Owning Her Uniqueness

 “We are God’s masterpiece, created for a specific purpose. ” ~ Ephesians 2:10

Before Khara could even sit up, she was diagnosed with Septo-Optic Dysplasia (SOD), a rare disorder that prevents the optic nerves from fully developing. She would never see light, colors, or faces.

From that point on, she faced skeptical adults. Her parents worried about their child’s future—her ability to learn and live independently. The pediatrician cautioned that her quality of life would be “extremely challenging.” Others predicted a long list of things she wouldn’t be able to do because of her blindness. They saw a tragedy; Khara saw a canvas.

Where others were limited by what they saw, Khara was expanded by what she felt. She sensed the changing seasons often before her friends did. The scent of crisp leaves drifting through the air signaled autumn. She heard the arrival of spring in the distinct pitch of a returning bird’s song. An electric shift in the breeze signaled rain before the first cloud appeared.

Still, not everyone believed in her abilities.

When Khara entered middle school, the gym teacher discouraged her from joining the track team “for her own safety.” But Khara knew the real danger wasn’t a scraped knee—it was a stifled spirit. Every stride became a declaration that other people’s expectations were not her reality.

At thirteen, Khara stood before a sea of people she couldn't see, but whose hearts she was about to move. Her middle school graduation speech wasn't just a farewell; it was a manifesto. Speaking with remarkable maturity, she described what it was like navigating a world that wasn’t designed for her, sharing quips that tested her and the strength she gained along the way.

"At times I felt like a misfit, sometimes even to myself," she said. But the heart of her message was clear: "Being different is not something to hide - it's something to own." Her blindness hadn’t defined her, but it had shaped her courage and resilience.

Khara reminded the audience that strength doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it appears in quieter moments—getting out of bed on a difficult day or trying again after failure.

True strength, she said, comes from the courage to be yourself. “Whatever your story, own it! Whatever makes you different, celebrate it! Don’t simply blend in… STAND OUT! And never dim your light just because someone else is uncomfortable with how brightly you shine.”

The auditorium erupted with loud cheers and thundering applause. Khara hadn’t just delivered a speech—she’d reminded everyone what courage looks like.

Khara’s story didn’t end on that stage. Today, she is a passionate advocate, proving that inclusion isn’t just a “nice idea”—it’s essential for a thriving society. As the 2023 National Miss Amazing Preteen Queen, she uses her platform to ensure that every girl with a disability knows she is a masterpiece.

Creator God, pray for an inclusive spirit in our hearts and communities. Help us welcome and value everyone, regardless of their background or circumstances, and especially those overlooked or marginalized. Amen

Brick by Brick

 “Facing trials of many kinds produce perseverance.” ~ James 1:2-3

The ribbon lived in a drawer he never opened. It was red—second place. To eleven-year-old Caleb, that meant second loser.

His science fair volcano had buckled moments before judging, the baking soda fizzing with a weak, apologetic hiss. The judges offered pitying smiles while his best friend took gold with a solar system that actually lit up. That night, Caleb shoved the ribbon into the dark and told his mother he didn’t care. But of course—he did.

Years later, that lie became a refrain—when he was cut from varsity, when his first love chose "friendship," and when the landscaping business he launched at twenty-three withered under a brutal drought and a dead truck transmission. Each blow felt like a verdict stamped in red ink: “Not good enough.” Each time, he considered quitting.

After the business collapsed, he took a job stocking hardware shelves. He called it "temporary," though the fluorescent lights felt like a permanent sentence. At night, he dissected his ghosts: he should have charged more, marketed more aggressively, prayed bigger.

One afternoon, an older man asked about soil. Caleb walked him through nitrogen levels, drainage, and the stubborn defiance of clay. The man watched him intently. "You know your craft," he remarked. "You ever do any consulting?"

Caleb almost laughed.  “Used to,”  he muttered, recalling his bankrupt LLC.

The man nodded slowly. "Sounds like you earned your degree the hard way."

The words haunted Caleb. He began sketching garden plans for neighbors on weekends—no overhead, just drawings and hard-won wisdom. When something failed, he adjusted. When a yard flooded, he recalculated the slope. When anything died, he treated the autopsy as a lesson.

He kept failing, smaller now. Sharper. More instructive.

The consulting grew. Then he added a small team and gained a reputation for fixing “impossible” landscapes that could endure heat, flood, and neglect.

At a small business awards banquet, one he never imagined attending, someone asked him the secret of his success. He thought of the red ribbon. The volcano. The truck that wouldn’t start. "Failure," Caleb replied.

The room chuckled, mistaking his honesty for humility. He didn't join in. Failure had been the fire that burned away his ego and tempered his judgment. It grounded him in the hard realities of the terrain. Every setback had cleared the ground for something stronger.

Driving home that night, Caleb revisited the mental drawer where he’d tucked away his misfires and defeats. They no longer felt like scars; they looked like bricks. And brick by brick, those "misfires" had built the foundation he now stood upon.

Failure, he realized, had never been the opposite of success. It was part of it.

Heavenly Father, thank You for love that endures, for promises that don’t break, and for the hope of reunion beyond this life. Teach us to love faithfully, to trust You fully, and to live in ways that prepare us for eternity. Amen

A Tree of Memories

 "Those who trust the Lord will find new strength and soar high like eagles." – Isaiah 40:31

Dale knelt in the soft spring soil, small hands caked with mud, his heart pounding with the kind of excitement only a child knows. That Arbor Day, he’d planted a fragile sapling in the park, whispering a prayer over the baby leaves: “Grow strong and live long,” hoping its life would outlast his own footsteps.

Decades later, Dale returned to the park with his great-grandson, Brian. The little boy skipped ahead, pointing out squirrels and flowers, his laughter echoing through  the trees. Dale scanned the landscape for a familiar trunk, but its memory had been swallowed by time.

Nothing looked familiar. Around him, immense oaks rose like ancient sentinels, their gnarled roots twisting into the earth, branches forming a cathedral of emerald shadows.  

Dale rubbed his eyes, sadness softening him. “How could these trees be so old? Where’s my tree?”

His legs felt heavy. He peered at every trunk, searching for a sign, a scar, or a bend in a branch he might recognize. But everything felt foreign. The disappointment wasn't just about a tree; it was the fear that the seeds he’d planted—his work, his prayers, his love—had simply been buried by the decades.

Then, a burst of laughter shattered the gloom.

Dale spun around. There, above him, perched on a sturdy, sun-drenched limb, Brian sat grinning. “Is this your tree?” Brian called down, as if daring Dale to hope.

The old man approached the tree. It wasn't one of the ancient, somber giants. It was a tree in its prime—vibrant, its leaves shimmering in sunlight. As Dale pressed his weathered palms against the bark, a strange warmth surged through him. The texture felt right. "Well," Dale whispered, a smile finally breaking across his face, “maybe it is."

The boy climbed down, and together they circled the trunk.  "It’s awesome," Brian said excitedly.

Dale knelt, his knees creaking, and pulled the boy close. "You know, Brian... God and I planted this tree together."

Brian tilted his head, eyes wide. "God helped you? Like, with a shovel?"

Dale chuckled. "In a way. Every seed we plant, every act of love or faith… He makes it grow. Even when we forget, or the years pass, or the world changes… He remembers. He tends to them. And when the time is right, He gives the shade of that tree to someone else."

As they walked back to the car, Dale glanced back at the tree glowing in the afternoon sun. It stood as a living bridge between his childhood and Brian’s future. Their blessed  tree—his and God’s together— was more than bark and leaves; it was faith, hope, and love made visible, living on far beyond him, in the hearts of those who would follow.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the seeds You plant in our hearts. When the world feels overgrown and we lose our way, remind us that nothing grown in Your name is ever lost. Help me to nurture my life with love. Amen

First Class Kindness

 “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit.” ~ Philippians 2:3

Carl got to the airport late. Traffic, furloughed TSA agents, and threatening weather put him fearfully behind schedule. His anxiety rose like an Alaskan tide – swift, strong, and unstoppable.

When he found his middle seat near the tail end of the Boeing 737, Carl made a mental note to scold his assistant for such dreadful travel arrangements. His hope of seizing the empty aisle seat in front of him was quickly extinguished by a confused, elderly woman struggling to navigate her way down the aisle. Her frailty brought a momentary halt to the cabin’s pre-flight hustle.

“Could this day get any worse?” Carl impatiently thought to himself. Other passengers, too, grew irritable and restless as the octogenarian’s challenges delayed Friday afternoon’s takeoff.

At that moment, a man in First Class summoned the flight attendant. Instead of complaining about the holdup, he had something else in mind… and offered a touching solution.

“Will you please let her sit in my seat?” he gestured, meaning he’d take hers instead!

Carl’s mood instantly softened. Hostility melted away, giving way to benevolence and acceptance. The man’s unexpected selflessness reverberated throughout the cabin, reminding everyone of the enduring power of empathy and kindness.

The flight attendant helped facilitate the seat exchange. The older woman’s gratitude was obvious. “No one has ever done that for me in my 87 years. Thank you!” she uttered, her words echoing deep appreciation.

Upon reflection, Carl felt shame for his hurtful feelings. He’d let the day’s chaos and uncertainty cloud his thoughts and behavior. Maybe if he were kinder to others, he’d foster more meaningful relationships! He vowed (once again) to try harder and look for opportunities to extend Christ’s love and compassion to those around him.

That gentleman didn’t need fanfare - he saw a need and met it, serving the kindness we all crave. We’re all capable of kindness, yet we often restrict it to a select few: our children, family, pets, and others dear to us. If we’re capable of extending kindness to them, nothing stops us from being kind to others... except a will to do so.

In a world often dominated by headlines of controversy, scandal, and self-interest, it’s refreshing to be reminded that kindness, even the smallest gesture, still has the power to surprise us. Holding the door open for someone, offering a genuine smile, or listening to someone in need can make a difference – in both of us!

When individuals experience kindness, they are more likely to pay it forward and extend the same warmth and compassion to others. This ripple effect often creates a chain reaction, touching the lives of countless individuals and potentially transforming communities. While it costs nothing, its value might be immeasurable.

My Lord, even when I don’t feel gratitude in my heart, I still praise and thank You. I pray that You will continue to soften my heart in such a way that I will fully love in the way You’ve called me to love. Amen

Step By Step

 "Trust the Lord with all your heart; don’t lean on your own understanding." ~ Proverbs 3:5

Elijah tightened his grip on the umbrella as rain dripped into his shoes. The bus hadn’t come and he  was running out of time.

There was no choice, so he started walking.

An umbrella gave some cover, but squeaking wet shoes echoed his life’s recent chaos. He lost his job three months earlier. Two weeks later, his fiancé left quietly leaving her ring on the counter. She’d said he was too cautious—always waiting for certainty. Now even he thought so, realizing he’d been too risk-averse, always waiting for the “right” moment to act.

The rain stung his face and dripped off his back as he tried calculating distance, time, even the odds of making it. It reminded him how little control he really had—today and in the future. Still, he kept moving. Standing in the cold rain at an empty stop felt worse than moving forward and risking failure.

At the bridge, he paused, watching the river swell. It swirled around rocks and bends—unpredictable, yet always moving forward, and that was enough.

He pushed on. Around him, the town moved as usual: a shop opened its doors, someone carried boxes inside, a runner splashed past without hesitation. None of them looked certain—they were just doing the next thing. Somehow, that felt right.

Halfway there, his legs ached. He checked the time again. He might still make it if he pushed a little harder. Anxiety didn’t leave, but hope, even small and fragile, was enough. For the first time in weeks, “maybe” felt OK.

By the time he reached the office building, his pants clung uncomfortably, but with every splash, he had kept moving forward anyway. He gave his name at reception.

“Elijah Carter. I’m here for the account manager interview.” The receptionist frowned. “I’m sorry, that position… has been filled.”

Elijah froze. Nearly two miles in the rain—for nothing. He let out a slow breath, the familiar weight of disappointment settling in, threatening to crush him. Of course.

Before he could turn away, a woman stepped out from the back office. “Mr. Carter? I’m with HR. We’ve been trying to reach you. A senior leadership role just opened, with more responsibility and a higher salary. We think you might be a strong fit.”

Elijah blinked, disbelief and relief flooding him. Gratitude rose in his chest, so sudden it took his breath. He had kept moving without knowing what would happen, without proof it would lead anywhere. And now—this was real. Not magic. Not luck. Just the reward of showing up when it would’ve been easier not to.

He removed his coat and followed her, one step at time—no longer waiting for certainty.

Father God, thank You for guiding me through every wet, uncertain step. Give me courage to keep moving, persevere through doubt, and trust Your timing. Strengthen my heart to walk faithfully, step by step, knowing You are shaping this journey for my good. Amen

The Oath That Never Ends

 "There’s no greater love than to lay down your life for your friends." ~ John 15:13  

When floods ravaged his town in 1997, taking homes and lives, Elias spent weeks helping neighbors. That’s when he realized he wanted to be trained, prepared, and ready to respond whenever danger struck - and he joined the US Marine Corps.

Now, 27 years and three deployments later, Captain Elias Green folded his uniform with the same care he’d used with his rifle. He smoothed the sleeves, aligned the ribbons, and traced a small tear near the cuff, recalling the battles it’d seen. He carefully set the box on the closet’s top shelf.

It felt strange - but it was time.

He took a job at the hardware store, learning SKUs instead of coordinates. He coached Little League, teaching boys to square their shoulders, follow through, and keep their eyes on the ball.

The town stopped calling him “Captain.” He became simply Elias - the steady man who greeted customers by name and kept the shop clean and well organized.

Beneath the ordinary rhythm of civilian life, the soldier remained. He still rose before sunrise, scanned every room, and believed that when something needed doing, you stepped forward whether anyone was watching or not.

Thursday, Elias was washing his truck when a grinding crash split the air. A tractor-trailer had jackknifed on the highway bridge. Black smoke coiled into the sky as neighbors froze, watching the flames climb. Someone shouted that the driver remained trapped.

Elias felt a familiar surge - quick assessment, narrowing focus.  For a heartbeat, comfort tempted him to stand down; he was no longer active duty. Duty prevailed. He sprinted.

Heat stung his face as he climbed the embankment. The cab was crushed, glass fractured like ice. Inside, a young man struggled against his seatbelt, panic widening his eyes.

“Stay with me,” Elias said, gripping the twisted door.

Metal groaned under his pull. Smoke thickened. He drew on every reserve he’d built - on obstacle courses, in distant deserts, under heavier fire than this. The door tore free as flames licked the engine block. He cut the belt, dragged the driver clear, and rolled with him down the gravel embankment moments before the cab exploded in a violent bloom of orange.

Later, wrapped in a blanket on the curb, Elias breathed slowly. Sirens faded. The mayor clasped his shoulder. “You’re a hero.”

Elias shook his head. “Nah, just did what I’ve trained to do.”

That night, his wife noticed the box had been taken down. His uniform remained folded inside, but she understood what had never changed.

A soldier’s oath is forever. It’s not defined by years served, but sworn in a lifetime of honor, discipline, and courage - long after the uniform retires to the shadows.

Heavenly Father, thank You for those who choose honor over comfort and courage over fear. Help us stand firm in integrity, act when others hesitate, and serve faithfully in the quiet places of life. Amen

Lily's First Easter

 “Whatever is good and perfect comes to us from the Heavenly Father.” ~ James 1:17

The morning light slipped gently through the curtains, painting soft patterns across the nursery walls. It was Lily’s first Easter, though she didn’t know it. At six months old, the world still blurred of colors, sounds, and warm bottles that always seemed to arrive just when she needed them.

Her mother lifted her from the crib with a quiet laugh. “Happy first Easter, little Angel,” Marie whispered, pressing a kiss to Lily’s soft hair. The sweet infant responded with a warm smile, her tiny hands reaching for the sunlight dancing on the ceiling.

Downstairs, the house hummed with excitement. After her morning bottle and a fresh diaper, Lily sat in her play area. A woven basket was placed before her, filled with two indestructible Easter books and a soft plush bunny with floppy ears.

Her tiny fingers brushed against the books, pulling the bunny close. She grabbed it clumsily, gumming its floppy ear with delight. Her parents laughed quietly, watching every expression.

“Well,” Marie chuckled, “that’s a 5-star review.”

Daniel, her Dad, had tucked a handful of colorful plastic eggs around the room—beside the couch cushion, near the leg of the coffee table, and within reach on a soft blanket spread across the rug.

“Ready for your first Easter hunt?” Daniel urged, lowering himself to the floor with her.

Lily sat unsteadily, her attention caught by the nearest egg—a red one glinting in the bright light. She leaned forward, wobbling, and tapped it with her hand. It rolled slightly, and she froze, utterly transfixed, as if she'd just discovered something magical.

“Well, look at that,” Marie whispered, placing it gently into her hands. Lily turned it over, studying it with deep concentration before bringing it, of course, to her mouth.

They moved slowly from one egg to another, not so much searching as discovering—each one a small moment, each reaction worth more than anything hidden inside.

They took way too many pictures—capturing Lily’s curious gaze, her drooling smile, and the way she seemed equally fascinated by the multi-colored eggs.

Later, the house grew quiet again, filled with the lingering scent of spring. Lily rested against Marie’s chest, her tiny body rising and falling in sleepy rhythm. The basket sat nearly-forgotten on the table, the eggs scattered, the decorations already beginning to feel like part of yesterday.

“Lily won’t remember any of this,” Daniel offered softly.

“No,” Marie replied, brushing a hand over Lily’s back, “but we certainly will.”

Lily stirred slightly, her fingers curling as if holding onto something unseen. Perhaps it was nothing more than a dream. Or perhaps, in her own quiet way, she was holding onto the feeling—the warmth, the laughter, the love that filled her very first Easter.

Heavenly Father, Thank You for the joy of new life and first moments. Bless all the children with love, laughter, and hearts that long to know You. May each day be filled with wonder, and may Your light guide every step. Amen

Beaver's Cleaver

 “On Day 5, God made all kinds of wild animals.” ~ Genesis 1:25

At first glance, a beaver might seem like just another hard-working animal—busy, muddy, and instinctive. But look closer, and what emerges is not haphazard, but remarkable design—layer upon layer of purpose woven into every feature.

The largest rodents in North America aren’t just dam-builders. They’re living examples of precision craftsmanship. From the beginning, God equipped them with the perfect survival tools.

Their bodies are built for two worlds. Dense, waterproof fur insulates them in icy waters. Powerful hind legs and webbed feet propel them swiftly, up to a half mile underwater without surfacing. Even their hind feet include a specialized “preening toe,” a built-in grooming tool that keeps their coats clean and functional—because their lives depend on it.

Front paws have five nimble digits that act like skillful hands—digging, grasping, and carrying. And then there is the tail: broad, flat, and multifunctional. On land, it serves as a prop for balance, a fat reserve in winter, and even an alarm system—slapping the surface with a thunderous warning when danger approaches. It also helps regulate their body temperature.

Even their eyes reveal thoughtful design. Transparent inner eyelids act like built-in goggles, allowing them to see clearly underwater while protecting against debris and irritation.

Nothing about this creature is accidental; everything has purpose. Yet the most striking evidence of intentional design lies in the beaver’s teeth—its “cleaver.”

Beavers are equipped with four powerful front incisors capable of felling trees. These teeth never stop growing—sometimes as much as a foot each year. What sets them apart is their composition.

The front surface of each tooth is coated with iron-rich enamel, giving it exceptional strength and its familiar orange hue. Behind it lies softer dentin. As the beaver gnaws, the softer material wears away faster than the enamel, creating a razor-sharp, self-sharpening edge for effortless maintenance.

Sixteen molars crush and grind woody material. A second layer of lips between the incisors and molars keeps water out of their mouths while they chew underwater. Every detail works together seamlessly.

With jaws strong enough to slice through saplings in a single bite, a beaver can fell a six-inch tree in minutes—methodically carving a precise groove until the trunk gives way.

This is not a collection of fortunate accidents. These features depend on one another. Without self-sharpening teeth, feeding would fail. Without underwater capability, survival would collapse. Each part had to function fully from the beginning—pointing not to chance, but to a Designer who planned every detail.

The beaver is not just an animal. It’s a testimony—that creation is not random, but intentional. Not improvised, but engineered. Not accidental, but designed by a wise and purposeful Creator.

Creator of all, we marvel at Your handiwork. From the magnificent animals roaming the earth to the graceful birds that grace our heavens, every species is a testament to Your glorious creation. Amen

Painted Promises

 "Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." ~ Hebrews 11:1

Her father was a painter; as much an artist as an imagineer. He never sold a single piece of his work, yet he created entire worlds within the modest boundaries of their backyard.

When Jillian was seven, she would watch him at his easel as he painted an old oak tree with a rope swing, a stunning floral garden, and a whimsical playhouse in the center of their lawn. In reality, none of these things stood in their yard, but through his brush, they felt real enough to believe in. His artistry spoke in a language beyond words—one filled with hope, beauty, and possibility.

To Jillian, his paintings seemed magical. He added a cat resting on their dirty white fence, though no cat had ever been there. On another day, he painted towering clouds against a brilliant sky when the real one was dull and gray. Through his brush, he reshaped reality, and in doing so, reshaped the way she saw the world.

The garage became his dusky art gallery, adorned with imagined trees, flowers, cats, and clouds. Whenever the large garage door creaked open, sunlight would pour in and illuminate the paintings all at once, as though dreams themselves were stepping into the light.

Jillian would stand there in awe, as if witnessing something sacred. She often begged him to paint impossible things—a dinosaur, a castle, or even a spaceship. He’d just smile and say he didn’t know how.

Still, she believed he could create anything. That belief began to fade the day she watched him paint a woman standing in their yard. Curious, she ran outside to find her, only to discover the space was empty. For the first time, she realized the magic had its limits.

Years after her father’s death, Jillian returned to the house and opened the garage again. The paintings still lined the walls, quietly holding the dreams of her childhood. As she looked at them, she found herself wondering what had ever been real and what had simply been imagined.

Her gaze shifted to the mysterious woman Dad painted in the backyard, and Jillian gasped. “Oh my God!” The woman looked exactly like her in every detail.

In that moment, Jillian understood that her father had not only painted what wasn’t there—he’d painted what could be. Long before she had grown into herself, he had already seen her, imagined her, and captured her in a way that reached beyond time.

In today’s hectic, tech-driven world, nurturing a child’s imagination cannot be overlooked. It is not just a whimsical escape; it is the foundation of vision, identity, and hope. It allows children to see beyond their circumstances and grow into the possibilities placed within them.

Lord Jesus, bless every child with an imagination that helps them see beyond what is, and into what can be. May they grow into the person You’ already seen in them. Amen

The Barber's Chair

 “Speaking before listening to the facts is shameful and foolish.” ~ Proverbs 18:13

Many years ago, I first stumbled into Leo’s Barbershop on Main Street for the first time and waited my turn. The shop wasn’t much bigger than a tool shed.

It resembled Mayberry’s only barbershop on “The Andy Griffin Show.” The 60s sitcom featured Sheriff Andy Taylor, his bumbling deputy, Barney Fife, and cousins Gomer and Goober Pyle. I half expected to see the quirky, absent-minded Floyd appear, strapping his straight razor.

With its worn leather swivel chairs, spinning red-and-white pole, and the lingering scent of aftershave, it felt like stepping backward in time. “Sports Illustrated” magazines, yellowed newspaper clippings, and the hum of clippers created a cozy air of nostalgia.

Here, the constant buzz of community filled the entire space: crops and politics, sports and crime waves, religion and local gossip. This was a barber shop, not a grooming salon.

Inside, the buzz of community filled the space - crops and politics, sports and crime waves, religion and local gossip. This wasn’t a grooming salon; it was a gathering place where men came not only for a trim but for connection. Problems were tested, humor was shared, and stories found a place to land. No arguments. No complaints about the price. Just honest, unhurried conversation.

Leo knew every customer by name. Something about sitting in his chair made you feel disarmed and at ease. He wasn’t formally trained to be anything more than a barber, yet he became part stylist, part therapist, part life coach. His wisdom came not from lecturing but from decades of watching, listening, and respecting the men who walked through his door.

There were two strict rules in Leo’s shop: no cell phones and no judgment. Without screens, conversations unfolded naturally - about fatherhood, fishing, setbacks, joys, and the quiet struggles men often keep tucked away. Leo never interrupted or rushed anyone. His calm presence built deep loyalty over the years.

To this neighborhood, Leo was more than a barber. He was a small business owner, the town’s unofficial historian, and the keeper of secrets.

Maybe it was the pampering, the undivided attention, the warm lather and careful trim, or the vibrating neck massage at the end. Maybe it was simply the feeling of being seen and treated with dignity. Whatever it was, each visit reminded me why small businesses matter and how they shape communities with heart, craftsmanship, and connection.

Leo is gone now, but the barbershop still carries his name. Something about the people, the ambiance, and the steady, familiar rhythm keeps pulling me back. It will bring me back in a month or so, as it has for the last 35 years.

Father God, give me the wisdom and humility to listen carefully and patiently to others before offering an answer or forming an opinion. Deliver me from pride and self-righteousness, and teach me to seek understanding before judgment. Amen