Connecting the Dots of Thankfulness

I’ve noticed a lot of posts about thankfulness this month. Apropos with Thanksgiving less than two weeks away.

Today I’m thankful for June. For a house that sold after two excruciating years on a dismal market.

That saga nearly killed us. I’m thankful that by Grace it didn’t. May we remember the hard lessons learned.

I’m thankful for June when we left town on a road trip across these beautiful United States.

For our precious realtor and friend who handled the unexpected sale of our house and quickly secured another place for us to rent. I’m thankful for the blessing of a wise advisor.

June was only the beginning. It was then we first learned my husband’s employer was being acquired. I’m thankful for his job with the new company.

A new job in a new city. Where just last week, another savvy realtor helped us find another house in a mere 48 hours. One that wasn’t even on the market yet.

I’m thankful for Papa Bear who graciously gave up acreage to preserve unity with Momma Bear. May Papa Bear find joy in the negotiated concession of a healthy landscape budget.

May he go forth shopping trees, shrubs, and all good things that grow in the ground.

May our backyard be filled with the Cub’s small practice field and a slice of botanical garden, both sweeter than honeysuckle vine.

I’m thankful for nearly move-in ready.

Besides the minor detail of totally uprooting our lives, all that’s left is picking paint colors. A job I’m thankful to add to my to-dos.

Only been in the house three times. Less than an hour cumulatively. By Faith I traverse the waters of Sherwin-Williams.

We move in five weeks. Not a schedule for the faint of heart. Who knows what will happen tomorrow?

Not to worry. I’m thankful God’s strength is perfect. As is His timing.

Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful… Hebrews 12:28 NIV

God is still God and He holds it together.

What are you thankful for today?
I’d be so thankful if you would share.

Happy Veterans Day!

Today I’m also thankful for the brave men and women who’ve served in the United States military. Thank you Dad, Uncle Jon, Uncle Bill, Michael B., Joe G., Jeremy N., Cordel H., Eric B., Jeff W., Uncle O., John M., Jeff S., and the many more too numerous to name here. Freedom is not free.

Posted on November 11, 2011July 10, 2012 by Aimee 25

Not a Moo Moo

Needed pajamas for a girls’ weekend away. My comfortable, old nightgown was threadbare. The loungewear department was calling.

As I swept across the sales floor at Dillard’s pulling things to try, I spotted it. A rack of baby terry cloth by Miss Elaine. Bright colors, soft fabric. I circled back for a closer look.

There I found a slightly A-line dress. No waistline, v neck, side seam pockets, tea length hem. Modern, close fit at the top. Loose on down.

The dressing room verified my suspicions. It was comfortable. Extremely comfortable.

So I bought it along with a couple more items for my trip. It was too warm to wear the baby terry dress at the time, and it was still full price. But I couldn’t leave that caliber of comfort in the store.

I bought it dreaming of a cool fall Sunday after church, pulling on the baby terry dress and lounging around the house. Making hot chocolate or popcorn. Watching movies. All cozy and warm.

Then it occurred to me. I’m only 40. Had I just purchased my first moo moo?

To me, Miss Elaine seems like an upper end line for mature women. And baby terry cloth? No pretty young thing I know would be caught dead in tea length baby terry cloth. No PYT even knows what tea length is these days.

It’s not a moo moo, I reasoned. It’s fitted at the top for goodness sake. And it’s got a mini patch pocket.

Besides who cares if it is categorically a moo moo? It’s one of the most comfortable garments I’ve ever owned.

I heard a Bible teacher once chastise us women for seeking our own comfort. Who did we think we were to put ourselves first and care foremost about our own well-being? To choose comfort instead of sacrifice?

Rather than a call to asceticism, I think she meant for us to see our own selfishness—as if we needed to be bashed over the head with the obvious and have the sacrifices we do make heartily invalidated. We wallowed in guilt while comfort was called on the carpet.

It’s fall now. A chill nips the edges of our daytime temps. I’m sitting at my computer, wearing my baby terry dress that’s not a moo moo.

The world is spinning into chaos outside the door of my little house. The economy is stalled indefinitely. There are protesters occupying Wall Street.

Decisions are not being made. Conflicts are left unresolved. People I know are divorced or alone, hurting, sick or dead. Winter will be here soon.

God comforts us. He wouldn’t do it if we didn’t need it. Over indulgence, selfishness, and hedonism are vices for sure. But comfort? Comfort is a necessity.

All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. 2 Corinthians 1:3-4 NLT

Going classical with Comfort Ye My People from The Messiah by George Frederic Handel. Sacred prelude to the holiday season.

trio of terry

Epilogue

Recently I hit Dillard’s clearance. Picked up two more Miss Elaine baby terry dresses that are not moo moos. Only $6.20 each. All rise for the Bargainista.

Pin It

Posted on November 8, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 18

Cutting Room Floor

To edit or not to edit? That is the question.

Nothing to Read Here once wrote about how he loathes editing. Reminded me of how I used to hate it too.

Hate is such strong word. Let’s just say I was above it.

My college poetry professor stressed the importance of editing. Said we should rewrite several times before presenting a piece.

Not I, said the cat! But not aloud of course. Kept my sentiments to myself.

Edit? Rewrite? Destroy the raw emotion, the fire fueling the original choice of words, rhythm, and meaning? The less editing the better. Keeps it pure.

Oh, the drama of it all.

filmreelbymycamera,myfriend — image with permission from http://mycameramyfriend.wordpress.com/

“How long does it take you to, you know, come up with one of those stories?” said my friend the would-be stand up comedian last time I saw her.

“Depends,” I said. Nice, safe answer. But it’s true. Some posts come quickly. Others not so much.

If WordPress took note of the number of edits I make to a post before it goes live, they’d think I’m daffy.

Scratch that. It’s arguable whether I’m daffy no matter how many revisions.

I’m not sure what WordPress would think. Or what my professor would think. Or what you would think if you saw the unending stream of corrections and rewrites.

I can guess what you’re thinking now: All that, and she still manages to miss at least one typo per post!

If this were an old-school movie edit, I could adorn myself with the ringlets of film on the cutting room floor. Fashion them into a translucent wig. A Gaga dress.

I could sweep them up into a pile. Invite children to jump in them like autumn leaves, only better. No crumbling bits breaking off and sticking in socks. No hidden night crawlers or pungent cedar mulch in the mix of sterile, celluloid ribbons.

What’s left is a reduced, boiled down idea. The essence of the original, but stronger. That’s the hope anyway.

How I wish I could exercise the same discipline with the words I speak. They bolt out. They are gone and cannot be recaptured.

They wriggle and squirm. They resist careful pruning. Resist being held.

These spoken ones may combust or fizzle. They may scale heights or burrow deep in the hearts of their receivers. But they do not go willingly to the cutting room floor. If I could tame them, I could tame the world.

People can tame all kinds of animals, birds, reptiles, and fish, but no one can tame the tongue. It is restless and evil, full of deadly poison. James 3:7-8 NLT

Gwen’s back with No Doubt and Don’t Speak.

Posted on November 4, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 10

Don’t Save the Marshmallows

My mother used to tell me not to save my clothes. Go ahead and wear your best today, she’d say. Guest blogger Karla Foster explains how the same applies to the marshmallows.

Rummaging through my pantry, I came across a bag of marshmallows. I almost returned it to the back corner, but decided to bring it into the light instead.

Expiration June 2009. Oops.

Apparently, one day in 2008 I thought it might be nice to make Rice Krispies Treats. How many times since then had my hand brushed across the marshmallows looking for another ingredient?

I’d think to myself, “I should make something with these.” Then in the same breath, “No, I should save them.”

Not now. No time. Save for later. As I stared at the marshmallows now in our trash, I thought about what was missed because of my excuses.

marshmallowpillow — as seen at Good Works, www.goodworksfurniture4u.com

The marshmallows could have been a quick dessert for a family in need. A greeting to a new neighbor. A snack for a friend’s kids. Or even a sweet reward for lots of us working out at the gym.

Recently, a member of our Sunday school class entered the hospital in a life and death battle. This only gives me more pause to consider that I am not guaranteed a later. There is just today. There is just now to do what God is calling me to do.

Be holy as I am holy. Go and tell all the world. And so much more. There are kind words to share, notes of encouragement to be written, prayers to be lifted.

Why wait? And for goodness sake, don’t save the marshmallows.

Do not withhold good from those who deserve it
when it’s in your power to help them.
If you can help your neighbor now, don’t say,
“Come back tomorrow, and then I’ll help you.” Proverbs 3:27-28 NLT

The Winans’ voices are smoother than s’mores. This song is an oldie—even older than Karla’s marshmallows, but such a goodie. Take a listen now to Tomorrow.

Karla Foster and her husband Bill are dear friends of ours.

Besides teaching Bible study and apologetics classes with Bill, whipping folks into shape as an aerobics instructor, and making the occasional pan of Rice Krispies Treats, Karla enjoys a successful career in IT sales.

Oh, and she’s a Tarheel, which never hurts on this blog.

Posted on October 17, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 17

Truth or Consequences

truckhalffrontface — please park on the street

Have I mentioned my husband and I are sharing a large Ford F-150 Super Crew? Oh, yeah. That’s come up here before.

The truck and I drive carpool to school. The roads surrounding the school get packed tight with mamma-mobiles.

One day, I’m driving through the maze when another vehicle approaches. There are cars parked to the left. Cars parked to the right.

Only enough room for one of us to pass.

For those readers who live in places like North Carolina (aka the Good Roads State) where this is unimaginable, I invite you to experience St. Louis.

By the way, I live in Nelly’s ‘burb—I’m from the Loop and I’m proud. Foul language, that guy, but you can absolutely dance to the music.

Back to the story. I spy a space along the curb where I can duck my truck to let the other car pass. I’ve almost nosed into the space when I feel a soft thump.

I jump out to take a look. Oh, dear. The back end of my truck scraped the front bumper of a very nice SUV parked along the curb.

Those additional few feet or so of truck are my nemesis. My husband says I must love our bank because I keep “kissing” the guide poles at the drive-up ATM.

I don’t even feel it when it happens. I wouldn’t know it happens except for the tell-tale yellow scratch marks.

But there I was standing in front of the scrape on the very nice SUV knowing for sure who done it this time.

I docked the truck far away from all other vehicles and ran back to the scene of the crime. The owner, another parent, had returned and was pulling away from the curb. I waved for her to stop.

In the extras on Gone Baby Gone, director Ben Affleck makes a profound remark. I know you’re skeptical, but hang with me for a minute.

“The right thing is really difficult to do because it has consequences that are unpleasant oftentimes,” said Affleck. “Otherwise everyone would do it.”

The other parent hadn’t seen the scrape mark. If her husband had found it first, they would have assumed it was her fault. I could have bolted that day without admitting guilt. But people, this was a no-brainer.

Not saying I always do the right thing. And please don’t congratulate me for doing it this once. No, no, nooo. I fail. I fail. I fail. As do we all.

There was no question I hit the SUV. Needed to make it right. Golden rule. Black and white. Not a shade of gray for miles.

A little more than $800 later (told you it was a very nice SUV), you can see why Affleck’s remark is profound.

Be the person who does the right thing. Do it though it costs you. Do it even if, especially if, you’re the only one.

For the whole law can be summed up in this one command: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Galatians 5:14 NLT

Digging this new song by Jason Gray, Remind Me Who I Am.

Posted on October 14, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 7

Dead Man Walking

The man reading with my son in this picture is my Uncle Abe. He should be dead.

But he isn’t. This picture was taken in June. Abe’s still very much alive and well.

In late 2007, Abe began having chronic, acute digestive issues. After lots of tests, waiting and misdiagnosis, the real diagnosis fell like a ton of bricks.

Abe had a cancerous tumor on his right kidney. It could kill him. However, it was not responsible for his digestive issues.

So after a CAT scan and more waiting, the second diagnosis fell. Abe also had a cancerous tumor on his pancreas.

Anatomy is not my forte, nor is math my uncle would tell you. But I know you need your kidneys and pancreas to live. And I know my show biz obits. Pancreatic cancer killed Patrick Swayze in 2009 after a 20-month battle.

Uncle Abe was a dead man.

My experience with cancer and close relatives equals an immediate death sentence. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

I could hardly speak to Abe on the phone without crying. I knew I would never see him on earth again alive. That was 2008.

This is 2011.

Abe has always had a special something. He lives out loud. Gives generously. Exudes resilience. Manages to be both realistic and positive.

But that doesn’t buy a ticket to a cure. Or even a remission. Plenty of people who die of cancer have those strengths and more.

I don’t know why he survived and others don’t. I don’t know how he survived.

At 68 years of age, the man underwent a major surgery called the Whipple Procedure. And removal of his right kidney. And chemo. And radiation. For two cancers that should have killed him.

Yet today he is well. Thinner than he used to be, but just as sharp, sassy and humorous as ever.

Unashamed, he openly shares his experience. Credits God with sustaining him, providing the doctors and treatments, and letting him live. His Creator simply did not allow him to die yet.

A snapshot of Uncle Abe wouldn’t be complete without mentioning music. Abe is a masterful pianist and singer.

He’s directed or accompanied music in churches and choirs for most of his life. He sings and plays at nearly all our family reunions, weddings and funerals, including my mother’s funeral when she died of cancer in 1996.

Upon release from his treatment, Abe picked up right where he left off, playing and singing. He accepted a part-time job as music director for a small church. We attended that church with him and my aunt the weekend we visited them.

Abe sang with abandon. Gleefully he called my husband the tenor to join him. He worshipped with vulnerability, as one who was dead but is now alive.

When I spoke to him last week about this post, he was preparing to sing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in German with a collegiate choir. He’s 72, but I’m sure he’ll fit right in. Abe still has his edge, now tempered by fire.

On my bed I remember You;
I think of You through the watches of the night.
Because You are my help,
I sing in the shadow of Your wings.
I cling to You;
Your right hand upholds me. Psalm 63:6-8 NIV

Great is Thy Faithfulness is a cherished hymn. Sara Groves sings a beautiful interpretation in He’s Always Been Faithful.

Thanks to Tim Robbins, writer/director of Dead Man Walking, for inspiring this post’s title.

Posted on September 28, 2011August 10, 2012 by Aimee 15

Falling In

Try as you may, sometimes, some days you can’t help but fall in.

Last week, my son and I walked to one of our favorite parks. The one with the big pond and the statue of the fish on the bicycle. Gloria Steinem and Irina Dunn, eat your hearts out.

My child played on the slides and climbed trees while I checked the iPhone. Then from across the way I heard him cry.

“Momma!” he said. “I fell in the water!”

He’d bounced up and out of the pond by the time I reached him. He was soaked from the chest down with muddy smudges of pond slime on his cheeks.

We’d been to this park and this pond 657 times before. This was a first.

“Oh, honey!” I said.

“I’m sorry, Momma,” he said, near tears. “I didn’t mean to fall in.”

“No, honey,” I said. “Don’t apologize. It was an accident. Momma’s not mad at you. I’m just sorry this happened to you.”

“I was reaching in and my foot slipped,” he said.

“You okay?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “But my shoes are wet.”

We giggled. Removed his shoes. Called my husband to come with the truck. Sat on the bench. Help was on the way.

As we waited, my little boy crafted the tale of falling in.

“I have to tell Ms. Donaldson I fell in the pond!” he said. “I fell down into the dirty water! My feet touched the bottom!”

“Not many people get to do that,” I said.

“Because there’s no swimming allowed!” he said.

The longer we waited, the more animated the telling became. Then he began to shiver with cold from his damp clothes.

Evening was fast approaching. We couldn’t walk home with him in bare feet. So we waited and shivered and told tales together.

The truck arrived with a warm cab and blanket. The shivering stopped and the stories wound down.

Falling in can be a harrowing thing. But recovering to be safe and warm and at peace again can make it all worthwhile.

no swimming

I called out Your name, O God,
called from the bottom of the pit.
You listened when I called out, “Don’t shut Your ears!
Get me out of here! Save me!”
You came close when I called out.
You said, “It’s going to be all right.” Lamentations 3:55-57 The Message

Mama said there’ll be days like this. There’ll be days like this Mama said.

Posted on September 20, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 8

The Tale of Two Heifers

grassisgreener — the grass is always greener...

A friend and I had a misunderstanding. Actually, we had 15 misunderstandings rolled into one screaming ball o’ hate.

It didn’t help we both have rather strong personalities. As my farm boy husband explained, we were behaving like two heifers in the same pen.

And now for little agricultural background. (You never know what you’re going to get when you visit this blog, do you?) Herd hierarchy develops among cows. Yes, that’s right. Among cows.

There can be only one queen per herd. And if two dominant heifers are in the same herd? Well, all manure breaks loose to determine who the lead bovine will be. Sorta.

“Tell me,” I said to my husband. “How do cows fight?”

“Well, that’s what’s so funny,” he said. “They butt heads. It usually doesn’t hurt them physically. They just run through the field throwing their weight around and butting heads with each other.”

A head game. Literally. Same way my friend and I fought. Same way most women fight. We take it underground.

A few snippy emails, a series of jumping to conclusions, a whole lot of ill feelings later, and we had to be separated. No one was physically hurt, but the damage was done. We retreated to opposite ends of the meadow.

Problem is, we’re not cows. There is no herd. The imaginary pasture we tussled over is as big as the sky. Plenty for everyone to graze to her heart’s content.

More importantly, we worship the same God. She visited the hospital the day my son was born. We’ve spent hours in each other’s homes over the years. Prayed for each other’s kids.

So when in humility she peeked her nose over the fence and said, “I’m sorry,” there was no question what my response would be.

“Me too.”

mygrass — back off, sister. this grass is mine!

I don’t want to imply forgiving or apologizing always comes easy. It doesn’t, at least not for me. I hold out hope though that it can come.

Another’s offense, hurtful as it may be, is slight compared to the avalanche of which I’ve been forgiven. It may take years of struggle, but forgiveness is a high road and being forgiven a cherished state.

In the case of the two heifers in our story, it didn’t take years. Thank God. Reconciliation. Clean start. Moving forward. Into the pasture and beyond.

Make allowance for each other’s faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others. Colossians 3:13 NLT

From cows in the field to snakes in the well, Patty Griffin’s Forgiveness.

Posted on September 8, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 19

Birds on a Ledge

Stroll through the city with me. Come on. Let’s go for a walk.

Down along the river. Across the bridge then back again. It’s early evening and quiet here. Silent compared to the bustling day.

Look up to the top ledge of a building. Under the signage, still unlit as the sun begins its descent. What are those dots against the concrete? Is that dentil molding? Decorative relief?

One dot moves near the middle. Then a flutter far right, a quiver to the left. They’re birds. Hundreds of them perched in a row across the building. Lined up one by one on the ledge.

pigeonsbywili_hybird — image by wili_hybrid via flickr under creative commons license

In comes another, furiously flapping.

“Make room! Make room!” beat his wings.

And they do make room. Comfortably he is enveloped in the rest as if he’d always had a place.

Another lands. And another. One leaves, diving off the edge and lifting up. More come. Some go. Most stay.

The evening sky reaches above the building and the ledge and the ones resting. It’s filled with dots. Thousands more birds in endless, circling flight.

There are plenty of high buildings here, plenty of ledges to make for safe rows. Room enough to keep them all.

Come settle, little flying ones. Break from your wandering journeys, your weary circling and dipping and floating away. Come. Land. Many find rest. And still there is room.

“The servant reported back, ‘Master, I did what you commanded—and there’s still room.'” Luke 14:22 The Message, from a parable of Jesus

Landed by North Carolinian Ben Folds. If the piano alone doesn’t move you, please check your pulse.

This post is in fond memory of Dr. George Worrell.

Posted on August 20, 2011February 11, 2013 by Aimee 6

Team Steven

me&stevensmcrp — me & Steven Curtis Chapman

Standing in line last week to board a plane to Nashville. Gee, I thought to myself. That voice sounds familiar.

Turned around to see none other than Steven Curtis Chapman. We were on the same flight!

Might not have recognized him except for his voice. I’d heard his voice in an interview on Joy FM earlier that morning and a thousand times before. Added up, I’ve been listening to this man sing for 20 years.

The line was moving fast and soon he was out of reach. I’ll look for him on the plane, I thought.

That didn’t happen either because I found a front row seat. I happily spent the short flight sitting between a man who slept the entire time and a lovely 84-year-old woman who recounted to me her adventures traveling the world with her late husband. She may get a post of her own.

But before the plane took off, I updated my Facebook status: Steven Curtis Chapman is on my flight to Nashville!

When we deplaned an hour later, I figured I’d lost my chance to speak to him. Then I turned on my iPhone to check messages. A dozen excited Facebook comments popped up on my status along with a groundswell of likes.

Oh, dear. I vowed if I saw him again I would speak to him. I had to. For the team. And I got my chance in baggage claim. Yes, he carries his own luggage.

The businesswoman in me firmly shook his hand while the fan in me gushed and giggled. He was so gracious, so unpretentious, so normal.

Who among us cannot relate to the story of his songs and the story of his life? Love. Grace. Salvation. Adoption. Triumph. Tragedy. Grief. Mercy. Renewal.

(1990) Tomorrow morning if you wake up and the sun does not appear, I will be here.

(1992) Go on and say what you need to say while it’s still called today.

(1996) But when it all comes down, you know it all comes down to the walk.

(1999) So sink or swim I’m diving in.

(2004) You spoke and made the sun rise to light up the very first day.

(2008) It’s all Yours, God. Yours, God. Everything is Yours.

(2009) Out of these ashes, beauty will rise.

(2011) Do everything you do to the glory of the One who made you.

nashvillelivemusicvenuesm — on 2nd ave north

Keep singing, Mr. Chapman. The team’s listening and loving every word.

He has given me a new song to sing,
a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see what He has done and be amazed.
They will put their trust in the Lord. Psalm 40:3 NLT

Hmm, what video to link up here. You choose: Dive or Do Everything or both. How’s that for interactive?

St. Louis area readers may like to know Steven Curtis Chapman will be singing in our city on October 13th. He will be joined by special guests Andrew Peterson and Josh Wilson. At time of publication only a few tickets remained. Get thee to joyfmonline.org quick.

Posted on August 16, 2011July 10, 2012 by Aimee 13

Hitting the Wall

free-live-streaming-2011-wimbledon — The Championships, Wimbledon

The beautiful tennis player with long blond hair was winning. But not by much. On the other side of the net, a spunky, dark-haired Italian was holding her own with moves more contorted than graceful. This was Wimbledon.

Back and forth. The blond pulled ahead, only for the Italian to catch her. The sportscasters sided with the blond for technical superiority. Yet they couldn’t discount the heart of the underdog.

Tennis games are way too long. We didn’t see how the contest ended. We were on vacation and the beach was calling.

Secretly I hoped the dark-haired girl would win. How many more beautiful blond tennis champions do we need really? Yes, we have Venus and Serena. But an Italian tennis queen. Bellissimo!

Today I identify with that girl more than I would like, and not just because of my Italian heritage.

BAM! The serve. Extensive travel in June.

SWACK! The return. Intensive upheaval back in St. Louis.

SLAP! A high lob. Close on the sale of our house.

CRACK! Another return. Move everything we own and downsize.

POW! The slam. Normalize only to set up for more changes.

In the middle of the game, I’m about to hit the wall.

My husband says I’ve simply run out of adrenaline. The synapses are shot. The serotonin took a nose dive, suffered a concussion, and is sitting out indefinitely.

Bad habits are back. I organize stuff, rather than stake out precious time to work. My husband works until the wee hours, rather than stake out precious time to sleep. My son is not eating enough (any) vegetables. And my inner critic has reclaimed the judge’s seat.

This is no time to quit. It’s precisely the time to keep hitting. The goal is within reach, even if the goal is to make it to dinner with all family members intact. One step, one second at a time. The most crucial moment could come in the next match. Or the next serve. You can’t win if you don’t play.

Break it down. Back to the basics like Elijah in his cave. Rest, eat, breathe, listen. Or like Hannah in the temple. Dust yourself off, clean yourself up, nourish yourself well. Come out swinging like Sampson. Or a certain Italian tennis player who just wouldn’t quit.

Ask for help from the One who never quits. The One whose strength has no end. Lord, help me persevere with grace instead of criticism, humor instead of depression, hope instead of despair. Amen.

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. 1 Corinthians 9:24-25 NIV

C’mon and rock with me now to a little bit o’ TobyMac, won’t you? Get Back Up!

Posted on July 25, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 2

everyday epistle

there's a story at every turn

everyday epistle

Tag: Christianity

Connecting the Dots of Thankfulness

What are you thankful for today?
I’d be so thankful if you would share.

Happy Veterans Day!

Not a Moo Moo

Epilogue

Don’t Save the Marshmallows

Truth or Consequences

Dead Man Walking

Falling In

The Tale of Two Heifers

Birds on a Ledge

Team Steven

Hitting the Wall

there's a story at every turn

What are you thankful for today? I’d be so thankful if you would share.

Happy Veterans Day!

Epilogue

What are you thankful for today?
I’d be so thankful if you would share.