to be a wife or a mother or a friend or a teacher or a writer or a woman in his presence. He created me solely because He wanted someone to love. So that’s all I have to be, someone to love. He wants me to rest in the truth that there is nothing I can do to make Him love me any more or any less. He already knows about the choices I made yesterday - no need to be ashamed, and he already knows what will happen tomorrow - no need to be afraid. He doesn’t want me or need me to be anything more than the needy bundle of tears and love that I was the day I was born and that I am today, on the kitchen floor. He just wants me to sit still and accept His gift, which today is the sensation that my heart might explode as His love and adoration flow from Him through me, His baby girl, and into my baby girl.

This is when Jesus smiles at me, I think. When I offer him my broken, overflowing heart. When I play for him with whatever I have, which is nothing. He doesn’t want me to wait to play for him until I am better or different, or until I have something more worthy to offer. He was a poor boy, too, he understands. He was rejected and afraid and exhausted but he played his song for me anyway. And all he wants is to hear my song in return. He wants my song, the one only I can play, today. Not tomorrow.

And if it seems too good to be true that I’d have a song worthy of Him while I’m still broken and naked and crying, I need only to remember that the most beautiful song the world has ever heard was sung by our Jesus when he was all of those things, hanging on a cross.

That man who died for me, Jesus, my God, wants me to play for Him. And Mary nods her agreement, so I play, without fear of how I might sound. And here’s why I’m not afraid to play my song in the face of God. You have asked how I can share my heart so openly, why am I not afraid to disarm myself and tell you my truth, even when it’s ugly or scary.

It’s because there is no need for weapons or armor when one is already standing inside a mighty fortress.

It’s because while I want you to say that you like me, to tell me I’m okay, to say that we are the same, you and I… I don’t need you to say those things. If no one ever likes or loves me again and I am left with only God, I will still have too much acceptance and love to handle well, or respond to appropriately, or endure gracefully. I can tell you the truth of my heart because when you handle my heart imperfectly, it’s okay, I forgive you already. You don’t have to love me perfectly. I don’t depend on you for that. You can be human, and you can make mistakes with my heart. Because if you hurt me, if you accidentally ignore me, if you love me imperfectly, I still have perfect love to turn to, to remember, to feel. And so I feel safe with you. And you can feel safe with me too, because I will never expect you to be someone you’re not. We don’t need to be afraid of each other. Perfect love casts out fear.

And when I tell you about Bubba and Sister and Husband and Tisha and you say that you wish you had a perfect family, too, please understand that my family is not perfect. Lord, no. None of us loves each other perfectly. But I don’t need them to love me perfectly because I already have perfect love. We are all wired to need perfect love but none of us is wired to offer it. Because we are meant to find it only in God. So I don’t ask my family for perfection. I forgive them their humanness, and search for their divinity, knowing that we usually find exactly what we we’re looking for. And when I catch glimpses of their divinity, I notice and share it. Just like my family and Jesus do for me.

I’d like to begin this Christmas week by saying Happy Birthday and Thank You to Our Jesus. He guided these words, and they are meant for you. It’s not an accident that you are reading them. He wants you to know that He loves you like you are the only little girl in the world. You don’t have to be a grown up for Him. You don’t need to bring Him gifts. Just play. He’ll listen and smile. And we’ll dance.

Friday Afternoon CockTale...

Bubba makes fun of my wooden word signs. He doesn’t mind so much that I have them, he just minds that NONE of them is level. Which makes my house appear as if it is perpetually recovering from a recent earthquake.

A few hours after Bubba and Tisha left last week, I walked into Chase’s bedroom and found this:

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Chimmy- I couldn’t find a hot pink Christmas Star for you…but I did find this hot tree at my snazziest friend Gena’s house last week.

Those are BOAS, Chimmy. How about some hot pink tree boas to match your hot pink heart?

Have a great weekend, Monkees. Can't wait till Monday, when we shall meet again.

Love, G

P.S. This is the second post of the day, check below for a showstopper from Bubba.

As Quick as a Baby's Smile

^{I’ve been thinking about Heather M. since she shared her fears about the huge changes on their way into her life. I like Heather. I’ve never met her, but I like her. I think she’s brave and humble and honest. I bet you guys do, too. Maybe God does too, and that's why he keeps “blessing” the bejezus out of her.}

^{I was rereading some letters from Bubba last night, and I came across this one. It’s a letter about hope that Bubba wrote to me after our family’s hardest year. He wrote it the Christmas after Sister’s divorce.}

^{Heather, today this letter is for you.}

^{Christmas 2007}

^{Dear Glennon,}

^{The leaves are gone. Mother Nature acted up a little. I don’t know where they went. It blew so hard for two days that they were just driven into the wooded areas or scattered so high into the sky that they haven’t had time to float back down again. It blew so hard that birds and little animals clung to the ground or braced themselves behind anything they could find. It toppled heavy swings and chairs and tore hanging things like birdhouses and feeders from their lines. It drove our boats almost, but not quite, onto the docks. And then it slowed and things stopped tumbling and when it finally ended it turned out that there was no lasting damage from it. It looked for awhile like the very water was out of control and would blow away. But that’s not how it really was, that’s just how it felt. Nothing was ruined or wrecked. The wind just carried a message that there is really nothing at all in our control except our reactions and decisions in the face of adversity. In the end it was just a hard blow. Just a lot of stuff scattered around that needed picking up, some adjusting and simple repair and then putting back in place. But then stuff isn’t people.}

^{Last year at this time we were in a very hard blow. The family’s sky was dark and what had appeared to be solidly rooted in the ground and lashed down was torn and flying around us in a personal hurricane wind. The things of our lives flew around like twigs and dust. That storm promised to destroy many things that we hold dear. People were injured and strained to points of breaking. When it appeared to be reaching a crescendo it just intensified and intensified more. It shook the foundations of our very courage and threatened to break our faith. It went on for what seemed like a lifetime. Then, when it looked like it would go on forever and some may not survive, the wind began to slacken, feelings came to the ground. Some hit hard and some floated down but most remained intact. There was damage and it left everyone with a sense that life can not be trusted but in the end everyone was there. In the end there was one more there.}

^{As the chaos began, Tish was born. She came as if to say, “this storm will blow and it will blow over, I’m here to stay. And I’m here to remind you of what is most important and what is possible. I’m proof that when life is most frightening and when life is most unsure that is what life is and life is still well worth it. I’m proof.” And now there is another one coming. Amanda. I can’t imagine how she will change my life, what she will bring me and what she will teach me. I can’t imagine wondering how I ever got by with just Chase and Tish but I know I will. I can’t remember when I wasn’t looking forward to and waiting for another grandchild. I can’t remember what I did before Chase (BC). Not too much I guess. Children always put things into perspective. When you can’t remember what you did before them it’s because what you did before takes a distant second as quick as a baby’s smile.}

^{That’s why I made Tish’s Christmas gift this year. I want her to know, long after I’m gone, what she’s done for me and how much she’s come to mean to me, not to mention to her grandmother. She will soon become the “middle child” with all that comes with that role. So I want her to always have a reminder of her impact and her power to create love and happiness. I want her to have something to look at that tells her that her grandfather found her so special and so inspiring that he felt the need to make for her a symbol of their bond. So that’s what I did this year. I’m still working on it and have been since early November. I’ll have it finished in a day or two. You and Craig will be the custodians of it until she leaves home for her own place or until she marries. If I’m around, I’ll hang it for her. If not, Tisha will hand it to her. If neither of us makes it to that day, there is a letter to her that comes with it.}

^{Storms and adversity come and take stuff and shake our courage and make us afraid of life; kids come and make us wonder why it was we felt so shaken and why we lost courage and they cause us to fear nothing. Thanks for bringing all this courage and joy into our lives.}

^{Merry Christmas,}

^{I love you,}

^Bubba

Fear nothing, Heather. We can do hard things. Bubba promises.

Was Blind, but Now I See

In preparation for Melton Christmas Picture 2009, Craig asked a friend to take pictures of us in our backyard. When we told Chase it was family picture day, he immediately started crying hysterically. I kid you not. Craig looked at me accusingly and I hung my head and promised both boys that I’d be on my best behavior. We actually had a nice afternoon in the backyard and the end result was some good shots, like this one.

I loved this picture, until I looked closely at myself. LOOK AT MY EYES. Sister and I have this affliction that we used to believe meant that one eye looked smaller than the other in pictures. We only recently admitted that our affliction is actually that one eye IS smaller than the other. In addition to this freaky affliction, my eyes are also two different colors. One greenish, one brownish. People have been nice to me about this situation my whole life until a few weeks ago when Sister and I went to lunch after a day of shopping. The teenage waitress walked over to our table and when I smiled up at her she threw open her annoyingly normal eyes and yelled: OH MY GOD. LOOK AT YOUR EYES! CAN YOU, LIKE SEE OUT OF THOSE THINGS?” I tried to be nice about it because I love Jesus but sister threatened to “kick her in the shin” quite loudly which made me feel better. When I got home and told Craig the story about the mean waitress, he looked surprised. Like WAY TOO surprised. Then he looked at me closely and said “WHOA. Cool.” Seven years, people. He’d never noticed.

Anyway, this was the only picture that could possibly work for our Christmas picture, so I did what I do five times daily…I emailed husband and sister to get their reactions.

I forwarded the above picture without mentioning the eye problem so I wouldn’t bias them.

This was sister’s response:

Sister, it’s wonderful. The kids look fantastic and you look beautiful. A little deformed, but still beautiful.

I thought maybe I’d have better luck with husband. But this was his response:

Honey, eye love the picture. It’s eyedeal.

Jerks.

So I emailed Adrianne, whose is a wiz with photoshop and is always airbrushing herself. I told her that I had an EMERGENCY and could she PLEASE fix my eye so I could send out our Christmas picture without friends thinking they needed to start some sort of foundation for me.

She said Sure Thing.

A few hours later I got this "solution" from Adrianne, along with an explanation that she decided to fix the whole family.

Craig has this picture on his office desk.

He tells people that it was taken to capture the family’s shock after I served an edible lasagna one night.

Adrianne ended up fixing my eye, so now we look like this:

Not too bad. I was happy.

But I felt weird sending out a doctored picture of myself for Christmas, it felt like fibbing. It’s like Popeye (to whom I must be somehow related) said… I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam. Uneven multi colored eyeballs and all.

So we ditched the whole family picture idea and went with this:

Merry Christmas, Monkees. Eye love you.

Shoot Me

Before I get started with today’s post - I’d like to review what happened here yesterday.

Yesterday, our Monkee sister, Heather, was feeling a bit overserved with blessings. Heather had just found out that she was pregnant with twins and that her husband needed the family to move real quick to Australia. This is a big day, folks. Heather was feeling overwhelmed and afraid, and she was brave enough to share those feelings with you all on Momastery. Your outpouring of support and love and Bon Jovi lyrics meant so much to Heather that she wrote your comments on 3x5 cards and scattered them around her house. And she went to bed last night feeling much more hopeful than she did yesterday morning. Because of you.

THAT IS WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT, MONKEES.

I’m thrilled and delighted. Yaaaay for us. How you doin' today, Heather?

Now on to the business of the day.

Today I’d like to offer you a tour of the Melton Christmas Picture Gallery.

Most of the pictures I present here seem to show a well adjusted, peaceful and joyful family.

Pictures can be deceiving, thank God.

I am NOT a fan of picture day. Family picture day brings out the absolute worst in me. My kids know how desperate I am for just one good picture, to show the world what a happy dang family we are...so they sabotage the shoot. When I accuse them of being saboteurs, Craig calls me melodramatic but I KNOW they ruin the pictures on purpose. So whenever you see me smiling in a family picture, please know that behind the smile I am either bribing or threatening. That is all picture day is, one long day of alternating bribes and threats. And lots of sweating, also. My sweet husband, who is the calmest person I know, shakes noticeably before family photo shoots and begs, begs, BEGS me to stay calm. After photo shoots he drinks a lot of beer.

So now that you have the background, I present:

2005

Chase

2006

Tish, Chase and family

2007

Tish and Chase

2008

I decided to keep it real for the 2008 family photo shoot. I told Craig that I had a great idea for a card, and this idea meant that our kids could be as cranky as they wanted to be during our shoot. The crankier, the better. We could all just be ourselves. No bribing, threatening, or sweating. And so of course, for the first time ever, they all smiled like cherubs.

Like I said, they are MASTER SABATUERS. Clearly, this picture wasn't going to work for me. I had a VISION and I needed cranky kids to bring that vision to fruition. So after this photo was taken… I went to the kitchen, found three lollipops, and gave them to the children. After they had taken a couple good licks, I snatched the lollipops away and yelled “SHOOT” to the photographer, who glared at me with shock and horror. Yes, I did. And it was worth it, because we got this:

Perfect. I sent this out to our friends and family with the caption: “ALL IS CALM…ALL IS BRIGHT....Peace and Joy, The Meltons

Tomorrow:

2009.