About Me

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Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!

Monday, November 07, 2016

Hangry.

No, not personally. Just angry that in this country, moms and their little ones go hungry. (I'm not happy when men go hungry, either, but frequently they have more options to solve their problems.) There was a dear young woman outside the grocery store tonight with a sign. Two babies. I didn't have cash to give her (and I'm almost never prompted to give cash, anyway). She was still there when I came out with my groceries, so I loaded up my truck, moved it a little closer to the store because of the rain, and went back to where she stood, hoping that she spoke English.

She did. I told her that I didn't have cash to help with her rent, but I could buy food. What did she need? Bread. Juice boxes. Back I went. Two loaves of honey wheat, wishing I could give her my Dave's Killer Bread but knowing that her little ones probably wouldn't like it. The big box of Capri Sun, since that's what she said her kids like. A couple of those fruit cups with fruit juice instead of syrup. Flour tortillas. Corn tortillas. She'd said she didn't have a stove. So peanut butter, hoping her kids weren't allergic.

Other people had been cleaning out their wallets of small bills and change. A man had bought baby food and was getting ready to walk away when I put my bags down at her feet. I told her, I've been there. I raised five kids. The man looked at me, put his hand respectfully on my shoulder, and said something kind. I looked him in the eye and told him, Nobody goes hungry on my watch.

I'm not sharing this so that you think I am some sort of angel. If you've been a reader for very long, you'll know that I am a feisty middle-aged (how many more years am I going to be able to get away calling myself that?) woman who has risen by the grace of Heaven out of a third-world life. Poverty makes me want to braid whips and kick over tables. I cannot save the world. (They already have a Savior.) But I can give my widow's mite here or there, not for praise or glory but so that when the mortgage is paid off and I'm rebuilding my savings, I will be minded to use my surplus to help others rise.

I only wish that I hadn't been so crabby because my sister needed to beg for help, that I forgot to remind her to trust God, to follow Him, and He would lead her, a little at a time, out of her present struggles.

Just as he's done for me.

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