Sometime in late August I stood on the bank of a pond, and I held a fishing pole. Beside me stood my least outdoorsy daughter. I’d just hooked and lost a bluegill, and I wasn’t messing around. It was hot out, and I wanted to go inside with more than one scrawny fish on the line.
“Mom!” she yelled, and I shushed her.
“What is it?” I whispered back.
“Look at my face!” she cried. There was panic behind her eyes, and she was sure that I knew the reason just by glancing at her face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked with a furrowed brow. “I don’t see anything!”
She wiped her face with the back of her hand, and then she looked up at me again. “What,” she slowed, “is wrong with my face?”
“Oh honey,” I laughed. “That’s called sweat.”
Yes, this Texan transplant to the mountains is now raising kids in Missouri. Clearly God has a sense of humor.