Hello 2009.

Here we are. The swill of January upon us.

Changing the calender, especially from last year, has offered a breath of hope— the inhale of goodness, a cleansing exhale, refreshed for whatever is next.

I don't know about you, but I've always thought that song "Auld Lang Syne" sounds terribly sad. The festivities of New Year's party horns belie that melancholy, tinny horn we hear in that song's traditional rendition. While there is joy for so many during the holiday season, simultaneously others are kept company by sadness and ache, like bruised fruit, especially when something—or rather someone—is missing. And when the world changes the current year, time suddenly contains a cruel distance, too.

This year is going to be really special for The Kyrie Foundation. We've met so many new people in the last year who have jumped on board and offered their help that 2009 is marked for even more success (hey! we still need volunteers & ideas, though. plenty of room for more help!). I know that there will be lots of opportunities to introduce Kyrie and the foundation to new people, which is super-great, but recently, there has been a nagging fret that pangs when I say "2009." That's because when I tell someone about Kyrie's story, I tell them about what happened in 2007. Now that we're in 2009 and especially since the foundation is growing so well (thanks to you!), there's an assumption that everything's okay. That we're all excited and happy--huzzah!

The thing is okay, excited and happy are all relative states. We're okay except for the giant, gaping pothole in all of our hearts. We're excited to be a part of curing this unfair & vicious disease. We're happy that someday, we all will be in a place where cancer doesn't even exist.

At the Wichita Baby Fare last year, a woman came up to our booth and asked us how we had the courage to do this, to take on all this work and live with the idea of babies fighting brain cancer every day. That notion had never occurred to me. She went on to share that she lost a daughter 12 years ago to pediatric brain cancer, and we could clearly see that for her heart 12 years ago was the same as today. Just like how 2 years ago is the same as today for us. Time doesn't heal all wounds. In some cases, time just allows you to develop a new level of pain tolerance.

With all of that in our gullet, I still feel a bubbling of determination when looking forward to the strides that we—all of us, including you, our dear reader—are going to make on behalf of children everywhere this year. Hello, 2009. I'd like you to meet The Kyrie Foundation.