Buttermilk

Every Sunday around dusk I slip out of the house just for a while to a little back road off post. I pull over, hop out of the car and sit on the old wooden fence post that defines the boundary of freedom to some of the most beautiful horses the Lord ever created. How funny, that such a simple ol' rickety piece of wood can contain such a tenacious creature.

My secret ritual began when I discovered that on Sundays here, there is a radio station that plays Bluegrass music- Gospel Bluegrass music. In a matter of moments, I'm in my Granny's living room floor running my hands through the bright red braided rug. Papa in his chair smiles, winks, and sings along. I can smell the biscuits and hear the laughter; both of which are rising in the kitchen. I loved Sundays when I was a child.

My love for food and fellowship stems largely from my childhood. It was glorious. The food still is. My Granny and Mama have taught me well in the kitchen and in the heart. When you think you're just making cornbread you're really learning how to dance or how it's always proper to write a hand written note; maybe you learn to care for the sick and sometimes how to gossip.

When you burn the cornbread, your learning how to curse.

And forgive.


But just like the horses in the field, there comes a day when we must realize boundaries in order to stay alive and well. Last April I began a journey of a thousand boards and nails building up my fence. It's time for me to get healthy. That would be the one thing I never learned in the kitchen.


Oh, my precious children!  I want to be around to teach each of them the essentials of making cornbread.

Am I strong enough to keep the limits placed before me?


I will fail.


I place my hope in the One who doesn't.

 Psalms 73:26 tells us that "My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever"


Pray with me? For me?



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1BPoMIQHwpo ( one of my favorites, enjoy!)