One of my friends picked me up and drove me to work. She brought Starbucks, which is a nice touch for any chauffeur. We share an office, so we worked together, and then we got back in the car together and she drove me home. I'm a lucky girl.
I caught up on email and travel arrangements for a trip I won't be able to take and service plans and budgets and changes and new small group members and a list of folks interested in working in creative arts and....
It's mundane, some of it; details and plans that we manage every week.
And then she teared up, and I knew she really meant it.
I appreciate my job, and I'm glad for it. It's work that matters, because it's where I am and what I'm called to do and I am using my abilities and skills to make a contribution to something larger than myself. And I'm surrounded by good, honest, kind, caring people who are committed to do the same.
I am so grateful.
It was a very good day, but I came home with a horrid headache. It was a little too much, too soon - and once again, my husband knows best. In lieu of him saying, "I told you so", which he is too much of a gentleman to EVER do, I'll simply admit it. He told me so.