Ode to Spaghetti Sauce

Once upon a great time, Emeril made a spaghetti sauce called Roasted Garlic - BAM!

The family loved it, raising their plates and licking the last flavorful noodle.

Then one day a famine hit the happy household because, lo - the sauce could not be found.

The beautiful and adoring queen tried everything.  She searched the land near and far, but alas, the sauce was no more.

Until one day, she - always the heroine - discovered the recipe on a strange and addicting site entitiled Google.

She was estastic, stretching her toned and tanned legs as she danced in circles, for she had fulfilled her latest wish of keeping her fairy tale loved ones in gaga land.

The first year the sauce was a success.  All was purchased at the nearest mega market and everything was great in the kingdom.

The next year the queen eyed some lovely tomatoes in a far away land called Tennessee and knew what she must do. 

The end.

Because they all lived happily ever after is what is suppossed to come next.

Yeah, right.

Y'all know I like humor blogs - they are my favorite.

So, before you start to think that maybe I did this intentionally so I could write a long needed humor post- please think again.

This, my cyber friends . . .

Is. Humor. On. A. Vacation.

Check back tomorrow - there's a strange twist to this spaghetti tale - you won't want to miss it.

I Do Not Belong In the Kitchen

I brought eighty-three pounds of tomatoes home from TN. 

In. A. Birdcage.

This is the back of my car on the trip home.

This is making spaghetti sauce by myself.

I needed one of two things.

My daughter, Shelby, who never would have let this happen.

Or . . .

My friend, Donna, who would have laughed uncontrollable - and never would have let it happen.

I do not belong in the kitchen.

Y'all have a good day, 'k?

I think about how I thought my world had come crashing to an end in 1982 when he boarded a plane to serve and how it only jump started with each letter and phone call and leave.  And then how we drifted and it died.

I think of my one and how he drove all night for her when they drifted and how we would not have drifted and have not and how together now we must remember. 

We must remember young love. 

We must reach back into the recesses of our minds and recall.

How patience must now become our virtue because time takes wings for all those except young and in love and apart.

His Silence Only Means He Loves Me

He will read me here today.  Sometime in the heat of the day with the calluses on his hands that belong in wood and on the small of my back he will wipe the sweat from his forehead and go to me here and read me. 

He will know I am sorry for while he sat husking and silking and silent I went on and on and knew to shut up but wouldn't and his silence only meant he loves me.

He will not say things he can't take back he will not receive blame and in return give blame and why does he even put up with me?

And now I have lost the circle of gold that I should not have put there and cry while alone and his silence only means he loves me.

He will find me here today and know I am sorry and find me in silence tonight and his silence only means he loves me.

Wouldn't that be fun?

I'm home.

This is where I have been.

I stood on this spot and prayed for you, my blogger friend.  Tuesday evening.

Some of you are close and dear friends to me.  Some of you I unfortunately will never have the joy of meeting.

There is a connection to you all.

How I wish I could sit in a room with y'all and put my feet up and share a cup of tea - or fountain coke - and become one with each of you as we share what keeps our hearts beating.

Wouldn't that be fun?

I prayed for each of you, whoever and wherever you are. 

 I hope you felt it. 

I know it was heard.

One Thousand Gifts . . .

I left him yesterday after touching his unshaven face, cupping it in my hands and kissing the lips that belong to me as much as my own do.

I drove my children away on Father's Day with cards of love on the kitchen counter.

A six day trip without my heart . . .

because I leave it behind whenever I go without him.

My list continues . . .

his unshaven face

his wink

his prayers with Max at night

his ticklefest with Izzy

diet teas in the fridge

peanut butter and crackers

the ring he has never taken off

skin on skin

cell phones

forgiveness

I'm eight hours away with fifteen minutes on the computer.

Maybe that's a good thing - the computer time - because with more time my 1000 gifts could all be about the man I love.

Happy Daddy's Day, my love, I miss you.

My heart - he'll take good care of it.

My list, #101-110.

my daddy

I love my daddy.  Being a daddy's girl was always my job. 

Daddy had a favorite joke he told me when I was a little girl about an Indian, a doctor, and a teepee.  This joke has one not so nice word in it and when I was in the third grade I told it to my teacher and class.


If I try hard I can still hear Daddy's laughter loud and strong when I did that.

Daddy has been sick some lately and doesn't have the energy he did before this illness attacked his body.  But his spirit is the same.  Just today on my front porch, which is mine because of his and mama's love, he did that little wave of the hand and roll of the eye and sound from the throat he does when he talks about someone and how they ain't got no sense.  His eyes, red from the attack of this still unnamed disease, had the same gleam in them they have always had. 

With time all of us grow old.  But when I look at my daddy I don't see age.  I see the man who fell in love with my mother and gave up all possibilities of another kind of life to be the first man in the life of my sisters and me. 

The man who could never bear to spank us, so he didn't. 

The man who became caught in the middle of my teenage rebellion with my mama.

The man who stayed up all night with me after a hard day of work because my eyes were as big as quarters.

I see a daddy who allowed my mama to stay home and raise us.  I'm sure sometimes he may think she raised us alone, but the power to keep us in her loving presence came from him. 

That is a power born of love. 

I always knew my daddy would come home at night.  I always knew he would face the difficulties of life with us five girls in the forefront of his heart. 

His words are few.  Sentiment has creeped in as age has creeped up on him and lately he feels the need to love us more.  But that's not possible, we have never felt unloved and have always felt love at its best.

His actions that began forty-seven years ago have spoken louder than words screamed from a mountain top ever could have.

Below are pictures of my daddy and tributes from my three sisters.

From Janice -

My daddy is basically a quiet man. He isn't much for "small talk." He left most of the day-to-day training and disciplining of us four girls to Mama. I don't think he ever spanked me (something which cannot be said of my mother!). He wasn't (isn't) the kissy-huggy type. Yet I have always known, without a doubt, that he loved me and was proud of me. How did I know?

1. Every morning Daddy got up and went to work. I am sure there were times that he would have liked to sleep in or lounge around or simply quit because things hadn't gone the way he wanted them to. But he was of that strange generation that thought a man's responsibility to his family was greater than his personal whims or desires. And, because of that, I always had good food, clothes and shoes that fit, a warm place to sleep, and several Barbie dolls. What more could a little girl want?

2. Every evening Daddy came home. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He liked us. He wanted to be around us. If he got tired of all the femininity, he just went out and walked in his garden. But even then, we sometimes followed him. After all, we liked him, too.

3. Daddy made me mow the lawn and shell butterbeans. He instilled in me a good work ethic not only with his example, but also with the chores he expected me to do at home. Our yard was big, and there were a lot of butterbeans. But I didn't have to do any of it alone. He was always there to help.

4. Daddy thought I was smarter than I was. He thought I could learn my multiplication tables in one afternoon. (Took two years.) He thought I could write computer programs after only one semester of Basic. (I can't even work our new word processing program.) He thought I could make straight A's in college. (Let's just say that I didn't and leave it at that, okay?) He thought I could learn to drive in one afternoon. (He had Mama sign me up for Driver's Ed.) I couldn't do any of those things. But it was certainly nice to know that someone thought I could. And it make me try harder.

5. Daddy was baptized with me. There is just something about standing in those waters with your daddy that ties a bond that cannot be untied. We walked home together, and I felt like I was walking on a cloud.

There are more memories, and they are all good. He stuck up for me when I wanted to extend my curfew. He co-signed my student loan. He bought me toys and took me to the dentist and paid for youth trips, even if he had to do without himself. Until this past year when his health started getting bad, he would call me from work just to talk, even though I know he hates talking on the phone.

When my children were young, I wrote a short skit about my husband trying to watch TV. One by one, the three (now we have four) children entered the room, sat down in front of the TV, and "watched" the show with Daddy. Of course, in the end Stephen couldn't actually enjoy the movie because of all the questions, comments, and non-transparent bodies. I ran across it a few months ago while looking for something else. (If I had actually been looking for it, I would never have found it.) It really is funny, not because I am such a great writer, but because it was so true to our lives then.

As I read that skit, I thought back to my high school years and Star Trek. I loved that show. My daddy didn't. However, he didn't care if I watched it, except. . . Star Trek came on from 5:00 to 6:00. The news came on at 5:30. We only had one TV. Daddy liked to watch the news on that one TV while eating supper. Need I say more? Many a night he sat in his chair and watched Dr. Spock and Capt. Kirk while wondering why they didn't give kids more homework so their dads could watch the news. Oh, sometimes Mama would step in and say that I had to let Daddy have the TV. (I don't think she really cared for the voyages of the Enterprise, either. After all, they were all re-runs that I had seen before, anyway.) But, on the whole, he didn't complain too much. I think, deep down, he grew fond of the crew of the USS Enterprise and their ten-year mission. At least, he grew fond of laughing at them.

He had already had practice years before--when Mr. Rogers Neighborhood came on during the evening news. Then, he would come home to see both Marie and me lying on the living room floor, with no hope of homework. So, Daddy, which was better--flying spacecrafts or talking animal puppets? I'm just curious.

In some ways I take after you, Daddy. (Of course, we all know that. Mama used to say it was why I sometimes exasperated her so much!) I'm a quiet person, too. I'm not really the huggy/kissy type, and I don't like to talk on the phone. I hope I take after you in other ways, too. I hope I put my family first, before myself. I know I had rather be with them than anyone else. I try to be thrifty and hard-working. I want to think the best of others and encourage them to be the best they can be. All of these things I learned from you. I love you, Daddy. I hope you know that and never forget it.

Your oldest daughter and the one with the most common sense,
Janice

From Penny -
Dear Daddy,

Let me warn you before this letter begins, that it may be quite lengthy and it will probably be filled with stories that you do not even remember. I have such odd memories of you and my childhood, not odd in a bad way. I love each and every one of them. But, as you read them you may think, “What a strange thing to remember”. Over the years as I have shared them with my children they have often said the same thing. Of course, they love the stories that I tell them about my childhood. I guess all children do. It helps them to realize that their parents really are human, that they haven’t always been adults.

For example, I can remember after Ma died when I read one of your letters to Ma and Pa while you were in the service. You thanked Ma for sending you a birthday gift, but told her that you didn’t get to open it. Someone had stolen it out of the car before you had a chance to even see what it was. I cried. I saw you in my mind’s eye as a skinny boy from a small town in a foreign country with no birthday present. I could imagine how sad and upset Ma would have been, knowing that she couldn’t afford to send you another present. In that moment I became very protective of that young man who would one day become my daddy. I wanted to go back in time and send you another present. My daddy was sad, homesick, and without a present.

That wasn’t the first time I saw you as “human” and not just “super parent”. The first time was when I was in high school. I remember how bad I begged you for a car. “Everyone has one, why won’t you buy me one?” I know I said those things over and over to you. I remember one evening you started to cry. I had never seen you cry before. You told me that you were sorry that you couldn’t afford to buy me a car like everybody else’s dad. I felt so bad. I had been so selfish. In my mind, you could do anything. I had never thought that maybe you wanted to buy me a car, but couldn’t. I also remember that it wasn’t very long before you got me one. I treasured that used Volvo because I knew that my daddy had sacrificed for me to get it.

Sacrifice. That is the first word that comes to mind when I think of you, Daddy.

Hard working. That is the second word to describe you. I can only remember one time growing up that you missed work. I also remember that in the spring and summer you would come home from work and spend hours in the garden. Of course, I didn’t appreciate it at the time because it meant I had to shell beans and peas (which I hated) but I knew you were working hard.

Do you remember how you use to be in the garden tilling and I would “sneak” up behind you? I would think you didn’t know I was there walking in the footsteps you left behind. I remember one time how your steps began to be bigger and bigger and farther and farther apart. I remember starting to jump from one footprint to the other, trying so hard to keep up with you. Then, suddenly, you stopped and turned around and laughed at me. You had been playing a game with me. I bet I have told my children that story a hundred times (like the one you told us every time we drove past Trickum store).

I could go on and on about memories like Sanford and Son after the news each night, Hank Williams records playing while you slept on the couch, and milk and bread before you went to bed. But, I won’t. I know this is getting long and I have one more memory to share. I don’t exactly remember the first time that I heard this from you. It was such a part of you that I have always known it.

“We had better support Israel, because if we don’t, we are in trouble. God says he will bless those who bless Israel and curse those who don’t.”

I have learned lots of things from you over the 38 years of being your daughter. Important things such as it is not a wise decision to dump the supper scraps inside your daughter’s tomato cage that sits inside her pretty ring of flowers. The dogs will tear the flowers up and knock down the tomato plant trying to get to the scraps. Important lesson.  But the most important one was about Israel. How fitting that the most important and most frequent memory I have of my earthly father is one that involves my heavenly father.

You may sometimes think that you were a bad father. I know I think I am a bad mother all the time. But, you were not. I always knew you were there. You came home every night. You were a steady, secure fixture in my childhood. I believe that I was so easily able to except the Father’s love because I had experienced my Daddy’s love.

The other day we were together praying after Bible time before Chris left for work. One of the children wanted all of us to pray out loud. That morning, as Jonathan started his prayer, the first words that came out of his mouth were…”Bless Israel and take care of the Israelites.” I sat there and thought about you. I rarely think of Israel without thinking about you. But that morning I thought about your legacy. You didn’t set out to leave this legacy. You probably didn’t even realize you did. But you have. Your grandson knows the importance of following the Lord in part from your example.

Legacy. That is my last word for you. Legacy.

How proud I am to be a part of that legacy. Penny Donald. Your daughter. Your legacy.

From Wendy -

Growing up I remember the needlepoint picture hanging in yours and mama's room which said, "A father is someone you look up to no matter how tall you grow." (I think Janice or Marie made the picture). When I was little I thought the phrase meant that I looked up to you because you were so tall! As I grew, I learned the true meaning of the phrase. No matter what happens, where I go or how old I get, you will always be someone that I will look up to.

I know at times you have wished that you had more to give us when we were growing up. I wish that you could truly understand that you have given me everything. I look around at some of the relationships my friends have with their parents and I realize how truly blessed I am. Daddy, you gave me a loving home - not a house or shelter, but a home. You showed me that family comes first. You dragged yourself to my terrible choral music concerts when I was in junior high even when I knew you would rather be sitting in your recliner reading the newspaper after a long day in the open pit mine. You even tried to teach me how to fish, but I just couldn't put a hook through those tiny little worms!

About a year ago, a co-worker asked me where I got my work ethic from and why I was so dedicated to my job. Before I even had time to think, I blurted out "my daddy." You taught me to work hard and to try not to complain. You taught me to always do my best. You taught me early on that the world isn't always fair, but that doesn't mean you don't keep your eye on the ball and work hard. (Trust me, this one lesson has been so helpful in the workplace!). You also taught me to never become a lazy employee, but to always go above and beyond what is required from me by helping others. You taught me these things not by necessarily sitting me down and telling me, but by being a role model. I saw how you lived your life and I wanted to live mine the same way. I hope you understand just how much you mean to me and how much I love and respect you!

Love,
Wendy

When age creeps up on me and I'm at the end of my life I will still be Pete's little girl.  With eyes as big as quarters because I'm thinking about my daddy . . .

the greatest man I've ever known.

Continue at Your Own Risk

Continue at your own risk.

The photos below will cause eye pain and may lead to permanent damage.

If you look closely there is much dust and the dinner dishes are from last night.  It is now almost ten tonight and they still sit there.

That's Bible School week at our house.

No, I'm not embarrassed.

Ahem.

Should I be?

You Should Be Proud

She walks up to me and tells me Delia is so good at this.  How proud of her I should be. 

Do I have room for any more pride?  I fight the urge to ask why. 

She tells me I have good kids.

I tell her I know.  But I'm not sure how it happened.

We both laugh.

I fail and ask her - Why?

She says because Delia loves them, it is obvious, she says.  I should be proud, she says again.

This world needs teachers that love their students.  Teachers that have a heart for the love of God the students need in their hearts.

Delia plans and talks to me and I see it in her eyes.  The concern for the little girl that did not come back today.  The confusion about the child who checks both the yes and the no box.  The sadness for the child that did not get to come at all.  The grief for the parents that do not understand.

She gives them fun and learning entertwined with the example of Jesus.

I tell this lady I am proud - of Delia's past, her present, and her future.

What the Word? Wednesday

Instead of a word today, I'm sharing a video made at my friend Donna's house yesterday of Maxster learning to swim.

It's a brave new world for you, my son. 

And you are a brave little boy. 

Wasn't it a grand day and a grand way to spend it?  Not the least being grand friends.




You're almost there.

One Thousand Gifts . . .

Saturday night and I crawl into bed and not an inch is free from pain.  The soreness of the week's preparing, the soaking of the heat advisory sun shining on back to back four ballgames to a tournament placing of second.  The putting up of vegetables all in between and the sleepless nights of wondering how to get it all done and planning and seeking strength and prepare their hearts and hold me up and remind me, Lord.

My list continues . . .

three pillows

darkness

leftovers

sunshades

ponytails

icechests

sunscreen

momentary clouds

promise of more

proud smiles

girls first, winning second

teammates

medals

her joy

Christmas lights

fabric remnants

fishing line

imagination

helping hands

encouraging words

piglets

strawberry cake

a delivered drink

rain

corn from a friend

stolen moments

stolen kisses

all of these with a bow on top in the form of a partner and friend.  Her struggling with me soaking in the joy and accomplishment of hard work.  Balance and acceptance and love and forgiveness and patience and watermelon.  I'm left and she's right.

Two Hundred and Twenty-Five children.

One hundred and five workers and friends.

The promise of more.

The promise of salvation.

My list, # 69-100.

This is what I really want to say to my babes turning women, slowly as each day's sun rises and sets.

But faster than the moments blink by and now they no longer fit in the swell of my breast or the crook of my arm.  No longer hinged to my hip.

There are no expectations.  There are no disappointments. 

There are no dreams that are not your dreams, for they are my dreams.

There is only love. 

And that is all there is.

What the Word? Wednesday

It's What the Word? Wednesday time again. 

My, time flies.

You get the word and then an extra treat - a song.  I told you Maxster likes to sing.





A little hint, believe me, lou need one.

It has nothing to do with Barney.  It is one word and starts with N and ends with n.

Comment all guesses and check back here tomorrow - same time, same place - for the answer.  Don't forget, I'll hold all comments till the end of the day.


Aunt Janice got it - Neosporin.  He had a bobo or two and it took a few minutes to figure out what he wanted, so, of course, it became a What the Word.

Janice - it must be a TeeTexasTot thing.

The Happy Birthday Candle

When Izzy had her birthday party a week or so ago, we tried a new candle out.

The Happy Birthday Candle, found here.

It was a hit - see for yourself.



Cute, really cute.

This is an absolute must read hear for today.  Beautiful.  Disciplining.

Right here, listen - and be blessed.

One Thousand Gifts . . .

The final  work on VBS has begun.  The moments I can't turn my mind off, the forgotten or undiscovered ideas that dance around as the clock chimes quietly and then loudly away - countdown.

He patiently listens, we argue a little, finish each other's sentences alot. 

This man understands me.  He understands the color ideas, the placement ideas, that it must be different - and memorable.

He understands my heart needs them to know the what and the why - and the Who - how they must understand the Who.

He understands I love them all.  Each one, every age, every color.

He understands this is my time, my gift, and my blessing.

My work.

I pray, more.

I wonder and wonder some more . . .

My list continues . . .

callings

pencil behind his ear

dirty gym floors

salvaged paint

recycled anything

the smell of wood

paintbrush in his hand

patient darlins'

fountain cokes

grin on his face

the "I know . . ." 's

blunders

light in his eye

opague projectors

second chance T-shirts

his visions

His vision


My List, #52-68.

I Will Not Deny My Father His Work Accomplished

It is one o'clock in the morning and I sit here with a ham sandwich, glass of milk, and my Bible.  I don't know which hurt is worse, my eyes or my heart.

I was accused today of being unkind.  Of not showing compassion and love.  Of maybe even being the cause of someone succumbing to the end of their life earlier because of my treatment to them.

It is not true, in this situation it is the exact opposite.  But oh, how the evil one is using the words and actions of someone who is being decieved to tempt me with sin and shame.  How he is trying to get in between my God and me.

All of my imperfections have taken the form of the demons they are and are swirling around me now with knives and pitchforks - attempting to disfigure or destroy my belief in myself.  And that belief is always weak enough, to say the least.

When I search my heart it is a nasty place. There is no doubt about that . . .

But it is not full of unkindness or a lack of compassion and love.

This particular problem has been trying to take me down for years and as diligently as I search, I hold no blame.

When I was a little girl, not more than five, we lived in a trailer and across the street there was work being done on an empty lot.  There were piles of red dirt that my sister and I were playing on.  A new little girl, Becky, had moved in and we were playing with her for the first time.  She picked up a clod of red dirt and threw it directly into my eye.

I only have five memories of my time in that home.  All five of those are my earliest memories and each has its own obvious reason why it has stayed with me.

I remember sitting on the toilet in the bathroom while Mama cleaned the dirt out of my eye.  I remember the pain.  I remember crying and asking why.  I even remember asking why she threw it in my eye and not my sister's.  We were just playing, I had done nothing to Becky - I didn't even know her.

Mama imparted words of wisdom to me that day.  I can't remember the exact words, nor do I need to.  She gently informed me that in my life there would always be people that do not like me.  They wouldn't need a reason - they would create their own.

She then marched herself to Becky's trailer and took down her Mama.  In so many words.

Does God require me to deny myself for the sake of someone else? Will I be more Godly if I give in?

If I am assertive am I compromising my Christian beliefs and behavior?

Those questions are with me.  The answer to them would vary with the situation, I'm sure.  I am also sure I will be disliked and blamed in the times the answers are no. I'm also sure I will get it wrong, many times.

I'm still searching, desperately wanting to make right a wrong.  But this one is out of my hands. 

I can only correct my wrong, not someone else's.

The list would be long and my shame would explode your minds if I listed all my wrongs and the one's those wrongs were aimed at.  I can already feel the tears sting that I will shed on Judgement Day.

In James, chapter 5, we are told that God will judge us.

. . . For look! The great judge is coming. He is standing at the door.

If someone accuses me of being something other than the way God views me, whose opinion do I value?

Instead of words that can be considered prideful, I know some may think that I should be admitting more to the ugly sin drenched wretched soul that I am.  I am that.  I am that.  Shame and blame are seconds skins to me, but not now. Not with this.

My heavenly Father has done and is continuing to do much work in me.  My old self is dying to my new self - each and every day it begins its process anew.  I am willing.

But . . .

I am not willing to deny work my Father has already done in me.  I will not deny Him the glory He deserves. 

I have enough sin and ugliness and will not own something that is not mine.

Of course I can be unkind and unloving.  Of course what I deserve is death and eternal punishment and seperation.  But He has rescued me from that, and this- this sin you accuse me of, is not my guilt to bear.

Mama, Becky, and the dirt clod.  A hard lesson to learn and even harder to bear through life.

I value your opinion. 

How do you avoid carrying another person's sin when it is dumped at your feet? 

Are you enjoying the happiness granted to you by the Father when He does a good work in you? 

Or . . . 

Do you allow the devil to defeat you and deny your Father His rightful glory?

Skywriting

My God, the One and Only God - but I like to call Him mine - is good to me.

Sometimes when life has issued me a decision He gently whispers His will.  I feel a peace.

But most of the time when He whispers I am too busy drowning it out with my questions and solutions and more questions to hear Him.

There's a few things in this world I'm good at, this I am best at.

I like to picture Him in my future home, above it all, fluffing my silken pillows and sweeping my golden floors while He gently laughs at me and decides this time I need it in writing.

Maybe a skywriter will get her attention?  He laughs.

Today was one of those times. 

It's not an easy feat to get my attention.  I am always right, I talk too much, and I am way too Pollyanna about how the world should be.

Last night as I closed my eyes the weight of a serious decison that not only will effect He's Too Good To Me and myself, but our youngest two darlins' as well, was stabbing at my brain and heart, demanding front and center attention.

As I stretched in bed this morning, wondering why it was morning, it stabbed again.

This decision has been needing to be made for years now, but I've been waiting on the plane - which is overrated - whispers are the jewels.   But if you allow the world to clog your ears, as I do, a plane He will send.

But as I said, He is good to me and my bungling brain, so . . .

He sent it in writing.

I receive a monthly newsletter from Nehemiah Ministries.  I soak them in.  Mr. Blaine Smith appears to be a man God has granted much wisdom to.  This morning there it is - Rie, trust your judgement.

Then I click onto Ann's sight and she ever so softly tells me to sacrifice this harvest so that I can produce a later crop, a more productive one.  And this writing of hers is from her archive.  Ann was deciding on what to write, or God kept her too busy to write, and His Spirit prodded her to choose this one - for me.

And there will be a sacrifice on my part, a field to harvest that has been my baby for seven years, a mingling of the things I love and am good at with service to Him - I will have to give that up, for now at least.  Pinching it off and giving it up does seem counterproductive, but His best awaits me.

Y'all - these were writings blessed from above.  Writings meant for me.

I don't know if this is His perfect timing or just the remnants of our disobedience disciplined.  But I do know what He can do with remnants.

Anyone can look at this creation and recognize God's work, imagination, and sense of humor.  But He is so much more than that.  He is in love with me and wants to passionately arouse within me a character that, although desperately unworthy, can walk by His side and know wisdom is possible.  

I'm going to go ahead and make my best choice.  I'm going to trust my judgement and the judgement of the man whose rib is closest to my heart.

I shall simply end like this, because from this moment on I'm moving on.  Often I'm all to guilty of saying to my children - we'll see.

So, we shall see.  But we shall see in faith and confidence. Because y'all -  for me, He wrote it in the sky.