Waking to the sounds of little girl whisperings, I remembered that the day was a special one – my birthday.

I pretended to be asleep while I let my daughter sneak into our bedroom “unnoticed” and ask my husband for help with the griddle.

Mmmm pancakes and no work on my
part.

Now, that’s what I call the start of a special day!



I’ve heard that when some people get to a “certain age” birthdays are no fun anymore. In fact, they become a dreaded day. But I don’t know, maybe I haven’t gotten to that stage yet, or maybe I never will.

Because when you really think about it –birthdays just bring us one year closer to Jesus.

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Late Friday night I stuck my head under the flip top of our old gas stove and a surge of panic ran through me.

The pilot lights were out!

Now this was the first gas stove I have ever owned, and I have never used it. Our home’s previous owner tucked it away in our basement and must have kept it for “back up” long ago. 

So, I was a bit of a novice when it came to the whole gas thing.

 I just knew one thing -- 

For safety’s sake -- those pilot lights were supposed to be on.

It had been weeks since I checked it and thus my alarm. Hadn’t I heard somewhere that breathing in gas, let alone starting a flame around it could be dangerous?

Hurrying to my computer, I searched the internet for answers and found a host of differing opinions. Some said that it was no big deal and to just relight it, while other warned of gas pockets and explosions.

Oh my!

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The muffled calls of the auctioneer echoed through the wood and on over to my house.

I could just barely make out some of the words: “Five dollars here, do I hear twenty-five?” 

And on it went throughout that sunny Saturday morning.

A neighbor had passed away a few months before and this was her final event. It gave her the uncanny opportunity to appropriate her funds even after her passing.

I hadn’t known the woman and was embarrassed to find out months after her death that she was even gone. Sadly, I learned from a friend that the woman was most likely not a Christian when she died.

 Maybe that’s what made the auctioneer’s call eerie to me as I wondered about my neighbor’s life.

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The wasp’s nest outside our hayloft started out small.

I noticed it a few weeks ago and pointed it out to my husband.

But as you know, life moves fast. And just this morning, I looked up to a nest that was now nearly the size of a basketball.

Those wasps had been busy!

I bought some wasp and hornet spray, and my husband went out to do the dirty work. 


Parking myself at a safe distance, I decided to watch the event. 
      
My husband would have to go up to the second level of our old horse barn, crack open the hayloft door and aim the spray at the outside upper corner. It was nearly dusk, so we figured there would be less activity in the hive. 

Boy, were we wrong! 

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It was our own fault that we entered the small church a little late. 

And it was our tardiness that gave our large family the “honor” of sliding into the church’s first and second rows. 

It was a good thing though, because it forced my teen boys to focus – they couldn’t have missed the sermon even if they had wanted to.

And looking back, I’m glad my family had front row seating that day because something happened in that service that my kids will never forget.


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