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Showing posts from September, 2015

The Great Story in the Forever Afterwards

I’d love to know how what I do has affected others. I’d love to hear how some letter that I wrote to someone gave them the courage to text an old childhood friend. And that childhood friend might have been praying for a sign about whether to take a particular job or not. And this seemingly random phone call prompted them to stay put in their current job, discontent as they might have been. And as a result of staying put, they met their future spouse and led half a dozen people to the Lord. It’d be nice to know. But I realize that I’d be tempted to give myself credit for this wonderfully synchronized chain of events, or perhaps think the eloquence of my writing was the source of the power to make such influential changes, when in fact my letter might have only kept that certain someone from their usual TV show and because the TV show was skipped they decided to sort through old family photos and in the photos was a picture of the aforementioned childhood friend. The driving act

Oh Girl!

She’s bubblegum and butterflies and ruffles and kittens. Who knew that God made such girly girls! She gazes up at me before we go out and points at my accessories one by one.  Then beaded necklaces go over her head and she poses coyly in front of a mirror.  She walks like she knows that she is a doll.  Delighting in her pink skirts in motion and the brush of her curls on her cheeks. And she waves at strangers even if they don’t see her.  And practices “Hello,” and “Good Morning,”  while holding a toy car to her ear like a phone. She requests that I acknowledge her troubles. “Hurting,” she says a nd once I repeat, she goes on with her play. And though I don't ask, she feels for my wounds too. She mothers her doll, chants ditties while clapping. Like a cat she sits on my books while I'm trying to read.  And she climbs into the driver’s seat to rotate the wheel and tap the center with one tiny finger while saying, “Beep! Beep!” She wants to

Comstock Inc.

Occasionally during company breakfast meetings, wild zebras will appear on the wall. Sometimes they are on the ceiling too. And sometimes the bowls of cream of wheat catch on fire and we have to spray them out with our sprayers. Sometimes there's a death. The cause is uncertain. Debris from the ceiling crashing on our heads or big thunder banging someone in the eyeball. At any rate and despite all odds, we finish our breakfast. Our insurance rates are sure to go up soon. We've spent a lot of time at home this summer making prototypes of potentially multi-million dollar products. We've made tow-truck trains, squirter-cars, anti-tornado-police-stations, snake homes, automobile control panels, orange soups, and screw tacos. Unfortunately nothing seems to make it to production because a cracker-dial or wrecking ball or stomper or big claw smashes everything all to pieces. It's rather unlucky. When destruction is evidently the song of the day and the furniture starts