Confession: The thing I dislike most about writing a series is that I can’t write about the little everyday stuff happening in the meantime.
Confession: You guys are sweet to think I could write a book, but I don’t want to. I want to play.
Confession: This morning I planned to exercise, but instead I sat down with a big cup of great coffee. Good trade.
Confession: I am mad with January for keeping on playing at April. Just as we open ourselves to April, January strikes again with raw temperatures, freezing rain, and a two-hour delay. My throat is sore and my tulips are thoroughly confused.
Confession: The thing about writing bananana is I can’t tell when to stop.
Confession: Jesus keeps rearranging my booked-up schedule, surprising me with free time and evenings at home. I love this about Him. He leads me so gently.
Confession: I wish I could walk into my sister’s hospital room and present her with an extra-large iced coffee wrapped up in whipped cream and a clean bill of health.
Confession: I love seeing the mouse trails underneath the snow when it melts. They look like a treasure map. Why are there so many dead ends? Did the mouse think happiness lay that way, and find out he was on a wild goose chase, or what?
Confession: Someone wants me to write a post on the head covering, and my husband suggested one on the ethics of family planning, but I’m not doing it. I just tell them firmly that the Spirit is not leading me there at this time.
Confession: I baked some special pans of bars to share, and they didn’t turn out, and then people told me how good they were. I think Jesus tweaked them when I wasn’t looking.
Confession: The best redeeming side effect of rain is umbrellas. I am having a serious love affair with other people’s umbrellas. This morning I saw one with smiles all over it, and another that looked like a giant chrysanthemum. They hold their own flirtatious conversations over human’s heads.
Confession: Some people think 13 is bad luck, but I rather like it. Once when I was in Europe and went up an apartment block in an elevator, the numbers went “10, 11, 12, 14, 15…” No one would live on the 13th floor, so they just named it 14. This is a factual account.
Confession: The more I read the greats (Dickens and Bleak House at the moment), the more I think maybe my calling in life is to read seriously and write playfully. I cannot tell you how happy I feel with this arrangement. Tomorrow I’ll show you why.