I'm leaving tomorrow for a whirlwind trip to eastern Oregon to attend the memorial service of a fifteen-day old baby. A dear friend of mine and her husband of only a year suffered this unimaginable loss this week and I couldn't not go to offer my love and support. My wonderful husband has agreed to drive the 10 hours in 2 days so that I can come back in time for the baby shower of another dear friend (the kind you really want to attend, not that other obligatory kind). I really do have great pictures from our San Juan trip and promise to share belated stories, but today, this feels a bit more present. I've been so conscious this week, as I've read the updates chronicling the last downward spiral of the baby, that my friend will never get to make throw-together breakfasts with her daughter. She'll not get to be pestered into insanity by 20,000 questions, or curl up to read Narnia for the first time with her. Never go camping with the cousins and pick roasted marshmallow out of sandy hair. Never sit around the dinner table eating corn on the cob. Never sing, or dance or pray together. All these things and more I've done with my dear girlies in these last 15 days, poignant days, her precious baby's lifetime.