An Encouraging Word

It’s times like this I’m grateful for a poor sense of smell. There it was, sitting in the middle of the grass, an armadillo carcass interrupting the serenity of my morning walk.  I didn’t know what killed it, how long it had been there or how long it would be before someone or something removed the remains.  I was, however, pretty sure of one thing. The armadillo never expected its armor to fail. I’m sure it thought (however armadillos actually “think”) that it would be protected inside its little shell.  I’m sure it thought that whatever crisis came its way, it could retreat into the safety of the solution that had protected it so many times before.  I’m sure it thought, “it could never happen to...

I’ve never seen this grill before. I’m sitting on the worn striped seat cushion of an old metal chair.  Along with its three blue wire-frame counterparts and matching table, this chair has kept watch over my grandparents’ patio for years.  In front of me sits a new shiny new grill with a dozen settings and easy-turning knobs and the kind of clean appearance that comes from not being used nearly enough. My family made the trek from Fort Myers to Austin to join our relatives in commemorating my grandfather’s passing from time into eternity.  He is with Jesus today, and we are with each other, preparing fresh homemade fajitas for our first all-family meal without him. My uncle was out here tending the grill by himself, so rather than sit...

The backwater lake shimmered in the light of the mid-morning sun. Ripples danced through the water like figure skaters on ice, making chaotic patterns interspersed with brief moments of circular perfection where the fish poked up for a bite to eat. Across the water was a stand of cypress trees, their ghost-white forms stretching high into a cobalt and cotton-ball sky, with only their thick layers of spanish moss weighing them down. It was a place of peace. As I sat there in the quiet, a thought occurred to me.  Looking at the rippling lake, it was very easy to distinguish between the reality of the trees and their reflection in the water.  While the water echoed the image, it was imperfect, incomplete and unstable.  To see what the trees were really like, I...

The white metal sign looked so lonely, its faded yellow trim standing out in a field of brittle grass and flowing weeds. Once upon a time it had been an important warning marker to approaching boats.  At some point in the past it had served a purpose, had helped travelers avoid danger by not letting them float too close to the jetty that would likely bring their boat to a bitter end. But that was a long time ago. Now the sign was abandoned and irrelevant.  The world had moved on, leaving only echoes and memory of a past when the sign served a purpose.  To pay attention to it now would just be silly, because the danger of which it warned had long since passed. Sometimes we live our lives like that. Once upon a time we set up walls and gates to protect our...

Seriously?  Another one??? I stared at the grocery bag in annoyance, one hand holding its flimsy form up to the light as the other spread open the beige plastic for examination.  Yep, two nice-sized holes in the bottom made this one a no-go, too. You see, I use grocery bags for trash liners in my kitchen.  It’s free, it’s easy since I don’t generate a ton of garbage living alone, and they keep giving them to me so I might as well use them!  (I know, I know, I could get reusable grocery bags…but then where would I put my trash?) Now, holes in a garbage bag of any kind are bad news.  Years ago I worked at a Dunkin Donuts and experienced the delight of slinging a load of trash over my shoulder to deliver to the dumpster, only to later...

  Four minutes in, I discovered the truth: small children are terrible at picking strawberries. There we were, two families with kids and a single guy, exploring a “U-Pick” strawberry patch on a sunny Sunday afternoon.  The air was cool and dry and the sky was clear with a bright sun overhead, streaming down on fields of ripe, red, ready-to-eat strawberries just waiting to be picked. Then there they went, the two-year-old and the six-year-old, ready to try their hand at field work and eager to fill their buckets with the juicy delights of (almost) spring. The older one did great.  Her six-year-old eyes quickly distinguished the good fruit from the bad, and her nimble fingers had no trouble separating stem from stalk.  The younger one…...