I'm catching up on my favorite blogs--see the sidebar, and this one put a finger on my thought for today.

Forgiveness is the key element to growing relationships, and dying to self--importance, ambition, my way--gains the freedom necessary to a forgiving attitude. How often have I have harbored resentment in subtle ways towards various people--especially church people--for misinterpreting and misrepresenting scripture?
How is it I dare resent others for the very overlooked and misunderstood expressions of which I myself am guilty?
If I can be involved with others without thinking about how I can impress, or what can they do for me, but rather, what is it they need that I might give, then the biggest barrier to our connection (me, me, me) is removed.

Recently, I've been drawn back to Sunday evening services by a series of prayers the minister offers at the end of his lessons. He prays for our forgiveness for imposing our misunderstanding on others. And he's bravely touching the hotter topics: music, women.

His humble, softly heart-spoken prayers are like evening lullabys.
I remain seated with head reverently bowed. On the inside, however, I am kneeling, sometimes curled into a tiny ball like a high diver before she descends into the pool; then I stretch out my arms in an arc over my head and feel my weight cut through the air, trusting to be plucked from deepest shame into God's embracing light of truth and forgiveness.

Eric's blog posting reminds me that we all, regardless of gender and ability, have the responsibility to speak and the requirement to listen.
It's the way to relationship.

“Not that we are adequate in ourselves to consider anything as coming from ourselves; but our adequacy is from God” (11 Corinthians 3:5 NASB)

One year later...
this blog rolls on.

Jesse is back in Belize--Buster is blogging the mission trip

My road adventure wasn't Memphis bound this time, but rather to the fertile plains of Indiana where the corn was arguably knee high.
We showed up for a cousin's wedding, finally taking the time for a 10 year reunion of sorts with my husband's clan. Some things had changed a lot--hairlines, for instance, and some things had not changed at all--Aunt Mabel, in particular.

So little time, so much food to remember--we managed to consume Indiana's infamous breaded pork tenderloins and Arni's junior salads at least twice. Hands down, the best 'loins are at Shouts, Anderson's bowling alley.
And the sorghum cole slaw we sampled at Berea, Kentucky's Boone Tavern Hotel is a winner.

Our houses of past, scattered across central and northern Indiana, were still in tact, sheltering strangers, painted new shades.
The Triple XXX root beer stand on West Lafayette's hill is predictably gaudy orange and brown striped, serving up the Duane Purvis All- American burger.

Teague's Mill, outside Gatlinburg, burned down 3 years ago before we could re-visit its catch-you-own-trout dinner and incomparable hot fudge cake. Crazy Horse Campground next door is thriving--all of its river sites along the deeply rutted road were occupied for the weekend. The Trout House in town had to do for dinner, and we'd grown a little too weary to stay with the masses, so we drove towards Knoxville for a good night's rest.

Of all the landmarks we visited, it was the cemeteries that remain frozen in time.
Those peaceful glens of grass, dotted with limestone and granite, landscaped with old trees, small shrubs, and the occasional poison ivy.

The biggest thrills:
watching fireflies light up at dusk over the sheep pasture.(It was our signal to drive back to town so our country cousins could arise with the sun.)

installing high speed internet for my mom. (At 86, there is so much to learn in so little time.)

calculating our precise location on the GPS and using a cell phone to direct the tow truck driver coming to our rescue in Franklin, Kentucky when the water pump gave up along I-65.
(These two handy gadgets are so worth not hitchhiking.)
The small town dealership had a surprisingly comfy waiting area with sofa, coke machine, the latest magazines, and cable TV with remote control. Too bad we had to leave at closing time!

watching fish jump at the NickaJack reservoir rest stop on I-75 South.
My husband says the fish were being hunted by bigger fish to cause such antics.

lunching at Seasons de Provence in Acworth, Georgia. (the owners from Nice have created their own next best thing to dining in the south--of sunny France.)

The best advice:
no matter how hard you try, you won't get caught up by bedtime the day you arrive home.

Are there parents who have not ever misplaced their children?
I'd rather not know who they are.

The newspaper reported the experience of a local woman who, like many of us, is now initiated in those heavy, breath-restricting emotions.

Our firstborn was two years old when she followed the neighbor's poodle puppy down our 500 foot gravel lane, across the country road, into a subdivision, and finally into a backyard with a swingset where I found her about 30 crushing minutes after she disappeared.

Her little brother was about the same age when he curled up inside a box in his bedroom closet and fell asleep while adults mobilized throughout the house and the yard and the streets frantically trying to locate him.
This same child was so adept at climbing out of his crib and then wandering out of his room, that we finally made his bed on the floor and installed a lock on the outside of his bedroom door so we could get a partial night's rest.

Their two little brothers must have raised themselves because I have no memory of losing track of them, but I'm sure I did.

Why is it that parents of young children have the most pressing responsibility to remember where their kids are at all times when the same parents are most likely suffering from prolonged sleep deprivation?

The TV commercial previewed a show promising to reveal the greatest American of all time.
I asked my brainy husband: "So who do you think it should be?"
Without a pause, he replied: "Thomas Edison. And what is the greatest invention?
Without a pause, I answered: "Refrigeration."
"I told you that, didn't I?"
"Yup!"

Personally, the ionic flat iron has revolutionized my wavy hair existence.
And thanks to Edison for electrifying this American's life.

We're at it again. The memory of our last home improvement project wasn't agonizing enough. We picked up our new countertops at Lowe's yesterday evening, then lost sleep figuring out what to do next.

This morning, we gleefully ripped out the old tops, white Formica backsplash disguised with green checked wallpaper, and the golden harvest sink with metal rim.
I didn't miss the sink at all until mid-afternoon when I tried to wash a spoon.

Coincidentally, the neighbors hosted a crowd for a garage sale. So as we hauled the remnants of the 70's kitchen to the curb, we had a drive-by audience.

Wanna bet the sink will be gone from the curb by morning?

I know I'm not the only one who anticipates rain and considers it a friendly respite from a blinding, scorching sun.
It's been raining softly and steadily for several days--how many? I've lost count.

Cloudy skies remind me of a huge blanket wrapped around the world in a comforting hug. The sound of gentle rain is soothing and hypnotic; the immersion of earth in puddles of water leaves a little bathwater for the birds.