"Hello, Laura? You have a delivery at the reception desk." I got the voicemail just after I returned from picking up my t-shirt and bib for Saturday's run...I am running for the American Family Team, which was a handy way to have my race packet delivered to me at work, instead of having to go and pick it up myself. I deleted the message, knowing I had just picked up what had been delivered.

The receptionist called again, and I inquired if this was regarding the t-shirt I just picked up, and she replied, "NO! IT'S THE MOST BEAUTIFUL ORCHID!" I think I sprinted all the way downstairs. I knew it wouldn't be from Nick—not that Nick isn't the best sort of man who buys me flowers, because he is...he just likes to give them in person. The plant is really tall, and it was awkward bringing it back up to my desk. I opened the card quickly, knowing it had to be someone who's known me a long, long time because the name scribbled across the envelope was Laura Kittleson Phillips.

And sure enough, the nicest card with the sweetest note was from none other than the Gehrke Family, the family my father knew as neighbors while growing up, and the family that lost one of theirs to liver cancer mere months after my family lost Mom. Geraldine wrote that she's wanted to get me an orchid for a long time and that she hopes it blooms for a long time to come...that she and the entire family love me.

It was such and out-of-the blue gift that I'll admit I teared up instantly and the emotion clogged at the bottom of my throat. The instruction sheet says it is one of the easiest to maintain orchids, and it blooms twice a year, with blossoms lasting 2-4 months. It's beautiful, it truly is. Between the weak light last night and this morning, I haven't been able to get a picture that does it justice...so, I edited one of the poorly tinted shots in Photoshop (above).

I am just so touched, and I've been working on drafts for my thank you note...finding the words that express how truly lovely the gift made me feel. If you, in your daily lives, have a thought of someone cross your mind, perhaps someone you don't talk with all that often, don't see all that often, send a trinket or even a note. It will make their day.

I don't know that it's all that well documented here, but I love the music of Norah Jones. How do you dissect something you cannot explain? How do you prove a feeling that originates from a place you can't quite put your finger on? It is quite difficult to go on and on and on about something you truly love, because how can you elaborate on something that doesn't become, but just...is?

From the very first time I heard her sing on Come Away With Me, I've been a fan. It is a sort of enjoyment that causes me to languish lazily on the bed, my toes curling into the fluffy down of the duvet, simply loving to feel. I find it the most hypnotic, sensual, spiritual, and soulful sound I've yet to experience, and I know that until the day I die, I will never forget the rush of the first time I heard Norah Jones sing live.

Last Saturday, the darkened hall gave the eerie chill of a moonless midnight, the crickets quieted and the grasses still. Then, a lavender mist rose from nothingness and the sweetest voice chased the chill away, yet leaving still the hair of my arms on end and my heart trembling. Met with a deluge of emotion, I felt the scorching tears streak my face and reveal my passion for all to see.

I tried to get out of the 8K last year, and Nick would have none of it. I stressed over it in all the days leading up to that last Saturday in April because, well, I don't really know why to be honest with you. I just didn't much care to see how poorly I ran five miles, I guess. But, last year, with less than a month of outdoor running on my experience belt, I didn't do half bad. I was exhilarated after the run and felt great.

This year, I begged again that Nick let me do the walk portion of the event, and again he would have none of it. He knew I was feeling rotten about my physical fitness after what accumulated to be about eight months of down time with last year's surgeries, recoveries, and pain. I gave him a lot of whining, a lot of dragging feet, and, again, a lot of anxiety.

And the race started. It was much hotter this year than last, and the thermal underthings were a very bad idea. (I beelined it to the bathroom to strip them off moments after completing the course.) The four of us lined up—Jeff, Tom, Nick, and myself—and we fist pumped each other with a motivational speech not to beat last year's time, not to beat each other, but just to finish the darn thing. It's been a slow physical year for all of us, apparently, as we all crossed the finish line about six minutes slower than last year—except Nick who beat his last year's time by six. (GO NICK!) I should have felt really lousy, but oddly enough, I was just as exhilarated after the run and felt just as great.

So, I pledged to a very grateful Nick, that I won't get all pouty and anxious next year. I had a year that wasn't too shabby, and one that wasn't too great, and I enjoyed both. Give it another month, and I'm confident that Nick will quit saying, "I told you so."