It was the middle of church and my daughter whispered to me that she was hot and needed a hairband.

Pulling out my purse, I started to rummage through when a strange glint of metal caught my eye. It was foil-like with jagged edges and there were lots and lots of them at the bottom of my bag.

What in the world?

Digging more, I noticed that the shiny foil wrapper of my protein bar had been torn into. I liked to carry protein bars in my purse for hunger emergencies, but this one not only had a shredded wrapper – it looked like it had been … gnawed.

Eeew!

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The man stepped into the department store and took a quick look around. He was there for one thing, and he wanted to make it snappy.

He never really cared for Valentine’s Day, seeing it as a mandate from society telling him how to love.

How could the rules of a holiday determine how and when he expressed his love for her? 

He wanted to do that in his own timing.  His own way. 

But here he was, joining ranks with all the other husbands who succumbed to the demands of the day. Looking around, he noticed signs pointing him to displays of chocolates and jewelry telling him just how to celebrate and just how much to spend.

Rattling the change he had in his pocket, he found himself hoping his wife hadn’t seen the signs. Money was scarce.

He approached the “for her” card section, and noticed he wasn’t alone...

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The email came as a surprise and after reading it, I felt like I had been punched in the gut. 

A woman who had been receiving email updates from my Christian Devotional blog had decided to unsubscribe and her reason left me deflated.

Her comment went something like this: “Sorry… your writing is just not speaking to my heart.”

Ouch. It was a blow, and it took me a few days to recover. My mind filled with questions like: Why even try? Is this how all my readers feel? How could I not see how awful I am?

Criticism is tough isn’t it? And learning how to ...

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It was a warm, sunny day – typical weather for the South. 

And, I was making my way through one of the poorest neighborhoods in my city. 

I was headed to one of the ministry buildings nestled among the slum-like homes in the low-income housing complex.


As a Bible club volunteer, I used to help make the rounds in the neighborhood gathering up children who were willing to come.

The cinder block homes, all set in neat rows, were not hard to navigate, but somehow I’d gotten turned around that day. And I found myself going the wrong way down a one-way street.

The windows of my 1980s Chevy Citation were wide open, so I had no choice but to listen to the ridicule that followed. It seemed like everyone was out on the street and boy did they have an opinion about my mistake.

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