Category Archives: Funny

Nashville Clothing Crisis!

People of Nashville,

I wanted to make you aware of a clothing crisis going on in our area. I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. From what I can tell it’s affecting women ages 16-29, roughly, but who knows how fast it could spread to our children.

I saw signs of it on social media when people were posting prom pictures, but it wasn’t until recently that I saw it with my own eyes. I went with my family to the Nashville Sounds game and couldn’t stop staring. It was like I had walked into a filming of National Geographic.

So. Much. Skin.

Women were walking around with their bums hanging out of their high-waisted cut off shorts. I can only assume they were hand-me-downs from their mothers because they looked like something from the 80s. Are women here really walking around with 30+ year old tattered, holey shorts? They can’t afford new shorts that cover their WHOLE behinds? Guys, we can do better than this.

Other women were in such dire need of clothing they were wearing shirts that were obviously made for toddlers. It was appalling. Grown women so destitute they had to wear children’s clothing because they couldn’t afford a full shirt in their own size. Their concave bellies must be showing all the time because they were very, very tan although it’s not quite summer yet. They’ll probably have skin cancer from all the exposure. Can you imagine? Being forced to buy from the children’s department because it’s more affordable than adult clothing! These poor girls.

Girls were also resurrecting the infamous bodysuit. You know, basically the onesie made for an adult that was popular back in the ‘90s? Yep, that’s the one. I guess these girls were raiding their mothers’ closets and thought those would be a good throwback because who on earth would buy that tragic piece of clothing now? It’s saying to the world, “Hey World, I know you can’t see it but I have a front wedgie!” It was hard enough to snap those silly onesies when I had babies, why on earth would I want to do that to myself? And, lesbihonest, I’d have to be some sort of contortionist to make sure they were snapped correctly on myself. “Limber” has never been a word used to describe me.

Women of Nashville, I implore you to help with this clothing crisis! Do we need to hold a clothing drive for these poor young ladies? They shouldn’t have to walk the streets with their fannies exposed to the world. And we should be able to provide them with shirts that actually cover their sunken bellies! Oh sweet ladies, we need to help these young girls and get them clothes that cover the necessary body parts. Maybe we could have a sponsorship program like they did with the millennials (see the promo video here). Hmmmm, it’s a thought. If you have any ideas on how to solve this clothing crisis, please email me. Together we can end high waisted shorts and body suits.


*If the sarcasm was lost on you in this post, my apologies, let me be direct: Girls, put some clothes on.

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A Letter To My Belly


(cartoon courtesy of

Dear Tummy-Tum-Tum-

I’m writing to you to apologize. I have been horrible to you these last few weeks. I’m reminded of how ugly I’ve been to you every night when I’m getting ready for bed. As I peel off my skinny jeans, that will seemingly never go out of style much to my thighs disappointment, I look down at you. Oh, honey. It looks as if you’ve been tied up in bondage all day. My jeans have basically left rope burns all over you. I could cry for you, you sweet bowl of jelly. My jeans have been taking advantage of your squishiness and I’m tired of it. Being embarrassed of the red marks my jeans bestow upon you is no way to live. You are better than that and it’s about time I started treating you as such. So in efforts to make taking off my skinny jeans NOT resemble opening a can of biscuits, I will be making a few changes.

For starters, I’ll try not to eat every single thing my eyes see. It seems I’ve been doing this for the past month or so but I’m willing to stop for you, dear tummy. It will be a lot easier to stop considering we don’t have Christmas treats in the house anymore…because we ate them all. It’s fine. We can’t live in the past. Let’s shake off the shame and move on.

Secondly, I will try to eat more nutritious foods that don’t cause you to get bigger. Now, this will be difficult considering these are the not the foods we gravitate toward naturally. You and I are a bit addicted to the sugar, not the beets, unfortunately. Don’t worry; I won’t make you eat beets, I promise. But we will have to sacrifice beloved desserts for something less satisfying, like flavored water. I’m as torn up about it as you are.

And lastly, I will commit to exercising more. I know it hurts when we do this but just think about the bigger picture. Do you really want it to feel like a blunt object is impaling you every time you sit down with jeans on? That button on my jeans is like a dull knife cutting into you every time we are sitting. Is this what you want? No, what you really want is to wear elastic waistbands 24/7 but this is not always socially acceptable. But I take care of you don’t I? I give you your elastic waistband every night by 7:00, sometimes earlier. I care for you, little tummy, just not enough to go up a pant size.

So this is what we must do, Tummy-Tum-Tum. We must not eat everything in sight, eat healthier foods, and exercise more. This is not going to be easy but I’m tired of the skinny jeans abusing you. It’s not fair and it’s time for it to stop. We’ll make it through this together, one lean protein and vegetable at a time. Hopefully I won’t be writing you any more letters because, frankly, it’s a little weird but I wanted you to know, in the words of Zeke Braverman: “I see you and I hear you.”


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Spa Day

I had such a unique spa experience when I went to Mexico a couple of weeks ago I thought I would share it with you. I know it seems cruel since you won’t physically BE at the spa but I feel like you will be rejuvenated in mind, body, and spirit after reading this.

Ok, go to your quiet place and free your mind of all your stress. Moms of toddlers, this just means turn on Sesame Street for your kids, give them a snack, and lock yourself in the bathroom. I know how it works.

When I walk into the spa and give the man my name, he says, “So you’re here for the Radiance Restore Rejuvenation Refresh Relaxation Redeemer Ricola massage?” Those may not have been his exact words but whatever he said had a lot of r’s in the title. Not knowing which massage I paid for I just said yes. I mean, a massage is a massage…or so I thought.


I meet my massage therapist, Ilda, and she tells me to disrobe and get under the sheet and lie face down. And like the few other times I’ve had a massage, I get down to my undies and get under the sheet. Ilda comes in and she begins to do a little all over pat down, then she takes one of my legs out from under the sheet and begins lightly rubbing a Brillo pad over it.

Are you shocked I said Brillo pad? Yes, that was my initial reaction too. See, I’ve never had a Brillo pad massage before so you can imagine my surprise when she begins to systematically do this over the entire backside of my body sans booty.

After she had scrubbed me down with the pan brush, she took coarse sand and began sanding down all the parts that had just been scrubbed. I couldn’t tell if this was a massage or if she was preparing to stain me like a wooden coffee table. All I knew was I was thanking my sweet Jesus in heaven that I wasn’t sunburned or I would’ve been in tears at this point.

After the sanding, she rubbed me down with some sort of jelly. I don’t even know. My face is in the doughnut. I’m completely helpless. Then, with the jelly on, she has me flip over onto my back.

Now this is when things start going to a weird place that I can’t unremember.

If you’ve had a massage before, you know that what they do on one part, they do on all the parts. So I was bracing myself as Ilda began to Brillo pad my arms. Now, something that came as a surprise was when sweet, little Ilda raised my arm and took the Brillo pad to my armpit.

I’ll give you a minute.

She is literally scrubbing my armpit. (Oh, I forgot to mention, when I turned over, Ilda placed a towel over my eyes so I couldn’t see what she was doing. Now I know why.) Guys, I couldn’t even. I started laughing. Like giggle laughing because OH MY GOSH IT TICKLED AND I WAS EMBARASSED AND IT WAS TOTALLY AWKWARD!! Then ILDA started laughing and I was done. I kept thinking, “This is what I do to my children before they go to bed! What is even happening?!”

After I quasi recovered (because let’s face it, after the Tickle Monster, there was really no going back to a peaceful state), Ilda did something even more surprising. You need to remember I’m blindfolded so I can’t see what she’s doing. She ever so stealthily places some sort of washcloth to cover my chest and pulls the sheet down below my belly button but above my lady parts.

YOU GUYS, SERIOUSLY, WHAT IS HAPPENING?! First of all, she may as well have put one square of toilet paper over my chest for what the washcloth was covering. When I lie down, so do the girls. To say it was a nip slip would be a gross understatement. (Sorry Dad.)

Then she did something even my husband is forbidden to do.

She rubbed my stomach. With the Brillo pad.

It happened.

I’m so ashamed.

She continued by rubbing sand on my soft belly WITH HER HANDS, then after wiping that off, she slathered jelly all over my tummy tum. Like a biscuit. And that is where I died. Part of me will never be the same after that. I didn’t even know what to do. Ilda had put her hands on my stomach pooch and our relationship would never be the same. At that point, I was just grateful I had a washcloth over my eyes because there would be no eye contact with Ilda after the tummy rub.

After she made my stomach a glazed doughnut, she pulled the sheet up and wrapped me in it, then put some heavier electric blanket on me. The only thing showing was my face. I felt like a caterpillar in a sticky cocoon. I half wondered if I would have wings when I came out. She left me there for several minutes to “relax.” Thanks, Ilda, you know just how I like to relax.

When she returned, she asked me to get up so she could walk me over to the relaxation tub. One would assume she would wrap me in a towel. One would be wrong. Why would she wrap me in a towel when she could just hold one up while I try to awkwardly cover myself with my hands as I walk over to the tub? I don’t even know why I bothered trying to be modest. It really wasn’t necessary after all she’d seen my nips and rubbed my belly. So I get in the warm, soaker tub and Ilda left for probably 10 minutes or so. It actually was quite tranquil until my bladder remembered what warm water makes me do. Guys, I tried to hold it. I really did but I’m getting older, and I’ve had 3 babies, and the water was really, really warm, and there were jets, and water sounds, and I just let a little bitty bit out. After that I just sat in my diluted teetee water, waiting for Ilda to come in so we could finish whatever this was. She came back and had me lay back down on the table and, thankfully, did what seemed like a normal massage. Of course all of the restfulness was moot after everything that had happened. When she had finished, I thanked her, without eye contact, got dressed, packed up what was left of my dignity, and walked out.

Then I ran back to my hotel room to make bullet points of what had just happened so I could write about it later. This is later. Sorry it was a long read but, my gosh, there was so much I couldn’t leave out! I hope you are a little more rested and light-hearted after reading this. Now go on with your day feeling blessed that a grown woman has never massaged your belly as a relaxation technique.

Anyone else had an out of ordinary spa experience?


P.S. I’ve still got copies of Rooster’s Balloon if you want to order one! Go up to the Purchase tab and order one today!

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Hey Church, can we please stop doing this?

It’s been a tough week. Our world has seen unthinkable violence. Turmoil seems to be the baseline. Do we let the Syrian refugees in? Do we keep them out? What’s the right answer? Truth be told, I’m torn myself. But that’s not what this post is about. Sometimes the world’s issues become too heavy and I need to escape. Today, I need some nonsense. I need to read something that is completely inconsequential. Maybe you need that too.

This is an essay I wrote a while back with hopes of guest posting it to another person’s website but decided to save it for my own instead. It’s about silly things Christians do and is not meant to be taken seriously. Hope you enjoy it!

Do we have to? Do we really have to hold hands while we pray? Is holding hands a necessary means to be closer to God? Is locking sweaty hands with our pew buddy a must during corporate prayer? I don’t know about the rest of the congregation but I am all for getting rid of awkward handholding with strangers during church.

I’ve been a churchgoer for 30+ years and am well versed in this type of prayer practice. The pastor wants to make the congregation feel more connected. The small group leader wants to create more intimacy. Whatever the case may be, I get it. We all want to “do life together” and “fellowship” but why does that require clasping sweaty palms with our neighbor? And if we have to grasp hands can we put a time cap on the person praying? Say 2-3 minutes? This gives enough time to create intimacy before the glands go into moisture overload into your neighbor’s hand. Holding hands much longer and I feel it’s imperative to let go and wipe my hand on my pants. Or worse, I need to cough and use my hand to cover my mouth then what do I do? Do I re-enter into handholding with my germ-infested hand? Leave the hand hanging there and accidentally touch pinkies with the person’s hand I just dropped? You could cut the tension with a knife. And I don’t know about you but when you take away the use of my hands something on my body immediately becomes itchy. Like the minute I can’t use my hands I feel the need to scratch my nose. Then I try to do the weird shoulder-rub to the face because I don’t want to let go of my new “friend’s” hand and make him uncomfortable. I don’t want him to feel like I don’t want to be close to him even though I don’t know his name. During these times the last thing I’m thinking about is the prayer being said. My self-consciousness has taken over and left me incapable of thinking about anything else.

So here’s my solution. Instead of handholding during prayers, let’s shoulder-up to our neighbor. If we have to be touching, why not just allow our upper arms to touch? This way, we are a Wall for Jesus. This is much stronger than Red Rover handholding. No one breaks through the wall. Usually everyone’s upper arms are covered so skin-to-skin contact is minimal, unless it’s summer and someone decided to sport his finest muscle tee to church. (#sunsoutgunsout) Odds are he isn’t coming to church immediately after a workout so his arms should be cool and dry. And if at some point you have the urge to hold hands, just reach over and grab the one on the other side of your body. Everyone wins. And you won’t hurt your own feelings when your hands get sweaty and you have to wipe them off.

Does anyone else get antsy about holding hands with strangers?


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The Day

photo-29 photo-30


Something you should know about me is that I have a brown thumb. I believe I’ve mentioned before that I can pretty much only grow humans but one day a year I forget what my track record tells me and I believe I can grow something green. This usually means I decide I must drive to Home Depot and buy plants TODAY. It cannot wait. This phenomenon usually occurs when the temperature finally hits 70 degrees, reminding me that winter may actually be over and I can dare hope of spring. My day was yesterday. Before I tell you what I did, let me tell you how my experience turned out a couple of years ago…


So I got the itch on a Saturday. It was gorgeous outside. The kind of day you could wear shorts or pants, long sleeves or short sleeves and you feel comfortable. This is my most favorite weather. Kyle wasn’t home so I neglected to inform him this was The Day. On The Day this time, I had visions of planting a vegetable garden. As we all know, having a vegetable garden, chickens, and a couple of goats is SO in right now. The whole farm to table thing. Since I have an unfounded fear of farm animals (a post for another day), I opted for the vegetable garden. Now, I know I said on The Day I forget my track record but I’m not completely delusional. I had no intention of “tilling the land” in my backyard. Our backyard isn’t fenced in and I’ve seen the woodland creatures that reside there. If I were a successful gardener, they would eat up my crops before I could harvest them. Do you like my hopes of “crops” and “harvest”? It’s laughable really. I did think I could manage a box planter. So I found a small, rectangular planter and some potting soil, now all I needed was the vegetable seeds. As I was looking at the vegetables I realized it would be to my advantage to pick things my kids maybe, might, fingers crossed eat. So I picked carrots and cucumbers. I also got basil because I had heard that it was pretty easy to grow. Oh, I should also mention I bought a blackberry bush. Well, it was actually a stick coming out of some dirt that would later yield blackberries. Of course, since I was clearly a master at all of this in my mind, I asked no one for help or advice. This is my way.


I get home and see Kyle. I mention that I’d been to Home Depot because I was going to plant and grow vegetables this spring. I’m pretty sure he said something sarcastic but obviously I blocked it out. Ye of little faith. No blackberries for you. I went on to fill my planter with soil and plant my little seeds. Nevermind that I didn’t have the room to spread out my seeds 2 inches apart like the directions said. Nevermind that where the planter would be only gets full sunlight about 3 hours a day. Nevermind that carrots grow down into the soil, not up, so they probably wouldn’t do so well in a planter. Just nevermind all that.


I had to move the planter around the first couple of days after I noticed it wasn’t getting optimal sunlight. I felt like I had to keep it on our deck because we have lots of critters running around our yard. So I watered the seeds and watched little sprouts finally push through the dirt. It was magical, so I was diligent. I kept watering and watching. Now, the blackberry bush was a little trickier. I watered and nothing grew. It stayed a stick coming out of dirt. No blooms. No blackberries. Just a stick. Because my vegetables were starting to grow this wasn’t as devastating. (Sidenote: for many, many months Kyle would tell me he was going to go pick some blackberries off our bush. If I am the Queen of Sarcasm, he is definitely the King.) Then I walked out one day to find the part of my planter that had the carrot seeds was completely dug up! I was so ticked! Who knew squirrels could climb onto my deck? Oh wait. Duh. They climb trees, clearly they could climb the wood posts up to my deck. Curses, you squirrels! My cukes were starting to grow and my basil was coming up nicely. But there was problem. My cukes were so little. They looked nothing like the ones I saw at the grocery store. So I waited. And waited. And waited. They weren’t really getting that much bigger. They were even starting to turn white at the ends. It was then I figured out I’d missed the harvest. They had passed their peak and weren’t good anymore. They definitely didn’t taste like cucumbers from the store. Shoot. Luckily I still had my basil. It was doing awesome. Growing basil was my jam. Unfortunately I found out I don’t really cook with basil very much. It looked good but I didn’t even use it. Dang. So at this point I could’ve pressed on but no, I quit. I quit vegetables. I quit gardening. I quit. I stink at this.


Fast forward to present day: I can soooo grow stuff! It’s warm outside so that must mean I can grow something! I mean the grass makes it look so easy! It was brown a few weeks ago and now its green. It didn’t look hard at all. The difference this year is that I’m a little more aware of my limitations. I’m not going to start from scratch. We paid someone years ago to put in landscaping around the front of our house. They put in plants/flowers that would come back year after year without us having to do anything. These plants are my jam. Although in the last couple of years my hydrangea bushes haven’t been producing blooms. They look pretty with all their big green leaves but with no blooms it’s hard to call them hydrangeas. So last year I asked my mother-in-law why she thought they weren’t blooming. My mother-in-law is a whiz with flowers so I knew she would know. She asked me, “Well, Court, have you been feeding them?” My response: “More than sun and rain?” I’m such a good gardener. She tells me I need to feed them plant food. Oh. I had no idea. So on The Day this year, I decided instead of buying new plants or seeds, I would feed my existing hydrangeas. Can you tell I’ve lowered my expectations? I feel like I’m a little more realistic about my gardening expertise and talent. In other words, I’ve finally realized I don’t have any. I cut back the dead stuff and shook some of the little balls of plant food on my hydrangeas. Sigh. I stink at gardening. At least I’m not out a lot of money this year on plants I can’t keep alive or vegetables I might grow but won’t eat. Here’s to spring being so close I can almost taste it! I’ll just taste it from someone else’s garden this year thankyouverymuch.


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So this is how I feel today…

With inclement weather on the way, this pretty much sums it up.


I wish I could take credit for finding this gem but my good friend G sent it to me a couple of weeks ago during the first round of snow. Obviously she gets me. It looks like we’re all going to have to put on our big girl panties because the bad weather’s coming and the kids are going to be home from school for the 50 jillionth day this winter. So let’s not shame one another with the cutie pics of our kids doing snow angels and sledding. That’s over. We need pictures of our kids watching hours of TV and moms staring blankly at their computer/phone screens because let’s be honest, that’s what we’re all doing. It’s ok. We’ve endured many snow days. Press on, dear ones. Surely spring will come soon.


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Sledding: Part Deux

Quip: Melting snow is like Christmas decor the day after Christmas. It was pretty for a time but now you’re ready for it to be gone. #becauseweneedtogetbacktonormal

Night sledding.

Not sure how many of you have ever participated in night sledding but let me tell you; it’s a whole different ballgame. I don’t know if it’s because it’s dark or because it’s more frigid, but sledding at night just seems more dangerous, err,  exciting. It’s definitely not for the littles. Night sledding is when boys become men and men, well, they revert back to being 12-year-old boys. These guys were getting a running start to basically catapult themselves down this icy hill on their Radio Flyers. I’m pretty sure somebody clocked them going 35-40 mph. Ummm, that’s wicked fast! (Ya’ll like how I channeled my inner Bostonian by describing it as “wicked”?) If you read my last post, you have a pretty good idea of whether or not I partook in this activity. For those of you who are new, just picture me standing by the fire pit. Spectating. Spectating is my jam. We had a fire pit and chairs at the top of the hill so we could observe comfortably. And one of the guys had their truck parked at the top of the hill with his headlights on so we could see the sledders who clearly had a death wish.

I’m sitting there with my neighbor friend watching these men and commentating on how crazy they are, how fast they’re going, etc. when my neighbor says, “Court, let’s do it but let’s go down together on the plastic sled.” Ah, yes, the plastic sled! I can totes do that! We were using one of those sleds that look like a canoe so we could fit…sort of. I get in back and hang my feet out either side and my friend sits up front because she’s the daredevil and clearly I’m not. We get our bearings and lift our feet off the ice so the sled can get moving. Everything goes beautifully for about 30 feet, or about 5 seconds. Then we start veering to the left. We both lean to the right to try to get back to the middle of the street.

No dice.

I look to the left and all I see is our neighbor’s yard which is a steep, downhill slope. Like wicked steep. Oh and guess what’s at the bottom of the hill? Just a big fat brick house. No big deal. Never mind that I watched a little girl go flying down this very hill only to end up hitting the BRICK porch and flying off her sled. Minor detail.

My neighbor and I are both trying like mad to redirect our little canoe when we finally succumb to the way of the ice. It takes us off the asphalt and into our neighbor’s yard. I was kind of hoping now that we were on icy grass we would start to slow down a bit. My reality crushed that hope almost instantly. Did you know that 2 inches of ice on grass works the same as 2 inches of ice on a street? Who knew?

We. Were. FLYING! This was almost worse than the street because you know what doesn’t grow in the middle of the street? Trees. We were now praying we didn’t plow ourselves into a tree. It was becoming increasingly evident we were going to have to bail.

(Side note: I had no idea this was a sledding term til last week. #TNwinterprobs)

Ok, moving on.

Bailing from a sled when you’re by yourself is one thing. Bailing from a sled when you are riding with someone is significantly harder. I’m inclined to think it was particularly hard this time around because I had been carb loading all week. And no, it wasn’t because I’m training for a marathon. It just so happens carbs help you make it through the day when you’re trapped at home. It’s a scientific fact. Pretty sure.

Then there’s my partner in crime/death sitting in front of me. She has no idea that my foot will most likely take her head off when I try to flip myself off this sled. She’s had a good life though. She’ll be missed greatly but I’ll take care of her children. Everything will be fine.

Ok. So I can’t wait any longer. I have to get out of this sled. I hope she’ll be ok. It’s now or never. So I sling my leg up as high as I can so I won’t decapitate her then I flip off the sled. I can’t remember if I landed on my stomach or back. All I knew was even though I was off the sled I was still sliding down the hill. But slower, much slower. Obviously my carb loading was doing its magic of turning me into a slug. After I came to a stop, I look down the hill to see if my friend was in the snow or plastered against the house. Thankfully, she too had been able to bail before colliding into the house. We were both laughing hysterically as we tried to make our way back up the hill. Then she says to me, “If this doesn’t make the blog I don’t know what will! This is definitely a blog post!” So here it is, CB, I hope I did it justice. Do comment if I have left out any details!

Anyone else have any fun stories to share? If so, leave me a story in the Comment section at the top left of the page!


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When Funny Doesn’t Cut It.

Quip: Maybe one day I’ll be as wise as C.S. Lewis. Maybe not.  #becausetheresjustnoway

C.S. Lewis Quote

C.S. Lewis Quote

With cabin fever setting in over here, I’ve been able to spend more time in my head than usual. Since my kids are a little older and can fend for themselves more, it grants me the gift of a little more solitude with my thoughts. This is a good thing. Sort of.

I realize that I use this blog to share about things going on in my life or my own observations about life. I tend to lean on the side of funny as opposed to serious because hey, who doesn’t love funny? But when I get alone with no distractions, I’m forced to acknowledge that there are things going on around the world that are anything but funny.

Terrorism isn’t funny.

Beheading Christians isn’t funny.

Sex trafficking isn’t funny.

Cancer isn’t funny.

Divorce isn’t funny.

All of these things are heavy. So heavy that I feel like they could crush us. We wonder why our God would let these things happen. We wonder if He even cares. We wonder if it will ever get better. These things bring us to our knees before a Holy God who is familiar with our burdens.

I find myself wondering all these things too. When I pray for things to happen that would be good or “fix” things and He doesn’t answer the way I want, I wonder why. Why would He let bad things happen when I’m praying the way I’m supposed to? I don’t understand this. What I’m praying for would be for God to bring healing and restoration. What He allows to happen brings pain and sadness. Why would He do this?

When I’m thinking this way, it helps me to go back and see what the Word says. In Psalms 115:2-3, it says, “Why should the nations say, Where now, is their God? But our God is in the heavens; He does whatever pleases Him.” Hmmm. He does whatever pleases Him. This is always a good reminder for me that He is God and I am not. To be clear, God is not pleased with sin. Just because He allows sin to happen, doesn’t mean He is pleased with it. My problem is I want to tell God how He needs to redeem the situation. I’ve recognized the sin, I’ve come up with a plan to make it better, and then I bring it before God. I tell God what He needs to do to bring glory to Himself. Man, God is so lucky to have me! What would He do without my instruction?

“Who is able to advise the Holy Spirit of the Lord? Who knows enough to give him advice or teach him?” (Is. 40:13)

Eating Crow?

Oh. I see you, Humility. You look like crow. God, in fact, doesn’t actually need me telling him what to do. Imagine that! God needs me to trust that He’s going to work it out. And if His Word is any indicator, He’s got this figured out. Does this mean we should quit asking God to bring healing? Should we stop praying for change? No, because God hears our prayers. Our prayers bring us closer to the Father. Prayer is God’s gift to us. So even if He doesn’t answer our prayers the way we want Him to, He will give us comfort and peace. He doesn’t have to give us all the answers. He’s the Almighty God. He doesn’t answer to us, we answer to Him. I don’t get why heartbreaking things happen except that I know there is sin in this world and sin is a disease. It corrupts everything it touches. And without Jesus, we have no hope. So even though I hate watching sin run rampant, I know in the end, God wins. Hallelujah, praise Jesus! God. Wins.

Although I prefer to be light-hearted on the blog, I think I would be doing you readers a disservice if all I offered you were silly stories. To think that y’all are only interested in shallow commentary would be insulting. I refuse to insult you, sweet readers. I think, like me, you have more depth than that. Sometimes you have to go to the dark places instead of just covering them up with the funny. So today, I’m in the serious. Today I’m recognizing those hard situations that can’t be glossed over with humor. If we don’t talk about those dark things, they can begin to fester. So let’s honor them like we do the good things. Hard things are hard; let’s not pretend they’re not acting like they aren’t there. There will always be a place for the funny but let’s make some space for those dark places too. We tend to grow in the dark places. Don’t dismiss them before you’ve recognized them. Feel all the feelings, good and bad. The good ones will come eventually and they’ll be sweeter because of what you had to go through to get there. Do the hard stuff. I know you can.


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