It was on an out-and-about kind of day, filled with errands and meetings and school pickups, that the splinter wedged itself into my index finger. I couldn’t stop to dig it out, so I spent the day rebuking it. You, Mr. Evil Splinter, are not supposed to be here.
They are called myoclonic seizures and have been a constant companion our whole married life due to Steve’s spinal injury in college. But four years ago, a simple diet adjustment changed all that. And for the first time, my husband lived without the fear of being jerked around, until now.
I met my first mentor, Andrea, in a basement cafeteria on my college campus. It was over three decades ago. But in time, I came to know the significance of why and where we met. Through Andrea, God brought an experienced soul to my newly believing heart. She was on staff with a campus ministry and discipleship became our bond. Our meeting in the basement cafeteria was symbolic.
My son groanish-growled a little under his breath, and then came a moment forever frozen in my mind: He lifted a sharp, bright yellow number two pencil and chucked it to the floor with gusto. I secretly thought it was absolutely adorable.
The kids have decided they’re all allergic to one another, speaking different languages unrecognizable to a mother’s ear. There’s no spiritual fruit present through actions or eye rolls, along with any edible types one must eat to sustain physical strength. A once beautifully clean bedroom floor has now been scattered with stinky clothes and garbage from hidden sweet stashes, while the dishes do their own stashing in the kitchen sink.