hello.hello.hola.

In the taxi - on the way to the airport;  this is a picture of Gabrielle saying something brilliant. So brilliant, in fact, that I came home and wrote it down in a notebook so that I can reread it and be inspired any time I want.

I was running up the steps to my apartment earlier this week when I bumped into my downstairs neighbor.
"Is your sister-in-law gone?" she asked.
"yes, I just dropped her off at the airport," I moped. (I did.  I totally moped - I pretty much slumped my shoulders and kicked the ground as I went on talking . . . )
"she's gone, but I can promise you that you will be hearing all about her trip. I'm sure that over the next few weeks, parts of my conversations with Gabrielle will spill over into my conversations with you!"

Because, you see,
that is how it is with Gabrielle:

We read books, and then pass them on to each other.
We start a sewing project, and consult each other on our fabric choice.
We get angry at people and call each other so that we can tell our side of the story and then ask each other for advice on what we may have done wrong and what we should do to make things right.
We talk about the wonderful complexities of each one of our kids and talk about how we can do a better job caring for their hearts . . . talking about what it really, practically means to fuse truth and grace in our parenting.
We push each other to genuinely care for our neighborhoods and to be a part of creating meaningful community with those around us.

That's how it is: she is a friend who shapes me - a friend who makes me think harder and love more meaningfully, a friend who offers conversations that refuse to stay put and inevitably spill over into whatever else I'm doing.

And so every Monday, for the next 8 weeks, bits and pieces of my conversations with Gabrielle will spill over into this space too . . . do you want to tag along?

Read Gabrielle's bit of the conversation over on her blog.  You won't regret it - she's a much more engaging writer than I am. (I'm sending you over with a twinge of fear that you may never come back . . . promise me that if you go over there to check it out, you won't abandon me entirely.)