When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I reasoned as a child. But when I became a [woman] I put away childish things. 1 Corinthians 13:11

Memories are funny things, when you glance backward. Do you read them like a book? I know I do.

There are so many Chapters written thus far in the Book of Jenni–a story begun in July 1966. I’m sure you’ve paged through your own original adventure tale as well. But, as I pull my copy from the library shelf, it reads a bit like a fantasy, rom-com, sci-fi, mystery, with more than its share of drama.

In the Early Years Chapter, I read about the Elementary School me–my time at Cooks Corners as an only school-aged child and then with a little brother in tow. I read about moving into Thomas Jefferson Junior High and navigating awkward middle school years. (Shudder! That reading is a bit harder!) Pages are scribbled on making (and losing) friends, involvement in Drama Club and Choir, and trying to figure out who I was becoming. And then just when I figured it out, there was the next Chapter covering the big move to Valparaiso High School–more drama club, more choir, golf team, more crushes and heartbreak, studying, and dramatic ebbs and flows of friendships as I traversed biases and high school “Drama” to at last reach graduation. And with that conclusion of my Indiana education, I reached the final years as a real Indiana resident.

I may boast Red and White blood in my veins as a prodigy of Indiana University parents. But I’ve spent more time in Michigan than I ever did in Indiana. Kind of weird …

Anyway, my next big Chapter of note was an exciting four years at Albion College. There I learned how to be a roommate, making life-long friends. I joined a sorority, performed with the theatre, learned Vodka and Mountain Dew did Not belong together, and then–after graduation–moved to Michigan to embark on adulting without a net. That Chapter covered more than a few career and job changes. Believe it or not, I didn’t originally intend to be an Event Planner! It introduced new characters, began to cover the highs and lows of my adventures with community theatre, and wrapped up with meeting Doug Clark–my to-be husband.

There’s an entertaining Chapter outlining the fun of early married years before kids … and then several once two bright lights joined us as Jarod and Paige came along. The Married/Kid Chapters were intricate ones featuring a fair share of emotions, dramas, romance, and circus-like juggling to navigate the complicated energies and activities of four independent personalities under one roof. Add a cat and some fish and the story got weird and weighty at times. Yes, those Chapters are fast-paced–filled with carpools, volunteering, coaching, more theatre–but this time including up to four players!, Scouts, concerts, swim meets, ballet recitals, writing/publishing a book, and the discovery of SRO Shakespeare camps and productions.

Whew! Take a breath! I know that I did quite a bit of gasping for air as I rushed about during those Chapters.

Then, Jarod graduated–moving out on his own. And a few years later, Paige left for college. The nest was empty, so to speak. It was time to begin a new Chapter in a book that had become quite a thrilling adventure tale. Suddenly, after the content and speed of life to date, content slowed down a bit.

Oh the Adventures continue–I did get to Scotland this year! Yet I’ve learned that Empty Nesting presents its own challenges and opens its own Chapter. What’s included is a big question… one I’m sorting out.

At this time of year, I typically find quiet moments to consider goals, intentions, hopes, and plans for the year ahead. 2024 was…challenging. Losing my parents and reflecting on their lifetimes was both difficult and a joy-filled. There were both good moments last year too. As I’ve learned after choosing JOY as my 2024 word, life is a blend of Light and Dark. Joy is a complicated concept. It’s not just happy-happy but also presents resources to help navigate and find the light in harder ones. Which I did as best as I could.

So I looked to the new year. 2025! I found myself struggling to select a word to frame what comes next. See, these words aren’t something I pull out of a hat. They are something that I ponder deeply about over time. And often, a word finds and chooses me.

As I considered the word, I found myself reflecting on my life so far–and considering my next Chapter. What will it cover? What will it say? What and who will it include? Oh, I know I’m not done yet, but my To Do list is a bit shorter than it used to be, and I’ve slowed down too. Things are…different. So, as I pondered “Next Steps,” my oracle cards kept bringing me to “Shine Your Light” and “Divine Timing.” That’s part of my unwritten manuscript. I mean, I think I know how to Shine, but sometimes what I want to do or the things I believe are “right” just might not be best for me–or (putting it in theatre terms)–the role might not be one where I make the cast list. Many factors come into play and choosing what I do next doesn’t always mean it will choose me.

It’s a balancing act.

Pondering this conundrum, I found myself hoping to choose and do the “Next Right Thing”–whatever that might be. And that’s how the word came to me…

In 2025, my word is CLARITY. That is what I will seek. Clarity will help me Shine my Light where it is needed. With some Divine Timing, Clarity will help guide me to the right people, the right things, the right projects/activities, and the next right thing…whatever it may be.

My story goes on–a new Chapter is waiting to be written. Adventure? Drama? Fantasy? Rom-Com? Mystery? Whodunnit? Comedy? Perhaps it will be a mixture of all of those. I look forward to spending time with the Characters who wish to be part of the continuing adventures of Jenni Carmichael Clark–and to finding the Clarity to be the best me I can be as I follow where the new year leads me.

One Page at a Time.

And yes, by the way, in case you recognized it, I’ll give you a bit of Clarity. The title for this post is a Shakespearean quote from Henry V.

Happy New Year!

— Jenni

Now cracks a noble heart …. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Hamlet, Act 5, Sc 2

A few weeks ago, I had a glimpse of heaven.

I was sitting at the 9am service at my Royal Oak church and closed my eyes for a centering prayer. And that’s when the vision began.

Heaven looked a lot like the sanctuary of my childhood church. Oak pews, red curtains with the gold cross and oak altar in front of it, and the most beautiful stained glass windows you can imagine.

But, it wasn’t just the building. Two doors on either side were open. By one of them stood Red Clover. I haven’t thought of Mr. Clover in years. But he was always there at the door when I entered the sanctuary, wearing a light blue suit, including a vest and tie. He had such a jovial nature and gripped your hand in a firm handshake before he pulled you in for a strong hug. He was smiling.

Inside stood Mary Francis and Carl Babcock. They too were smiling. Mary Francis was the secretary for as long as I was a member. She had this tiny office that was cluttered with paper. Carl was the custodian. They cared deeply for our church and the church family. In fact, Carl hand crafted the deacons bench now sitting in my sun room.

Talking to them, holding a bulletin, stood Phil Phillips. Tall and kind-hearted. He welcomed me into the room.

In a pew near the middle, sat my grandparents. Granddaddy Carmichael still had his hat on…and I watched as Grandmother reminded him to take it off. Beside them sat Granddaddy and Grandmother Mahin — Gram, as we fondly called her. And beside Gram was Uncle David, his expression jovial and playful.

I sat down beside them, so grateful to see them after so many years. And they told me they were getting ready–getting ready to welcome my Daddy. That they were there to usher him in, when the time came for him to join them.

As I sat with them, I saw Dad enter. I saw warm embraces and handshakes as he greeted friends who had left this earth so many years ago. I saw the emotion in his eyes as his mother stood and beckoned to him. I saw tears fall down his cheeks as his parents held him in their arms.

But Dad didn’t sit down. He looked ahead. See, there were two doors into the First Christian Church sanctuary. And a light shone above the second. I followed Dad as he walked toward it… as he moved out of the sanctuary, down the halls, and down the stairs to the basement.

I knew where he was going.

In the basement, he walked through the steel door separating the youth play area from the kitchen. In the kitchen, Bill Eckert, a dear friend of dad’s and the Troop 7 Scout Leader, was making breakfast. The smell of his legendary potatoes filled the room. He welcomed dad in his gruff, kind way. But it was the people at the table that Dad moved toward next.

Dean Moore, Charlie Steeves, and Dottie Porter sat there. They were part of his Sunday School class. Their conversations and debates were known to extend long past the end of the hour class. In fact, my brother Jeff and I often had to retrieve our parents so they weren’t late to service!

They greeted him. Hugged him. Held his hand. I saw the tears glisten in Dad’s eyes. Then he sat down at that round table, surrounded by dear friends once again, and the conversations began.

The vision faded then. But I felt this amazing sense of peace–and gratitude. I knew at that moment that when the time came for Dad to cast off his mortal coils that I knew where he was going–and I knew who he would find there. He would find friends and loved ones that would embrace him and welcome him home.

Three days later, on December 13, 2023, Dad passed away. It was sudden and none of us were prepared for it. Dad had been such a strong, central, and driving force in our family for so many years, that his departure left a giant gash in the fabric of our lives. But, in those final hours, we all gathered together, supporting him and supporting each other.

When I arrived by his bedside in the days prior, I whispered to him and shared my vision. I like to think that he heard me. But, I know my Daddy knew where he was going and who he would find there.

As our family draws together to Celebrate his life next Saturday–one month after his passing–we will honor all he brought to this earth and all he shared with us. He was a devoted husband for 60 years, a loving, generous and giving father, a doting granddaddy, a compassionate and kind optometrist supporting patients for over 40 years, and a true friend to many. I don’t believe he knew how many people loved him–and how many lives he touched over the years. I hope he knows now.

And, I like to think that he invited Dick Cheatham, my first pastor who became a dear family friend here in Michigan, to join the Sunday School class. I’m sure if he did that they are debating Indiana University’s issues with that “funny shaped ball” since Dick was a big U of M fan. He would have a lot to add to their Sunday morning discussions.

My heart is heavy as I miss Daddy so much. But, that little glimpse into the beauty of heaven helps me. See, that church no longer stands. The day after Palm Sunday in 1989, they noticed some dust on the pews. A contractor came in and told the Board that the roof was precarious and could collapse anytime. It was condemned that very day…5 days before Easter Sunday.

The windows, in a modified format, were preserved and shine on at the new First Christian Church, Disciples of Christ in Valparaiso. But it was the Chicago Street church that was our true home…and the glimpse of heaven in that place that nurtured dad and our family brought its magnificent beauty back in glorious technicolor.

Dad isn’t alone or in pain anymore. He’s surrounded by friends, family, light, and the love of his Lord who he believed in absolutely all his days. I catch glimpses of him in odd little ways now. And, while I can’t call him on my way home from work anymore, I can still talk with him–and share what’s going on.

Rest in peace, Daddy.

As a kid, my parents played the “Christmas in America” album every holiday. It was one of their favorites. Yet it’s the song “What Will The New Year Bring,” sung beautifully by Anne Murray, that is playing in my head as we prepare to wrap up 2023.

Each year, I choose a word–well, as a matter of fact, a word chooses me. It starts showing up in November and then gets insistent that I pay attention and notice it in December. I try to ignore it–certain it has me confused with someone else. But it keeps showing up until I admit it’s speaking to me. And thus, that word and I sign up for a one year relationship. No matter what happens, I will stick with this word. No matter how I don’t feel its touch or meaning–no matter if it resonates in what’s happening in my life or I agree with it, I will abide by our commitment.

The Word of 2023 was PEACE.

Now, I don’t know what Peace had in mind when it sought me out. Perhaps it was a nod from Emerson who stated:

“Nobody can bring you Peace but yourself.”

Anyway, if you go by the general definition, 2023 did certainly not seem to be a very peace-filled year. From January through July, the calendar was dominated by my daughter Paige’s high school senior year activities–Drama Club rehearsals and performances (along with my own intense and heavy duties as Booster Club President), Choir concerts, Dance classes and recitals, the year end celebratory banquets, Honors Choir, Prom, Graduation, Honors Convocation, and the grand finale piece de resistance which I’d been planning for 18 years … The Graduation Party. Lots to do. Lots going on. You don’t even want to peak at our May calendar!

Amidst all that activity were health challenges for my parents; clearing out their house of items that didn’t make the cut, selling it, and settling them in a new, more manageable apartment in a retirement community; 63 events to handle at a job I passionately love; home improvements; travels back and forth to Carmel; prep and moving Paige in to GVSU; and just the day-to-day “life” stuff. Then, as the year drew to its dramatic close, we lost Dad to an unexpected and very aggressive cancer.

Not very PEACE-filled.

However, the Word that chooses me isn’t saying: “Hey look, this is what I will bring you in the coming year.” Instead, it’s saying “Hey look, this is what you need to be on the look-out for in the coming year.” It is saying: This is what you need to seek, to watch for, to claim, to find, to embrace, to settle into, to choose. It’s reminding me: This is what you need to hold on to if you want to continue to grow emotionally, mentally, and spiritually and become the woman you are meant to be within this crazy world.

So, perhaps there is truth to immortal words of Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride:

“You keep using that word … I do not think it means what you think it means.

PEACE took me on a roller coaster ride in 2023. Yet, it was there in the darkness as well as the light. It was there on my Yoga mat. It could be found in outings with friends, in conversations, in texts, in email messages, in morning mediations, and at church. It resided in the laughter enjoyed in moments with family and in coffee time with my cat. It was there in the faces of our friends and family–and Paige’s friends–at the rainy day Grad Party when rain was NOT part of my plan. It could be found during a spa day and lounging at a trailer by a lake. It could be found watching Jeopardy, amidst a family game night, during Bodman events, in a bookstore beside my son, in the audience as I watched my daughter perform, and in companionable, quiet evenings at home with my husband. It could be found in wonderful meals and listening to mom play piano. It was found in cards and letters from friends–unexpected calls and gestures of kindness or compassion. And, it was there as I held dad’s hand and bid him goodbye for now. It was there there throughout every aspect of my journey in 2023.

Om Shanti Om. Peace in body, peace in mind, peace in speech, peace in spirt. That’s a wrap. And no matter what I think about it, PEACE and I traveled hand in hand in 2023 ,and I am changed for the better because of our time together.

So, onto a New Year. The word that has chosen me for 2024 is no less gentle. And it arrives amidst preparations for Dad’s Celebration of Life and all that is associated with his passing, including planning that Celebration and cleaning things up and out of his apartment. It arrives amidst other struggles and life happenings. It arrives during a time I keep referring to as Messy. And I look ahead and, as Anne Murray did, and wonder: What Will The New Year Bring?

The Word for 2024 is JOY.

Not sure where that word will lead me in 2024. It may also be a challenging journey. Guess I will find out. But Joy is different from “Happiness.” Joy can be a choice. Joy can be found amidst the messy. At least that’s what I have learned from the Christmas Story and Birth of Christ when there was no room in the comfy, cozy, clean inn.

No, my word isn’t something that can be measured, but it may be something that can truly be experienced–in its own way. It can provide a light in the darkness and order when things get messy–as they are wont to do.

My daughter asked me last night about my Word so, as 2023 wraps up and 2024 awaits, here is my message to her. It’s a variation on a much-loved article published in The New York Sun in 1897. Perhaps this might be a message that you share with someone dear to you.

Yes, Paige, there is JOY to be found. It exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no JOY! It would be as dreary as if there were no Paige …

Happy New Year, dear Readers. May 2024 bring you JOY as well … whatever that might mean.

— Jenni

Last year, my son got Covid for Christmas.

Seriously, after two shots and a booster, he ended up feeling bad enough that he decided to take a test only to discover he had Covid on December 23 … an hour before we were planning to drive to Carmel, Indiana to gather together with family.

He called me, upset and confused. What did this mean? Did it mean we’d head south without him, leaving him to sort out this sickness and Christmas all by himself? Did it mean we’d all stay home? My daughter was so excited about spending time with her cousins and was crushed at the thought. We were all looking forward to this family time. What did we do now?

To only make matters worse, there was a Winter Storm forecast to hit Detroit within the hour. Whatever decision we made had to be fast. Really fast.

I called my dad and told him the situation. He said, “I want my family here for Christmas. Come.”

So we did. We packed up, and Jarod and I headed out within 15 minutes of that call. Doug and Paige followed shortly after. We beat the storm only by minutes — frigid temperatures, snow, and ice hit hard. And so did Covid.

Jarod was completely miserable. Not only was he feeling all kinds of awful, but he didn’t want his grandparents to get sick. We stayed 24 hours and then returned home on perilous, ice-covered roads. It was a harrowing, white-knuckle kind of drive. And it was just a bad decision to travel there overall …

But was it? When we arrived and before Covid really sank its teeth into Jarod, we enjoyed a few moments with my parents — him 6-feet separated and wearing a mask — to watch one of our favorite Christmas movies: “The Muppet Family Christmas.” We spent precious time together, sharing a couple meals before packing up and heading back to Royal Oak on Christmas Eve. It wasn’t all bad. (I can say that because I wasn’t feeling crappy — it was pretty horrible for Jarod!)

The thing was, I knew this was going to be the last Christmas where Mom and Dad would be living in their home on Edison Way — a home they had helped design and that my mom loved to decorate for every holiday, especially when family gathered. But, Mom and Dad weren’t able to do much decorating any more. And time was growing more limited and more precious ….

A few weeks prior, Jarod and I had driven down to decorate their house for Christmas. My mom had boxes and boxes and boxes of decorations. We wanted to help them create a festive feel one final year in this house so they could thoroughly enjoy the sparkle, color, and collections they’d assembled so lovingly over the years.

We carried down boxes (and boxes, and boxes, and boxes!!), my mom sorted through Santas, Nutcrackers, and Boyd’s Bears, and Jarod and I decked the halls, the walls, the shelf cubbies, and the steps in a way special to them and special to us. It was a crazy amount of work but so worth it. My mom could enjoy her decorations for another year.

As we anticipated, my parents moved out of that house and into a retirement community within the next couple of months. My sister-in-law handled the lions’ share of the sorting. But, in the spring, my brother Jeff and I met at the house and finished sorting — going through a lifetime of memories, including ornaments and decorations from the attic. Some were donated while others we distributed to the grandkids. Oh, Jeff and I took a few special things for ourselves and I look forward to adding them to our own Harwood Avenue holiday decor. We also set aside special favorites so our parents could enjoy them in their new home.

But, despite these efforts, they probably won’t decorate much, if any, this year. Dad had hip surgery in late September and is still recovering. And during his surgery/recovery, Mom moved into the Memory Care Center — initially a temporary stay. But, unfortunately, her dementia has progressed and grown worse in the past month. It is unlikely there will be another Carmichael-Clark photo around her piano or that we will gather as we did in years past to share the Christmas traditions so long enjoyed by our combined families.

Yet, between the trip to decorate last November and the 24-hour Covid Christmas, I had a brief glimpse of Christmases past. And we all had a few more minutes with Mom and Dad — Gammie and Granddaddy. So, even in that terrible, no good, very bad Christmas, there were a few moments where we saw the light of that star. And I will be grateful for those fleeting glimpses for the rest of my life.

So, as Thanksgiving approaches and I count my blessings before enjoying that no-excuses holiday meal, I am grateful for those 24 hours in Carmel — and grateful we made it to and from safely. I am grateful for the traditions my parents instilled in me and my kids. And, I am grateful for the people who will join me at the table, for those who will be spending their holiday elsewhere, and for those who have passed on from our earthly Thanksgiving table and now celebrate at a heavenly one.

Mixed Blessings are still blessings … it’s just a matter of how you decide to look at them.

Growing up, my mom always decorated our house in Valparaiso for every holiday.

Early on, I recall it was very simple … themed cardboard images on the wall each holiday and specialty items in a variety of places. I recall making ornaments with pins and sparkles. And or course there was an Easter egg tree that she created, carefully draining the egg yokes and painting the shells.

As years progressed and they retired into a house in Syracuse, I recall the decorations became more involved. Rich floral elements graced the cupboards in the fall; red, white, and blue items appeared on side tables and in bathrooms in the summertime; and a fabulous Santa and Nutcracker collection began to decorate the mantle when Christmas came along.

No matter when I visited them, the house reflected the character of the season.

Recently, my parents moved from their home into a retirement community — an apartment that would never support the amount of decorations they had assembled over the years. We cleaned out the attic, which featured more bins than I could count of decorations — items that brought joy to my mom and to everyone who visited their home. Their last Christmas in the Carmel house, my son Jarod and traveled down after Thanksgiving to handle the decorating for them. I recall the joy both of us felt as we opened boxes and found the items that helped create that festive feeling for us personally. Jarod like the stuffed Santas, animals, and snowmen that my mom always placed on the stairs. And I enjoyed finding her special Boyd’s Bear to their shelves.

If you think about it, our calendar year offers many festive holidays. And, like my mom, I decorate for many of them. Perhaps not to the extent that she did. But each holiday is reflected in my home. And I know my kids enjoy the decorations as much as I enjoy placing them around the house.

But, when Christmas comes along, well for some reason, decorations seem to multiply.

Yesterday I visited a craft fair. Even though it’s November and only weeks until Thanksgiving, the fair was dominated by Christmas/Winter decor. Why is it that the December holidays bring out the interior designer in all of us while the holidays throughout the rest of the year are relegated to a limited selection? What is it about Christmas — which again is only a one-month celebration — that creates the need to transform our home with sparkles, red and green tchotchkes, and well-dressed snowmen?

Well, I don’t know. But I do know that I bring out the tinsel! Decorating my home creates a sense of “homeyness” that people feel. And while I typically decorate on “the First” for any of the holiday months, I brought out the Hallowe’en decor early when I knew my college daughter Paige would be coming home. I mailed a package to Jarod when he was in college — and did the same for Paige this year — sending along a selection of fall decorations for their dorm rooms. And I now shop for festive items to help my grown-up kids bring that feeling to their own spaces.

With my parents aging and all the complications that has brought, perhaps my love of decorating is a way of paying tribute to them — to the loving home and the feelings it fostered for me when I arrived during one of those special seasons that brought out the interior designer in my mom. Perhaps it was something I learned from them that just “stuck” and made me want to bring whatever that feeling was into own space. All I know is that starting that first December 1st at Albion College, I rose early to surprise my flat-mate Nina with Christmas tinsel, tunes, and socks hanging on our bunkbeds. Socks that my mom had sewn for each of us.

When they moved out of their most recent home in Carmel, my brother and I packed up boxes of decorations to share with each of the grandkids — hopeful they too can find that feeling my mom and dad created for us all over the years. I brought home many of my mom’s seasonal Boyd’s bears. Right now, the Pilgrim and Native American Boyd’s are featured near the grandfather clock that once belonged to my own grandparents. When Christmas arrives, there will be different bears to place in that special spot. It brings my mom into my home, I guess.

Whatever the reason, I’m sure my mom attended Craft Fairs to find special pieces to make the Holidays — every one of them — special. I know my parents shopped for Santas and Nutcrackers and built quite a collection. I know my dad liked to buy special Santas for my mom each Christmas. I now have a few of their decorations to add to the collection that my husband and I have built … like my dad, I think he enjoys the festive feelings these decorations add to our home. And, my kids both have their own Pipka Santa from the extensive Carmichael Collection.

Yes, there are more bins with Christmas items than any other holiday. Even more now that I have additional items from my parents’ attic. But, as I open the bins each holiday and place the items special to me — and now, the ones that were special to my parents — it brings them and their loving energy into my home. It creates that Holiday Feeling that makes me smile.

Whether it’s Dingy Bat at Hallowe’en, construction paper creations from my kids, or a Santa once displayed at my parents’ home and finding its place to mine, Holiday decorations create a warm, peaceful, grateful, happy feeling for me and whoever steps through my front door.

Perhaps that’s the reason Craft Fairs are so prevalent this time of year most of all. Maybe that’s why we shop and decorate. We all seek to find those special items to capture that magical feeling from childhood. And once we find it, we seek to create it in our own homes to offer the people dearest to us that same sense of warmth, peace, gratitude, and happiness.

This is the week prior to Memorial Day. For many, this time simply signifies the end of the School Year and the beginning of Summer. For me, it means “The Race” is upon us. It means that as I type, 33 drivers are preparing to take their qualifying laps to determine who will sit on the Pole. It means a week of practice laps are ahead. For me, this week means it is once again time for The Indianapolis 500. This is the week where IndyCar drivers prepare for the Greatest Spectacle in Sports.

I was born and raised in the state of Indiana. The Sunday of Memorial Day meant we would listen to the Indy 500 on the radio. In later years when the race began to be televised, that didn’t change. You see, the airing of the Race on TV was blocked out to anyone within the defined proximity to the Speedway.

Everyone in my family had a favorite driver. The names changed as we grew up — but the love of the race remained and passed down into the next generation of Carmichael/Clarks. Chicken dinners served just before the military flyover and singing of Back Home In Indiana (by Jim Nabors) were part of that tradition — as were $1 bets on the winners. When the next generation joined in the fun, visits to the Track were added to the agenda. We’d drive down on Legends Day to meet the drivers and get autographs, gathering on the bleachers to watch the presentation of rings and classic car parade. Some years, we even made it down for Carb Day — watching each driver take their final practice laps and getting a look at pit row. My brother and I went down to the Speedway for Legends Day on the 100th Anniversary and, as we were walking around, witnessed the transport of the Borg-Warner Trophy … it went right by me! I could have reached out and touched it.

The Race is a spectacle and an experience. While I’ve never actually attended it, I do know that there is only one way to win. Go very fast and be the one that earns the wave of the black and white checkered flag as you pass over the finish line.

I’ve tried that. No, not suiting up and climbing into one of those million-dollar machines. I’ve tried the “going very fast” part in an effort to make it to the Winner’s Circle. What I’ve discovered is that though I may get there quickly, when I “go very fast” the wear and tear on my own “million-dollar machine” may not be the best use of my own energy.

Today, as I type, a robin is building a nest on one of my garage light fixtures. I’ve not witnessed this process before. Usually, I wake up and discover that the nest has been built and robins are perching on said nest. Today though, I watch as the birds fly up, each carrying one twig or piece of fallen bracken, carefully and strategically placing and securing it in just the right spot to ensure safety in the next phase for this nest. They build it one piece at a time … and it’s a slower process than I realized to craft a secure nest to rest.

I know that the drivers in the Indy 500 are skilled and that they are safely secured into their cars. It’s crazy how the technology and cars have changed since I began listening to this race oh so many years ago. But, I do know that they are connected to and supported by a strong team and that when the car needs fuel or new tires — or a tweak here and there — they veer off the track into the Pits. They just do so at a really high speed. A quick pit and a quick drive is the key to getting to that coveted checkered flag.

Today, I feel a bit like Marco Andretti — the Andretti racing team has always been my favorite, going back to the days when I cheered for Mario to cross the finish line first. Marco sat on the pole once, meaning his qualifying time was the fastest that year. But he hasn’t earned placement of his name on that Borg-Warner trophy. He finishes the race though — just not first. He’s usually ranked 10 – 15 at the conclusion. But he keeps showing up and suiting up. And, each year, he goes round and round that 2 1/2 mile track at his own super fast speed until he at last crosses the finish line.

I find myself learning from Marco. Just keep moving forward — a phrase coined by Walt Disney — and finish the race at your own pace. Maybe I won’t be the fastest and maybe I won’t finish first or get a trophy, but I will stay connected to my team, pull into the pit when I need to rest, and take care of my “machine.” I will fuel up to maintain power and keep my internal engines going. I will choose a good team of people to support me as a driver and my vehicle. And I will navigate the track with care to avoid other drivers and crashing into the brick wall. That way, I will cross that finish line in the manner and time that is best of me.

And that’s okay!

Back in the day when I first started listening to the race, the announcer used to say: “Gentlemen, Start Your Engines.” Then, one year, the first woman driver — Janet Guthrie — joined the lineup, and the phrase became “Lady & Gentlemen, Start Your Engines.” Since that time, the phrase has evolved as more and more females join the competition. Now it’s simply: “Drivers, Start Your Engines.”

Each of us are driving on a track — round and around and around we go. The challenge we face is to figure out how to travel safely and set a speed that we are comfortable with. Maybe going fastest isn’t the right choice for me — or you. Maybe slowing down a bit, taking in the scenery during time on pit row, and watching a robin build a nest is a better choice for my spirit. Only you know how to maneuver your own million-dollar machine around your own personal track.

In a few days, Roger Penske — the owner who purchased the Speedway a few years ago — will utter those famous words … “Drivers, Start Your Engines.” I’ll be cheering for Marco, as I do every year. I’d like to see him cross the finish line first … but what’s really important to the Andretti team and family — and me — is that he crosses it safely, in his time, with his machine intact!

Whether you sit on the Pole or back in the cluster of 33 drivers that begin the race when the Green Flag waves, only you can decide the best way to navigate the track, when to go into Pit Row, and how you will finish your own personal Indy 500 race.

Dedicated to Jeff Carmichael.