I enjoy writing, but I never said I was good at it. Either people are just plain gullible or they are really nice to me. I’m not entirely sure which one to go with. Either way, I have found that each day as I sit down to write, I learn a little bit more about myself.
Sometimes I don’t like what I learn, but I’m convinced that in each day, there is a lesson to be learned and a memory to be made, so I press on.
I live in Iowa in a small town (yes, we have a post office) where hardly anything exciting happens. I stick out here like a sore thumb. Every man around me wears Rustler jeans and florescent green Pioneer Seed Company hats and sometimes, they drive tractors.
I, on the other hand, am exactly the opposite. I find tractors way too big and clumsy to fit in a parking spot at the coffee shop. I wear ugly styrofoam Crocs 313 days out of the year and sometimes, when I haven’t had enough coffee to make me high step fast enough, the little holes fill up with snow and I get soggy socks.
I recently got married to a lovely gal from the South who knows the secret ingredient to lasting love and making red beans and rice taste delicious. In fact, sometimes her cooking is so good, as we bow our heads in thanks, she has to squeeze my hand so I don’t get distracted by the overwhelming smell of BBQ chicken I’m attempting to bless.
Speaking of blessings… you’re one of them.
You’re curious about my faith story? In the past, I was hesitant to share it with you. The reason being I’m a 4th generation Christian. My parents were missionaries. I lived in Ghana, Africa and had a pet monkey named Pilo. I learned how to worship under a mango tree while wearing flip flops, or “chanilas” as the natives called them.
I wish I could say I never fell away from any of it. But I remember one moment in particular, like the prodigal son, I stumbled into the front door of my parents house and only their arms could have supported me.
My world had crumbled.
Tears fell on bended knees.
With trembling voice, my mother whispered words to heaven that I no longer believed, nor cared that I ever believed again. Those words?
“We know You have a plan, Lord…”
I’m still tripping over those words. Daily. But somewhere along the way, I learned that God did, indeed, have a plan. Maybe it was the cancer. Or the car wreck. Or the suicide of a friend.
Or maybe, it was just me, the little man I am, to finally realize that I needed something bigger than myself to believe in when nothing else made sense.
I can tell you I’m a born again Christian. I can say I’m a sinner. I can remind you how imperfect I am. Or how perfect I am in His eyes.
But I’m not sure about a lot of those things.
At the end of the day, I know that God is Who I place my trust in.
And He’s who I want to hear whisper “Good-night, Son. I’ll be right here.”
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