The Good Portion

I've got nothing of import to share these days so I thought an update and dose of mundane stuff might be fun. First, my kids have convinced me there's nothing really all that wrong with my forehead and that I shouldn't wear bangs or a hat every waking moment of my life. Besides that, I've determined to own my wrinkles. I've earned them after all, and wouldn't trade the wisdom that's come with them for the world. So, I'm letting my forehead out of the closet. And here's a picture. Oh yeah. I wear glasses too, except on Sundays and when I want to look pretty. I don't think I've mentioned it here but since it's public knowledge (in the most legal sense of the word, and the most literal - it's been published in the local paper) I can state here that I'm serving on my county's Grand Jury this year. It is taking up a lot of my time, and, with my cleaning business flourishing as it is, I'm left with precious little time for t...

In the first place, I wish I could take credit for coming to that critical question on my own, but really it was a slow train coming, and on the caboose was a friend who during her own womanly journey snagged this obscure little bit of Scripture: "If there is anything they desire to learn, let them ask their husbands at home." (1 Cor. 14: 35) I admittedly have no intention of diving into the minefield of context on this one. I've honestly seldom been able to notice these words through the din of those that surround it, but my friend drew them out for me and gave me a timeless, culture-spanning use for them. "I think one of the reasons...to learn from our own husbands at home (in a good marriage) is because that's the one person who loves us most and is most willing to protect us." On came the lights. "Wives, submit to your own husbands , as to the Lord." (Eph. 5:22, all emphasis mine.) Now, let me put on the brakes for a moment, for the...

Who is he? This one I speak to upon waking each morning, full of fear.... This one I've never laid eyes on, yet trust with my dread and my life? Who are you, Jesus? Why do I trust you? Why do I wish it was me, washing your feet with my tears Touching your skin fear of your disciples, their taunts washed away by hope of your acceptance? How do I know you will not agree with them and turn me away? I don't. I never have. And yet I come, day after day hearing the whispers. The way I approach is all wrong, offerings foolish and wasteful. A woman, I belong in the kitchen, quietly working, useful. But I need you. Oh, how I wish I could touch you, hear your voice drowning out the voice of your men.  Then I would ask you Who are you? Why do I trust you?