Picture Day, by Momma Jezz

I went to have Adelaide’s first formal picture taken in her pretty new Christmas dress this morning. As I pull into the Target parking lot and begin to unload my sleeping baby, two cars collide directly behind me, scaring the crud out of me and waking tootsie abruptly. One driver asks me to be a witness to the accident but because I’m late and Addie is now fussing, I decline. We make it all the way into the store through the crowds and I notice we have lost a shoe!! Running back through the packed out parking lot, I search frantically for her shoe and the last threads of my peaceful state of mind vanish….. After finding the shoe soaking wet under the car, I sprint back into the store with a now angry, wet-footed baby on my hip. We arrive a full fifteen minutes late and like a dog with a tail between my legs, I apologize profusely to the scowling 19-year-old photographer. We choose a simple backdrop of black and quickly prop baby into a seated position. Within one nano second vomit covers her dress, shoes and the nice cloth backdrop she sits on. This induces even deeper furrows on the teenager’s brow. After cleaning baby and changing the background to a less attractive faux fireplace, we reposition fussy pants on a cute mini sofa, on her tummy. She immediately starts to call out help from surrounding pterodactyls (her nickname due to her screeching cry) and refuses even a semblance of a smile. One minute into this dreadful position she lays her face flat on the sofa and begins to ferociously push out her morning poop. There she was, red faced and grunting like a little line backer, while mommy tried to joke it up with the Grinch photographer. Addie continued her morning constitution for the remainder of our pathetic photo session, stinking up the whole studio and making mean faces. In the end she pooped on the mini sofa, on me and on her new dress. Mommy was deflated, sweating and smelly. Not one decent smile for the camera. No Christmas pictures were purchased this year.

Jezz

 

Tish B’Av in Jerusalem

I recently took part in a walk around the Old City of Jerusalem on the eve of Tish b’av.  Hundreds participated in this “Women in Green” sponsored event.  We met in the downtown center of Jerusalem at 9:30 PM, just after Shabbat, and while sitting on the ground, reflecting an act of mourning, we read the Book of Lamentations together.

“The elders of the daughter of Zion

Sit on the ground and keep silence;

They throw dust on their heads

And gird themselves with sackcloth.

The virgins of Jerusalem

Bow their heads to the ground.

Lamentations 2:10

We then proceeded to walk together around the walled city, beginning at Damascus Gate, and ending at the Dung Gate. There, many continued to pray into the early morning hours at the Kotel (Western Wall of prayer). Many of us carried orange flags that read:

“The Land of Israel For the People of Israel”

Others draped Israel’s national flag, depicting the Shield of David over their shoulders. Walking together through these ancient streets, we all found strength in numbers as we mourned the destruction of our Temples, and the many other tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people.  There were people present from throughout the world; old and young, religious, and non, all circling the walled city. Spontaneous singing arose, and shofars were blown, penetrating the night from among the crowd.

The sight of hundreds of people streaming through the streets of Jerusalem was indescribable. I imagined what it must have been like during the feasts, when the Temple still stood strong and tall on this holy mountain.

Although I have made several trips to my homeland, Israel, this was my first time in the Land on Tish b’av.

As I passed the Flower Gate, young Arabs looked out of upstairs windows and stood before their shops motionless. Their stares were piercing, with arms folded across their chests.  The cold reality could not be avoided. Our very presence said that this Land belonged to us, — the Jews, and not to them. An Arab woman appeared from the shadows, and clung to the wall as she walked next to us, attempting to avoid the Jewish presence that filled the street.  Her appearance did not seem sensible. It wasn’t long and two police officers scurried to escort her off the street.  Was she a ploy, or just not very smart?

A woman walking next to me also witnessing this said,

“Do you know what would happen if this situation was reversed, and there was one Jewish woman on the street with hundreds of Arabs?”  Her question didn’t need an answer.

The Police and IDF were everywhere. Like pepper on pasta. I have never seen such security.  Everywhere I looked, they were standing with M-16’s ready and strapped across their chests. Rooftop corners were covered, and even where there was only blackness, I could make out a small blinking security light, which meant that a soldier was standing there. Waiting. Watching. Ready.

About mid-way on the walk, just before approaching the Lions Gate, a wave of emotion overwhelmed me. I am not normally given to such outward emotion. I couldn’t contain the tears that I found suddenly rolling down my face. My breath became tormented, fighting itself to be released to the wails of intersession that desired to charge forth. I resorted to self-management mode and questioned myself, “Where is this coming from….What is going on with me?”

Without another thought, I could sense the prophetic-ness of what I was taking part in. Of all the places in the whole world, here I was, encircling the walled city, where the Temple once stood. My head downward, I stared at each one of my feet, as I planted them upon the ancient stone street of Eretz Israel.

A divine connection began to unfold between all of the faces around me. I could feel the ache of every heart present that hungered for Messiah. Suddenly I found myself interceding,

“Please G-d hear the cries of your people Israel….Forgive us, for we have rebelled against You”

After some time, I looked up to get my bearings, and noticed a woman in a green baseball cap walking along side me.  Our steps seemed to be matched in cadence. I wiped my face and turned towards her and smiled.

“Do you know exactly where we are right now?”

I asked her, realizing after I spoke that my voice was shaking.

The woman eagerly explained that we had just passed the Flower Gate a few minutes ago.

More tears… this time I tried to mutter a comment of apology to this woman I didn’t know. What a basket case I must appear to be, I thought.

“My name is Anita”, she said, and hugged my arm.

“You are feeling the emotion of this place”, she stated like someone who knew well.

Her friendly gesture seemed to sooth my soul, and for the first time in a while, I took a deep breath.

Still walking, I told her my name and that this was the first time I had been in Israel on Tish b’av.

“How many times have you been on this walk?”,

I asked, trying to compose myself.

“Fourteen years”, she replied.

I suddenly felt like an infant.  Fourteen years of circling the Temple Mount, compared to my not yet one! It wasn’t like I felt some competition in my heart; it was more like an overwhelming thankfulness to Anita for doing this each year; — for standing in the gap for all of us that have not been there. As we continued to walk together, I discovered that Anita was one of the founding mothers of the organization sponsoring this walk, called Women in Green. An amazing group that promotes the Biblical boundaries of the Land of Israel, by showing support to jeopardized Jewish communities.

“Thank you Anita,” I said.

It was one of those times that you just know those two words aren’t enough, but you also know that there are not enough words in any language that can contain the magnitude of meaning needed.

What a precious soul I thought; — Anita suddenly gone, as gracefully as she appeared.

As I sit, a few days later and scribe what took place in my heart on the night of Tish b’av, what comes to mind is not the history of disasters; although these must not be forgotten, but a vision of future victories. I see the books of the Tanach unfold; when we will have a new Temple in our midst, and Messiah will reign as Lion of Judah! As our footsteps marked the way of our hearts on this Tish b’av, so can we today hear the footsteps of Messiah coming in the distance.  He is coming, like a Groom for his Bride!

Meanwhile, I ponder….

Can the world ever come to any peace solutions? Can Jew and Arab ever be loving neighbors? Will we ever see G-dly leadership in political office?

It is man that has created the state of the world we are now living in. Just as it was man that defiled the Holy Temple before it’s destruction. That is the very reason for its destruction, not some foreign troop of thugs. Let’s be honest.

If true peace were in our abilities, don’t you think we could have figured it out by now?  Have we ever known, throughout the history of the Hebrew people, when a second chance actually worked?

When we offer the greeting, “Shalom, Shalom” to those we pass on the streets, do we actually have the ability to genuinely experience it?

I will close my little window of thought with one more.

Suppose the Tanach is true, and everything it says will actually take place?  Do you think perhaps we could save ourselves a lot of confusion, turmoil, and fear by getting to know exactly what this Book of prophetic riches holds?  What might happen if all of G-d’s people chose to look upon these Holy Words, instead of running to a yoga class, or a therapist, or a Tibetan mountain top, to fill their void.

Imagine if we actually began to pray like Daniel prayed, — worship like David worshipped, — obey like Joshua and Caleb obeyed? Trust G-d like Ruth trusted?

Yes, there were mega problems then too, but do you think if G-d could use these prophets in the midst of the problems then, that maybe He could also use us today?

As I continue to deal with these tears flooding my heart, I see my steps once again upon the stone streets, and I can hear the sweet whisper of the Groom as He calls out to His Bride,

“I long to hear your prayers, and enter into your worship.  By your obedience I will surround you, and by your trust I will anoint you for healing”

 Tish b’Av

A day of tears.  A day of promise.

A day of decision.

Fear No Evil, by Haley

Thinking with no thought to think

Screaming for my heart is weak

Speaking as if I could speak

But nothing seems to make a creak

Walking through the darkend hall of light

Shadows crawl

Filled with fright

God will save me, in my time of despair

I know He’s willing

I hope He’s there

I shall fear no evil, or shadows upon me

Guided by God, I know He loves me.

Little Turkey and the Big Sea

“HELP! — HELP!” shouted little turkey, as she gulped more water from the waves that suddenly carried her away. The water surrounded her, and never in her little turkey life, had she been so afraid.

“My feathers are wet,

And I may just sink,

Please God, do something,

And I mean in a blink!”

Little turkey managed to lift a wet wing over a scrap of wood in the water, and for a moment as she bobbled and bounced; she saw the endless water everywhere.  It was all she could do to hold on with her little wing, as she recalled the prayer her Papa turkey always said over her in times of danger,

 “Don’t fear for a minute

Or you will open a door

To the enemy coming in,

With ten times more!!

Call on God in times of trouble,

He will show up, on the double!”

So, little turkey kept saying over and over,

“I will not fear for a minute, — not a minute…. not a minute…not a minute… not a minute, will I fear, for a minute…”

Suddenly little turkey was aroused by Mr. Bumble Bee buzzing around her beak.

 

“You’re not going to drown,

You silly little clown.

You are just in a big bucket,

Now push up and jump out of it!”

In a bucket she thought… how could that be? One minute I was asleep and the next in the sea. But very well then, if a bucket I am in, then I must make an escape…for certainly my mother will be looking for me!  So with all the strength little turkey could muster, she rocked to and fro in a rhythmic luster, and with one big O-O-M-P-H, she grunted and shouted, and KA-BAM… in the air she cur-plopped, and tossed and meandered, until the dry ground found her rather in a lather…

Finding herself on dry ground was such a relief that her fear was almost forgotten. As she dizzily wandered around for a minute or two, shaking and spitting, and shivering and fiddling; she realized how she might never have gotten out of that bucket of sea, if it hadn’t been for nice Mr. Bumble Bee…

 “Oh, thank you Mr. Bumble Bee,

You truly saved my turkey hinny.

If it hadn’t been for your buzzing and buzzing,

I would not be so all together shiny.”

 Little turkey was so very grateful to be alive, and not at the bottom of some big sea, that she decided to warn all the other little turkeys, of this great danger that could be.  She gobbled along the roads of the forests, and stopped all her friends to tell them her story. She told them how God had sent a big Bee, and how she managed to escape the great sea. Some of them laughed, and said,

“You silly little turkey… there is no God that hears our plea, much less a big sea!”

But others said,

“Oh, you are a brave little turkey, and so special it seems, that God saved your feathers to help others in need. Lets have a feast, and thank God for keeping us safe from buckets and puddles, and all kinds of muddles.”

So all the turkeys from the land of Jewzuzziah danced and feasted to the Lord. There were rows and rows of roasted roe, mixed with marvelous concoctions of melony dough. Fresh squeezed lemony licka-maid, on leaves of buttery toasted compote. There was dancing to the whistling of the gobble-d-goop quartet, until we all broke into a sweat! Mommas and Papas, sisters, and brothers…even the foreigners that dwelt among us…all together we trotted, until the moon shined above us.  We finally retired, too tired to gobble one more gobble…

As we snuggled and huddled, and drifted to sleep, I think I heard Mr. Bumble Bee quietly speak;

 

“Don’t ever fear, even the biggest sea,

For God is there for you and me.

The sea is like a bucket to Him,

Never too deep, or difficult, or grim.

He loves us when we are a little silly,

And even when we are man-illy.

Nowhere we go, does He not know

Oh, how I love Him so!”

And little turkey had a smile tucked within her heart as she slept all through the night…

The End

Banana Bread

June is the kind of woman that suddenly appears in a room. You never see her come through the door; June is just there – KA-BAM.  Suddenly.  Like a bee in your kitchen that is buzz-diving your matzah balls, and you hysterically cry out… “How did you get in here?”

With a distinctive nasal Jersey accent, June announces her arrival in the little store where I work, with a robust, “ H-E-L-L-Oooooo !”  Not just one “hello” mind you, but many hellos in elongated succession; — more like a song than a greeting, with each hello being a different note on the scale of melody.  She is very spry for her seventy-ish body, and her sweeping grace and delicate features seem a contradiction to her bold entrance. Her hair has long turned white I am sure, but she keeps it a strawberry blonde and full of pin curled tresses, sometimes attaching a bright colored satin bow or two.  Always smelling of lilacs, her love for dressing in frills and lace is evident, portraying an almost childlike nature. But just when you think you have June figured out, she appears wearing pink neon tennis shoes and a baseball cap from her grandson’s team, the Staten Island Yankees.

On this chilly northwest day, June waltzes through the door in her most unique way, and is carrying something wrapped in a red-checked cotton dishtowel.

“It’s still warm! — Let me slice you a nice big piece of my banana bread!” My two co-workers and I inch our way closer to June’s steaming banana bread parcel. Our eyes are fixed with anticipation. June is twitching with delight as she proceeds to slice us all a big chunk.  Not considering the rules of etiquette, we hold out our bare hands as pedestals, and June drops a delectable portion upon them. The aroma of bananas, cinnamon, and nutmeg reach our nostrils as the first bite has already landed within our mouths.  We all mumble together, in words beginning with ummmm’s, and ouuuuu’s.  June stands frozen as a pillar, with her eyes transfixed upon us. She is looking for further response, and hovers over us with knife in hand, ready to serve us seconds.  As we continue to chew our mouthfuls, there is a unified unspoken realization.  Banana bread is not June’s specialty. June’s tennis shoes would taste better!  We gratefully manage to swallow our last morsel without gagging, and thank June profusely for her thoughtfulness, but say we must get back to work. Thankfully, the phone rings, just as a costumer comes in needing assistance.  June wraps up her banana bread and says goodbye, and offers to give us her recipe if we would like it. We all shout,

“Oh June, that would be wonderful!” as she drifts out the door from where she came.

Looking back upon this day, I ponder the events.  I think of June fondly, with her unique flair and banana bread bundle in tow. Her willingness to share from her heart about life and her precious grandchildren on the east coast, and the way she would listen intently to how our days were going.  Had I been less than upstanding in my response to June’s culinary skills?  Should I have risked the possibility of hurting this dear lady with the cold hard facts?  Had I failed the test of honesty?  And then it hit me…. Like the sun comes out from behind a cloud.  It’s not about the banana bread at all…

Sometimes in life we choose to eat tennis shoe flavored banana bread, because we love the bread maker, more than the bread. I believe that my G-d knows a little about this too.  Could it be that He dines with us because He just wants to love us, and not because of what we may be serving for dinner?  Could it be that He cares about us, even when we aren’t so lovely?  I am relieved that He doesn’t need to approve my menu before He comes to the table.  And thinking back, sometimes that menu has not been very appetizing! Serving Him, split pea pain soup, and chopped anger salad. Topped off with a bittersweet chocolate mouse of rants and ravings.  But He just sat there, patiently listening and taking mouthful upon mouthful.  At the end of the meal, actually thanking me for the lovely dinner, and saying how He couldn’t wait to come again real soon!

I think perhaps June is a messenger of more than just banana bread.  In our excitement, our mouths water over the gift, but in reality, the gift is not always so tasty is it? It is the giver that turns out to be the real treat; — brimming with excited love and flare!  May there be more June’s in the world, and may we all possess a passionate appetite for giving and receiving what really matters: the Love that comes from tennis shoe flavored banana bread.  Thank you June.

Wrinkles in the Paper

The summer months at my Bubbie Lucy’s house were what my life longed for all year long.  I was nine years old and my spoiled-rotten baby sister, Susan was five.  She was an annoyance to my JAP (Jewish American Princess) status, to say the least!  Leaving baby Susan and traveling to Bubbie’s each summer was like getting my life back again. There, I would wander the rolling fields of rose gardens and have picnics in the orchards.  I would get lost within her massive house, wandering down the forever-long hallways and cedar- lined closets that were as big as school busses. She had a special room decorated just for me, and it was filled with picture books and dolls from far away countries.  The walls were covered with tiny pale blue forget-me-nots tied with pink bows, and I had my very own veranda with French doors, where my dolls and I would sip chamomile tea in the afternoons. My bed was so high and filled with so many shiny satin pillows, that I needed a step stool to apprehend it, but once atop, I pretended that I was sleeping upon the clouds— high, high in the sky, and all of God’s angels were watching over me.

Each morning we would say our prayers and then Bubbie would let me pick a record to put on the player. She liked music playing all the time, and she would say, “ Music makes our souls dance.”Sometimes she would take my hands in hers and we would twirl around the breakfast table, until we got so dizzy with laughter that we were forced to sit down right there on the floor!

But of all the times at Bubbie house, it was our evenings together that I cherished most. We always had several projects going, and at the end of the summer, it was a frenzied race to see if we could finish them all!  Picture puzzles would always be in process – sometimes two or three at once in different locations. Doll clothes would be laid out and sewn by hand. Booties for new babies feet were crocheted. My very favorite of all activities however, was a summer scrapbook. It would be filled with random poems, pressed flowers in waxed paper, and outlines of our hands and toes, — cutout comic strips from the Sunday paper, and stickers from fruits and vegetables. It was a whimsical mixture for sure!! We would carefully cut out pictures and glue them with paste made of flour and water, forming colorful pages of our summer. In the oversized credenza, Bubbie had saved drawer-fulls of glittery greeting cards, and bits and pieces of sparkly ribbon to add pizzazz to our works of art. Finally, when we couldn’t squeeze in one more page, we would sew them together with colorful yarn.

As we admired our scrapbooks, Bubbie Lucy would describe her sisters and brothers to me, and the life she remembered in Poland.  When she began reminiscing I could anticipate the large wooden box coming down from a special cupboard, and a serious look unfolding upon her sun-bronzed face.  She would carefully open the box to the tune of a double octave squeak of dry hinges, letting the smell of suffocated paper and ink escape into the air.

One by one, her weathered hands would reach inside the box and bring out bits and pieces of a life long ago.  She would tell me…“Little one, we must never forget our family and where we have come from.”  I would cuddle next to her on the overstuffed velvet sofa, as the evening light grew dim, and catch her tears in an embroidered hankie that she kept within her apron pocket.

As she held each tattered photo, she would speak of memories:  “Your uncles Yosef and Yacov hid me beneath the floorboards of our house, as I was so tiny for my age of nine, and they made me swear to be silent and not move an inch. I could hear the sound of boots above my head and feel the dust falling upon my face, as the Nazi soldiers drug them away, along with your aunts, Hanna and Avigail who were screaming. I held my hands tightly over my ears, and yet the screaming was such that I will never forget!  Just two days earlier, Momma and Papa had not returned from visiting the Rabbi’s ill wife, and we were not sure where they had been taken.

Much later that night, when it was very still, I crept carefully from beneath the floorboards up into our empty house. Our home had been ran-sacked and Momma’s precious dishes were broken everywhere. My Papa’s special hat that he wore on Shabbat was flattened on the floor.    I frantically gathered some family photos and papers, which I was taught to guard if anything should ever separate us, and stuffed them in a pillowcase. Tying it tightly around my waist beneath my skirt, I ran out in the darkness of the woods… breathlessly running with no direction. Running from the screams within my head, and  not stopping until daylight. A farmer going to his barn at dawn must have heard me sobbing,— finding me huddled beneath a tree, and Baruch HaShem, he took me inside to his wife, and hid me within his family as their own until the war was over. I never saw my beloved family again.  Later, I found their names listed as “deceased” in the records at the death camp of Burkinhow.  Oh, there is much more to share my little one, but that is enough for this evening.”

As my fingers traced the faces on the old paper photos, Bubbie would say,

“Wrinkles in the paper are a sign from God that He is taking care of our loved ones.”

And I remember thinking how much God must love our family with so many wrinkles under my fingers.

Many summers have come and gone since then.  Bubbie Lucy, blessed be her memory,  passed away while sitting in her rose garden one Shabbat evening.  Next to her on the swing, was the old wooden box filled with her memories.

The box now sits in my home, and I bring it out when my little redheaded granddaughter comes to visit, and we talk about our family together.

As we sit and look at each photo my Gingette asks, “Why are there are so many wrinkles in these photos Bubbie?”

And I reply, “My precious little one, the wrinkles are a sign from God that He is taking care of our loved ones”

“Hmmmm”, she replies. “He sure must love us a lot”

The Boy in the Red Shirt

I have come to find that God has special, “down-loading” days for His people.  It is as if a divine funnel is placed upon our heads, & suddenly…. time stops…. your focus shifts…..and you are changed. Shopping malls are always full of people; — moving in all directions –bumping into one another — all looking for something — rarely making eye contact with one another, much less offering a “hello”. My husband Brian & I were in such a place a few weeks ago.

When my daughter Anna turned fourteen, I no longer could survive the shopping experience with her, and make it home in one piece; but her step-father Brian, managed to take her shopping, and actually made it into a good experience. They would come home from clothes shopping laughing and carrying on, while I sat in shock ! On this particular day at the mall, I was in search of the “ultimate hand bag” (which I have decided doesn’t exist). As I wandered through the several choices, I left Brian to wait patiently, as I intently explored each bag.  Glancing in his direction, I noticed him peering through the crowd in somewhat of a daze. With several hand bags hanging from my arms I went to him,

“Are you ok?” I asked.

My question broke his stare, as our eyes met, and I suddenly could see into his heart… His cheeks were damp and his blue eyes were freshly washed. “The boy in the red shirt” he said in a whisper, as his gaze veered away again. With a questioning look, I put my hand on his shoulder, and once again, asked him if he was alright.  I know my husband, and there is a rare day, when he is not touched to tears over something that the Lord has done…. But what had happened, in the fifteen minutes that he had been waiting for me, I wondered?

“Look” he said,   “Just down there, that boy with the red shirt on…can you see him?”

As I focused in the direction of Brian’s vision, many people competed for my  attention, but then….“Yes….I  see him,” I replied.  Brian glanced around, and with a sense of privacy, explained quietly to me: “I was just standing here waiting for you, and this kid came through the entrance door with his mom. He caught my attention right away, and as he came closer towards me, I felt saddened.  He was very heavy and unkempt looking.  He couldn’t be more than 13.”

We glanced again, lingering in the boys’ direction….

His thin red T-shirt barely covered him; leaving a portion of mid-section exposed as he steered a shopping cart down the isle. There was a remnant of lettering that couldn’t be made out, due to the hundreds of washings & wearings it had undergone.  His mother was walking closely next to him.  Her voice could be heard from a distance, as she shouted harshly at the boy. We could feel those words, like daggers piercing deep within. Her stubby, nail bitten fingers were pointing at his face as she spoke; emphasizing her every point.  Each poke of her finger; the boy sunk further and further within his own world. His head hung low, as he attempted to close out the world. His shoulders caved forward into his chest, as this mother and son continued to walk down the crowded aisle, until finally, the business enveloped them, and we could see them no more….

We stood silently for awhile, and then Brian finally stated, “God let me see into his eyes… and I could such shame, such hopelessness, such hurt and pain.” And he began to tear up again. My hand reached out spontaneously to pat my husbands massive back, attempting to comfort the tears rolling down his face.

The rest of the evening was very quiet, and I could tell Brian was still thinking of this boy as we continued our shopping. There is a certain look that I have come to understand when my husband is in the ministry of the Father, and this was one of those times.  We decided to have dinner, as it was getting late. Waiting for our food, he looked off again, I asked, “The boy in the red shirt?” He burst into tears at the table. God was down-loading a part of His heart into that of my husbands’.  There was no avoiding it, — he searched for words, but there were none; just a longing for this boy to receive a touch from God. He sat there in silence, with a compassion for a boy that he didn’t know; yet he knew too well. We prayed together for the boy in the red shirt that night.  We prayed that he would know the love of the Father and that he would find the joy.  Then we released him to the Lord for safe keeping.

Brian has told me of his high school days.  They were a very difficult time for him. He was the oldest brother of three, and became the man of the family after loosing his father at eight years old in an automobile accident.  This early boyhood trauma had made him “survival-tough” on the outside. He told me of how he would get furious when the high school bullies deliberately hurt a vulnerable, slower school mate. He would go so far as to intervene in such situations, and take matters into his own hands; often-times leaving the bully, bloody & defeated.  But the tenderness in his heart would never go away, despite his tough exterior.  The compassion for the under dog could not be quenched from within him. The burden that he felt for the unpopular girl whose books were strewn all over the school hallway, or the boy with profuse acne that was tripped on the stairs going to class, would follow him, like a deer follows water.

I look at my husband today, and see the same heart he must have had then. He may look impenetrable, wearing his leather jacket and riding his Harley, but my husband walks in maturity, as a mighty man of God; called to be a Shepherd.  A man whose heart is after that of the Father protecting His sheep.  His heart hasn’t changed much since he was a young boy, as God put that heart within him when He fearfully and wonderfully created him. Life could have turned his heart to stone, but because God’s calling on a life is greater than our own; stone could not be formed.

May we all see the boys in red shirts, the little girls that are awkward, and the grammas & grandpa’s that sit alone on park benches. Lord, give us Your eyes!