How does it happen so quickly? Just a few short memories ago, Andy was a big-eyed four-year old showing me his favorite red truck. In an hour, he’ll arrive with a new show-and-tell: a fiance named Nichelle. I don’t remember watching him cross the line from child to adult …
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So … I’m not supposed to do anything. Anything. At least that’s what it sounded like when my doctor said, “I want you inactive until I see you again next week.” Apparently I will jeopardize my healing if I lick a stamp, or comb my hair, or make a batch
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I was seven that summer morning between first and second grade when I had my first taste of wooing. Danny was a quiet classmate, someone I’d smiled at once or twice and shared my reading book with on a half-dozen occasions when he couldn’t find his own. Sometimes that’s all
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In anticipation of the surgery I had this week (to remove a spot of cancer on my cheek) — and the scar to come — my dear friend, Cathy Rich, wrote to encourage me. One of things she said was, “I love scars.” Just as simple as that. But when
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Look at that. See those tiny, frothy butter bubbles? Hot out of the oven. And the hardest part of this recipe is pushing the “on” button on the blender … that’s always so exhausting. You just can’t go wrong with this recipe. It’s my go-to whenever we have overnight guests,
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Like the title? That’s what my grandmother, Micky, used to call this soup. The only thing is, the little package of smoked ham hocks I bought for this put me back $7.00, so I’m not so sure it applies any more. Maybe we should call it “Doing Okay if I Can Afford $7 for Ham Hocks” Soup.
I had a hankering for this yesterday. And yes, that’s something else Grandma taught me.
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“Hi, Mom,” I hear. A man’s voice, and not my son’s, comes crackling through the phone.
I scooch up higher in bed, hoping the extra few inches will land me in that elusive current of “Yes, I can hear you now.” It works.
We’d spoken earlier in the day, when his father and I had walked together down a long gray strip in a tunnel of sun-flecked firs. He’d sounded cranky then. Bible college has its moments.
“Sorry about earlier,” he tells me now. “There’s a lot of warfare down here. I didn’t mean to be so crabby.”
Warfare. Like migrating birds and winds and well-wishes, warfare honors no borders. Its arms are long and unhindered, its claws hungry for flesh.
We swap war stories for a minute. And then my boy begins ministering to me …
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A long time ago — long before I’d begun acquiring my people — I acquired this fancy little gadget, which my friend ordered from a man in Philadelphia who was handy at carving fancy little gadgets. I think she ordered one for me so I would stop badgering her into baking me batches and batches of my at-the-time most favorite dessert: Pecan Tassies. Lois looked relieved when she shoved her gift across the table toward me. “And here’s the recipe,” she added. Despite the period at the end of her sentence, I couldn’t help but hear the unspoken, “Now, quit bugging me.” We’re still friends. But I’ve had to make my own Pecan Tassies ever since.
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In those early days, when I came to the realization that the God of Sunday actually lived and breathed and beckoned for me all the other days of the week as well, and I fell into those warm arms and whispered, “Not just my Savior, but now my Lord,” I reached for His love letter and began to read. I read as though the pages were bread, and I, a starving woman …
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Well … what follows is the post I started on Thursday morning, just a few hours before a ridiculous flu bug hit our house. I got it first, followed by Dave, and now Tera has it. Not sure if any of the three of us will make tonight’s New Year’s
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Katie is six. Her hair is white-blonde, and she’s missing four front teeth. I barely know the child; after all, I’ve only been in the house three minutes, and this is only the second time I’ve seen my cousin’s daughter. But I know already that I’m about to be delighted.
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