Oh, it wasn’t the kids. They were wonderful. Brilliant. Helpful, even. No, it was the Austin roads. And even more than the Austin roads, it was Helga.

You do know Helga, don’t you? She’s the woman who lives inside the free GPS my daughter uploaded to my i-phone at the first sign of trouble. I didn’t know which 83 I was supposed to take. There are four of them, you know: 83N, 83S, 83A and 83B. The North and South I could handle. The A and B threw me off a bit, since I didn’t learn those coordinates in school.

Along comes Helga, to save the day. Oh, she seemed very polite at first, and I had high hopes. “May I use your current location?” she asked. Of course you may, dear Helga.

But her charm was short-lived. Before I knew it, she was barking orders to turn right, turn left, make a U-turn . . . only she didn’t tell me to turn on actual streets. I swear, she was making up nonexistent street names to confuse me.

Every once in a while, she’d throw in a real street name, just to keep me on my toes. But she wouldn’t call the real street name until I was about 40 feet past the intersection bearing that name.

Finally, I’d had enough. I realized that, in spite of her polished British accent, Helga didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. I pulled the car to a safe location, looked up the phone number for the ice rink, and called for directions.

“Can you tell me your exact location?” the woman asked. I told her. With a few simple directions, I felt a new hope that an ice rink was in our future. With a new confidence, I backed out of my parking space to begin again.

But as soon as I pulled onto the street, there was Helga’s now-annoying British voice! “Turn left. Turn right. Redirecting.”

At this point, I was a near-crazy woman. “Make her stop! How do you turn her off?” I hollered at no one in particular. Thank the good Lord above, there were teenagers in the car who promptly deleted Helga from my phone into oblivion. She’s now wandering cyberspace, looking for a new home. If she knocks at your door, don’t let her in, no matter how innocent and charming she sounds. She’s a dangerous woman, I tell you.

By following the instructions given by the ice rink employee, I found the place quickly and easily. Turns out, I wasn’t far from my destination. I just needed to listen to the right person.

That’s happened to me more times than I can count. Oh, not because of Helga, though I would like to blame her for all sorts of iniquity. But that wouldn’t be fair. There are many voices trying to lead us in the wrong direction. They sound charming and authoritative, but really, all they do is get us lost, and we end up more confused than ever.

In this road trip called life, we need to ignore the Helga’s of this world. Delete them, if possible, and listen to the One who knows the course better than anyone. By listening to the right voice, and following His instructions, we’ll end up at the best possible destination. Plus, the journey will be a much more pleasant one.

“In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths,” Proverbs 3:6.

You insidious unpaired defiant wretches

Unaccustomed to the other

Patterns in heated dispute

Yet emerging as if wed

Once each of you were holy partnered

Right and left together properly bedded

Now here you lie

Too unlike the other to become one

Destined to spend unnumbered days

Cast into the catchall grave

Until another purpose unfolds

Hoping for a miraculous reunion

When the lost again is found

 ©2003 by Linda Rondeau

Hi Friends! Sorry I haven’t stopped by in a while. But I just couldn’t resist posting this sock poem by fellow author Linda Rondeau.

Obviously, this is a woman who understands the angst of laundry. Good to know we’re not the only ones, eh? But she’s not just a poet. No, sir. She’s got a new book out, and I wanted to share it with you. If you’re a fan of mystery/suspense, you won’t want to miss it.  Watch the book trailer here!

The Other Side of Darkness by Linda Wood Rondeau

Haven: a perfect vacation spot filled with mystery and romance except for a killer bent on revenge.

 Manhattan prosecutor Samantha Knowlton is stranded in a quirky but intriguing Adirondack town. But she must return to NYC to repair the unraveling case against convicted child killer, Harlan Styles.

Teacher Zack Bordeaux fears he is doomed to a life of mediocrity if he remains in Haven but would be willing to stay if it means a life with Sam.

Landscape artist Jonathan Gladstone feels bound to an estate he both loathes and loves, haunted by the deaths of his wife and son until he falls in love with a spirited attorney and rediscovers his artistic passion.

These three, betrayed and betraying, must find their way from the darkness of broken hope to the light found only in Christ, our surest haven.

 Enjoy. Blessings to each of you!

–Renae

Why I insisted on sitting on the high-traffic steps, I’ll never know. It was a hassle, for sure. But it was also the best spot in the house. After all, I got tickled or teased or squeezed by everyone who passed that way, and I kind of liked the attention.

Thanksgiving is about remembering. It’s about remembering the people who’ve touched our lives, and made them better. It’s about remembering things that made us laugh. Or, it’s about laughing at things which once annoyed us. Truly, Thanksgiving is about recalling the beautiful, the silly, the sweet things we often forget to remember.

This morning, I’ve taken a trip down memory lane, and it’s been a fun trip. Like cleaning out the attic, I’ve found memories in the dusty corners of my mind that I haven’t thought about in years. Like the way I squealed whenever Uncle Odell came near. He always, always pulled out his pocket knife and threatened to cut off one of my pigtails. “You’ve got two!” he’d say. “Why can’t you share one?”

Or the way Mary Frances and Kathy managed to look like movie stars while spreading the lace tablecloth over the deep freeze, turning it into a dessert table. Or the way Memaw’s eyes twinkled, even as she wiped the sweat off her brow after cooking all morning.

I remember the tiny wood-frame house that never seemed too small, even with fifty-something people spilling out of every corner. We never ate at the dining room table; there wasn’t room after all the food was set out. So we found spots in the living room, or in one of the bedrooms, or on the front porch or the back porch, or on the steps. When all those spots were filled, the uncles would pull down their tailgates and perch there to eat. Or, they’d just set their plates on the tailgate and eat standing up.

I remember Mom and Anice talking about the wonders of Mary Kay lipgloss, or catching up on which former classmates had married or had babies. I remember the way Aunt Doris sounded when she called my mom’s name. “Sue Nell? Sue Nell!” Actually, it came out more like “Sue-NAYell.”

I remember the way my dad and Jerry Paul and Marvin and Marlin and Maurice and Odell discussed hunting and trucks and football, and Shelby and Melvin chimed in, wanting to be men.

I remember taking walks down the old dirt road with Kenny and April. We were the three youngest, and I was the oldest of our set. I felt important and mature when I was with them, like I needed to take care of them. But once, when we made it all the way to the creek and watched a water moccasin slip beneath the dark waters, I left them in my dust. (Sorry, Kenny and April. Glad you got out of that alive.)

Good memories.

But I don’t have to dig back to my childhood to find things that make me smile. God is so good, He blesses me every single day. I love thinking about the way my dad teases my kids, and threatens to eat their apple pie. I love the way Mom fusses over her cornbread dressing, and declares it a failure, even though it always tastes like heaven. I love the way my kids and Shelby’s kids disappear together, and come back snickering and looking like the cat that ate the canary. I even love the way Shelby still treats me like I’m his kid sister, like I don’t have any sense, though I’ll never admit that to him. But at my age, it’s kinda nice to be thought of as “young”.

I love the way my husband shows he loves me every day by filling up my car with gas, and making special trips to the grocery store, and texting me sweet “I-love-you” messages. I love the way my kids both still like to spend one-on-one time with their mom. I love that I have so many people to love.

I could go on and on. But you get the idea—I’m blessed. And when I take a moment to really think about all the things I have to be thankful for, those memories seem to swell and multiply in my mind, and before I know it, there’s not any room for the stress, or hurt, or the unpleasant things in life. When we dwell on the beautiful things, the ugly gets pushed out and discarded. It’s a pretty cool system, if you ask me.

Thanksgiving is all about remembering the good things. And truly, my cup overflows.

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things,” Philippians 4:8.

1. One can survive several days on Starbucks coffee and a granola bar.
2. Spending more than two days without leaving the hospital is a great excuse to run up to the local mall and buy a new outfit. Trust me. No one will argue with you about it.
3. If you have toothpaste but no toothbrush, a finger works almost as well.
4. Starbucks coffee is the nectar of the gods.
5. If you go to the hospital cafeteria often enough, they’ll start giving you the employee discount.
6. If you’ve ever envied an infant’s ability to fall asleep, anytime, anywhere, spend four days in the ICU. After that, you really will sleep like baby.
7. See # 4.

1. No matter how tired you are, always be sweet to the nurses. They have access to coffee, pillows, blankets, and all sorts of other life-sustaining goodies.
2. They want you think I.C.U. stands for Intensive Care Unit, but that’s not really what it means. If you take a close look at those flimsy, backless hospital gowns, you’ll know it’s really code for “I-See-You.”
3.  Watching a heart/blood pressure monitor can be almost as entertaining as “Dancing With the Stars.”
4.  Don’t sit on the I.C.U. bed unless you want everyone in the room to know how much you weigh.
5.  See # 7.

It’s not any fun watching someone you love suffer, and sometimes, when we’re going through something like that, we can question God’s goodness. But God is always good, in spite of the fact that we live in a fallen, broken world that’s full of sickness and disease and crime and natural disasters and all sorts of other bad things.

Did you hear me? God is always, always good.

Period.

He showed His goodness to our family last week by surrounding us with skilled doctors and nurses who helped my dad get better. He showed His goodness by answering the prayers of many, many friends and family members on Dad’s behalf. God shows His goodness by rejoicing with us in the good times, by weeping with us in the hard times, and by never, ever leaving our sides during all the in-between times.

He demonstrates His goodness every time another person shows they care. And He works through us, every time we show kindness to others. Sometimes God moves mountains and works miracles, but most often, He makes His presence known through ordinary people like you and me, as we do what we can to share His love.

In a way, we all spend time in God’s I.C.U. every day, for His care for us really is intensive. And honestly, God’s I.C.U. isn’t really a bad place to be, at all.

“Bless the Lord, oh my soul, and forget not all His benefits: who forgives all your iniquities, who heals all your diseases,”             Psalm 103:2.

First, there was the mouse in my washing machine. Then there was the cat who found my garage quite comfortable, and decided to camp out there for several nights. While we’re more dog people than cat people, I do prefer cats to mice. So he didn’t bother me too much until he started inviting his friends. I do try to exhibit Southern hospitality when I can, but I’m not willing to host a feline block party. No, I’m not.

Then, as if the cat and mouse thing wasn’t enough to deal with, we had another visitor last week. And this time, he made it all the way to my hallway.

My daughter’s friend was spending the night, and they’d stayed up late watching a movie. Well, she stayed up late, along with my nine-year old son, while my darling daughter fell fast asleep on the sofa.

When the movie ended, this sweet friend decided to go to bed. On the way, she spotted one of my son’s toys — a rubber snake — coiled up next to the baseboard. Then the snake moved.

“Uhm, Mrs. Brumbaugh?”

“Yes, dear?”

“There’s a snake in your hallway.”

At this time, my son, who bears a strong family resemblance to Tigger, began bouncing around the room. “A snake? Where? Let me see! I wanna see a snake! Oh, wow! It’s a snake, Mom! Come look!”

During all this, my daughter remained fast asleep.

I breathed deeply, gathered all my courage, and crept to the hallway. If there’s one thing I despise more than mice, it’s s-s-snakes. My first thought was to scoop everyone up, put them in the car, and drive to my parents’ home just ten miles from here. But then the snake would have free reign of my house, and no telling where he’d end up.

Of course, these things only happen when my dear husband is out of town. If anyone is hiring within a fifty-mile radius of here, please contact me. I desperately need my husband to travel less.

Back to the snake. Sure enough, there was a beige-and-black, diamond-patterned serpent coiled up against the baseboard. Now, thank God for little blessings, like my own ignorance. All I could think was, “Red-and-yellow-kills-a-fellow.” No red. No yellow. Surely, he wasn’t poisonous.

I forgot, at that moment, that diamond-back rattlers are black and beige. And that they are common to this area.

Now, if it had just been me in the house, I’d have been on the roof. But there’s this sort of mother-super-power that shows up when one’s children are in danger. I stood tall, journeyed back to the kitchen, and grabbed a big bowl. Solid yellow.

Then, thinking again, I put it back and found a clear bowl. If I was going to capture that critter, I wanted to be able to see what he was doing.

With a fortitude that is totally uncharacteristic of this Texas girly-girl, I journeyed back to the hallway and poised the bowl. Our young guest must have sensed how nervous I was. “Do you want me to get it, Mrs. B? I don’t mind.”

Everything in me wanted to scream, “Yes! Please, dear, would you?” But then, I could just see explaining the emergency-room-visit to her mother. “Well, you see, your daughter was just trying to rescue me from the snake in our hallway.”

“No, sweetheart. I’m fine,” I lied.

I breathed once. Twice. Finally, on three, I swooped the bowl down on the snake, clamping the edges so he couldn’t get loose. Oh, dear Lord, his tail is sticking out! I clamped even harder. Now, during this whole exchange, the snake had barely moved. But now I’d made him mad. Time and again, he struck at my hand through that bowl. I wanted to scream. I wanted to melt into a pile of jello. But since I was the only adult in the household, I somehow (Thank you God!) maintained my composure.

“Bring me something heavy to put on top of this bowl,” I told the kids. First, my son brought an ax. Yes, a big ol’ heavy ax. Where did he get that? Did I even know we owned an ax? “Wrong shape, son.”

Next, he brought the big, thick family Bible that rests on a stand in our entryway. Yes, that was altogether more appropriate. Images of the serpent being crushed by the Word of God fluttered through my mind.

Unfortunately, I was too afraid to lift my hand from the bowl. “Put the Bible back and bring me the phone.”

I filed through my mental index of who I could call at nearly midnight to rescue me from a snake. I didn’t want to wake my parents. I called my brother. He owed me one, since he had the nerve to not be home when I called him about the mouse.

My sister-in-law answered. “Hello?”

“There’s a snake in my hallway. I’ve captured it, and now I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Call 9-1-1!”

Now why didn’t I think of that? I hung up, called the police, and within ten minutes a brave officer scooped the snake into a brown paper bag and carried him out my front door. I never knew if it was a rattlesnake or it’s non-poisonous twin, a bull snake. I’m telling myself it was the bull snake.

And during all of this, my daughter slept like a baby on our living room sofa. In spite of the fact that her brother woke her several times to tell her about the snake, the ax, the police officer . . . each time she brushed him off and said, “I don’t care. Leave me alone. I’m sleeping.”

Truly, when difficult things come our way, shouldn’t we react more like my daughter? After all, she knew as long as Mom was there, she didn’t have anything to worry about. Shouldn’t I remember that my Father is always near, and He promised to take care of me? Shouldn’t I carry the calm assurance that I can rest easy, knowing He has everything under control?

Yes, I should. But honestly, I wish He’d keep His little critters under control at some place other than my house.

“So the Lord God spoke to the serpent. . . I will put hatred between you and the woman. Your children and her children will be enemies. Her son will crush your head. And you will crush his heel,” Genesis 3:14 – 15.

I was standing in the laundry room, removing  wet clothes from the washing machine and putting them in the dryer when a predator made his presence known, and I screamed so loud I could have wakened the dead. There, in the midst of my nice, clean, wet laundry, was a mouse!

How did he get there? And how did he survive the laundry cycle without drowning? Dad-blamed high efficiency machine. He probably felt like he was getting a nice shower.

I slammed the lid down and looked through the window on top. There he was, happy as could be, nestled up in my unmentionables. What to do, what to do . . .

I called my husband, who was out of town. “Just leave him alone. I’ll be home tonight,” he said.

Leave him there for eight hours? Yeah. Right.

I called my dad. He wasn’t feeling well, so instead of screaming in panic, I calmly asked, “How do you suggest I get a mouse out of my washing machine?”

“Throw a towel over him, then scoop him up and take him outside.”

Okay. I can do this. I found an old towel, took a deep breath, and opened the lid. But as soon as The Rat King saw daylight, he leapt into the air, trying to make a great escape. I screamed again, slammed the door down, and clenched my chest. This rodent would surely lead to my demice.

I called my brother. No answer. Surely there was a man somewhere in the vicinity who was available and willing to help a poor, frightened woman. After all, the Bible tells us to help widows and orphans in distress! Since my husband was gone, I took liberties to place myself in the widows and orphans category.

I called First Baptist Church. “May I speak with the pastor?”

“He’s studying right now. May I have him call you back?”

Hmmmm. I hesitated to say it was an emergency, even though in my mind, it was. “No, that’s all right.”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“Uhm . . . well, can you promise to keep this confidential?” I didn’t want to be the laughingstock. Yes, I realize I’m telling the whole town by writing this article, and I’ll probably be the laughingstock.  But as I type this, I’m not facing a killer-disease-carrying rodent.

“Certainly.”

“I have a mouse in my washing machine.”

“Is it alive?”

“Yes.”

It took a minute for her to recover from her hysterical laughter. “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. It’s just . . . the situation.” By this time, I was laughing too. “Let me see what I can do, and I’ll call you back,” the woman said.

Within ten minutes, a kind-sounding man called. Within a half hour, one of the deacons from the First Baptist Church was on my doorstep. He had thick work gloves and an empty coffee can and lid. I ushered him into my laundry room with a warning that while the rodent looked like a mouse, it had the jumping power of a kangaroo rat. Within two more minutes, the mouse was in the coffee can, lid on, and my new favorite deacon walked down the street and released my tiny terrorist into the woods.

I re-washed my laundry, using lots of bleach. Since then, things have been pretty quiet around the Brumbaugh household. No more mini-predators. No more near-death panic attacks.

I am so grateful to First Baptist Church and a gracious man who probably had much better things to do with his time. That simple deed didn’t make the news. It didn’t sway world politics or end any wars. But it made a difference in my little world.

And really, isn’t that what it’s all about? Doing a little bit of good where we can, helping people in small ways whenever possible? When we make good deeds a habit, we really do change the world. Bit by small bit, kindness by kindness, people learn that we care. And eventually, they realize that God cares about them, too.

Even in the little things.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up,” Galatians 6:9.

About twenty-one years ago, my friend Becky called me. Her car was broken down, and she needed me to rescue her. I picked her up from a friend’s house, where another guest just happened to be visiting.

This guest was a tall, slim, broad-shouldered fellow with olive skin and piercing green eyes. Good thing I’d fixed my hair and make-up before I arrived! I fluttered my eyelashes and spoke in my sweetest southern drawl, in an attempt to get this guy’s attention.

Nothing. He hardly looked up from the newspaper he was reading.

Drat.

Oh, well. I was a single gal living in Houston. There were plenty other fish in the sea.

Less than a week later, though, Becky called again. “Is it alright if I give Mark your phone number? He asked me for it.”

“Who’s Mark?” I asked. Yes, I was fickle. Lots of other fish, remember?

“You know. The guy you met when you picked me up. With the newspaper.”

“Oh, him. Really? I didn’t think he noticed me.”

“Trust me. He noticed. So, can I give him your number?”

“Sure. Why not?”

I waited by the phone that evening.

Nothing.

He didn’t call the next day, either.

A week passed, and I forgot all about him again. When the phone rang, and a man’s voice said, “Guess who this is?” I drew a blank. This was before caller ID, after all.

“I don’t know. Who is it?” My mind raced as to how many unidentified males had my phone number. Had to be Mark or Bob. But I didn’t want to say the wrong name!

The confidence in this guy’s voice was both appealing and irksome. “Yeah, you do. Guess.”

“I don’t have any idea,” I said. Which was sort of a lie. I had two ideas. Mark or Bob.

“Come on. Just guess.”

Who was this guy? Well, he needed to be put in his place, whoever he was. “It’s either Mark or Bob,” I said.

Silence. Long, awkward silence. “Hello?” I finally asked.

“It’s Mark.”

Well. Now I knew. I grinned. So Mr. Can’t-look-up-from-the-newspaper was calling me. Interesting.

He asked me on a date, and I accepted. After all, I wanted to get a look at those green eyes again. The phone conversation continued for nearly an hour, and we found we had much in common.

Funny. Bob never did call me. I learned later that Mark and Bob were friends. And that Mark had a little talk with Bob, soon after our phone conversation.

A few months later, I had an engagement ring on my finger.

The following June, I became Mrs. Mark Foster Brumbaugh, and the rest is history. A history filled with good times, silly moments, and sweet memories. A journey of ups and downs, of peaks and valleys, of rough seas and smooth sailing. Together, we’ve built a good life. Together, we’ve brought up two amazing children. We’ve bought houses and cars. We’ve furthered our education and changed careers. We’ve fought and made up, laughed together, cried together, and laughed some more. I’m so glad I’ve gotten to share the journey with a tall, broad-shouldered, olive-skinned, green-eyed fellow who also happens to be gracious and kind, generous and fun. I am blessed.

You never know what a life will bring. Happy twentieth anniversary, Sweetheart.

“Over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity,” Colossians 3:14.

Today is the last day of school. Eight hours of bittersweet chaos. Today, in schools across the U.S., students will clean out lockers, sign yearbooks, hug their teachers goodbye, and wish one another a fun summer. Some will feel blissful, others sad.

I’m leaning more toward the blissful side, though I will miss my students.

Today is the last day (for a while, anyway) that I’ll hear lockers slamming. It’s the last day I’ll pick up stray pencils from the floor to keep on my desk for students who lost their pencils in the hallway. Today is the last day I’ll remind my students a half dozen times to get to work, the last day I’ll fudge on someone’s grade so they can get an A instead of a B when I know they worked really hard, the last day I’ll get to see their faces light up when I tell them what great writers they are.

It’s a day of last times. And while it carries with it some sadness, at least we know it’s a last. The really sad thing, for me, is all the last times that come and go, and I don’t know it. I don’t know to savor it.

For example, when was the last time I changed each of my children’s diapers? When did they last sit in a high chair, or use a pacifier? When did I last stay up all night with a crying, teething baby?

When did my daughter last play with her Barbie house? When did I vacuum up the last Barbie shoe, clogging the vacuum? When was the last time each of my children  watched Blue’s Clues or Dora the Explorer?

And when did I last shop in the kids’ clothing section?

When did she last wear ruffles and tights?

When did I pick up the last toy train?

When did they last hold my hand in the parking lot?

I don’t know the answer to any of these questions. If I had known, I’d have taken a little more time to savor, to cherish the moment. I’d have documented it some way. I’d have taken a picture for the scrapbook.

Unfortunately, these moments come and go without any warning, without much fanfare. They just happen, and then they quit happening, and one day we wake up and wonder where the time went.

I guess that’s why we need to treat every moment as if it might be the last. We need to linger. We need to really look the people we love in the eyes when they talk to us, and listen with our full attention. We need to speak gentle, encouraging words, and make sure the people around us know how special they are.

Though we can’t live our lives in a weepy, “this-might-be-the-last-time” way (that would drive anyone insane), we can make sure every moment counts. We can make sure we don’t pass up any opportunity to live out our greatest purpose, which is to love each other. When we do that, we can move through those moments and days and years and last times with no regrets.

“Beloved, let us love one another,” 1 John 4:7.

I remember it like it was yesterday. I planted the cherry tomato seeds, and lovingly cultivated each sprout. Tenderly, I transplanted the sprouts to their own pots — 56 pots, to be exact. I watered them and fed them Miracle Grow and prayed over them and made sure they had a nice spot in the sun. As they grew, I tied them to stakes so they wouldn’t fall over. I read gardening books and consulted an expert gardener — my dad.

Fifty-six plants grew tall and strong and green. My mouth watered as I thought of all the delicious salads my family and friends would enjoy. I pictured myself smiling, blushing modestly at their lavish praises.

“Yes, yes, I grew them myself.”

“Oh, it was nothing.”

“Award-winning? No. I didn’t enter them in any contests.”

These scenes played again and again in my mind as I waited patiently for my harvest. And I waited.

And waited.

Finally, it came. The full harvest.

One tiny tomato.

Yes, you read correctly. One stinkin’, measly little tomato, from fifty-six pots.

All that work.

All those prayers.

All that practiced modesty.

Mark had helped some, so I decided to split the tomato with him. I was all ready to slice it, knife in hand, when he had to comment.

“That’s all you got?”

Then he laughed and laughed. And laughed.

Wrong thing to do. I picked up that tomato and popped the whole thing in my mouth. He didn’t get a bit of it.

He laughed some more.

So now, friends, you understand my resistance when my son asked if he could plant a vegetable garden. But I finally relented, as long as FJ promised to take care of the whole thing himself. He had to water. He had to fertilize. He had to pull weeds.

I washed my hands of the entire project.

Now, in my back yard, we have big beef-eater tomatoes, banana peppers, squash, basil, cilantro, mint, watermelons, and cantaloupe. There has already been a harvest. And I’m trying very hard not to be jealous of a nine-year-old.

One week after the young plants were placed in the ground, my husband decided to help. Well, encourage is a better word. He bought two watermelons at the store, and late that night, he placed them in the garden on top of the watermelon vines.

The next morning, he said, “Son, you need to go check on your plants. I think I saw some weeds.”

A few minutes later, we heard an ear-piercing scream from the vicinity of the garden which would cause a cougar to cringe. A moment later, the door slammed open. “Mom, Dad! Come quick! It’s a miracle!”

Sure enough, his garden had produced two fat, juicy watermelons. They were delicious. FJ wasn’t fooled, but he played along nicely, and we all had a good laugh. So far, he’s proving to be a much better gardener than his mother.

Sometimes, we work and work and do everything right, and we don’t get the results we think we deserve. When that happens, it’s easy to just give up. But when we give up, we miss out on the blessings God may have in store for us later.

Other times, we put forth minimal effort, and God blesses us with an abundant harvest. As I watched my son rejoice over the “miracle” of his watermelons, I was impressed. Not once did he brag about being a great gardener. He knew he didn’t deserve the credit. He just smiled and enjoyed the bounty.

Next time things don’t go exactly as planned, I’m going to remember about my tomatoes and my son’s watermelons. I’ll try be grateful for the blessings when they come. And when the harvest seems sparse, I’ll be grateful anyway, for the lessons learned along the way.

“So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow,” 1 Corinthians 3:7.

The latest mystery of the male species, which I’ve pondered for several weeks now, is the male inclination to boast. It doesn’t seem to matter what they’re boasting about. The point isn’t to win a specific title. The point is simply to win any title.

A typical conversation between the males in my household goes something like this:

Big Man: I can eat more animal crackers than you.

Little Man: No you can’t. I can eat more.

Big Man: In your dreams, buddy. I can so eat more than you can.

Little Man: I’d like to see you try.

Me: But neither of you even likes animal crackers!

Them: (in unison) That’s not the point.

And there’s another competition that occurs regularly at my house, though for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.

Big Man: I’m uglier than you are.

Little Man: No you’re not. I’m uglier.

Big Man: You’ve got to be kidding me. You don’t even come close to my ugly.

Little Man: You need a new pair of glasses, Dad. Because if your eyes were working, you’d clearly see that I’m the ugliest.

Big Man: Mom, who do you think is the ugliest?

This is where they both look at me with such desperation, such hopeful expectancy, that I just want to dig a hole and jump in it. I mean, how am I supposed to answer that question? No matter what I say, they both lose.

According to them, ugly is the new handsome.

What. Ever.

As pointless as it is to boast, I have found one thing that’s worth boasting about. And I suppose it does involve a male. I could brag to you all day and all night about my Heavenly Father.

After all, He really is the best. He’s the Master Builder, the Expert Craftsman, the Supreme Artist. He’s the King of kings and the Lord of lords, the Wonderful Counselor, the Almighty God, the Prince of Peace, the Everlasting Father.

He’s amazing, awe-inspiring, awesome. There aren’t enough words to list His incredible attributes, and even if there were, there wouldn’t be enough paper on which to record them.

Yep. That’s my Father. He holds the title for every good thing imaginable. Yet, instead of bragging about His status, He decided to lay it all aside — the titles, the riches, the glory. He chose to become of no account, so that I could join His family and learn what it feels like to be the daughter of a king. Because He became nobody, I’m somebody.

I’m sure all the little boasting contests will continue at my house, despite my lack of understanding of the point of it all. But there’s one bragging contest that goes undisputed: My Father is the best.

“Let him who boasts, boast in the Lord,” 2 Corinthians 10:17.