My vote on Proposition 8 was obvious, yet painfully difficult.

Some years ago, a friend sent me a Christmas card thanking me for being “natural, accepting, [and] charming.” I’ve lost touch with my friend, but he still holds a special place in my heart. I remember the many personal, transparent conversations we had. I remember his joy for me at my wedding, and his optimism that he and his partner would be able to marry one day, too.

His love for his partner was authentic and deep. He would joke about his partner’s Pillsbury-Doughboy shape, then pat his own round belly and note how good cooking and their happiness together was making him fat. My husband and I had the privilege of sampling that good cooking in their home, and I afterward I could understand why my friend’s midsection was getting bigger.

I thought about my dear friend—and other gay and lesbian friends—as I voted in favor of California’s Proposition 8 earlier this month, which eliminated the right of same-sex couples to marry in California. The measure passed with 52 percent of the vote.

Why being honest about my bad habits is good for me

I recently received an e-mail from a dear friend who’s serving as a missionary in the Middle East. She’s been great about staying in touch and I, well I haven’t been.

So she wrote to find out what was wrong. Had something changed in our relationship? Had she offended me somehow or was I not supportive of the work she’s doing overseas? She probably asked me a few other questions, but I couldn’t read much farther through my increasingly weepy eyes.

She hadn’t done a thing wrong. The problem was me. On the surface, it seemed I’d let the busyness of life get in the way of this precious friendship. But what really happened is I lost sight of who I really am. I’d told myself I’d respond to her e-mail, return her phone call, send her support letter when I had more time to think about them.

Why I’m waging a one-woman war on a certain set of words

I’ve never been much bothered by the use of what others usually think of as foul language. When I’m watching a movie, the seven forbidden words of the media sail right past me. Most are references to body parts and bodily functions for which we use dozens of acceptable synonyms all the time, and, in context, they’re primarily just noises people make when they’re surprised or angry or distraught.

I’m always surprised when someone in my reading group objects to the “language” of the book we’re reading. Invariably, I didn’t even notice the offending words, and those who object have to point them out to me.

For years, though, I’ve been waging a one-woman war on another kind of foul language. It started when my daughters were toddlers.

What his tentative, misspelled letters from 30 years ago speak to me even today

One of my most-treasured possessions is a letter I received from my dad in 1974. Written on yellowed paper from a spiral-bound notebook, it’s probably the only letter he's ever written. That makes it treasured. That makes it priceless.

In draftsman’s block lettering, he wrote:

Dear Nancy,

Here we are at Catalina again. This is are third day here . . . . As you know, I’m not much of a letter writer, so this one well probly take about three days.