Riding in the back of a pickup truck was a frequented event in our town. Being raised in the 1970’s and early 80’s, we knew nothing about seatbelt requirements, or considered it dangerous riding in the back of a truck. On many occasions we rode to and from a local lake to go swimming. Happily seated on the wheel wells or on the flat bottom of the bed, we were off. The thought never entered our mind to jump over the sides of the truck while it was moving.

At 84 years old his eyes closed for the last time. That same day his eyes opened to a glorious site he lived longing to see. A couple days later a fitting tribute was sung by his grandson, ‘Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus’. It is a song we have frequently sang in church throughout my life. On this day the song found its way into a deep soft place in my heart. As he sang the last verse, my breathing slowed to meditate on each word.

A lady requested prayer from our group. She said she was spiritually exhausted. Battling a spiritual warfare on behalf of an addicted son had taken it’s toll on her. She came in the room, and looked spent. Looking like she didn’t have much more to give, she knew prayer could give her strength to continue the battle. Those of us in the room loved on her as much as we could. We wanted to offer help. Where do you start when someone feels they are spiritually exhausted?

Wounds come in a variety of forms. When we were little girls, my best friend and I cut our palms and rubbed them together. The gesture was done so we could be ‘Blood Sisters’. Our cut was not deep enough to create a lasting scar. My grandpa, on the other hand, was electrocuted as a young father and lost half of his left foot. All my life I saw him walk in custom made shoes. The end of the shoe was cut open, the sole cut in half, and the excess leather folded over and sewn to the sole of the shoe. He walked with a bit of a limp. I imagine the healing of his foot took on many different colors, and it’s certain  the smells that came from it would have turned the toughest stomach. 

As young girls walking from my grandparents house to the local store in our small town, my best friend and I were stopped by a traveling evangelist as he shared the good news of the gospel. He explained the consequences for anyone who did not accept Jesus as their Savior and Lord. I was reminded hell is real.

My genetic coding includes a love for horses. Growing up dad worked 2 and 3 jobs at times to provide us horses, and purchase feed for the four legged beast that took up residency in our pasture.

Dad was known to go to the killer pen (where horses went prior to being made into soap or glue) and purchase horses for $25. He would spend time ‘breaking’ them, and selling them for a profit.

Two pews up and just to the left is where she was. From my seat I could see she was in deep meditation. The words on the pages lay before her in her lap. She was completely consumed by what she was reading. What was it that had her so drawn in? What was it about the words she was looking at? I couldn't help but notice. She was being affected by what she read. From where I sat, it was a beautiful picture.

It was late 80’s. My Mamaw offered to let me pick some greens to cook and have for supper (fyi, supper is currently referred to as dinner). I accepted and went by to pick. She and papaw lived right smack dab in the middle of a very small town with a population about 100. My husband and I lived 2 miles from her.

Arriving at her house I walked in through the side door, as all family and friends did. We grabbed a container to pick the greens. Off to the garden we went.

My sister was born when I was 11. She came along a little later in life for mom and dad. With two older siblings, and experienced parents, she was destined for an extraordinary childhood. She was a toy for my brother and myself. If a baby could remember events from infancy, she could tell you of the time she was lying in my lap, and somehow slipped off onto the floor and bumped her head.