I have a precious friend who should have received Mother of the Year every year for the last twenty. She's pushing seventy and has a house full of bright and energetic teenagers. I know, I know, it's biologically improbable. Truth is, when her biological children all reached adulthood, they adopted. And they didn't take the easy route, they adopted abused children and crack babies.

I've found myself a bit jealous here lately. Our home has been very quiet the last week and a half. Becky left for college not long after Dad passed away and well, the nest is . . . you know.

So far I don't care for it. First of the day's, rare now, are long distance. There's no piano music and no soft singing. The cat doesn't love me the way it loved Becky.

They say this is a transition, a new phase of life and we will get used to it and will even enjoy it. I don't know. Dad and I seem to be getting on each other's nerves a lot lately. Old familiar places and faces, especially church, push my buttons. It's almost like a heavy fog where you can't see what's around you or what direction you're going.

To that I'm just glad I've got a compass, better yet, an autopilot. I think the best thing I can do is just let God set the cruise control and sit back for the ride, albeit bumpy.