Cindy Hval

The crowd at Big Daddy's was boisterous. In the dim light of the South Hill bowling alley, excited teens and young adults hunted for the right bowling balls while others devoured pizza. It could have been any youth group outing, but this group was unique. This was the monthly activity for Capernaum, a Young Life group for those with special needs. Young Life is a nondenominational Christian organization committed to improving kids' lives and preparing them for the future. Three years ago, volunteer Jon VanAnrooy introduced Capernaum to the Spokane area.

While most teens are juggling iPods, cell phones and laptops, students at Riverside High School have discovered a passion for an old-fashioned activity. Spanish teacher Patricia Bowsher attended the Coeur d'Alene Juggling Festival with her husband last summer. As she watched the crowds enthralled by the performers' dexterity and creativity, she immediately saw a way to capture the attention of restless teens.

Carefully I pulled on sheer black pantyhose and slid my feet into sensible, low-heeled pumps. I fastened my tiny pearl earrings with trembling hands as a bout of coughing assailed me. I shrugged my shoulders into a tasteful herringbone jacket and checked my makeup one last time. Was this lipstick too dark? I frantically dabbed more powder under my eyes, hoping to conceal the dark circles. I hadn't slept well.

I have a dream. That is, I'd like to have a dream.

Charlie Parsons, 80, has spent a lot of time in jail. But it was by choice.

Most people are glad to see the winter snow melt. Not me. Our lawn looked lovely under its pristine blanket of snow. But that which lies beneath makes me shudder. The first sunny day in March found me on our front porch, surveying our attempts at landscaping.

In third grade Kirby Hanson gave me a valentine with a picture of a fuzzy lamb that said, "I love ewe." He'd carefully printed, "I really do," and surrounded his name with X's and O's. My heart pounded; my cheeks reddened. I sat at my desk undone by true love.

When my husband pointed out the red circle with a slash through it on my forehead, I was puzzled. Peering into the mirror, I saw an imprint that looked vaguely like a "no forehead" sign. Then I remembered.

I wish I could avoid the second week of December. I should start mentally preparing myself after Thanksgiving, but I don't. Like a root canal or gynecological appointment, I prefer not to think about it until I absolutely have to. Sometime during that week, Derek and I will have to attend at least one school Christmas concert. I guess we're bad parents. We loathe school concerts. It wasn't always this way. When our eldest child was 4, we attended our first holiday concert at his preschool. It was delightful. The children were adorable, but none as precious as our own darling boy.

Sometimes, as I drift off to sleep, I find myself thinking about appliances. Around midnight, my house isn't silent. The steady thumping of jeans being tossed in the dryer pounds out a monotonous rhythm.

Every child needs a safe place, a sanctuary to run to, a world in which to escape the powerlessness of childhood. My dad was in the military, so we moved a lot. I attended four different elementary schools.

This writer isn't sad to see summer go. Summer's end means an end to camping season. I am an anomaly in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with lakes around every bend in the road.

I crave quiet. I feel starved for silence; like an Atkins dieter in a bakery, it's the one thing I long for but am constantly denied. My husband and I have four sons. They don't even sleep quietly. I've got two who snore and two who wake up talking, fall asleep talking and continue to chatter while they slumber. My day is filled with noise – the din of TV, games and computer mixed with the general hubbub of male rowdiness. I'd love to hear civilized conversations instead of belching competitions.