It’s strawberry harvesting time here in central Florida where I hang my hat (actually my 100 hats) and this photo captures a common sight as you traverse most any back road bordering a patch of nonsubdivisioned land large enough to plunk down something with roots. Yep, dozens of hard-working people bending in the hot, hot sun over row after row of lush green plants freckled with red dots of ripe sweetness.
The blessings aren’t just for you this time, my friend … it’s a Share Your Blessings Giveaway!
So easy to enter: Just share your greatest blessing with me (via Facebook or my website contact page), and you will be eligible to win. If your name is drawn as the winner on March 28, you’ll not only receive an autographed copy of my new 365-day devo, Too Blessed to be Stressed: Inspiration for Every Day for yourself, you’ll also win one to give to a friend.
Plus I’ll include a fun surprise blessing for both of you!
Arriving at the tennis facility, I jumped out of the car. Something felt … wrong. I looked down. Gasp!
“OH NO! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” the snarky voice inside my head screamed.
My feet, which should have been shod with appropriate tennis socks and shoes, were clad in my house flops. I’d forgotten to change my shoes!
I had no idea what to do – there were no stores anywhere nearby to rush over and buy a pair; it was too far to go back home and return by the starting time. My teammates were already on the courts warming up. I felt the blood drain right out of my brain. Deer in headlights. I had really messed up this time.
Samuel was born eleven years ago to a couple who were assured he wouldn’t … couldn’t survive. Doctors only thought that because no one ever had.
Diagnosed in utero with a rare and fatal form of dwarfism, Samuel wasn’t expected to live more than one day after birth. His parents, Evelyn and Ralph Mann, were encouraged to abort. And why not? There were only two known cases of children who had made it past infancy – ever. Both were Japanese; one died at age three, the other at seven.
But in facing this horrendous situation where they were offered absolutely no natural hope, Evelyn and Ralph found Papa God’s supernatural hope.
I hopped in my car, which was filled with floating pink helium balloon hearts hand labeled “Palentine,” to make quick but secret deliveries to my Bible study heart sisters (we’ve had a fantabulous neighborhood Bible study going for about six years now).
On a rather tight schedule (who isn’t?), I pulled into the driveway of the second house, streaked up to the door, left the balloon, which was anchored by a scented candle and bit of candy (I mean really, what says “You’re special” better than chocolate?), and rushed back to my car.
Just as I opened the door, a UPS truck pulled up right behind me, blocking the driveway and stymieing my exit.
Chanclas. The word that strikes fear and trembling into the hearts and limbs of children of all ages. My Anglo and multi-cultural friends may not recognize this weapon of sass destruction by name due to its Spanish heritage, but I can all but guarantee you’ll pay homage to its effectiveness as a disciplinary device used ...
I always feel a bit assaulted by the joy-sucking dully-funks while putting away the Christmas decorations and disrobing the poor naked tree, don’t you? Gone are the manger scene, colorful ornaments and illustrious reminders of this happy, happy season.
Cheerful carols heralding our Savior’s birth are replaced by the sound of the cat hocking up fur balls.
The aroma of freshly baked cookies is but a succulent memory as you crankily nibble a fistful of baby carrots.
The once festive house suddenly seems so dull. So blah. So deflated. And I find if I’m not careful, my spirit suffers the same letdown.
At first, I had no trouble staying right behind Mama’s blue car coat as I’d been warned repeatedly to do, but when we ventured near the toy department, I became irresistibly drawn by something I glimpsed a few aisles over. Whatever it was captivated me for what must have been 2-3 minutes, and then another amazing toy called my name yet further down the aisle, and then another.
By the time I looked up, Mama’s blue coat had been replaced by the jackets and sweaters of dozens of strangers, swarming the aisle like bees around a honey log.
Based on common banking principles, I’m proposing that Heaven institute a calorie bank in which everyone would have their own account.
Yep – a calorie account to count calories.
A fat deposit box, if you will.
Hip hip hooray!!! My new 365-day devotional, Too Blessed to be Stressed: Inspiration for Every Day has just officially released and I’m in the mood to celebrate! Won’t you celebrate with me?