It's A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

I use Facebook once a week for three minutes so it’s not surprising I missed the private message.  Everything on the fb page is confusing and to be honest I spend most of my time turning off their notifications.  (Because truthfully, as a person I love you but I could care less that you had a bagel for lunch.  You are coming across as strange and mildly narcissistic.  Take your bagel outside and share your lunch with someone.  Have a real conversation with a real person then don’t post about it.  We’ll all feel better.  Sorry.  Small rant.)   After clicking on the little red box on the top of my home page, I realized that I had a note from a name I didn’t recognize.  

A bit of reading and I find out a darling soul is going out of her way to track me down and deliver my mail.  We exchange phone numbers and a few days later, I am at the door of my old rental house, in my old neighborhood, facing my old feelings of loss.  I’m not sure why my girlfriend decided to send my postcard to the house I vacated seven years ago.  To be fair, she was suffering from a wicked case of jet lag when she wrote me from Paris last month.  Still, it was a strange mistake and I wondered what God was up too. No time to swim in the pool of self-pity however, I rang the doorbell, said hello and within a few moments I was in my former back yard chatting about trees, neighbors and garden projects.  

As the conversation moves back inside, we sink into chairs and deeper heart issues.  One of the joys of talking to mature Christians is they can listen to a story of loss with grace.  Chances are strong they have faced something similar.  We passed the time easily, sharing our victories and losses, bragging on God for the marvelous way He came through when no human help was accessible.  This couple's story was every bit as harrowing as my own.  They too were familiar with a season of loss, death and financial uncertainty.  It was kind of nice, I felt no pressure to put a faith spin on my story. Everyone in the room knew that Jesus leads his people into some dark valleys.  When he does, your story becomes inexplicable.  It’s too complicated, too confusing and too complex to share with others.  All that you have at the end of the journey is a trail of bible verses and used tissues.  Those who have traveled the chasm between despair and hope never forget the trip and can converse easily with those making the journey.  

After I had taken up too much of their precious time, I excused myself to my car.  Just as I was walking down the driveway, my old neighbor appeared on her porch for a smoke break.  I smiled.  She looked the same as I had last seen her, cigarette in her right hand, left arm crossed under her chest.  Beautiful, her eyes looked tired, the telltale sign of having young children.  Hers wasn’t an easy life.  Her first child had special needs and it had taxed her marriage in the early years.  She was alone and struggling, so we had many conversations back when I lived across the street. 

Seven years ago, our last conversation had been a goodbye.  A crisis had meant my husband and I had 10 days to pack up a decade of living and leave the country.  My anxiety was high and for some reason I struggled over whether to give her a ridiculously expensive bike I had or whether it was better stewardship to try sell it. I decided that because my future was uncertain, it made more sense to sow into God’s economy and gift the bike.  It was a child’s tricycle with a parent handle and sunshade, super fancy and upscale.  It had been given to me, and it seemed smart to pass it on because it afforded her son a mobility he didn’t possess.  I felt a bit silly, but I gave it to her anyway.  It was one of the last things I did before closing up our home and setting out into the proverbial desert.

I sighed and walked across the street.  Would she remember me? She waved hello and we had a brief exchange.  I got a rundown on the children and her family.  She asked questions and got an update before she turned to go inside to tend her littles.  She stopped and faced me again.  “I have to tell you…to say thank you again for the bike you gave us when you moved.  It has been such a wonderful gift.  We’ve used it over and over again.  I've thought of you.  I even take it camping.  I’ve used it for my son and the kids I take care of.  It was just the greatest present.  I just had to say thank you again.”  With a wave, she was gone, and I was left speechless.

I said my goodbyes to the couple and got into my car, wayward postcards in hand.  As I arrived home, I sat in my parking space for a while.  I realized with surprise I wasn’t feeling shattered.  I had just survived a visit to my place of loss.  Moreover, I had come away with thoughts to munch on.

-When I was suffering there were others in my community who were going through similar situations.  I wasn’t the only person hurting and questioning God’s purposes.

-In my place of brokenness, I had inadvertently blessed someone by choosing generosity over fear.  

-God was continually meeting needs even though I couldn’t understand His plan.  

-As I keep looking for the Lord, He shows up in the strangest places.  Even my friend’s misdirected mail was a weird opportunity to step out, testify and be blessed.

So I am thinking and praying for you my friend, especially if you are struggling to move on from loss.  I pray for the courage to follow the Lord if he walks you back to where you were wounded.  That you will be given the grace to testify to His goodness, even though you still bear the scars.  And I pray that in your faithfulness, you will come away with a blessing and a heart full of good news.

Have courage this week.  

xoxKaren   

Eighteen Chairs

Eighteen chairs seemed like an awful lot, so I counted three times to make sure.  The girls joined in, walking from room to room shouting out a number for each chair they found.  They squealed in delight when they opened a closet only to find another chair or two hidden behind the door.  “Yep Mum!  There really are 18.  Isn’t that impressive?”  “Absolutely!” I shouted back.  “What did they do with them all?”  My youngest asked, her brow furrowing.  “Have people over I think,” her sister replied.  “A whole bunch of people.” I expect there are many homes with far more than eighteen chairs.  However these chairs furnished a ground floor apartment that was no more than 900 square feet. Subtract a bathroom and kitchen from that space allotment and eighteen seating spaces became more impressive.  

The apartment was modest and unassuming much like the couple who had previously lived there.  Eighty’s wall paper graced the dining area and the décor tended towards vintage.  But on certain evenings, all the chairs were filled as this gracious couple hosted a prayer meeting in their building.  Friends and family would fill the little flat and take their seats to pray.  When I first entered their space I wept, the presence of the Lord more evident in that humble home than churches I had visited.  In the Lord’s providence and my desperation, I came to live in their space after they had died and graduated heavenward.  I can’t honestly say that I remember a great deal from that time.  Life was such a struggle, I have put those days behind a curtain in my mind and I don’t poke around there if I can help it.  They have been left to age like wine in a cellar.  I’m hoping the passage of time will enrich my understanding and cause me to appreciate their value.  The eighteen chairs though, have stayed with me.  

Loss is a difficult emotion to navigate.  When something or someone important is taken away, grief is the emotional result.  Factors such as support, culture and religion can help or hinder the process.  Countless books have been written about ways to navigate this universal experience but at some point, the bereaved has to make a choice to reenter their community without their former possession.  One has to bear the badge of loss humbly and try again.  It takes courage and humility.

Summer is a delightful time for many.  The heat, lack of schedule and opportunity for outdoor adventures cause delight.  For some, it brings an element of panic as beachwear comes back into vogue.  For my friend, summer was a trial she dreaded for months.  Thinking about it caused the back of her throat to constrict and ache, hot tears flowed before words were even formed. 

The mastectomy in fall was difficult.  She had recovered though the support of family and had even accepted the term “self-care” as part of her vocabulary.  Comfy sweatshirts gave way to long sleeve shirts and as days warmed tee shirts were reintroduced with care.  The need for a swim suit though, caused such pain in her heart she swore her scar ached.  The loss throbbed in her psyche.  Somehow, she had to face the beach and her altered form.

Another man feels the sting of humiliation when he enters his church.  He steels himself as he reaches for the door, the loneliness pushed aside as he steps behind the Teflon wall in his mind.  He shakes hands and smiles as his community greets him, yet at times he is so angry he can barely speak.  The dissolution of the marriage had been public. The counselling was going well and he was certain by winter his family would reunite.  If you asked him, he wouldn’t be able to tell you why the process had faltered.  Doing everything he was told didn't yield the results he prayed for and he was left embarrassed and confused.  Holidays were closing in and his life group were going out of their way to invite him to dinners and services.  He was doing the best he knew how but after driving home from these events, he sat in his driveway and cried.  

Recovery from loss takes time and often months and years are the units of measure.  I am two years into my own restoration process and I still find myself wincing in as I struggle to move forward.  Whenever tears threaten to spill over, I focus my attention on the eighteen chairs.  This couple didn’t spend time wishing they had a bigger place to live.  They didn’t waste time fussing over what people thought of them.  They were too busy living.  When times were difficult, they prayed and when there someone in need, they invited them into their lives and added another chair.  

So I’m praying for you if loss is weighing heavy on your heart this week.  May God give you eyes for where you are headed, not where you have been.  That you might know your embarrassment is not a life sentence, it is a stage you are moving through as you seek to stand in His grace. I pray you will understand that though your loss feels colossal, God will continue to work His grace in your life so that it will shrink in the light of his glory.  More importantly, I’m praying that God will give you the ability to see those who are suffering as you have. That in your grief you might invite them to pull up a chair so that you can pray for them. 

And then I’m going to pray that you too, will need more chairs.


May God bless you richly this week,


xoxKaren

The Ministry of Mints

Horses love peppermints.  I’m not fond of peppermints myself, so when I found out that horses eat them I was surprised. Feed a horse a peppermint and it will chew and drool until it crunches the mint into horsey oblivion.  It is grotesquely delightful.   

Some folk are born horse people.  As children they pretended their dog was a pony, clicked at their parents, and screamed “whoa there!” when stopping their tricycles.  Not me. I never put a saddle on the family dog and I didn’t watch Black Beauty.  I didn’t dislike horses, they just weren’t on my radar.  So when I found myself face to nose with a peppermint snarfing horse last week, I wondered how I got there.

Bartering is an ancient system based on trading goods or services without the exchange of currency.  When such an opportunity arose at a local stable my children jumped at the opportunity.  The catch being, they needed my help to fulfill their end of the agreement.  Because they are vertically challenged, my girls required assistance wrangling water buckets and refilling them.  This my friend, was my door into horsey-dom.

My job is simple: take buckets off hooks, scrub buckets, re hang buckets and fill them with water.  It would be an easy job if horses weren’t involved.  Most times, I can get into a stall when its inhabitant is moved to the pasture.  Certain mornings that proves impossible and I enter stables to fill waters while Monsieur or Madame Horsey is still in there.  That’s when it gets complicated. 

Horses are curious.

Curious and pushy. 

Curious, pushy and demanding to be more specific.  None more so than a horse named Joey, who was the first equus callabus to befriend me.  It was a hot fall day in September when I entered Joeys’ stall to change his water. Our training period had finished the week before and this Sunday the girls and I were on our own.  That means I was the functional adult in charge.  I wasn’t comfortable haltering and moving the beasts yet, so I decided to leave Joey in his pen.  His buckets were empty and he was happy to have me take them.  He stepped aside when I entered and stayed out of my way to hurry things along.  He knew the drill.  Gathering all the water buckets at the barn took time.  After much crouching, scrubbing and splashing, I had the 30 buckets ready to re hang. 

I’m not certain why I filled Joey’s water buckets last that afternoon.  The work load was high, perhaps it was the heat.  I opened Joey’s pen and pushed passed him to the water buckets.  “Sorry boy,” I cooed.  “Here you go, that took a while didn’t it?”  I gave the hose a tug and reached up into the first bucket, squeezing the nozzle handle.  Joey moved in closer.  “Back up buddy,” I cajoled as he closed in on the water bucket.  “Hold on a minute.”  Joey could not wait.  He came up behind me and stuck his head in the bucket trapping my arm with his neck.  “Buddy! You’ve got to move.”  I leaned into his chest with my back.  “Seriously.  You’re squashing me.”  But Joey didn’t budge.  Joey drank water as fast as I could fill the bucket.  My arm was aching.  I threw myself back against his chest to move him.  Joey, thinking we were bonding, leant into me as I leant into him.  I was pinned between a 5 gallon bucket and a 1000 pound horse.  It was getting awkward.  

Yelling for help proved pointless, my girls were elsewhere and couldn't hear me. What to do next?  It was then I remembered I had 3 mints in my pocket.   I reached in my pocket for one.  Gripping it in my teeth, I got it out of the wrapper.  I managed to hold it above my head while waving it at thirsty horse boy. "Joey!  Look!  Treat boy!  Have a mint!"  When Joey came up for air half a bucket later, he lifted his head above mine and rested his muzzle on my skull.  It would have been an endearing gesture if ice cool water, horse drool and goodness knows what else didn’t cascade down my neck, straight into my bra.  I cannot replicate the sound I made, because I was too shocked at horse drool being dumped in my shirt.  Joey, thrilled at the sight of a sugar treat, showed his appreciation by resting his head on my shoulder as he ingested his prize.  Warm streams of horse saliva replaced the cold sensation and slithered down my right shoulder blade.  When he finished, he chewed my hair which contained the correct balance of moisture and filth.   

After I filled his 3^rd and final bucket, I looked like I’d been in a water fight.  I had hay in my hair, horse drool in my bra, and manure everywhere else.  At that point, I had to question my devotion to my children.  When my oldest was little, I never dreamed being accosted by a horse would be part of parenting. I was grossed out, more than that, my body ached.  I realized I didn't want to spend 3 hours on my day off picking up after horses.  Sighing, i confessed my unwillingness. 

Lord, I know without a doubt that your orchestrated this opportunity for my children.  I thank you, truly I do because you are kind and your mercies are new.  I'm ashamed that I'm facing this blessing with whining.  Did I mention I'm feeling old?  Give me the grace to cooperate with you as you bless my children. I know my time with them is fleeting.  Please forgive me for being selfish, help me to be generous with my time. Please give me special horse wrangling abilities and ensure that this grass drool doesn't stain my clothes..... With your help, I will gladly do this out of love for my girls, regardless of how I feel. Help me to serve you first instead of my own desires.    

Don’t you find that to be true friend?  That love takes us places we never could have imagined?   I have watched friends and family sacrifice many things for the sake of those they love.  Some of their actions were amazing, others were downright insane.  That is why it is so important to love the Lord above all.  

Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. Deut 6:5 

To love God first means he will direct our paths and keep us safe from our more destructive desires.  In truth, I would prefer napping to blessing my children, God enables me to look beyond my sleep deprived soul.  

Loving God isn’t always easy.  It can mean getting in the manure of life and working hard for those who won’t thank you for your efforts.  Other times it means sacrifice when those around you appear to walk a road paved with opportunity.  More often than not, it means putting your desires aside as you seek to bless those around you.  But don’t be discouraged my friend.  You are doing the work of the kingdom.  If you find yourself covered in the grime of service, know you serve a God who can cleanse you, restore you and set you on your feet, or horse, again.

I’m praying for you,

xoxKaren

If I understood the job description, I would have turned it down instantly.  It was 8:00 pm and our meeting was running late.  I loathe meetings, so when the club director asked if I would be one of the facilities supervisors for the upcoming speech and debate tournament, I said “yes!” because I wanted people to stop taking and let me go home.  Fortunately, she recruited my friend Ann as well.  I assumed if the job was unpleasant, Ann would warn me.  She offered no warnings, merely smiled and gave me the thumbs up sign across the table.  

The tournament was 4 days long and involved approximately 160 competitors and their families.  If you are foolish enough to accept a position on the facilities team, you become responsible for maintaining the facilities and the 26 rooms used for competition.  It is a monumental task. Garbage, bathrooms, chairs, tables, and classrooms; facilities is responsible for the set up and maintenance of all of it.  There is however one small perk.  You get to wear a walkie-talkie. 

In my entire adult life, no one has ever entrusted me with a walkie-talkie. Simply put, no one was ever stupid enough.  But things move quickly in the world of speech and debate and communication between volunteers is key. As a result, certain people are given walkie-talkies in the hope they will respond rapidly to emergencies.  Ann and I were key people in the rapid problem solving fantasy.  I was given my walkie-talkie and shown how to use it.  It was as cool as my 7 year old self had imagined.  When Ann arrived I handed her one.  We were wired for sound, all we needed now was a problem to solve.  

We didn’t have to wait long, inspection of the room set up revealed an issue and suddenly I was responsible for rearranging furniture in six rooms before the tournament was to start in 40 mins.  I flung tables and chairs about like Thor in detention before I was called away to another task involving a lost senior citizen and decaffeinated coffee.  The tournament had begun.

I should explain that Ann and I have a similar sense of humour.  We favour dry, irreverent remarks and possess a love of the English language.  We are generally able to keep things sensible in person but something about our walkie-talkies brought out the very devil; everything was funny.  All she needed to say was “roger that,” and I would giggle myself silly.   I assumed we were doing a good job of using the radios for emergencies only until day two of the tournament, when the logistics director kicked us off the main channel.  Ann and I were sent to timeout on channel 2, where we could be as chatty as our hearts desired.  People knew how to find us if they needed us. Sadly, I couldn’t quite get the hang of switching between the two channels and the logistics director had to exercise extreme patience as I continually chatted with Ann on her channel.  “Karen, you’re on channel one.  Facilities has two.”  I figured it was cosmic justice, poor woman, that’s what she gets for kicking us in the first place.  

As the week progressed, I realized I was enrolled in a crash course on problem solving.  My entire role centered on fixing people’s problems.  I experienced a steep learning curve.  Often, I was surprised by the attitude of those I was helping: it was simply impossible to make everyone happy.  

A large part of tournament life centers around food.  Students need to be fed and so do their families.  Many buy meals though some bring crock pots to cut costs. In addition, tournaments feed those who generously volunteer to judge competitors.  Consequently, the kitchen team sets up a make shift restaurant in the venue where they feed people all day long.  It is amazing. 

The menu on day three was broccoli soup.  Downstairs, crock pots full of hearty green goodness simmered and sent their aroma through the building.  Upstairs, families plugged in their own stews and casseroles to be devoured that night.  I didn’t really think much about it until I met a robust little man in the hallway as I was running to meet Ann.                                                                          “It smells like a latrine in here,” he greeted me.                                    “Really? It does? Does it?”  I felt confused.  This wasn’t a regular greeting.  “Yep.  It does,” he replied and looked at me expectantly.  I was at a loss, “Okay, well I’ll check that out and see what I can do.  Can I help you with anything else?”                                                                                               “Nope.  Just thought you should know,” he offered and marched off down the hall.                                                                                                    “Thank you,” I called intentionally walking in the opposite direction.  

It was 20 minutes before I thought about the broccoli again.  I had run outside to grab something from my car when I reentered the building.  I pulled open the double doors and was hit by a sulfurous wave that just about knocked me off my feet. “Not good,” I muttered to myself.  Running to the janitor’s closet, I grabbed a can of air freshener.  For the next ten minutes, I walked around the wing of the building, opening windows and spraying bursts of air freshener in an attempt to loosen the cruciferous cabbages’ clutches.  Mission completed I returned to my post.   

An hour later I was approached by a very cross human being.  “Whatever you are spraying in the building is making someone have an asthma attack!”           “Really?” I said uselessly.  “That’s horrible.  Do they need medical help?  Where are they?”  I was ready to run again, I just needed to be pointed in the correct direction.  
“She’s fine. But you need to stop spraying.” She frowned.  
“Well, we stopped an hour ago.  Are you certain she doesn’t need help?  I’ll go open more windows!” I was reassured the student was fine but I ran to prop open a door and more windows.  Between the sulfur and the dichlorobenzene I wasn’t feeling like air was on my side.  

I had just trekked around the wing for the second time when I was approached by another parent.  “Karen, I’m working down the hall and there is quite a draft.  Would you mind if I shut those windows?”  She pointed to the last set I had opened.  
“OF COURSE!  What a good idea!”  I all but shouted at the surprised parent. “You do what you need. I don’t mind at all.”  I smiled reassuringly and nodded my head too enthusiastically.  “Excuse me, I’m being summoned.”  I pointed to my walkie-talkie “Karen…..”  Ann was in my ear.  “The janitor said he didn’t want the door propped open, he’s afraid of rats getting in the building.”            
 “RATS ARE NOCTURNAL!!” I screamed forgetting to press the talk button.  I bit my lip and made a strange noise.  The parent looked at me puzzled.  “Science lesson,” I smiled dismissing myself and walking quickly away.

By this point in my tournament life I was feeling a bit frayed.  I wish I could tell you that this was a rare example but honestly, the entire four days was filled with situations like this one.  As soon as I had figured out how to solve a problem, someone else got cross.  It was genuinely amazing.  At the end of the day, I felt so misunderstood and frustrated I was happy to take off my walkie-talkie.  The joy had been sucked right out of it.  

Which got me to thinking dear friend, about those of you who are working in your anointing for those who are ungrateful.  You started out with an intention to glorify God and serve and now you are wondering why you even bothered. Every day feels like a kick in the teeth and you’re pretty sure a couple are going to fall out any minute now. 

Can I encourage you my friend to hold on?
Hebrews 6:10 states,

For God is not unjust so as to overlook your work and the love that you have shown for his name in serving the saints, as you still do.

Our God makes note of your hard work.  We serve a God who sees.  Our God is a God of recompense.  Nothing you do out of faith is wasted.  I pray that you will have the strength to put your head down and persevere.  Steel yourself, sing a song, and keep standing.

I’m praying for you this week.


xoxKaren
Photo: http://www.pdpics.com/photo/1810-broccoli-cabbage/

Throwing Stones

The tree was quite large, about 60 ft from root to tip.  It had obviously been a victim of this years' storms.  We had a couple of windstorms that were not plant friendly; many gorgeous, senior trees had taken a tumble in the strong winds, and this fellow lying prostrate on the beach was one of them.  I wasn't sure how he ended up there, but I wasn't clear why I was there either.  

I had decided my family needed bonding time and picked out a suitable new hike.  One of my "secret-mother-super-powers" is to take my family on adventures that have surprise endings.  Like the time I took them for a walk around the lake when a storm was brewing.  We were under the power line when it groaned and just down the street after it snapped.  I told them we were going for "a jaunt" not knowing that a sprint to save our lives would be the highlight of the afternoon.   

It's an uncanny gift. To recount the amount of times I've pulled them into inclement weather would just be boring.  It is my ability to time excursions to the park with social justice demonstrations or emergency construction projects that is really clever.  

My triumph today was to plan a hike that turned out to be no more than a minor excursion.  Minor.  Excessively so.  I had expected the walk to take an hour one way, so when we strolled out of the forest a mere 9 minutes after walking in, I was a bit put out.  We had however, ended up along accessible waterfront so it wasn't entirely devastating.  (Not like the time I made my husband carry our oldest baby in a back pack a few miles downhill to the lake emerge from the woods under a willow tree on a minute parcel of land that afforded no view of the lake whatsoever. Save of course for the mud puddle we stood in.)

As we exited the forest and took in our surroundings someone snorted and said, "you are kidding!"  After a few more minutes of utterly unhelpful smarty-pants comments, we altered our course and headed for the nearest ice cream station.  It was a nice walk, seals appeared along the shore, breaking the surface like  corks held too long on the bottom of the sound.  We meandered and chatted our way down the trail.  As we approached the path's termination we became aware of an abundance of no trespassing signs and barbed wire.   About the time we realized we were surrounded by a perimeter fence, a very nice local with a great dane pointed out the exit route. 

We acquired ice cream and made our way back through the barbed wire to the beach.  It was there we caught sight of the tree, lying parallel to the water, with shoots bursting skyward running its entire length.  Crunching over rock, we sat down and made ourselves comfortable leaning against it's rough bark. 

The afternoon passed lazily.  A trip to the water to test the temperature, a lucky crabs dream of meeting humans fulfilled and a lot of rock throwing.  It was the good kind of rock throwing though, hitting logs and landmarks with a great degree of aplomb.  We were all hurling stones and having a delightful time. Ironically, I had just had a conversation the previous day about the bad type of rock throwing;  the kind where words are launched, feelings get hurt, and relationships are broken.  

She was crying when she phoned.  I cringed as she recounted the story, not because I was surprised but because I had expected it.  My darling friend has taken to keeping company with a very unkind person.  I expect it is a textbook case of insecurity, some people only feel good about themselves when they hurt others.  I wondered how many times my young friend was going to get hurt before she got wise.  We spent a great deal of time discussing what friendship was and what friendship was not.  

Friends do not put you down when you are hurting.  They do not meet your pain with an opportunity to score points.  A true friend can speak life to dead spaces and usher in life again.  I thought of the tree I was leaning against.  The tree was dead, washed ashore and its life was over yet, here it was, throwing shoots skyward in an attempt to continue living.  I sent her a picture of the tree.  

"See this?  This is what friends do, they keep trying even when things seem impossible.  They speak life and make you feel better not worse. It's kind of symbolic but you get my point."

She texted back, "What are you doing at the beach?  I thought you were on a hike?"

Scripture has a great deal to say about friendship, all worthy of our consideration. 

One who is righteous is a guide to his neighbor, but the way of the wicked leads them astray. Proverbs 12:26 

Do not be deceived: “Bad company ruins good morals.” 1 Corinthians 15:33

Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. Colossians 3:12-14

I encourage you to spend some time reflecting upon the company you keep and the company you provide. Does the Lord have anything to say to you on the matter?  Life is short my friend and time is limited.  Invest wisely.

I'm praying for you this week,

xoxKaren