I’m a good hater and a slow forgiver. It took a dog to show me I was wrong.

He was a tri-color, collie-shepherd mix whose whole world was a cardboard refrigerator box with a short kennel run, tucked behind a seedy motel. A Rottweiler shared the same space. As the bitter months of winter bore down on Illinois, the two huddled together for warmth. But a cardboard box isn’t much protection against the cold.

Someone alerted animal control, which came out and saw the two dogs braving the increasingly raw weather with so little shelter. The owner was warned that unless the dogs were given a better refuge, they’d be seized. The warnings were ignored.

When the January wind chills began their slow descent to thirty degrees below zero, animal control came for Max and his Rottweiler friend. He and his dog pal were taken away from their rough “home” —perhaps the only one they’d ever known—and sent to the shelter, headed for euthanization. At the shelter, the two dogs were separated, but barked so piteously for each other that they were put together.

The truth about our secret judgments

In the newsroom where I work sits a counter where people put doughnuts and cookies for everyone to share.

Today someone set out a container of humungous cookies, each with 480 calories and 23 fat grams. For those keeping score, one cookie is 12 Weight Watchers points, which is more than half my daily allotment.

I’m telling you this because I am not eating any, not even a taste. Instead, I’m drinking a cup of decaf coffee, sipping it slowly as I listen for the sounds of other people nibbling massive amounts of caloric sinful indulgence and feeling quite pleased with myself.

Confessions of a reformed spouse snitch

My husband ate my lunch!

One Sunday afternoon I saut�ed some matchstick carrots, sliced sweet onion and mushrooms, seasoned it with garlic, red pepper flakes, and Parmesan cheese, put it all in a plastic container, and put it in the fridge for my lunch on Monday.

Sometime between putting it in the fridge Sunday and seeing the empty container in the sink Monday morning, I realized my husband ate it.

He ate it all. My lunch. My lunch.

He ate my lunch!

In his defense, I didn�t tell him it was my lunch; I didn�t put a sticky note on it saying, �Don�t eat this.�

On Saturday I�d made some macaroni salad and put it in an identical plastic container. He ate from that and I didn�t say anything, so I�m sure Barry thought everything in a plastic container was fair game.

But it wasn�t. That was my lunch�and he ate it!

I wasn�t so much angry as I was amused, in a ticked off way, if you can imagine that.

Watching these fascinating mother-daughter relationships makes me wistful about my own

Those who know me know my two grand passions: cake with buttercream frosting and the Gilmore Girls.

Currently, I�m watching season 2 on DVD. (I have all seven seasons.)

For those who don�t know about the Gilmore Girls, it�s a now-canceled TV series about a single mother and her teenage daughter who live in Stars Hollow, a quirky little town outside Hartford, Connecticut. The mother, Lorelai Gilmore, is young, gorgeous, witty, talks a mile a minute, loves movies and TV, and eats like a horse.

Her daughter, Rory, is studious, thoughtful, also witty, also talks a mile a minute, loves movies and TV, and eats like a horse. The two are best friends as well as mother and daughter.

How Jesus calmed the disciples’ fears—and mine

As I paddled my rickety rowboat�I was on a rushing river somewhere�a couple of humungous alligators came up underneath, flipped me over, and started biting my feet.

I�ve always hated that about alligators.

It was 2:14 a.m. and thankfully only a dream. I tried going back to sleep, but the alligators were waiting to finish me off, so I turned on the TV and listened as four political commentators discussed the current crisis of the day.

The more they yipped at each other, the more I longed for the alligators eating my feet. At least they were only a figment of my subconscious, and the likelihood of me being in a rickety rowboat in a rushing river is, um, nonexistent.

My red Ford Tempo was often filled with girls—and God

Years ago someone asked me what I wanted on my tombstone. I replied, rather flippantly, �She drove girls.�

At the time I had a 1989 red Ford Tempo with 189,000 miles on it, of which 188,000 of those miles I was sure had been used to drive girls�to the mall and to volleyball practice. To softball games and the mall. To the mall and youth group at church. To the beach. To Taco Bell. To school. To the mall.

It was either I drive them or risk them finding rides with someone�s sister�s boyfriend. As long as my daughters and their myriad of close, personal friends were in the back seat of my car with me at the wheel, I would know where they were.

It�s a control thing, but a common sense thing, too. I didn�t realize it at the time, but it was also a ministry thing.

Gathered with my family, I prayed for another Reunion.

The funny thing about families: Even if you're apart for awhile, when you get back together, it's like no time at all has lapsed.

Recently, my niece Jennifer graduated college. She was the first in our family to do so, and we all went to my sister�s house in California to celebrate.

Dad looked the same, just a few inches shorter. He still drapes his legs over the side of a chair when he sits. I cried when I saw him, and I couldn't keep from staring at him and at my brothers and my sister. It was all so surreal. It had been 10 years since we�d all been together.

What I learned about living and leaving from Teresa’s legacy of love

Part of my job as a newspaper reporter is writing what we call �Postscripts,� word portraits of a recently deceased person�s life. Last week I wrote one about Teresa Rosebrough, a member of my church who lost her battle with ovarian cancer.

The day before her funeral, I went to her house to meet with her closest friends. We talked while they prepared for the after-funeral crowd of people who would come and eat, share stories, and comfort each other.

I was there as a newspaper reporter, to gather information about this woman I�d known for more than 10 years. To my loss, I hadn�t known her very well.

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.

Learning to place my prodigal in God’s capable hands

Only my daughter Laura has the power to get me to eat a raw quail egg.

We did so at our favorite sushi restaurant in Charlotte, North Carolina, where she lives. I�d come from my home in Florida to speak at a conference and had only a few short hours to spend with her.

It�s been five years since she moved away from home, and I think I�ve finally, finally, finally (maybe) stopped thinking of her as some feral child who needs me hovering over her, guiding her every move, breath, decision, and thought.

How I’m trying to tame my talk (and why my husband’s thrilled about it)

In my (albeit feeble) defense, I�d just undergone a medical test that required sedation, which may or may not have loosened my tongue. Or maybe it was because I hadn�t eaten in 24 hours and hunger affected my brain.

Whatever the reason, I said something that embarrassed my husband.

We�d stopped at a local restaurant for a burger. I ordered the thickest, beefiest, cheesiest burger on the menu, plus fries, and my husband ordered a veggie burger and a salad.

Before the waiter left the table, I blurted, �That�s what girls order!�

The little things that get between my husband and me

When it comes to decorating our house, my husband and I have a rule: The one who cares more about the decision gets to choose.

I made up that rule, and for more than 30 years it's worked for me—especially since my husband, Barry, never cared one way or another. However, now that Barry's retired and at home more, he suddenly cares deeply and passionately about things that never interested him before.

Satisfying my real hunger

I grew up fat.

Not fat enough that people on the street pointed at me and laughed. But I was that fat in my head, so they might as well have.

When my mom took us kids back-to-school shopping at Sears, my sister got to pick out school dresses in the normal girls� section, but I had to pick out dresses in the section called Pretty Plus.

What I learned about beauty from a froufrou prom dress

Recently, the newspaper where I work sent me to cover Cinderella�s Closet, an event sponsored by a small group of Christian women. They�d collected more than 300 prom and bridesmaid dresses, and transformed their church�s fellowship hall into a one-day boutique. Then the women invited local high school girls to come choose dresses for prom—for free.

I started working on the story during the event�s planning stage. As I took notes, I looked through the racks of dresses. My eye kept returning to a pale green and yellow �fairy princess� dress. All the women loved it, but none of them fit into it.

Then one woman, Dana, suggested I try it on.

Sometimes selecting the right sentiment is a challenge.

My daughter, Alison, sends the world�s best greeting cards. One of my favorites pictures an odd, gangly girl with crooked glasses and teeth coming in at various stages of growth. I keep this card on my desk at work, and whenever I look at the picture I laugh.

A few years ago my other daughter, Laura, sent me a Mother's Day card listing her top ten reasons why I'm the best mom ever. Number six stated, �You always say, �You won't always feel like this� when I'm feeling hopeless, and it instantly comforts me.� She addressed the card to Mama Jesus Kennedy, her nickname for me, and inserted two dollar bills I still have.

I hope my daughters enjoy selecting cards for me. And I wish I enjoyed buying cards for my mother.

How I’ve recognized and treated the symptoms

Ever since my husband�s open-heart surgery last year, I�ve been hyper vigilant about my heart health. Maybe a little too hyper.

I�ve relaxed a bit now, but I was taking my blood pressure several times a day. (It�s always low.) I pop fish-oil capsules and baby aspirin daily. I haven�t eaten pizza in months, and I�m pretty much caffeine free.

Despite my newfound vigilance, I started experiencing heart palpitations shortly after my husband�s operation. So I went to my family physician and told him I thought I had �contagious heart disease.� He told me there�s no such thing, but he took an EKG anyway. When the test results came back normal, he said the palpitations could be from the stress of my husband�s ordeal, and told me I shouldn�t worry so much.

I'm desperately trying to get back on track.

In the last few months, I�ve been dealing with two parallel problems.

Problem #1: I�m stuck at a weight-loss plateau. Five years ago, I joined Weight Watchers. A year later, I�d achieved my goal, losing 37 pounds from my five-foot, one-inch frame.

Losing the weight was incredibly easy: Since my husband worked out of town, I only had to cook for myself. For nearly a year, I lost steadily, never hitting a plateau, never yo-yoing one pound up, one pound down.

Being twice her age, I didn’t think I’d fit in with her circle of friends.

A few months ago, I attended the Laura Isaacs Appreciation Barbecue. Laura�s a coworker at the newspaper where I work. At 24, she lives with her cat, Spock, and loves Hello Kitty and ballerina flats.

I don�t remember what was going on in Laura�s life at the time—boyfriend problems, I think. The impromptu barbecue to celebrate Laura was fellow coworkers Cristy and Shemir�s idea, and it took place at Cristy�s apartment.

I kept dwelling on how I should be the one looking that good.

At a dinner party a few years ago, I encountered an acquaintance whose job involved planning parties and events. She�d lost a lot of weight and looked incredible in her sleek black dress. She didn�t have to do any of the actual work at the party; she had �people� for that.

That�s when the green-eyed monster—envy—attacked. I don�t have �people,� I thought. I don�t even own a black dress.

The more I thought about her, the more I hated her. Even though I know all the biblical admonitions against it, I couldn�t stop envying this woman. The harder I tried, the more envy I felt.

And why I praise God for it

I�m sitting in yet another hospital waiting room.

Ever since my husband, Barry, first underwent open heart and quadruple bypass surgery 15 months ago, I�ve been in this waiting room—or one just like it—more times than I can count on one hand, waiting for him to come out of the operating room.

In little more than a year�s time, my vocabulary has increased to include words and phrases such as aneurysm, atrial fib, and EP study with ablation. They all mean I have to put on a cheery face, kiss Barry good-bye, and promise I won�t worry about him or forget to eat lunch and lock the garage door at night while he�s in the hospital again.

This superficial, neurotic need to have everyone like me was awfully tiring.

My name is Nancy, and I'm a recovering Nice Person.

As a Nice Person, I rarely said �no,� especially to things I really, really, really didn�t want to do. Because I couldn�t stand the possibility of someone thinking badly of me, I bought vacuum cleaners and encyclopedias I didn�t need. I agreed to activities I had no business doing—heading up a committee, teaching a class, organizing a rummage sale. And I was the first to be asked to bake 47 dozen cookies by tomorrow or chaperone 150 middle-school girls—because I was too nice to say �no�!

Forgiveness tastes so good.

Recently, a woman I�ll call Jill wrote me after reading my book about being unequally yoked, When He Doesn�t Believe (WaterBrook). She�d grown up in a Christian family, had always been involved at church, and had had a vibrant faith. But then she moved thousands of miles from home for college and, well …

It�s a common story: Girl stops going to church, stops feeding her soul and spirit, and meets boy. The boy isn�t a Christian, but he�s awfully cute and so nice, and they get married.

Then the girl starts longing for Jesus and returns to her faith, and the boy is indifferent or antagonistic. Either way, the girl feels lonely, confused, scared—and guilty.

What could possibly be wrong with helping my daughter to be healthy, happy, safe, and strong?

�The Parable of the Neighbor Lady� is a story I made up several years ago after a futile attempt to control the universe, or at least the part of it my youngest daughter inhabits.

Just barely 20, she�d moved 500 miles away from home to create a life of her own. Because I wanted her to succeed in this new venture, I set out to �help� her.

Since I couldn�t reattach her umbilical cord, I made do with several phone calls a day, just to say �hi� or to tell her about job leads I�d found online. I sent regular care packages of toilet paper, microwave popcorn, candy, books, gift cards, bath towels, and cosmetics.

I paid for a gym membership so she could exercise and meet people. I even wrote letters to women�s ministry leaders at churches I thought she should attend, asking them to pray for my daughter and maybe invite her to church.

Why I'm trying to stop being a compulsive, neurotic bed-maker

The other day my husband made our bed. While this gesture isn't noteworthy in and of itself, my reaction to it is.

To give you some background, Barry grew up with a mom who made his bed every day. When he joined the Air Force and had to make up his bunk, he paid people to do it for him (or so he says). Then he married me, a compulsive, neurotic bed-maker.

Our system works well for us. As long as I can make the bed every morning exactly how I like it, life can go on.

At that moment in the market, I realized?if only partially?all

I call it the Frozen Peas Moment. It�s the event many moms long for, especially moms of daughters.

For my mom and me, it happened when I was about 25.

My family and I had just moved to California near my parents, and I�d gone to the market with my mother. As we pushed the grocery cart down the aisles, I stopped at the frozen vegetable case�right in front of the peas�and looked at my mom.

I don�t think I�d ever really seen her before that moment. When I was a kid, my mom was basically the person who cooked my dinner, nagged me to take out the trash and do my homework, and drove me to the mall so I could be with my friends.

What I'm learning through my feeble attempts at adult relationship

Last year my granddaughter�s best friend was three-year-old Braden, because he lived next door and had a trampoline. Braden liked Caroline because, at four, she was someone other than his baby brother.

Except for the occasional meltdown when one or both of them were tired, their friendship worked well. Then Braden moved away, Connor moved in, and Caroline has a new best friend.

Why can�t adult friendships be that easy?

Nancy Kennedy is the religion editor/feature writer for the Citrus County Chronicle, a daily newspaper in Crystal River, Florida. She also writes Grace Notes, a weekly faith column that runs in about a dozen newspapers. A retreat speaker and book author (whose credits include Girl on a Swing, Lipstick Grace, and When He Doesn�t Believe), Nancy�s also a member of the Advanced Writers and Speakers Association and has appeared on radio programs such as Family Life Today and Renewing the Heart. Nancy�s been married to Barry since 1975, and they have two daughters, Alison and Laura, and a granddaughter, Caroline. A lifetime member of Weight Watchers, Nancy loves watching lizards play on her front walk, eating sushi, flying to different cities, and eating cake with buttercream icing. Visit her website: www.nancykennedybooks.net.