Wait – we all know I’m talking about Footloose, right? And Kevin Bacon? I rewound those choreographed scenes over and over and over again, the parts where Kevin taught Willard how to dance, or when Kevin was dancing through the rafters in the warehouse, or when they all snuck out to the dance bar across the state line. Even the footwork in the opening credits had me hooked.

Beyond the movie, though, I really knew nothing about Kevin Bacon. I didn’t know what other movies he was in, for example, and I certainly didn’t know that (by the time I discovered Footloose) he was married. Truth be told, I didn’t find out he was married until just last night.

I was looking through part of the swag we got at BlogHer this year, and included in our tote was a copy of the August 2008 Redbook magazine. Kyra Sedgwick is featured on the cover with this blurb: “How she and hubby Kevin Bacon keep it sexy after 20 years” and I’m sorry, wha? Hubby? Kevin Bacon? 20 years? MY FIRST LOVE HAS CHEATED ON ME? Say it’s not so!

I shared my shock with Roger, who just stared at me, dumbfounded. I get it, okay? Not everyone shares my love for Kevin Bacon. Not everyone thinks he’s hot, or will swear to see any movie he’s in simply because he’s in it. And I’m okay with that. But Roger took it one step too far, what with all his comments about my irrational crushes on actors who can’t act. I mean, Roger hasn’t even SEEN Footloose. How can he issue such a blanket statement?

In general, I think Roger has good taste in movies – with the exception of Blade Runner and those stupid Aliens movies – and now I’m beginning to wonder if I really am alone in my love for Footloose and Kevin Bacon and any movie containing a high volume of dancing (see: Center Stage, Step Up, Bring it On, Save the Last Dance, Billy Elliot and any other movie I’ve temporarily forgotten but have certainly watched, probably several times).

Still, Kevin Bacon is tops for me – beyond his movies and looks and dancing, I adore that he’s a family man. I respect that he’s been married for 20 years to the same woman, and in Hollywood, no less! And that just makes me love him all the more.

So this begs the question: who is your Hollywood crush? (Or can you and I bond over Kevin’s weird hair and dimpled cheeks? Swoon!)

The highlight of my weekend – beyond the surprise Roger arranged for me: a massage and facial and foot scrub and hot towel wrap and ... sorry, where was I? I kind of got lost there, wishing I was back on that table with not a care in the world.

Aside: that’s a lie: my mind couldn’t stop spinning throughout the entire massage. It was a couple’s massage, and Roger arranged for me to go with my friend Erica, and there’s nothing more awkward than two modest women left alone in the same room to strip down and get onto our respective massage tables. We finally agreed on turning opposite directions, pulling off our clothes as quickly as we could, and then diving for our tables and yanking up the sheets. It worked, by the way, and I’d totally do it again. We thought we had arranged for two women to give us the massages, but as it turned out I had a woman and Erica had a man, and so I spent the massage alternating between worries: (a) was Erica okay with that man? - Incidentally, I tried mouthing to her, “Are you okay with that man?” but she couldn’t see me because it was, uh, dark. I thought maybe her eyes had adjusted and she'd be able to see me, when in fact I think her eyes were closed; and (b) what does my back look like when I’m lying down? I honestly have no idea. Does is spread all out or stay taut? I wonder if my masseuse has ever massaged anyone who was really, really big? And do massage tables have weight limits? And I wonder what her most horrifying client story is – maybe someone who had really bad body odor? Or just someone who couldn’t relax? Oh, wait.

Neuroses aside, the highlight of my weekend was sitting very still while Roger painted henna art on the tops of my feet. I absolutely adore it and can see myself making more trips to Indian grocers for henna, more henna, must have henna.

Two weekends ago, Roger and I went to see two movies: Wall-e and Wanted. And – I can’t help this sickness of mine, it’s like a plague – every time I go to a theater, every time I wander down the dimly lit aisle to find my seat, every time I gingerly lower myself into that seat, I can’t stop thinking the same thing. I think about it during the movie, and when the credits are rolling I’m still apprehensive about it:

I worry that I’m going to get lice.

Do you do this? Do you worry that you’re going to get lice every time you sit in a seat that is not your own? Particularly in a dark room, when you don’t know who sat in that seat before you? There’s really no reason I should worry about this, since I’ve never actually gotten lice from a movie theater, but I am still concerned nonetheless.

Most people worry about – I don’t know – whether someone with big hair will sit in front of them (though I suppose that has been eradicated with the wide-spread adoption of stadium seating, thank goodness), or whether those people over there are going to be talking throughout the entire movie, or why the person sitting in front of you insists on sending text messages during the movie. Honestly, you texters! Your phone’s backlight is bright in that dark theater. BRIGHT AND ANNOYING.

Ahem.

To be fair, the people running rampant with lice may not even realize they have vermin nesting in their hair – and that’s when it gets really scary. Think about the hats you try on in stores, the restaurants booths you sit in, the subway and/or taxi seats you touch on a daily or weekly basis. And then think about how far I’m imagining those little suckers can jump. (Which is to say: at least 12 inches. I can’t prove it, but I bet they can at least jump a foot. And I bet they have good aim, too.)

I’ve never really considered myself a germophobe, but right now I'm entertaining the option of wearing a shower cap the next time I go to the movie theater. It certainly wouldn’t be as distracting as that text-messager in front of me, I’m sure of it.

I’ve since purchased a home and moved, and those six weird things probably all still apply, but to a different space. Our remodel is a never-ending project, one with dusty concrete floors and unpacked boxes and holes in the drywall. We’re loving our new house more and more with each change we make – though at this point we’re still living with blank white walls (to be remedied soon-ish!) and we still have all those dachshunds.

As I thought through weird things about myself – and believe me: there are a lot – I concluded that everything requires explanation. Isn’t that the way it always is? And so I’ve devised a plan to make each tidbit I expose into its own post, which seems like a much better idea than describing everything in a single post, an entry that would undoubtedly be more than eight pages of text. Lucky you.

A few months ago I purchased a lip gloss at Holly’s suggestion, though I want to make this clear: I bought it because (a) it was cheap, so if I hated it I wouldn’t have wasted much money; and (b) she lauded its ability to look good on anyone, which – you know – kind of seemed like a challenge. Would it look good on anyone, including me? (It did. And I’m still wearing it.) However, I didn’t purchase the lip gloss based on her explanation of why she bought it: she wanted her lips to look chapped, because they turned “the most perfect shade of pinky-red.”

I mean, a perfect shade of pinky-red sounds great, but Holly is a unique case. To wit: her lips look good when chapped. When MY lips get chapped, I can barely pay attention to the color because I’m too concerned with all that skin peeling off. And then the cycle starts: I lick my lips, I bite them, I mash them together. I soak my lips in chapstick and lip balm and lip gloss and anything else I can find that promises to relieve chapped lips. I don't care if I buy it at the drugstore or the grocery store or a department store. I just care that it works. (Which, incidentally - I'm always open to suggestions if you have them.)

I squirrel away several chapsticks and lip balms in my bathroom drawers, at least two in my purse, two on my nightstand, one in each car. I keep spares at my parents’ homes, in my desk at work, in winter coats that are stashed away in the closet. When Roger and I go out and I leave my purse behind, I fill his pockets with my tubes of lip gloss. And when I find that I’m mysteriously without? I stop and buy some. I am addicted. And maybe that’s not so strange.

What IS weird, though, is that I cannot fall asleep without covering my lips in a protective layer of balm -- I mean, it makes sense, perhaps, considering Roger cannot sleep without a fan blowing on him (which subsequently blows air on me) -- and I know this because I have tried. I have tried, to no avail, to break myself of this chapstick habit, and the result is always the same: I lie awake for hours and all I can think about is how dry my lips are going to get if I don’t roll over, unscrew that cap and swipe the applicator over my lips.

Am I alone in this? Tell me I’m not alone.

Visiting a city like Washington, D.C., where so much of our nation’s history has been determined, we figured there would be lots to do. We knew we wouldn’t have enough time to call on even a quarter of the places on our list. We already planned on several more trips, over several more years, so we could take it all in.

But we didn’t know we would be so charmed by the city and each of its micro-burbs, like Georgetown and Adams Morgan and Dupont Circle. We hadn’t planned on adding Washington, D.C. to the ever-growing list of Places We Would Consider Moving To. We didn’t know we’d be so enamored by how clean the subway system was.

I didn’t realize how patriotic I would feel, how my chest would swell with pride knowing that I was examining the very artifacts and statuesque faces that set our country’s freedom into motion.

We spent a morning in the Holocaust Museum. My second visit was just as somber as my first.

We hopped on a Tourmobile and visited the Jefferson and Lincoln monuments, re-enacting the post-Vietnam scene from Forrest Gump (but without wading through the reflecting pool), calling out Jeeennnnaaayyyyyyy!

We stood quietly during the changing of the guard at Arlington Cemetery, and I was struck with respect for these men who have the honor of guarding the Unknown Soldier’s tomb.

We walked along the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, looking for the names of those who served alongside my father.

We strolled the perimeter of the White House, peering through bars and wondering whether the President ever got annoyed by the throngs of people. I mean, I would if thousands of people stood outside my home each day.

We drove along Embassy Row, marveling at the differences between each country’s embassy. We wondered whether each country buys the land and building, or if the United States gives the building to that country’s ambassador. We never found out.

We were stunned by the architecture of the Washington National Cathedral, gleaming white with grotesques and gargoyles standing at attention. The choir practiced as we wandered, making the cathedral even more angelic. We toured the building, and while we were in the sanctuary our guide audibly gasped and in a hushed voice, said Oh my goodness. Everyone look up at the rose window right now.

We obeyed, slowly turning around, uncertain what would greet us. A bright light, brighter than the sun filtering through the stained glass, glinted down. As we moved around the room, the light turned from the brightest white to a royal blue to a deep purple.

The man who made this window loved his wife dearly. She died while he was constructing the design, at exactly 5:25. Distraught, and wanting to memorialize her, he placed this special glass in the window. The glass was situated in the lower right corner, just where the 5:25 index is on a clock. This is only the second time in eight years I have seen it glowing. The sun has to hit it just right, and you have be standing in just the right place at just the right time, to catch a glimpse of it. That moment was one of the most memorable of our trip.

Without question, though, what I reminisce upon most tenaciously were the bikers. The Rolling Thunder motorcycle group came from all over the nation – a local told us they saw license plates from as far away as Alaska – to take part in an annual ride in memory of fallen comrades. What started as a salute to Vietnam soldiers now encompasses other wars, like those in Desert Storm and Iraq.

About 100,000 Harleys infiltrated the streets of Washington, D.C., and on Sunday morning they rode. They rode with American flags trailing behind their motorcycles, they rode with POW and MIA flags fluttering in the wind. They rode with pride, with the memory of their brothers. They circumnavigated the Mall, thousands and thousands and thousands of them, the noise from their pipes bone-rattling loud, and I couldn’t NOT cheer.

image © Matthew Whatley, used with permission

I cheered in memory of my own father, remembering the stories he told me about the unwelcome retaliation he received for being a soldier. How he, as a Navy SEAL, returned home to endure people spitting on him as he walked through the airport in his fatigues. I cheered because these are people who served our country so long ago, who fought so that I, and so that others I do not even know, could have freedom. They fought so that others might not live under oppression. They fought, and they deserve our respect.

I did not know that I would stand in the road, so close that my hair would whip around my face, and shed tears with each passing veteran.

But I did, unashamed.

(The entire set is available on Flickr.)

As we continued to stroll throughout the ballroom, checking on our bids and ensuring we were the highest bidder (we’re nothing, if not competitive), we realized we hadn’t been to the center table. The center table. We should have known it would have held the gold, the one thing we love more than anything else - travel. We gazed at the images of different items up for auction: weeks in Taos in a mansion that sleeps 17 or weeks in Colorado in a private lodge that slept 14 (we could invite our family on vacation!), trips to wineries, 500,000 frequent flyer miles on either United or American Airlines, airfare and hotel vouchers to a number of international destinations. We circled the table like hawks searching for prey – certain there was something there for us. Something in our budget, I mean. And then we found it.

Hidden behind a few other auction items was a brochure for a weekend stay at an Omni hotel – any hotel in North America, any weekend we wanted. And no one had bid on it. We fixed our sticker on the page, pushed the item back a little further, then nonchalantly walked away. Nothing to see there. We became obsessive about it. Every few minutes one of us would walk by, checking to see whether someone had outbid us. No one had. By the time the dinner started, we decided to stop inspecting the auction – if someone was going to outbid us, we’d just have to deal with it. We made it fifteen minutes without checking.

Half an hour later, the auctioneer made an announcement that the travel table would be closing in three minutes. Roger and I looked at each other, silently questioning whether we should check it again or not. Two minutes remaining. Roger popped up and began briskly crossing the room. Thirty seconds remaining. Twenty. Ten. And then! Then! Someone put their sticker just below ours, outbidding us. At ten seconds! Roger watched. Waited for the smug man to step away. Edged closer to the auction page. Three. Two. One. He threw our sticker down and the chime rang through the air. The auction was over. Triumph!

That’s how it happened that last weekend Roger and I celebrated our fourth anniversary in Washington, D.C., staying at the Omni Shoreham. It was everything we hoped it would be.

I should go on record right now to say that I doubt that will ever happen, unless I’m President of the PTA. My concern for the world dominated by Democrats and Republicans has fallen by the wayside, in fact, it’s fallen so far that I generally have no clue what is going on in the election arena unless it’s a presidential election year (and then, hoo-boy, I love watching the debates on television). Still, I’m only mildly aware of the candidates and all their campaigning. I mean, they’re just mud-slinging and making promises they can’t always keep and saying the same thing over and over and over again, and honestly, it’s not even the President that’s in control, it’s the Congress that’s in control over most decisions that affect our day-to-day lives. So, huh, I guess I should be participating in those smaller elections after all.

Anyway, Presidential Classroom is a week-long event in Washington, D.C., where juniors and seniors are invited to live in a hotel with like-minded peers from across the nation. I had roommates from Puerto Rico, the Bronx and Connecticut. We participated in mock-caucuses, roundtable discussions, toured the Capitol, met with our hometown congressman and state senators, and were generally educated about how our government works.

That trip is still my favorite memory from high school. I learned so much about myself, about the world, about our government. It was a lesson in history, in business and political savvy, in the importance of my voice. That trip was also the last time I visited Washington, D.C.

However! Next week Roger and I are visiting our nation’s capital for a few days. We’ve been researching and making lists and comparing lists and adding more to our lists, but we haven’t asked anyone else for their input yet. Everyone knows that the best way to get insider information about a destination is to ask someone who’s been there before. Roger has never been, and I haven’t been in 12 years. We're the type of people who like to do and see as much as possible, even given a limited amount of time. Which brings me to the point: if you were going to D.C. for the weekend, what would you do? Where would you eat? Where must we go? What gems can you share with us?

Otherwise, I’m kind of afraid that my 17-year-old self will try to give Roger a tour of our nation’s capital. And you know what that means, right? I’ll end up at the Mall dancing and singing along with a Jamaican band, just like I did 12 years before.

Now, don’t you worry yourself, because there is good news: I do have the seven pairs I packed in my suitcase when we moved more than two weeks ago. The washing machine and dryer are hooked up (thanks, Dad!), so I’ve been able to wash our clothes over the past couple of weeks. Still, there are dozens of pairs that should be somewhere in our house, and it kills me that I don’t know where they are.

I’ve searched for them, and I know exactly how they are packed: in a white trash bag, which I then stuffed into a black trash bag. In an awkward moment of modesty, I was desperately afraid that, while carrying dresser drawers, the guys helping us move were going to see my unmentionables. So I hurriedly stuffed them into the bags, and threw them onto the moving truck. We had already packed over 100 boxes, and still, we ran out. Trash bags provided the perfect improvisation. Incidentally, we also packed our couch cushions and decorative pillows in this way, and they’re all accounted for. Which brings me to the conclusion that somewhere, somehow, those trash bags may have been thrown away in a cleaning frenzy. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.

On one hand, some of my favorite things to wear were in that drawer. When I got married, I was given a piece of advice by a friend who had married the year before. The advice was on a simple piece of paper, and if you don’t already know, let me share it with you: “Always wear pretty panties.” Even if no one else sees them, they make you feel pretty. It’s true - you should try it!

On the other hand, if everything from that drawer has been relegated to the dump, at least I have the consolation that I get to shop for NEW pairs. If there’s anything I like to shop for, it’s under-things. (And shoes, for that matter.) Tables piled high with silk and cotton are like a tractor beam, pulling me forward, and even if I don’t buy anything, I still have to look. (Just in case, you see.)

Unless I uncover them soon, I think I may be doing more than just looking at those tables. I foresee an entirely new, ahem, "wardrobe" in my future.

I mean, right?

I realized what had happened: my employer double-paid me. Initially I thought, “Score! We could totally use that extra cash!” Before my mind completed the thought, I felt my stomach drop as I realized the extra deposit probably wasn’t intentional.

I scoured the past few months to check whether it was a make-up payment. My spirits lifted a little when it occurred to me that perhaps my company hadn’t paid me the last pay cycle, which would make the deposit rightfully mine.

Nothing was amiss.

I carefully crafted a letter to the HR department, informing them of the double-payment and asking whether it was intentional. I mean, hey, there’s still a chance it was! Maybe it’s a six-month bonus they didn’t tell me about! Maybe they decided I deserve that raise I requested after all! Maybe it’s a make-up payment from a long, long time ago! Maybe pigs will fly! (I’m nothing, if not grotesquely optimistic.)

If I kept the money, I’d have a slightly fattened wallet and a seriously guilty spirit. I wouldn’t be the woman I claim to be, and I couldn’t stand for the things I say I stand for. I know I wouldn’t be able to keep the money without clarifying why it was given to me. It wasn’t necessarily difficult to give the money back, since I wasn’t counting on the extra amount and it wasn’t mine to begin with. As a bonus, being honest makes my heart feel a little lighter.

The entire situation made me curious: what would you have done? Would you keep it? Would you give it back? Would you tell anyone? Would you just wait and see whether your employer issued a withdrawal from your account? An inquiring mind wants to know.

(Anonymous comments welcome.)

What’s more, I would love to hear what green things YOU are doing. I mean, I figure you’re pretty (or handsome, as the case may be), you’re intelligent, you’re bound to be doing things that haven’t even crossed my radar yet. Tell me about what you’re doing! Here’s my list:

1. Our electricity plan is generated by 100% wind power (saving enough carbon emissions to be the equivalent of not driving for two years)
2. We have plans to remodel all three bathrooms, installing low-flow faucets and toilets
3. Our city has a really awesome recycling program to help reduce waste. In fact, if you’re able to increase your recyclables and decrease your refuse, they’ll give you extra recycling trash carts for free and a smaller refuse cart to use, PLUS a discount on your water/sewage/trash bill. Now THAT is motivating!
4. We have canvas grocery bags. Though, admittedly, I’ve yet to use them – I do reuse my plastic grocery bags, so I think that counts a little!
5. Just this week, Roger and I started carpooling (instead of driving separately). We have plans to do this most days of the week (if not all).

Also, here are a few links you may find helpful for living green:

- Green Living - Goods that go easy on the planet
- 10 Green Tips from True Green: 100 Everyday Ways You Can Contribute to a Healthier Planet by Kim McKay and Jenny Bonnin
- MSNBC’s Going Green
- Greenona - Search Green. Go Green.
- TerraPass - Flights dump tons of emissions into the atmosphere - undoing your contribution to global warming is easier than you think.
- Low Impact Living - you can take action
- Buy local produce at a farmer’s market. Find a farmers’ market near you.

So...what ideas do you have?

We have a tiny aisle from our front door, through our living room and into our bedroom. We also have access to the kitchen, though there's little food to speak of.

The move (well, the packing) is in progress, and I never knew our tiny apartment would hold more than 100 boxes worth of stuff (which is all well-documented on my Very Important Master List).

AND WE'RE NOT EVEN FINISHED PACKING YET. (Perspective: the official move begins at 8:30 a.m. tomorrow.)

Whoever the previous owners were, their passive-aggressive cat proved its dismay by relieving itself in every corner of the house. I’m not sure which I think is more of an accomplishment: completely ridding our entire home of the distinct scent of animal urine, or eradicating asbestos popcorn from all the ceilings.

We did have help with the popcorn, so we can’t take all the credit – Eddie came over on Saturday, and my dad came over on Sunday – for removing the ceiling.

The living room and dining room each have 12-foot-ceilings, and I sincerely regret not getting a picture of Roger, my dad and me all standing on ladders of varying heights, tackling the dining room. It was the last room we finished. The pride - and relief: it was finally over! - we felt when climbing down the ladder for the last time was unparalleled.

(Unparalleled, that is, until we start our next project. By then, The Great Popcorn Scrape of 2008 will just be a distant memory. We’ll think, “Awwwww, that wasn’t so bad.” But believe me: in the midst of the scraping? The dust? The hot, un-breathable Tyvek suits? The sore muscles? The having to hold my arms over my head for hours at a time? It was brutal.)

To view larger photos and more commentary, visit the Flickr photo set here: The Great Scrape of 2008

[For those interested in technical matters, it took three people to scrape 2100+ square feet of ceiling in two days (6 hours the first day, seven hours the second day). This is mostly because my dad is a machine, and no, you can’t borrow him. We spent three days simply prepping the house – by far and large, that was the more time-consuming project, and considerably easier on our bodies.

We rented an air scrubber to filter the asbestos dust out of the air. The machine did an excellent job, turning the air in each room four times per hour. Considering we let it run for more than 100 hours straight, I’d say the air is pretty dang clean. After we finished the entire house, we simply rolled up the paper/plastic and disposed of it. It was a simple cleanup, followed by vacuuming with a shop vac fitted with a HEPA filter, and after that we mopped both the floors and the walls.]

Over the past week my hair styles have ranged from a low pony tail to a messy bun. And one day, just to switch it up a bit, I wore a high ponytail (with ribbon!), since pulling all my hair back is the only way to hide my airrant locks. (Har, har!)

I haven’t purchased a new hair dryer in a long time – maybe 10 years? And I’m assuming that in the last 10 years manufacturers have come out with all kinds of new-fangled designs and features. Which is where you come in! This is what I need:

- Must fit a standard diffuser attachment (or come with one)
- Must have a high and low heat setting

I’m pretty low-maintenance. Do you have any suggestions? Do you like a particular brand? Have a hair dryer you swear by? Are there certain functions or features I should be on the lookout for? Or is there just one that you think is really pretty? (All I'm saying is, I won't complain if it’s hot pink, that's all.)

It was six weeks before Roger’s career took off again, and an additional three months before I was gainfully employed. As newlyweds, we had a tiny amount of savings and wedding money, and Roger was given a small severance when he was laid off. Over two months, we spent every bit of that money just living – every bit down to the last dollar went to rent, utilities, groceries, car payments and gasoline. Roger found his job in just the nick of time – just after we paid the last bill and looked at each other like: “What now?”

It was a stressful time, both for us individually and for us beginning our marriage. It also made us Nazis about paying off our massive amount of debt. (We’ve been credit card debt free for over a year now, hooray!)

Our lives -- just as I’m sure many of yours – are a series of ups and downs, trials and errors, surging amounts of joys and disappointments.

As I’ve shared bits and pieces of my life with you, be it on Chirky.com, in the comments sections of your own blog, or over sporadic email conversations, I’ve been amazed by the way we’ve been able to rally around each other, learn from and encourage one another. Blogging can be every bit of a community as the “real” friends we interact with on a daily basis.

Last week, I caught wind from Emily (of Not That You Asked) about a family that put my own problems into sharp perspective. To put it simply: this couple, who are close friends of Emily’s, were on vacation when their 16-month-old daughter became violently ill.

They took her for medical attention on the Friday of Easter weekend, and learned in that small space of time that she had an aggressive form of cancer -– a tumor the size of a baseball -– lodged in her brain. It had metastasized into her spinal cord.

By Monday, a 12-hour surgery was scheduled to remove a portion of the tumor, and afterward their little girl would need chemotherapy. At a time when most families were hiding Easter eggs and sharing meals together and attending churches, their doctors were suggesting that extended family make the trip to say goodbye. The doctors weren’t sure the toddler could make it through the long surgical procedure.

Miraculously, she did.

But there is more. The mother is a stay-at-home mom, the father is a teacher. He’s had to take an unpaid leave of absence to be with his daughter and wife in Savannah, where they were on vacation. They have a mortgage in Virginia, but have rented an apartment in Savannah so they can stay together as a family. They want to be able to continue to provide their daughter with excellent and consistent medical attention. With no reliable income, it’s hard to foresee the incredible amounts of debt they will incur.

Emily has written about their story in more detail, if you would like more information about this family.

Thinking back to our meager beginnings, I cannot begin to scratch the surface of the level of uncertainty this family is facing, the fears they must feel, the stress this new trial will bring to their marriage and their family, the bewildered prayers that can’t go past: “God, I don’t know why this has happened. What do we do now? Please help!”

I’ve signed on with Emily to spread the word about their story because I strongly believe in the power of community and the power of us reaching past ourselves to help others.

If you want to help in some way, but don't know how, let me suggest a few options:
1. If you want to help meet their needs financially, you can click the Donate button below (a fund that Emily set up through PayPal). Whether we raise $5 or $5,000, every bit helps.

2. If your heart is aching to help spread the word, perhaps consider posting a similar entry on your own site, or send an email to friends and family pointing them to this entry or Emily's entry.

3. If you want to leave a comment, a special thought, a prayer, or any other word of encouragement, you can do so in the comments section here or in the comments section of Emily’s more detailed post. Brian, Katie, and their daughter Emily covet your prayers and comments.

Editor's Note:
At last count, you guys helped raise nearly $25,000 in under a week. I am not surprised, though perhaps a little dumbstruck, by the generosity shown by our collective readers. THANK YOU. If you would like the latest update on Emily, you can find it here. A thank you from the Mandell family is here. If you still want to help, purchase a bracelet here or donate using the link above. If you cannot use (or are uncomfortable using) Paypal, a donation account has been set up at Bank of America for Emily Mandell. And, obviously, please continue to pray for this family, and to send your sweetest thoughts and best wishes their way.

It warms my heart to see a community of people coming together to help one family. I wish it could be thousands of families, or millions of people across our globe. It starts with one. Just one.