As a little girl who had lived all my short life in Washington state, I had no knowledge of how things were in the south. I didn’t realize, for example, that fishing is not an optional activity for Oklahomans. Apparently, even new, gangly-legged transplants are expected to pole-up and do their part.  So shortly after our move from my home state to his, my new step-father decided the seven-year old me needed an introduction. He loaded up the station wagon and took our family to his favorite cabin up in the hills near a river guaranteed to yield fish. I wasn’t a big fan of fish, unless it came battered, greasy, and sitting next to equally bad-for-you fries in a little paper bowl, but he didn’t need to know that. I already loved my step-father and wanted him to smile. And I fell in love with his favorite cabin with very little effort. Hidden in a grove of tall pine trees and surrounded by a carpet of pungent needles from those trees, that spot of the world seemed made for remembering. And indeed, forty years and two thousand miles later, I can still smell those pine needles.

At a hideous hour the second morning of our vacation, Daddy Roy–as my mother had instructed me to call him–roused me from my cot and nodded toward the door of our cabin. I pulled on my sweatshirt and jeans and crept across the creaky wooden floor to join him in the doorway.

“Here’s your breakfast,” he whispered, handing me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I couldn’t recall ever before having peanut butter and jelly for breakfast. I suddenly loved him more.

With the balance of a child, I juggled my sandwich, pole, and kid-sized box of hooks and feathery wonders while poking my feet in my rubber boots. Clomping as quietly as I could across the porch boards and down the front steps, I joined him on the piney road, and we set off.

Our walk was short. After rounding a few bends in the road and traversing a slight hillside, we landed on a flat, grassy beach and unloaded our gear.

Daddy Roy pulled a white, lidded carton out of his fishing box, then peeled the top off. With my peanut butter sandwich gone, I wondered if he might be about to top off my perfect breakfast with a handful of milk duds, or chocolate-covered raisins, or some other carton-worthy delight–but no. Instead, he pulled out a fat worm, the sight of which sent my appetite skedaddling.

“I’ll bait the first hook for you, and then you can do your own. So watch carefully.”

My prayer life was birthed then and there. Oh, God … help me to not throw up breakfast.

I wanted to obey–I really did–but at the last second, just as the tip of Daddy Roy’s hook was about to pierce the side of that wiggling worm, I closed my eyes. There’s not an hour of the day when I’ve been awake long enough to watch that sort of violence.

“See that?” he asked.

Nodding seemed less like fibbing than an outright answer, so I nodded.

I took my pole back and held it out as though it had hooked a bomb and not a worm. The last thing I wanted in life was for that worm to somehow swing his fat body toward me and graze my arm.

I plopped him in the water. What he did below surface, I don’t know. About every thirteen seconds, I checked on him, which may have accounted for the fact that I went the whole morning without so much as a single fish nibble.

“Shanny, you’ve got to leave it in the water a bit longer,” my patient step-father instructed. So I began leaving him in for fifteen seconds–but the added time did little to improve my results.

Midway through the experience, it occurred to me that I didn’t really want a fish to bite my hook, because if that happened, I’d have to re-bait the thing. And that meant actually touching the worm. I wasn’t a squirmish child, but I wasn’t yet a tomboy. It would be another several months before I’d begin catching crawdads in the ditch with the neighbor kids and squishing lightning bugs on the palm of my hand to make myself glow. (To be honest, that happened only once. Or twice.) But on this morning, my bug interactions had been limited to sitting on a bee and accidentally filling my mouth with pincher bugs when I put my mouth over the outside faucet to get a drink of water. Neither had been on purpose.

From that point of realization on, I worried I might catch a fish. And the worrying paid off, because I didn’t.

“We’ll try again after lunch,” my step-father said.

I pulled my hook out of the water, saw the still-snagged worm, and breathed a sigh of relief. I was already set for that after-lunch go-round.

“Don’t you think you’ll want a fresh worm on that hook later?” Daddy Roy asked.

“Nope,” I answered. “I like this one.”

We collected our gear, climbed the hill, and set off walking toward the cabin. Halfway back, overcome by fatigue and relief, I closed my eyes and yawned ferociously–the kind of yawn that bends small trees and alters wind patterns. And just as I was getting ready to close my mouth again, at the tail end of that yawn, I opened my eyes–just in time to watch that hooked worm drift back out of my mouth. I’d had my pole slung over my shoulder, and apparently, the hook had swung out in front of me and then straight toward my face–and into my mouth. Had I timed that yawn for just a split second earlier, I would have garnered the catch of the day … myself.

I still think about that cabin in the woods now and then. I remember the scent of those pines, and the feel of the spongey, leaf-strewn path beneath my boots. I can still see the sunlight filtering through the pines and casting dappled spots of brightness on the path before me. But the memory that means the most is this: that a man who owed me nothing, offered me all he had.

Happy Father’s Day to stepfathers everywhere–to you who love us not by chance or whim or duty, but by choice. You likely have no idea of the difference you’ve made to us, or the gift that you are. But we know. And we’ll never forget.

©2009, Shannon Woodward

She sits close to me tonight. Closer than usual. Sometimes, on some Wednesday nights, I can tell her mind is elsewhere. Those times, she’s not enclosed within the four walls of this church. She’s running free.

But tonight she leans in close. It’s not that she’s snuggling–which she also does sometimes–it’s more that she’s just … leaning. For a minute, I can’t figure out why. But then I catch the faint sound of her voice imitating mine. She’s leaning in to hear my harmony.

I don’t say anything. I just lean into her right back. And I raise my voice a notch. My soprano-preferring daughter has accepted the fact that God gave her an alto voice–a pure, lovely, enviable alto voice. And tonight, apparently, she has set herself to learning.

We sing about God’s fame, and then about His faithfulness. We remind ourselves that He’s eternal, and good, and ready to save. And then we sing about the journey of life, and the fact that He saved us from a lot of pain and ugliness.

Travelin’ Light

I was doubling over
The load on my shoulders
Was a weight I carried with me every day
Crossin’ miles of frustrations and rivers a ragin’
Pickin’ up stones I found along the way
I staggered and I stumbled down pathways of trouble
I was haulin’ those souvenirs of misery
And with each step takin’ my back was breakin’
Til I found the one who took it all from me.

Down by the riverside (Down by the riverside)
I laid my burdens down, now I’m travelin’ light
My spirit lifted high (I found my freedom now)
I found my freedom now, and I’m travelin’ light

Through the darkest alleys and loneliest valleys
I was draggin’ those heavy chains of doubt and fear
Then with one word spoken the locks were broken
Now He’s leading me to places where there are no tears

In all the right places, my daughter listens, learns, and then sings. And I’m aware that this half-hour of worship is a metaphor for an even bigger truth. When the music fades away and the teaching is over and we turn off the lights in this room, this girl will continue to watch, and listen, and imitate what she sees in me.

Father, help me fill her life with Your song.

©2009, Shannon Woodward

If Jesus had not left the beauty of heaven,
where He was adored and worshiped as God,
and entered humanity through a dark,
cold cave of obscurity,

if He had not endured betrayal by the ones He loved most,
and stood silently while mere humans
plucked out His beard
and spat on His face,
and struck,
and whipped,
and accused,
and mocked Him;

if He had not lifted and carried the rough, heavy instrument of His death,

and laid His hands against the cross beam,

and accepted nails into His flesh;

if He had not hung there with His blood dripping down into the sand below,

and His prayers of forgiveness ascending to His Father above,

then we would never have received the comfort of Isaiah 54, or the promises of Isaiah 55.

Instead, we would have inherited exactly what we deserve:

grief
fear
shame
regret
hunger
thirst
wrath
terror
judgment
death.

But Jesus did.

©2009, Shannon Woodward

Oh, how I love spring.

How can you not? I don’t care where you live, spring looks like the earth yawning and stretching its arms. It smells like hope, and new beginnings, and the promise of soon-to-be-cut grass. It tastes like a long-awaited picnic. It feels like bright yellow fluff. It sounds like the peep of two-legged babies.

That’s what’s filling my ears right now … the sound of chicks trying out their teeny vocal chords. Yesterday was “chick day” at the local co-op. Dave and I trotted down there and picked up a half-dozen Golden Sex Link chicks. Supposedly, they’ve been bred to only produce females, but I don’t quite follow the logic (or feasibility) of that. All I know is that they’re adorable … and very noisy.

We tried hooking them up with an adoptive Banty mother but the two hens we tried didn’t cooperate much. Both ignored the chicks huddling in one back corner of Larry’s outgrown dog carrier and tried to beat their way out by flying repeatedly into the wire mesh. We took pity and let each go, but that left the dilemma of how to keep those six chicks alive through the night. The only reasonable thing to do was to invite them up to the house.

When we first brought them inside, they shivered together in that same back corner. I reached in to snap a close-up of the noisy brood, but as soon as I came at them with that camera, they turned and gave me the cold shoulder. Dave’s crafty, though. He rigged up a 100-watt bulb and shone it down on the front half of the wood chips. In two seconds flat, those chicks had tippy-toed their collective mass over to the lit side, where they basked in 100-watt delight.

There’s a lesson there. We’re good together, we humans. Scrunched up tight, we might even eke out a bit of shared body heat. But there’s nothing like gathering together under the Light. His warmth is far better. His warmth goes straight to the bones, perks us up, and makes all our fluff stand on end.

©2009, Shannon Woodward 

I love that my husband doesn’t argue with me when I ask for things. This morning, while I was sipping coffee and correcting Tera’s math, he slipped me a folded sheet of paper. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

In the span of time that it took for me to reach for and take and open that slip of paper, the six-year old girl in me elbowed her way to the forefront. I felt a little bit Christmas morning and a little bit August 5th, all blended up. I felt shivery like I used to when someone handed me a box wrapped up in cartoonish, primary colored paper.

A lantern … Dave had bought a kerosene lantern. “It will go to a missionary,” he explained.

“It’s perfect,” I told him. And it feels perfect. How absolutely appropriate. Somewhere across the ocean, someone sent by God to share His light with the world will have a bit of light for nighttime reading, or to help with the long walk between villages.

I couldn’t have asked for anything better. Truth be told, I like chocolate as much as the next woman. Maybe more. But I’ve decided that I can live without another red boxful. I’m pretty fond of sweet peas and daisies, and have yet to turn up my nose at a bouquet of roses. But I can live without flowers. So instead, I asked my husband to forego the mad dash to the florist or the candy aisle. I gave him a faster, easier option (just the click of a mouse). I asked him to get me something that contains no calories, leaves nothing to recycle, and that will provide a much more satisfying feeling than anything he could buy from a store.

I asked him to go instead to Gospel for Asia (www.gfa.org/donation). The way it works is that you browse through a large assortment of items and decide on what you’d like to buy. You can purchase chickens or rabbits ($11 a pair), pigs ($55 a pair), goats ($60 each) lambs ($65 each), cows ($375 each) or a big ol’ $460 water buffalo. You can also buy a bicycle or a fully loaded truck for a missionary, Bibles, blankets, tracts, sewing machines, fishing boats, or a community well. Whatever you buy on the site is then given to an impoverished family or a missionary.

Just one set of chickens or rabbits can completely change a family’s future. As that one pair grows into several, a cottage industry is born–and the family’s food supply is multiplied. I’m so impressed with this ministry that it’s become my “go to” gift site. Now, whenever I’m asked, “What do you want for your birthday? (or Mother’s Day, or Christmas, or Valentine’s Day), I quickly answer, “Something from Gospel for Asia.”

I love my husband’s gift. But it makes me greedy for more. I want to buy a bicycle, or a drum set. I want another goat. I want a sewing machine and a giant pile of blankets, and I want some of the big stuff. I want a Jesus Well, and a fishing boat, and a house.

I am Veruca Salt this morning. I want, I want, I want … and I want it now.

©2009, Shannon Woodward 

On Mondays, we turn into an old married couple.

Although no pastor I know ever actually takes an entire day off, Dave tries to stay away from his office on Mondays, and he likes to pretend (though I know differently) that he’s not thinking about church and the people it contains.

We begin the day with a cup of coffee–same as every other morning–but this cup is sipped leisurely. Sighs of satisfaction usually occur at some point. I wait as long as I can. Eventually, when I can’t stand the suspense any longer, I’ll ask, “What should we do today?”

Dave will take a minute before answering. He might look out the window, or stare at the fire flickering in the wood stove. “Well …” he’ll begin, when a sufficient list has formed. “I should probably work on the goat barn a bit.”

I nod and sip, still waiting. I know he won’t stop there. The goat barn is an ongoing hobby. That one will come up every Monday morning from now to eternity. I’m waiting to hear about the other possibilities–the ones that involve climbing into the truck and saying adios to the farm for a few hours.

“We’re about out of feed,” he’ll say. Now we’re getting to it. This means a trip out to Dale’s farm (if he means hay) or Strotz Feed (if he means Layer 100 pellets and scratch for the chickens).

“And I need to get out to the dump.”

I restrain myself from clapping my hands. Really and truly. A big part of my delight is simple reminiscence. I have very fond memories of going to the dump, and no trip has yet failed to make me remember my grandpa.

The dump, when I was a child, was a place of great mystery and possibility. The mystery was how people of sound thinking could part with all that treasure. The possibility was how much of it I’d end up carting home.

“Shanny, let’s try to leave more garbage than we bring back,” Grandpa would suggest. I always thought it greatly optimistic of him.

The dump today is a mechanical, no-touching, no-possibility place, but back then, you could actually walk among the garbage and scrounge. I’d leave Grandpa talking to the dump guy and hold my nose as I scurried among the seagulls, poking at piles with my sneakered-foot. Oh, the delights I discovered among all the filth! I found a pogo stick once. The blue plastic handle was split on one side and altogether gone from the other, and the springs squeaked terribly when you bounced, but when did a pogo stick not squeak? Grandma wasn’t as delighted as I when she saw me lugging that pogo stick out of the truck. Her resistance, I’m sure, was simply disgust. She had a thing about germs and trash and the like. It’s one of those things she passed down to me, eventually … and after much resistance on my part.

Another time I found a bike–a red bike with a bent front wheel and no seat. I envisioned a miraculous healing of that bike, and me riding like the wind around the farm, a swift, red blur of joy and frenzy. Grandpa didn’t see it. After reminding me that I had other transportation options back home–including a perfectly good bike and my choice of horses–he vetoed my dream. Some part of me still grieves that sad, red mass.

Since the dump today has a no-poking rule … and since, as I said, I’ve inherited my grandmother’s disdain for germs and probably wouldn’t poke even if they did allow it, I’ve surmised that there’s another reason for my love of the dump. I think it has something to do with the fact that we’ve loaded up a lot of unnecessary and unpleasant remnants of our life and driven them away from our dwelling place, and I know that once they’ve been tossed over the side of the pit, I never have to lay eyes on them again. We return home with a truckload of empty garbage cans and a fresh start.

You know where I’m going with this. I can’t not see a comparison between dump-treks and Jesus. The bending of your knee in first-time awe and surrender is like making a first run to the dump after a lifetime of garbage accumulation. Prayers at bedtime, after reviewing the mistakes of your day, are akin to emptying the little can you keep next to your desk. And those middle of the day, I-can’t-believe-I-just-did-that prayers are like finding a tissue in your pocket and tossing it where it belongs.

Life is a journey through filth. God is a Father with a germ issue. And we’re nothing more than children, scampering where we ought not to scamper, and too often poking where we shouldn’t poke.

If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness. -1 John 1:9

©2009, Shannon Woodward

I am living in a snowglobe. Every handful of minutes, the wind visits the alders and maples and evergreens surrounding our house and sends a shower of white billowing about. Inside this globe, I sit in front of the woodstove and watch the orange glow on the other side of the tempered glass. The sounds of David Lanz’s Christmas CD fills the house. To my left, our 15-foot Christmas tree towers. If I had my druthers, the massive fir would be draped head to toe in white lights; for the pleasure of my children, I opted for the green, red, blue and yellow variety. 

Fourteen inches of snow presses against the outside walls. Larry is so intrigued with the seldom-seen blanket of white that he keeps insisting I let him go investigate. The dog doesn’t own enough dignity to stay on the porch. He doesn’t understand that snow is not for lying on–at least not longer than the time it takes to make a snow angel. “Silly pup,” I tell him. But he just grins and smacks a trough with his snakey black tail. 

If you could enter this snowglobe and sit awhile, I’d offer you a taste of our tradition. Since the year we married, 21 years ago, I’ve been making homemade cinnamon rolls to celebrate our first snowfall of the season. This year’s batch is fresh from the oven (a twin batch just went into the freezer for later baking). The moment I pull the pan from the oven, I slather creamy swirls of cream cheese frosting over the spiraled tops. It melts on contact and drips its sweet, buttery self down between the crevices of cinnamon and sweet dough.

Dave likes a big pat of butter on his, and a glass of ice cold milk on the side. I give him the largest roll; he finishes in a half-dozen bites and heads straight back to the kitchen. From my perch on the couch, I listen for evidence, and when it comes–when I hear the sound of the spatula sliding into my stoneware pan and the clink of the butter dish cover being lifted–I smile. He’s waited months for that second helping.

More snow is expected tonight. Maybe we’ll have ourselves a repeat of last night. Maybe we’ll don our winter gear and walk again along the trail that borders our property. At most any other time, we’d have companions on that trail. Bikers, walkers, rollerbladers, and those on horse-back would share our travels. But last night, we owned the world. In an hour of trekking, with only the brightness of snow at our feet to guide our steps, our only company was the creaking of heavy-bowed trees.

I hear those trees now. Every so often, a white-coated branch gives up the battle and drops to the ground, trailing shivers of dust as it falls. I’ve spent most of the morning listening, and looking skyward. I’m watching for boughs, but I’m also looking past those massive sentries–and thanking the God who lives beyond. This scene is His gift … and I’m grateful.

©2008, Shannon Woodward

She was sleeping when I began slicing onions and celery and a Granny Smith apple; when I crumbled one tube of maple-flavored sausage into my heavy black skillet, and stirred, and watched the heat rising in savory wisps.

She didn’t see the coming together of a fresh batch of homemade poultry seasoning–all those spice containers gathered in a huddle around my mortar and pestle, and the careful measurements of half-, and quarter-, and eighths of a teaspoonful of rosemary, sage, thyme, oregano, pepper, and nutmeg. She didn’t get to see the turn of the pestle as it crushed those herbs into one pungent, indistinguishable spice.

She missed all the rest of the stuffing-making steps, too–the chicken broth poured slowly over that mound of seasoned bread crumbs, the three cubes of melted butter spilled in golden dribbles over the mixture, the last dash of salt, and the final twist of freshly ground peppercorn.

But she is there when I stuff the turkey, and oil him up, and lift him to the pan. And I’m glad. For at the last second, I need her extra pair of hands to widen the opening of the cooking bag.

Bag closed and bird in the oven, she asks, “What do you need me to do next?”

I love having a daughter. As weeks become months and months disappear into years, she is slowly becoming my second self. On days like today, I can give her a general suggestion and she knows how to carry it straight on to finish.

“We need to set the tables,” I say. And without asking any further instructions, Tera wipes first one, and then the other table, covers them both with tablecloths, and begins to carefully set out the china from its rest-of-the-year hiding place.

While folding whipped cream into a big bowl of marshmallow-flecked fruit salad, I watch from the kitchen as she arranges the candles on each table. She moves the tall, glass-enclosed pillar an inch to the right, then two inches to the left. After a few long seconds of thought, she brings a votive to join the pillar. As a final touch, she sets a tiny pilgrim man in front of one arrangement, and a tiny pilgrim woman in front of the other.

“Will you put on some music?” I ask. She sorts through the CDs piled near the player and selects one. I’m glad when I hear Fernando Ortega’s voice.

I cut an inch from a head of garlic, nestle the tangerine-sized orb on a square of foil, and drizzle olive oil over the exposed cloves. Tera watches me twist the edges of the foil upwards and curl the tip, and set the packet in the oven for roasting.

“Did your Grandma teach you how to do all this?” she asks.

I think of all the recipes my grandmother passed on to me–Poor Soup, breaded tomatoes, red beans … the list goes on, each memory more homey, more bacon-grease enhanced than the last. Kalamata Aioli isn’t on the list. That one I figured out for myself. The stuffing recipe is my own concoction, too.

“No,” I say. “But Grandma taught me to love the kitchen.”

Tera leans against the counter, resting her pretty face in her hands. “When I get married, I’m going to have you come over and make our Thanksgiving dinner.”

I look at her, and just as I do, Fernando Ortega’s voice rises from the living room.

Out of time
We’re running out of time

How old was I? I try to remember the first time Grandma handed me the spoon and began to transfer her love of cooking. Was I Tera’s age? Younger?

“No, you won’t do that,” I say. “Because you’re going to do the cooking yourself.”

Tera laughs. “No way. It’s too much.”

“No, it’s not. You’re going to be a great cook.”

Out of time
We’re running out of time
I glance at the counter. What’s left to make? Green bean casserole.

“Wash your hands,” I tell her. “You’re about to make your first Thanksgiving dish.”

Her eyes widen. “What am I making?”

“Green bean casserole.”

She draws in her breath. “No! Not today. I’ll make it some other time. Not on Thanksgiving.”

But I’m looking at that hourglass. “Some other time” won’t happen. And next year, she might not want to stand here in the kitchen with me. If I wait, I might miss my chance.

“Today,” I tell her. “You’re making it today, and it will be wonderful, and everyone will love it.”

She did … and it was … and everyone loved it.

©2008, Shannon Woodward

My friend Nathan is a character. During his first real “out in the world” experience (otherwise known as kindergarten), he became enamored of one little girl, a girl we’ll call Taylor Butler, because that’s her name.

Every afternoon, when he made the pilgrimage back home and sat down to a snack and a debriefing with Mom and/or Dad, Nathan would share Taylorbutler stories. And that’s how he said her name–all smashed together like it was one unseparatable word: “Taylorbutler.” Chris (my husband’s assistant pastor) and Cora learned all kinds of things about Taylorbutler–the colors she liked to wear most often, the fascinating way she held her crayons, which snack she’d eat first out of her lunchbox … Nathan saw and recorded it all.

One afternoon, Nathan brought home a letter of concern. It seemed the teacher had caught him poking Taylorbutler. Cora decided that poking matters fell under “father duties,” so she handed the letter to Chris.

“Nathan,” Chris said, “did you poke Taylorbutler?”

Nathan nodded.

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to see if she was squishy.”

An immediate question rose in Chris’ mind. “Uh … exactly where did you touch her to find this out?”

Nathan poked his dad right in the side, just below his rib cage. “Here, Dad.”

Chris was, of course, relieved. “And … was she squishy there?”

Nathan grinned and nodded slowly. “Oh, yeah.”

I just love that kid. He has a quirky way of viewing things, and all these little idiosyncracies that keep me laughing. I especially like the way he phrases things.

Whenever he wants to make sure Cora doesn’t forget something, say, a promised trip to MacDonalds or some other privilege, Nathan will instruct her: “Write that up, Mom,” and she does.

Chris and Cora lead one of our church’s home fellowship groups, which they host every other Sunday night. One Sunday afternoon, Nathan wondered if perhaps this was the night all his friends came over for home fellowship.

“Hey, Dad–is tonight home fellyshellygloop?”

What would we do without kids? They give us some of our best insights, and certainly some of our most colorful words. “Fellyshellygloop” is one of my all-time favorites.

It’s important, you know. We’re meant to fellowship together. We were created with fellowship-needs. Somehow, some of us have forgotten that. Not kids, though. Kids have an instinct that drives them to herd together and compare their owies and share their Skittles. They’re always up for a get-together. Always. Have you ever known a child to say, “Nah. I’m not in a socializing mood?” Of course you haven’t. My daughter once asked, while shivering despite her 103 degree temperature, “If I stop shaking, can Jaimey come over?”

We’ve much to learn from these short people. Herd together with someone this weekend–or lots of someones. Go to church! It’s good for your heart to be among people who share your beliefs, people you can show your owies to. Find another couple to have lunch with afterwards. We’ll be at Scott and Diana’s Sunday afternoon, if you’re looking for us.

This weekend, find yourself some good fellyshellygloop. You won’t be sorry.

Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another-and all the more as you see the Day approaching.
~Heb 10:25 (NIV)

©2008, Shannon Woodward

My daughter sits at her computer, headphones in place, hands flying over the keyboard as she types in a homeschooling schedule for herself. Tera is most happy when she’s in “secretary mode.” I couldn’t say no when she asked, awhile ago, “Mom, can I please make up my own work schedule for school this year?”

So she sits there, oblivious to my own flying fingers in my office fifteen feet away. She’s oblivious to the sounds of the Seahawks game drifting from the living room below. She’s unaware that I can hear her singing along with her new favorite CD.

Tera’s happy.

My son is walking around his Bible College campus, wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and black slippers he bought at the Murrieta Walmart. “I love being able to walk around campus in my slippers, Mom,” he told me when he called a half-hour ago. He also told me that he nearly drowned yesterday while surfing in Oceanside–information I could have done without. But I’m reminded that God is in control of my child, and once again, He’s done His job well. Zac tells me all the details of his surfing incident, tells me how good it felt to sleep in this morning, tells me there are no classes tomorrow, tells me what he’s going to order at Jack in the Box when he runs across the street for a bite.

Zac is happy.

Dave is in our bedroom, prone, watching that Seahawks game in his usual Sunday afternoon garb–flannel pajama bottoms and his favorite gray robe. “Beautiful!” I hear now and then, when his outburst defies our bedroom door and drifts upstairs. He’s full of spaghetti and meatballs, and if that wasn’t reason enough for lying around, there’s also the fact that he’s been up since 4:00. While Tera and I kept sleeping, he rose in the dark and worked a bit more on his sermon notes. After a long and busy morning, he’s earned the right to that robe, and those pajama bottoms, and the nap I know he’ll fall into soon.

Dave is happy.

My family is safe. My heart is full. My house is warm, and filled with the scent of wood smoke, a hazelnut candle, a fresh pot of coffee, and just a hint of spaghetti sauce. God is in His heaven … and all is right with my world.