Again.

Things happen too fast. I can already feel I've made a mistake. Try to recover. Move faster. I see the bar flying towards me. I latch on to it a split second too late. The loop is badly timed. Off rhythm, wrong momentum. The dismount is doomed, however there is nothing to do but follow through. Try to save it. Throw more power to my toes. I can't save it. THUD, slap! My entire body meets the floor in one solid contact. I can always hear the sound of my disastrous landing just slightly before the vibrations rattle through my teeth. In that split second, I wait as all of the air retreats from me.

Time always slows down and speeds up at the same time right after a mistake. The shouts of my coach start catching up from my ears to my brain, as if to make up for lost time, they swirl repeatedly, overlapping her current shouts, as I wait for my chest cavity to expand again. To allow air to return.

"....More power... ....faster.... ankles together... snap feet... ... straight legs!" She glances me over for obvious injury and then barks: "Again!"

For most of my childhood, I was in gymnastics. Looking back, I gained a great amount of life training through the years of gymnastics training.

Recently, what remains loudest in my mind is the constant memory of failing as I crashed against the mat, having to get up and do some sort of penitence in the form of conditioning, and then attempting the same task again. It may sound awful for this to be a vivid childhood memory, but it really isn't. It is actually an empowering memory.
 

The uneven bars terrified me. And thrilled me. I was afraid of heights even at the beginning. I remember crying in terror the first time my coach told me to jump from one bar to the other. I remember crying the second time, too. And then, I remember overcoming that insurmountable objective. Breaking past a mental barrier with physical achievement. Shortly after the first terrifying success, the uneven bars became my favorite event, even though it still often terrified me. The more terrifying the risk, the more satisfying the success. With the right skills, I could fly. The flying is not what resonates most with me right now, though.

This month, what resonates loudest with me is smacking down against that thick, blue gym mat. The endless hours of blistered hands, and exhausted breathing, tingling fingers, flying, flailing, falling, waiting for the air to enter the lungs again, and the shout, "Again!" Ripped blisters, limbs scuffed red, chalked hands, deep breaths, pensive stares at the blasted uneven bars, recitation of errors and corrections, repeat task, crash! Again!...and Again! And again.

True, in gymnastics, I learned how to fly, but what turned out to be more useful than learning a "long hang kip" was learning how to fail. What I learned was that I could withstand pain I had never previously imagined, I could overcome exhaustion that seemed overwhelming, I could eventually rise up from every painful landing.The best lesson I carried away with me was: Again. Even after I so badly wanted to quit and go home, I could not accept defeat.

There, as a 9 year old, I developed an intuitive understanding about grown-up life. Sometimes when you miss your grasp, move too slowly, lack the strength, sometimes even though you tremble with exhaustion, your blisters have ripped out, when things are continually crashing to the ground, and when feel you can no longer breathe, you have to listen to the insistent shout, "Again!"  You have to get up. You have to do it again and do it better. The only other alternative is to quit, exhausted, injured, frustrated, and sore with nothing to show for it all.

And so, during those times in adult life, while I sit with my head in my hands, sore, exhausted, feeling as if the air is being knocked out of me, my mind drifts back to sinking into that blue gym mat again and again, ripped up, waiting for the air to come back, because it will come back, mustering strength to get up and hearing the distant shout, "Again!" Except, now I'm the only one in the room.

The shout comes from within, "Again!"And so up I get, to try it again, and try it better, because defeat is not an option in life.

And once I've learned these acrobatics, I'll move onto harder ones, because, like gymnastics, that's kind of the point of life. It wouldn't be any fun without something challenging you to expand the brink of your ability.

And so with a huff and a limp, I draw a slow breath, pull myself up, eye the task that keeps knocking me down and mutter: Again.

Is That Supposed to Be a Picket Fence?

(This is not my picture, but when I thought about going to take a picture of a lovely house and picket fence, I realized the neighbors might get creeped out...thanks Google Images)

    Growing up, everyone has a basic idea of what life will be like when they are "grown up." We hear even little children talk about, "When I grow up, I'm gonna marry so-and-so..." and "My house will look like..." It's a natural process for children, and honestly, it's just plain cute. It's interesting how this process starts in everyone so young, this drive to achieve the American middle class dream. I started calling these the "Picket fence" dreams, because a house, a spouse, a dog, some kids, a yard, and a picket fence to keep it all in seems to be the most common picture of middle class success and happiness. It may not be everyone's personal dream picture, but we all know and recognize those picket fence dreams of how we thought our lives were supposed to go, or the pattern we think others expect our lives to follow, way back when  we were solidifying our versions of "right" and "wrong" "good" and "bad" in our childhood psyches. They all lend to the pattern and timeline people feel their lives should follow, if they are doing it right.
     As a whole, picket fence dreams are not necessarily wrong. They can be sweet and positive things. The problem comes when picket fences don't  mesh with someone's personal dreams. Sometimes those two ideals conflict uncompromisingly. Then there is the other, very real issue: Picket fence dreams cannot always be happily accomplished by sheer effort and force of will. Sometimes life does not land that way. Sometimes we are left feeling insufficient.

     The truth of the matter is, I have no picket fence around my yard. I didn't follow a path that led to a yard with a picket fence. I might never live that picket fence life. The hardest truth I had to learn about this is that I like my fence free life. I like the adventure that a less than typical path has allowed me. For the longest time, I felt that I needed to explain, justify, or just feel insufficient and shuffle off to a corner over the fact that I did not marry right out of school, I have no children, I have no house, I did not settle into a career straight out of school, I have no dog in my yard, I have no prospective leads that may lead to that life, and (here's the zinger) I do not have those things because I did not choose those things. I did not choose those things because my priorities were and are different. That last part was the hardest part for me to understand fully.

       I am in the life I am in now not because I am insufficient at life in general, but because it is the life I am best suited to live right now.

      It's like this: In the beginning, we are all given this box of materials with no directions inside.

We grow up, looking around, observing others, listening to other people's descriptions of what they did with their own box of materials. What we see is that everybody used their materials to build picket fences and beautiful lives. Some of us decide those lives and picket fences are so great, that we decide to build similar ones of our own, and this thrills us. Another set of us decide that because that is what everyone did with their box of materials, this must be what that box of materials is for, and so we dutifully decide to build picket fences just like them. As we try to do so, we develop resentment towards our awkward, lopsided, ugly fences and also the people who built beautiful fences.

     For the latter half of us, the main error is assuming that this is what everyone did with their box of materials. The reason we do this is because cute homes and picket fences are the most visible, recognizable constructions from similar boxes of materials. We fail to realize that the people who built zoos, airplanes, boats, bridges, restaurants, hang gliders, museums, and bike paths also started with similar boxes of materials. They just looked into their box, looked at the houses and picket fences around them, and said, "That's cool, but I can't sail to Iceland on a picket fence...and I think I'd rather go sailing."  or, "This would make a fantastic elephant cage! Let's go find an elephant!!!"

     I personally failed to see those things, because first, I didn't realize they started with boxes too, and second, people who decide to build airplanes with their boxes typically do not park their airplanes in the neighborhood for little kids who are trying to decide what to do with this seemingly random box of materials to notice. Third, while the boxes of materials may be similar,  I made the mistake of assuming that everybody's box is identical. They are not. Not at all. It can be very frustrating for a person to try to work a propeller into the creation of a picket fence, but sometimes, they try anyway.
 




   In the end, we all build something. We all get splinters, smash our thumbs, and run into problems, no matter what we end up building. The difference is, the people who really looked at their boxes to see what the materials actually inspire and then look themselves to see what their souls are built for, end up building quality products that they love, and the splinters, smashed thumbs, and broken pieces are just minor details in their stories of success, because they loved building it. The people who take their boxes and try to force them into what they think everyone else thinks they must create, end up with half-hearted excuses for picket fences or airplanes, splinters that fester enough to cause gangrene, an unexplainable sense of shame, and an unshakeable aura of bitterness.

It's not wrong to build a cute home and a picket fence, if that's what your box and your soul agree on.

It's also not wrong, quirky, or absurd to end up building an airplane, zoo, tree house, boat, or whatever, instead, if that's what makes your particular soul dance. What matters is this: Whatever you end up building, will you be happy or bitter about the splinters you suffered while building it?

Quaint, I know, but it has taken a long time for me to reach and fully accept this weird little epiphany of mine.

(Thanks, Google)

Now, I'm off to find a hang-gliding okapi to add to my flying treehouse zoo-restaurant thing, but I'll leave you with this sticky note:

What's in your box? What's in your soul? What are you building? Are your splinters worth it?

Is your picket fence an airplane?

Dear Me,

Dear 2 year old Me, accepting that cookie from Granny may have been one of the better judgment calls of your entire life, both before and after the cookie incident.

Dear Toddler I used to be, way to go with the earring campaign, I still appreciate you for that.

Dear 3 year old Me, there are somethings you will never understand. There are somethings that you will, eventually.

Dear 4 year old, the brothers never tame down.

Dear 5 year old Self, good move at the fair. As the years go by, you will dig, and search, and study, and strain to understand what it means to be to be a good Christian. You will try to be really great, really deep, really intellectual. You will dabble in legalism, you will try to buy your salvation with works. You will struggle to understand what the most important goal is as a Christian for years only to come to the conclusion that the simple theology you had when you made the decision originally was the best one all along. Also, eventually, you do learn that "Disciple" is not just another word for "Leveled-Up Christian." It doesn't really work like a video game. Maybe you didn't need to hold a big tent revival for your 3 year old brother on his bunk bed that night, though. He's still got some time to mature a little.

Dear 6 year old Self, you don't end up becoming a trash truck driver, but it's okay, because in the long run, you don't really regret it. You do, however, do your fair share of dealing with garbage-both figuratively and literally- and you learn not to be so squeamish about it.

Dear 7 year old, braces are more than just teeth jewelry. As much as you think you might like them, you really won't find them as pleasant as they look.

Dear 8 year old Me, someday, you are going to have a portable, wireless phone that can send and receive messages like a pager, plays music, has a calculator, clock, and a build in digital camera that can transmit pictures to other people's phones, has games on it, has a digital address book. AND, it will be yours and yours alone, and here's the real mind blowing thing: it will be small enough to fit in your pocket, and almost everyone will have one (even some 8 year olds). Seriously.

Dear 9 year old with an "all day headgear," it's only for a short span of time. There are far more painful, longer lasting, humiliating experiences that will make this one almost forgettable. On a side note, you're not going to be an Olympic Gymnast. You're too tall, and while you've got determination, it's just not going to be enough. The good news is, in a few years, you'll get your weekends back, and sleepovers are so much fun. Plus, all that time in gymnastics really gives you the mental training you'll need later, and your left ankle will click for years to come.

Dear 10 year old Me, I know you really want it, but you will never be mainstream normal. I mean it. You will always be slightly off, easy to pick out as a little odd. Let's face it, you started off as a redhead, and that was just the beginning. Before you do anything drastic though, I should tell you that this is okay. It takes you a while to come around to this conclusion, but eventually, you will realize how much you enjoy your abnormal self, how many people value your abnormalities, how very few people are normal, and how weird those normal people are. Raising those goats is really going to do a lot of character building for you. Tamagotchis really are a quickly passing phase, and though Digimon are off brand knock offs, Digimon actually end up being more fun as well as cheaper. Jonathon Taylor Thomas doesn't get many acting gigs after the Lion King. The Hansen Brothers disappear quickly, and do not manage to make "homeschooled" a cool thing to be before they go.

Dear 11 year old I used to be, moving is not the end of the world, some of your current friendships won't even be worth the trip across town to maintain. Friendships change. Some aren't meant to be forever. Things are going to get rocky, but you'll come out strong. God will never abandon you. Be nicer to your sister. You'll regret not being nicer to her once your common sense comes back.

Dear 12 year old Self, you will never get your braces off! Just kidding. You will, but it's going to be a while, and it won't be before they take your picture for your driver's license. Sorry. In general, I'd tell you to tone it down a little in the exuberance department, but since you're in junior high, I doubt you'll listen. The TV show "Martial Law" isn't going to last very long, nobody is going to remember it, and it will be pretty much impossible to find on DVDs later(media which you have yet to learn about). By the way, in a very short time, Video Tapes will be replaced with DVDs. Cassettes and VHS will be obsolete very soon. That's just the beginning, after a while TVs will only be 3-5" deep, and TV antennas will be pretty much useless.

Dear 14 year old Me: you emotionally survive the Algebra class at the junior college by the skin of your teeth, but gradewise, with an A. Not bad, hot shot! Sure, it scares the crud out of you, but completing this class is the reason you will know you can make it through much harder classes later on. Later on, you will no longer have your mommy there marching you back into class while you want to run away; you'll have to march yourself in.

Dear 15 year old Me, if you ever become that interpreter missionary with the beautifully adventurous, international life, it is not in the next decade. You also do not become a dentist or veterinarian. Because you swore you'd never be something boring, I know this may shock you, but eventually you become a teacher. I know this disappoints you right now, because you cannot think of any occupation more boring than a teacher. It's probably of little consolation right now, but it really isn't boring. If it helps, you do at some point drive an ambulance before this happens.

Dear 16 year old, when all those people and professionals tell you the acne will go away around the time you are 25, they are idiots. It gets worse. You learn to deal with it, and that your personal value doesn't rest on your complexion.

Dear scared 17 year old, nothing turns out as disastrous as you worry it will.

Dear 18 year old me, adult life is great. It's not any easier, but it's at least a different kind of difficult.

Dear polite 19 year old, when everything in your gut says, "Rooming with that girl is a horrible idea, don't agree to it." just be rude right up front about it and tell her you don't want to room with her.  It will save you a whole year of energy in rudeness. You learn a lot from it, but it's a high price to pay. Also, guys who mock you in front of your friends aren't worth the heartbreak, no matter how cool and dreamy they are.

Dear college graduate, your degree means very little to employers, you don't end up pursuing the career you thought you would, and your life training wheels just fell off on the downhill slope. Throw your feet up, hold your handle bars straight and steady, shout, "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!" so that everyone thinks you're brave instead of just shrieking, and then be ready to tuck and roll. You will discover, however, that you've got quality friends.

Dear 22 year old Me, go visit Granny every weekend. Cancel other plans, stay longer, eat more nasty food, ask more questions, sit in a room and enjoy the silence of reading and potato chips together a few extra times, rent more foreign movies, drink more tea, stay up late with her, and get up early, complete more crossword puzzles, memorize the way she smells, the way she smiles, and the way she laughs, and the way her eyes look when she's thinking deep thoughts, actually try to answer the deep questions she challenges you with, go to her favorite restaurant more often.

Dear 23 year old Self, you are not invincible. No amount of planning, rule following, sheer force of will, or strategic steps can outwit freak accidents. There are some crashes you don't bounce back from as easily as previous ones. This next part is really going to suck. I wish I could tell you how to avoid it, but I'm not sure I've figured out how you can. I'm not sure I really would tell you, anyway. Right now you will not believe that the good things you gain out of this will be worth it, but looking back, you will.

Dear 24 year old Self, you will get better, maybe not in the way you expect, but your life is not ruined. You only think so, because you think you know what it is supposed to look like. Life does not have to look like the "Happily ever after" you planned in order for it to be good. You cannot "work harder" at healing and speed things up, that only happens in the movies.

Dear 26 year old Me, don't chicken out.

Dear Me, I don't know what advice I will have for me right now in a few years. I do know that I survived all those other years making those mistakes, and growing from them. As much as I wish I could go back and set myself straight, or encourage myself with knowledge from the future, I was unable to, and yet somehow you still made it through. I'm going to attribute that to God's love and protection, and the love, support and understanding of family and friends. I wrote this for you right now, because sometimes you need the pieces strung together to see how it all worked out. Sometimes you forget too easily, and maybe someday, when you feel less positive about life, you'll need a reminder and I want to leave this here for you just in case. God is the same God, whether you are 3, 5, 17, 22, or 63 and you are fortunate to have family and friends who love, support, and forgive you.
Enjoy the life you have currently whatever it is, because looking back, it was never all bad.
Don't forget.

...Wait

 A while ago, I had put myself on a "wish list fast", because I had found that all of my prayers seemed to be little more than a grocery list for God to fulfill. What I needed was a stint of time where I didn't ask God to give me things and fix my life, but instead thanked him for what he was doing, and asked only for guidance.
Toward the end of last year, I felt that God had given me permission to try something new: "Ask, and then wait."

I have a tendency to request something from God and then go out and work myself into exasperation trying to attain it. I am a lot like Abraham's wife, Sarah. I find myself trying to help hurry God along in his promises.

So, on the corner of my blue dry erase board I wrote, "Dear God, I would really like a home please." I left it up on the corner for two months of nervous waiting.

Then God provided me with a trailer: an affordable, and generally nice, just right for me space.

Once moved into my trailer, living on my suddenly very small income, I came to a pressing realization: I needed a job. The possibilities looked very bleak.

God must have laughed. My dear, sweet, silly child... Wait.

He saw my need for reassurance, though, and he had compassion on my frail heart.

It had been stormy all week, and on the night before my birthday, I fantasized to myself, "I would really love it if the sun would shine for my birthday."

My birthday was beautifully shiny day. I grinned and thought it was a wonderful coincidence. Dear, sweet, silly child. Wait.

I thought to myself as I went about the morning, "I would really like to treat myself to frozen yogurt from Yogurtland." But the day got busy, and I didn't have time to stop.

I had to go to my parents' house, and on the way over, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up something for my mom. At the register there was a display of Hostess Cupcakes. Maybe you don't know this, but before I went gluten free, Hostess Cupcakes were my cigarettes...it was like a 3 pack a day habit. I lingered on the thought of, "What I wouldn't give for a Hostess Cupcake!" as I made my purchase.

Not more than 5 minutes later, I walked into my parents' house. Mom led me to the kitchen, where 18 home made, gluten free Hostess Cupcake mock-ups (complete with the white swirl of icing on top) were sitting on the counter waiting for me. They were excellent! I heard myself repeating, "I was just wishing for these!" What a crazy coincidence.

Dear, sweet, silly child. Wait.

Basking in the glory of my surprise, I got a call from my friend Laura. She asked if she could meet me, because she had a treat for me. She came to my parents' house.

Her gift? A bowl of Yogurtland frozen yogurt. She said apologetically, "I hope you like the flavors I chose, I sort of guessed." Laura happened to guess my two absolute favorite flavors: Red Velvet Cake Batter, and Rootbeer Float.

What a coincidence.  Silly child.

This story may seem pointless to you, but it was very special to me. I didn't realize the impact it would have on me as it was happening. The moments were just happy little events as they were happening.

As I drove home, pondering in the silence of the car, I felt God's knowing smile as all connected. I had three small wishes for my day. All three were things I could easily live without, but God coordinated them for me before I had even managed to desire them that day.

God cares enough for me to pull something special together, to give me a day where the frivolous, childish desires of my heart were fulfilled, not because I needed those things, but because He wanted to show me that he is into the details. I needed his reminder that he hears all the desires of my heart, the frivolous ones, too.

I felt like the card attached to the day said,

"Happy Birthday, dear one! I love you and you are very special to me. If you think that was great, wait until I get to the important stuff! Love, God."

I know that we spend our whole lives hearing about how God will provide for us, but like the Israelites in the desert, I tend to need a lot of reminding. This was enough. I still didn't have a job at the end of the day, and honestly, I didn't know how ends were going to meet, but the panic was gone. I was reassured that however it was going to happen, God is good at the details and He cares about my frail heart.

Less than a month later, a job came pounding on my front door, and when I tried to bolt the door, God was kind enough to place a friend there to throw the door open for me. The job fits my needs perfectly right now, and it showed up at just the right time (not a second sooner). The best part is, God's provision doesn't stop here. It doesn't stop at finding me a new home, or landing me a job.

In the long view of things, those details are insignificant, and I feel loved because God takes care of the insignificant things for me, too.

It is often hard for me trust God to give me what I feel is important. I fight and wear myself out trying to do His job for Him so he can give me what I want RIGHT NOW.

I really just need to remember to ask, stand back... and Wait.

The monsters behind the closet door.

Monsters in closets are silly.  There is a 99.6% chance that there are no monsters in that closet, however, that 0.4% probability still worries me.  For the most part, I am talking about figurative closets and figurative monsters. I do not generally approach my own real closet with caution. Mostly, I just fling it open, rummage through my clothes, and wonder where my favorite shirt went.

Those closets of possibility, however, might hold all sorts of scary monsters.  If I open those doors just a crack, Failure might shred into me, slashing straight across my heart.  If not Failure, then Unknown will surely wrap its tentacles around me, engulfing me before I can scream. Ineptitude may lash out and break my legs. No-Undo might just latch his fingers around my ankles and jerk me deep into a place from which I may never return, never be able to go back and stare fearfully at the doors of this particular closet, never again get the option not to open those doors.

I have a tendency to stand, paralyzed, in front of these doors, reaching forward slowly, before jerking back and shuddering.  I know that I have a good possibility of opening the doors and finding success, that I was sufficiently prepared and able to learn what I need to overcome such monsters, and that the Unknown is often a shy, but harmless beast.  I may find that I have no desire to undo a decision, or that making a decision, even if it has poor results, is better than gaping at a door of possibilities, trembling and making up excuses to not open the door.  The small chance that there really is a full grown Failure in that closet, or that I may have to exchange the small comfort of knowing every grain in that closet door for the intimidating, shapeless Unknown, is enough to keep me standing there.  There I stand, memorizing the grain, imagining growling noises, and likely, losing my favorite shirt to the hungry, but probably harmless Unknown while I delay.

It is admittedly stupid. I miss out on so many opportunities, losing so many shirts, by trying to out wait the monsters, or hoping that the closet disintegrates on its own so I don't have to make the decision.  I see it. I recognize the other monster for what it is: Cowardice.  The problem is, this one isn't in the closet with the opportunity. Cowardice is outside the closet, leaning into my heart, whispering horrible word pictures into my ear, and running chills through my gut.  It sneaks up and masquerades as caution and common sense, but oversteps its bounds.  At first, it seemed like a good compromise, but I am beginning to realize it is a foolish choice.  Standing still promises that Failure will find me anyway. I would rather face Failure than idle with Cowardice any longer.

I may not be ready to fling open those closet doors and leap full speed at Failure, but I may be ready to quietly slide the doors open, grab a hold of some monster treats, and a good whack-um stick, poke my way into that closet, and find out what is in store.  If the risk of Failure didn't exist, success would be unimpressive, and if nothing was scary, bravery would be a flippant word.  I have been staring at closed doors for far too long.  It's time to get my whack'um stick.

An aptly spoken word...

I work really hard to make sure I am not repeating negative things to myself when I look in the mirror. This is a habit I have been working on for many years.  There was a point in my life that God made it clear to me that he didn't appreciate me insulting his creations, and that I am one of his creations.  Sometimes, however, it is a hard habit to enforce.  Sometimes, I get up in the morning and I have only negative and whiny things to mutter at the mirror. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and see that awkward teenager again, with ears that stick out, an overbite, freckles, an overly long neck, and a dash of orange hair to call attention to it all. On those days, I content myself with either silence, rehearsed words, or sometimes a song that was on a cassette we listened to often throughout childhood, "God made me like I am, a special God design. Everything God made is good, I'm really very fine..."

Yesterday was one of those mornings.  I especially struggle with thinking nice thoughts about myself on days where I'm suffering from an onslaught of acne.  Ten years ago, I thought this battle would be over, and it is really quite disheartening at times to realized it's almost as bad as it was then.  To add to this, i wasn't feeling well. This morning, I contented myself with silence(a common occurrence the earlier in the morning it is), put on mascara and sunscreen, got ready for church, and left.  I am new at church, so I still cringe a little when the leader says, "Go ahead and stand and greet those around you."  Usually, I march in and find an empty spot, and ask if they mind my sitting there, because I hate to sit alone. Feeling lurkish, I had chosen a seat on an empty aisle, in the last row of the section, on the far side of the church. So, upon the order to greet people, I did the necessary standing up, intending to wait a few seconds and sit down to simmer in the funk again.  It didn't work.

One of the older women who first welcomed me into the church saw me, and crossed the room to give me a hug. That felt good.  Then, the woman who really was the first person to welcome me, hurried over shortly afterwards to give me a hug.  That felt good too. I started thinking maybe, in spite of my bad attitude, I might just surface for some of this cheerful air.  Then, she placed her hand on my face, and leaned in as if to tell me a secret, and whispered, "You're so pretty!" She smiled and looked me directly in the eyes, and then it was time to sit down.

It was a good thing it was time to sit down, because the compliment caught me so off guard, a slight breeze might have knocked me over.  Were I the crying sort, I might have done so.  Instead, I just marveled.  All of a sudden, I felt pretty again.  It was as if she had reached into the mud pit, and pulled me out by my scruff, sprayed me down, and left me in the warm summer sun to drip dry. It felt blissfully good.  And realizing the fact that God loved me enough to put that on her agenda, felt equally good.

Compliments are strange things in our culture.  Usually, we brush them off, because we are pretty sure it was just the polite thing to say, or something a person had to say to fulfill their duty as friend, mother, or some other relative.  When good manners do not call for a compliment and we truly feel that it is genuine, it is amazing the impact a compliment can make.  It can make a day.  Often we think good things about each other, but don't say them, because it would feel awkward.  The compliment that pulled me out of my pit was a good wholesome reminder that I should also be on the look out for opportunities to encourage others.  After all, I'll never know just how much a person might need it at that moment.

"A word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver."  Proverbs 25:11

I don't know if this situation is what Solomon meant this verse for, but I feel like maybe I needed an apple yesterday, and someone was kind enough to provide it.