Born with a genetic disorder, Melody was “incompatible with life,” tight-lipped doctors told her parents. She may not survive for a week.
     But Melody did, and at twenty days old, doctors sent her home with hospice care, not expecting her to live much longer. At five weeks, she languished near death. Her parents picked out a burial plot. But Melody rallied and made it to a year. Then another. And another. And another.
     When Melody turned five recently, friends decorated a gymnasium with balloons, covered tables with cloths, and threw a fajita party. Two hundred thirty turned out to celebrate the girl who lived.
     Melody zipped around the gym in her pink Porsche, then a chorus of children sang “In My Heart There Rings a Melody.” And I couldn’t hold back my tears.
     She giggles now with big smiles that melt hearts. She signs to communicate. She’s written up in the book “Miracles We Have Seen: American’s Leading Physicians Share Stories They Can’t Forget.”
     Melody has required much care from family, friends, and medical experts. But what has she given back? “I’ve observed over and over,” her mother says, “Melody brings out the best in us.”
     Perhaps that’s her calling. Her weakness makes us all stronger and better. With Melody, we find our harmony.
     She’s God’s little surprise, and in my heart I’ve been singing a Melody ever since I met her.

     Please share this post. More of Melody’s story is at www.melodysstory.com.

     She was one of those ’60s people Joni Mitchell sang about, a child of God walking along a road that led to Woodstock. Seeds of goodwill from attending that music festival planted in Barbara Moore’s soul.
     But they lay dormant for years, squelched by life in the corporate fast lane. Then Barbara asked herself what she really wanted. “To get back to the garden.”
     She learned that more than 200,000 children struggle with hunger every day in Colorado. Some receive free or reduced-cost school lunches. But on weekends, they may go hungry. In one family, the kids play a guessing game: “Who’s going to get to eat this weekend?”
     Barbara went into action, and Jeffco Eats was born. Volunteers bag food items and transport them to schools for students to carry home for the weekend.
     Meeting needs doesn’t have to come through an organization. One woman I know watches out for latchkey kids on her block, helping them with loose bike chains. A grandfather runs errands for his daughter so she doesn’t have to haul her preschoolers around. A group of women knit hats for homeless teens.
     The world’s needs can overwhelm me. But I heard a man say, “Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is to stop praying only and to start doing.”
     Good advice. So I’m part of Barbara’s brigade, filling bags with meals for hungry tummies. We’re transforming the idealism of Woodstock into the reality of foodstock.
     Because nobody should be forced to guess who gets to eat this weekend.

     One stumble at the Olympics cost American figure skater Debi Thomas the gold, but it’s her stumbles since then that have been more costly.
     Considered the best African American skater in history, Thomas carried home the bronze metal from Calgary thirty years ago. She also captured gold, silver, and bronze in World Championships. And all this while studying at Stanford University. Medical school followed for Thomas, then licensure as an orthopedic surgeon.
     Fast forward - Thomas has divorced twice, lost custody of her son, let her medical license expire, declared bankruptcy, and moved into a bug-infested trailer in the Appalachians. What happened?
     Olympian mentality, she says.
     Her commitment to perfection led to her being frustrated with the performance of medical coworkers. She couldn’t get along and never lasted more than a year at various institutions. She started her own practice, only to watch it tank. As for her skating medals, she told the Washington Post they’re stashed away in a box somewhere.
     So this week as I watch Olympic figure skaters with their flawless Salchows and Axels, I’m reminded that performance isn’t everything to snag a gold medal in life. It’s learning how to carry on when the spotlight turns off. How to live with imperfection in myself and others. How to be a team player.
     In a beautiful twist of history, Thomas, who lost her gold medal with a stumble, is now promoting the sale of gold as an economic hedge. She’s picking herself up, as we all need to when we stumble.
​     Lest we fall under the curse of the winners.

     Comparison is deadly because it’s never apples to apples.
     Take my friend Nancy. We hadn’t seen each other for decades when she rolled into town. Nancy asked about my writing.
​     “Some books and articles,” I told her.
     She shrugged. “All I’ve done is care for my family.”
     That’s all? Let me tell you what Nancy had just shared. For eight years, she oversaw cancer treatments for her adult son Bryce. They even relocated to Germany twice for surgery with a specialist.
     Now at age thirty, Bryce still has twenty-five tumors in his lungs, but his health is stable. At six foot two inches and 142 pounds, his strength isn’t back yet. But he has enough spirit to clown around in costumes with his mother.
     One day during Bryce’s illness, Nancy’s husband looked up from trying to balance his checkbook. “I need help,” he said.
     Alzheimers.
     Nancy cared for her husband for five years until he passed away.
     Last year - finally - it was time to celebrate. Bryce completed his graphic arts and communication degree. And Nancy remarried “a wonderful man.”
     Nancy’s example reminds me that we dare not compare ourselves to others because we have our own role to play in life’s drama. As the International Thespian Society tells its performing arts members: “Act well your part; there all the honor lies.”
     So what’s your part?

My friend Nancy - she's a gem.

     Nobody relishes a risk, but Margaret Coel dared to take one.     She spent five years working on a manuscript she didn’t know whether she could get published. “And if I did get it published, whether anyone would read it,” she says.
     But she was obsessed with Arapaho Chief Niwot and the slaughter of his people at the Sand Creek Massacre in Colorado in 1864.
     In her thirties with young children, Margaret already had a successful career as a journalist. She didn’t have to take this gamble. But the story wouldn’t let her go. So family vacations became trips to forts, battlegrounds, and trading sites.
     Finally in her early forties, Margaret published Chief Left Hand and launched into a new career as novelist/historian.     She’s continued taking risks as she’s written and contributed to more than twenty-five books that combine history and mystery, including her New York Times bestselling Wind River Series. She’s won enough writing awards to collapse the wall of her study. And now at age eighty, she’s released the novella Man Found Dead in Park.
     I studied Margaret’s writing as I worked on my novel, so it was my pleasure to dine with her and meet the woman behind the stories.
     What’s she like? About the nicest person you could meet. So safe you’d never suspect the intrigues that spring from her mind as she wrestles with how the past intersects with the present.
     It all started with a risk that turned into a lifetime adventure. Which makes me wonder whether I’m willing to open the door to whatever is knocking for me.
​     What about you?