An addendum to “If Walls Could Talk”…

I have to chuckle when something I write gets feedback. I never know what will strike a cord with someone. As I was writing my last blog piece, “If Walls Could Talk,” I questioned whether or not anyone would be able to identify with the binding ties and curiosity I have with my past homes. I was blown away by the number of responses I received about this post. Whether texts, phone calls, emails, face book comments or running into friends in the grocery store, I have loved your responses. It seems many of us have this connect with past homes we lived in and memories that continue to have a hold on us.

After writing this post, I discovered a friend living in Houston actually knows the family who now lives in my childhood Valley Forge home. The next time I visit Houston, instead of being a drive-by voyeur, I have high hopes of walking the halls of my childhood memories. I can only imagine feeling like Dorothy and friends as they walked the long passageway leading them to the Wizard of Oz. I will be as wide-eyed as Dorothy, the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion taking in, with great awe, all that surrounds me.

On this subject of drive-by voyeurism, there is a little story to tell. It was probably 12-15 years ago that Steve and I were visiting my mother in Houston. As always, I would drag Steve with me to drive down my old block. (Steve understood, as he was also a drive-by voyeur and also enjoyed seeing all of his old homes.)

The stories were always the same as I pointed out each house and gave a brief synopsis of their history. Susie lived there, she was Catholic, adopted and her mother’s laugh sounded just like a machine gun. Next was Mary, her parents were divorced, making her quite exotic. Mary’s mother taught school, so cool, oh, and their house burned to the ground. Across the street, lived Nancy. Her mother was from Venezuela and spoke better Spanish than English, very flamboyant...and they had a swimming pool. Nancy was always allowed to do things the rest of us were forbidden to do, I wanted to be Nancy. 

Next door lived the older Nancy. She went to live with her grandmother for nine months. How fun would that be? I realized much, much later that being the older Nancy and “living with her grandmother for nine months” was most likely a very painful time for this young girl.

Then there were Dot-and-Levi. That was how we knew them, one name was never mentioned without the other. Dot-and-Levi had no children and were rather orchidaceous. Dot wore a proverbial french twist, capri pants with matching flats and a thin sweater draped her small shoulders. Levi, was the only “old man” (probably around 35 years old) who had a crew cut. They always had the most perfect house on the block. Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to be their little girl. I bet it would have been magical.

Next was Susan. Her father had a woodworking shop in their garage and behind a cabinet door he had pin-up calendars of scantily clad women. We would sneak into their garage and flip through the months of pinups, deciding which one we wanted to look like. Susan’s dad smoked, so she would snatch cigarettes and we would smoke them behind her garage. Susan taught me to inhale and blow smoke rings…thanks Susan! 

On my side of the street lived Fred, who cried and told on us when we demanded he pulled down his pants, along with his sister, Margie, who always dropped her popsicle money in the storm drains...prompted by my encouraging. Patty was my next door neighbor and my very best friend in the whole wide world. Her family was my second family and I can still recall every square inch of that house as well as my own. Patty’s mother always wore dresses, never raised her voice and had fresh grapes on their breakfast table's lazy Susan.

So let’s go back to 12 or so years ago, when Steve was coerced to drive me, once again down Valley Forge. This drive-by voyeur day was no different from any other of my zillion drive-byes with one exception. As we ever so slowly approached my old home, Steve and I suddenly saw a girl of about 16, slightly skinny, with long dark hair, leaving her house/my old house, bouncing down the sidewalk. I was looking in a crystal ball. Seeing myself at that same age, bounding down that same sidewalk, all skin and bones, long dark hair trailing behind me. The film reel in my brain froze in that second. I could see myself at 16 sitting in the bay window of our living room waiting for friends to pick me up. I can hear the quick honk, notifying me of my friends arrival. Yelling to my mother that I was leaving, I can remember running down the sidewalk, jumping in the car. Off we would go. My breath must have audibly caught in my throat and I felt Steve’s hand close over mine. Watching the car full of teenagers drive away, I looked at Steve. I knew we were on the same page. “Well, that was weird!” Weird yes, but what a serendipitous moment, a happy little pearl of my past to hold on to and best part, Steve got it.

A year ago, I was in Midland. I had a little time to kill before I was expected at a friend’s house. Naturally, I used the time for a Sinclair drive-by. Compelled, I stopped the car, took a deep breath and walked to the front door. Not knowing what I would say to the unknown homeowner, I rang the bell and waited. No one answered, so I actually cupped my hands to the glass door to peek inside. Oh, it was still much the same. How I wished my eye could have taken me farther into this old home of mine, but it wasn’t meant to be.

I can now confess my voyeuristic tendencies to all of you because I know there are many of you also long to go back and peer into those rooms, those old, dear, never forgotten friends and pay them a brief, but meaningful homage. 

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Ecclesiastes 3: 1-7

 “There is a time for everything, 

    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

    a time to be born and a time to die,

    a time to plant and a time to uproot,

    a time to kill and a time to heal,

    a time to tear down and a time to build,

    a time to weep and a time to laugh,

    a time to mourn and a time to dance,

    a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

    a time to search and a time to give up,

    a time to keep and a time to throw away…”

  

If walls could talk...

Any opportunity I get, I drive by homes I have lived in. These homes are such a part of me that I consider them old friends, homes that are important veins that lead to my heart. I am able to recall vivid memories of each room, whether joyful or despairing, they are integral in the telling of my life’s story.

Author, Stephanie Perkins, asks, “Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?”

My earliest memory is my family's Valley Forge home in Houston. We moved there when I was 4 years old and my parents finally sold that home after I was an adult, with a family and a home of my own.

Valley Forge Drive

Valley Forge was as much a part of my childhood as any member of my family and my memories of that house are indelibly imprinted on my mind. My favorite room, a room I considered to be my good friend, became a large walk-in cedar closet located right next to my bedroom. To this day, the smell of freshly cut cedar makes my heart warm and fuzzy. 

When my young world seemed to turn upside down, I would retreat into the depths of that cozy, aromatic closet where I felt safe and secure. I can picture my young self, sitting cross-legged on the warmth of the plush carpeted floor. My mother hung all of her evening dresses, along with my older sister’s crinoline and tulle skirted formals in this cedar closet. I can close my eyes today and still envision those formals billowing around me. Gazing up, all I could see were clouds of the most beautiful dresses. Hat boxes were stacked on top of shelves and a rainbow of dyed peau de soie pumps, stood at attention, one after another. Here is where I could retreat and solve all the problems of my little world. Here is where my imagination could run free, I could forget my sadness and I become an exotic princess from a far off land living on an island all her own…surrounded by chopped down cedar trees.

Sinclair Avenue in Midland, Texas was my next home. We bought this house as a young married couple. While it was tiny, I loved every square inch of this home. This is where I brought my babies home from the hospital. This is where they took their first steps and said their first words. The dated, pink tile countertop of the hall bath was the place my little ones sat while loose baby teeth were pulled and pigtails were created. In this home, my children learned to read and ride bicycles. Magic childhood Christmases were experienced between the walls of this sweet home. I remember preparing the nursery first for Brent, then for Brooke. I was so proud of myself when I painted Brent’s little boy room sky blue with white fluffy clouds just like Meryl Streep had done in the movie, “Kramer vs Kramer.”

Sinclair Avenue

The front door of that home was never closed. Children came and played and stayed. I grew up, along with my children in that home. I discovered, within those walls, life could quickly change, as could the family that lived within. I became a single mom while living in that little home and remember feeling scared and uncertain of what our future would hold, but I never doubted the love that existed there.

Brent, Brooke and I made the move to San Antonio in 1995. Not only did we move into our Stonehenge home, but we moved into a new family. I loved that home because this is where I fell in love with Steve. I loved that home because this is where he had raised Lynn and David and this is where, together, we raised two more teenagers. That home suited us well, but Steve realized it could never be “our home” and so, we began to think about building a new home together.

StonehengeDrive

Bretford Court was our baby. It took 2 years to design. Working with an architect, we would draw and discuss and plan and then do it all over again. This was before the Pinterest and Houzz era and I lugged around a large, three-ring notebook stuffed with magazine pictures of dream room after dream room. The actual building took over a year, Steve and I loved the process, we loved our builder and we loved living there.

Bretford Court

We had such precious memories of this home. All six of our grandchildren played in the little mouse house that was tucked under the eaves of the second floor family room. This cheerful pint-sized nook held toys and crayons, books, pillows and stuffed animals to cuddle. Our grandchildren would crawl in and play for hours in this little space of their own. 

We put our heart and soul in the design of each room. Our kitchen was probably our favorite room, again another dear friend to me. Each night, Steve and I would listen to music, while cooking dinner. On cold nights, we would sit in front of a fire, drinking wine, laughing and eating dinner in that wonderful, cozy space. Ahh, those were the best of times.

When we knew Steve’s life was to be cut short, I knew I couldn’t live alone in this magnificent home that we had built together. I knew, without Steve, this home would be too big, too vacant, too sad. I’m thankful Steve was able to stay in our home until he left this earth. I am blessed I was able to say good-bye to him in our bedroom that we so loved, that was comfortable, that was home. After Steve’s death, the house was simply too painful, the walls echoed of the memories of voices and laughter I would never hear again and I knew it was time to move.

God was amazing in orchestrating every second of this last difficult move. Friends bought Bretford Court, Brooke and Jared moved into their new home and I was able to buy their Pinoak Knolls home and renovate it with incredible ease. The move of three different households took place without one hiccup, without one realtor and with such simplicity.

Pinoak Knolls

On occasion, friends ask me if I am happy in my Pinoak Knolls home. There is always a pregnant pause before I answer and I’m not sure why. I love my neighbors, they are the greatest. I love my house, it is designed exactly as I had planned, each room is comfortable and inviting. I have spent hours working in my yard and finally, this spring, everything is growing and blooming and it all makes me so happy. I am blessed beyond measure to be able to live in such a lovely home. I know this.

So why the pregnant pause when asked if I’m happy here? Sometimes, I feel like even this house is too big for just me, as I rattle around from one room to another. Maybe a smaller, cottage type home would suit me better. Perhaps, I have been watching too much HGTV and Chip and Jojo have turned me into a “find an old fixer upper, knock down all the walls, add some french doors and shiplap and it’ll be great” kind of person. 

There are times I wish I lived in a little house in the country where I could have a nanny goat, two chickens and two miniature donkeys. (My friend Claudia told me if you have one donkey, you must have another…Claudia knows these things.) Other times, I wish I lived closer to the kids, as I spend much of my time driving back and forth between our homes. Then there are times I wish I lived in a house overlooking a lake…no, that might get too lonely. 

All of this said, I’m unsettled. I’m trying to find my place. It’s as if I’m one of a few remaining puzzles pieces, searching for just the right spot for my piece to fit so that my picture is complete. I hope my puzzle piece will one day find its place, because until it does, my heart doesn't seem to be where my home is.

The time has passed for me to feel the security of a warm, quiet cedar closet, or the contentment of sitting in a nursery, rocking one of my babies. I understand my time of cooking in a kitchen and sharing a home-cooked meal with Steve has come and gone. I know these rooms will always be my friends, but they are from long ago and I simply am no longer able to visit them. 

There is a longing deep within me to nestle into my home and find the quiet solitude within, to feel that this home, like all my other homes, is more a person than a place.

I know my focus must lie in allowing my heart to be Christ’s home, for this is where I will find true contentment, real joy and a peace that surpasses all understanding. 

So, who knows whether tomorrow, I’ll be raising two miniature donkeys, living closer to my children, sitting out on a lovely lawn enjoying “GoldenPond” or simply staying right where I am and asking myself, “Why on earth would I ever want to put myself through the gruesome ordeal of moving again?”

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Ephesians 3:16–17  “Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong.”

A dipper full of stars...

As a child, I lived vicariously through old movies. Whatever my preferred movie of the moment was, I became the star. My all time favorite movie star was Doris Day. Oh, how I loved her in “Calamity Jane”. I would put on my fringed vest, matching green chaps, cowboy boots and stomp around my backyard singing, “Once I had a Secret Love" dreaming all the while of marrying Wild Bill Hickok. My love for Doris didn’t stop there, I repeatedly watched “Pillow Talk,” “That Touch of Mink,” “The Glass Bottom Boat,“  my list of Doris movies was long and wide. She was that adorable girl-next-door; funny, bright-eyed, pristine. She had a wispy voice (that I tried to mimic) and the greatest wardrobe ever. My love for Doris Day was all encompassing.

Doris Day...Then & Now
Image: www.people.com

Months ago, my college roommate and dear friend, Joni called to tell me her daughter had set her wedding date for the first week-end in April. The wedding festivities would be in Carmel and I was to be included in the merriment. Several summers ago, Joni and I spent a week in this precious little town. We had such great fun and I looked forward to returning for this special celebration.

Janet & Joni
Carmel September 2014

I recruited Brooke to be my date and began making our travel plans. I called Cypress Inn to book a room and learned that this small boutique hotel was full. Doris Day owns the Cypress Inn and this first week-end in April, was to be her 92nd birthday celebration. Geez Louise! I actually thought dear Doris was no longer with us, so I was surprised to learn that our paths were going to cross. I knew, without a doubt, that I would soon see my childhood idol, in living color. Excitedly, I called Brooke with my fantastic news…she was nonplussed, "Doris who?" How could my own flesh and blood not have the love for Doris that I did? Had I had failed as a mother?

Unable to stay under the same roof as Doris, I made a reservation at the next best place, Clint Eastwood’s Mission Valley Ranch. Now, I was sure of catching a glimpse of Doris and Clint. Even Brooke was excited about the Clint possibility.

I need to pause here, for little family history. I will try to make my explanation brief. I have always been a star seeker. I’m not sure when it started, but I find it oddly thrilling to encounter celebrities in unexpected places. Long ago, I ran into Dorothy McGuire, you remember, the mother in “Old Yeller” and in “A Summer Place”… two of my all time favorite movies. I saw Ms. McGuire in a shop on Canyon Road in Santa Fe. I respectfully waited for her to finish her conversation with some random short man, dressed in all black. When, finally their conversation ended, I politely introduced myself and explained how I loved her work. I sort of went on and on about how great I thought she was, a bit embarrassing when looking back. This darling little lady’s quicks response was, “Oh dear, if you think I’m a big deal, hurry and you can meet Bobby Redford (as in Robert Redford), that was him I was just visiting with!” Robert Redford, was the man I had paid no attention to? You gotta be kidding! I missed my opportunity to ogle Robert Redford. I vowed then and there, never to make that mistake again. 

Some of you may know that I have two claims to “personal stardom.” In the mid 80’s I was chosen as a contestant for “The Price Is Right.” That’s right, the words, “Janet Swallow, come on down!” were actually announced by Rod Roddy on national television. Arms ridiculously flailing, I hopped onto the stage like a crazed kangaroo, gave Bob Barker a kiss on the cheek and stood, dumbstruck, as he, along with all of television land, wished me a happy birthday. I went on to win a large console television but, lost a “romantic trip to Switzerland.”

A decade later, my friend, Pam and I were chosen as “principal extras” for the motion picture, “Miss Congeniality.” Yes, we were up close and personal with “Sandy” Bullock, “Candy” Bergman and Michael Caine for three long days while they filmed in San Antonio. My movie debut lasted about 5.5 seconds and it forever cured me of the desire for personal stardom.

As out of character as it seemed, Steve was equally enamored with celebrities. Together, we encountered, quite a few stars over the years and I was always amazed that Steve had no qualms about his lack of subtlety when trying to get chummy with the renowned "in the industry."

Traveling with our adult children, they determined we needed to become a bit less obvious in our star search stalking. It was decided a code word was needed when spying on the famous, in order not make such a spectacle of ourselves. The code word became, “Purple.” If someone said, “Purple” it was a sure sign that a celebrity was in our midst. The “Purple Code” has since been adopted by friends and it is a given that, while traveling, the first person to spot a “Purple” is granted a complimentary glass of wine. The celebrity hunt alone, has added extra excitement to our trips and yes, we have spotted quite a few notables in our travels.

So back to Doris, Clint and Carmel. Cypress Inn was hopping all week-end and Brooke and I made several visits in hopes we would see my dear friend. Sitting in the hotel bar, I kept thinking we were seeing tons of celebrities, but Brooke informed me that most movie stars don’t walk around in "I Love Doris Day Fan Club" t-shirts...she sort of burst my bubble. 

We were so close to “Purple” Friday evening. Celebrating pre-wedding festivities at Mission Valley Ranch, we were told that Clint Eastwood was playing the piano and singing in the bar not 50 feet away. We made a beeline into the bar where we were on a mission, scoping out every face in the crowd. Sadly, we were informed we had just missed Mr. Eastwood, by seconds. Whoa, that might have been our biggest celebrity sighting ever. Oh well, as Doris loved to sing, “Queˊ Seraˊ, Seraˊ…”

Mission Valley Ranch
Carmel, CA

Bill, Kelsey & Joni Wood
Monterrey Peninsula Country Club

My darling wedding date, Brooke

While I've gone on and on with this silliness of catching a glimpse of Hollywood's best known stars, I have aways known who the real stars are in my life. It is those bright stars who have shone through some of the darkest moments in my life. I will never forget my doorbell ringing the evening before Steve's memorial service. Standing there were Joni and Bill, along side my other college roomies, Jill and Cathy and their sweet husbands. It was these dear friends, along with so many others, who became the stars that lit up that dark night sky. There were my friends, my bright shining stars, just when I needed them the most. They held a lifetime of love and friendship and it shone through their tear-filled eyes, their tender smiles and their warm embraces. These friends are life's true stars.

Jill, Janet Joni, Cathy
December 1973

Cathy, Jill, Janet Joni
Fall, 2012

Janet, Cathy, Joni, Jill & Bos
Fall, 2014

Darling sweet friends, from all walks of life, have shared with me my happiest and my saddest of life's moments. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.” I am blessed and thankful for all my incredible friends, these stars that have made my darkness bright and my bright days even brighter. 

We never did see Doris or Clint, but, after all, who needs them, for I have my own dipper full of stars and I am grateful for each and every one of you.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Philippians 2:15 "so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God...then you will shine among them like stars in the sky"

Under construction...

I have a strange curiosity, maybe a mild obsession, concerning new highway and road construction. There is constant road construction taking place all over San Antonio. As in most large cities, populations are growing and newer, bigger, expanded roadways are needed. 

I knew it made Steve a bit crazy when we would drive past the beginnings of an expressway flyover, or the addition of a higher tier to a freeway interchange and my questioning would begin…“How they are going to tie this new expansion into the old one?  Where will they put the entrance ramp or where the exit ramp take us? Will this road now be three lanes or four? Are they going to make a flyover that will cover that entire neighborhood? Are they going to demolish all those existing buildings to make way for that cloverleaf?”  Steve’s reply was always the same, “I have no idea…We will have to wait and see…You ask me these questions every time we drive past this construction. Why do you care???”

The extension project of Wurzbach Parkway began about 9 years ago, at least this was the beginning of the segment of the road that ran right by our neighborhood. This new corridor would create a direct path for us to get from our home, to the airport, to our favorite Mexican food restaurant or to places we frequently shopped. Road construction began and ended in sections. The city would complete one portion, enabling traffic to go from one major intersection to another. Once this part was completed, they would  start on the next leg of construction. Each leg of the new parkway brought me more questions, greater curiosity and a weird type of anxiousness. The questions would begin…”I wonder where it will intersect with the crossing street? I wonder what the speed limit will be? I wonder when they will be finished?” 

The construction of this particular thoroughfare was far more exciting to me than our major freeway expansions because it was personal, directly affecting many of our daily routes. I knew we would use this super-arterial all the time. How great it would be. It would cut our errand running time in half. 

I found I would get impatient with the slow construction. There were weeks when the road was left unattended. I would drive past and think, oh hurry, hurry, hurry, it can’t take this long to build anything. Eventually, the new segment, closest to our home was completed. While we used it often, the next phase of the parkway would be even better, our driving time so much efficient. This leg would involve a flyover, meaning construction would be slower and my questions even more obnoxious.

While I’m sure the parkway expansion was never as big of a deal to Steve as it had been to me, I managed to include Steve in my running commentary every chance I had. I can see him now, shaking his head in crazed wonder that I could be quite so consumed with something so mundanely bizarre.

Steve never saw the completion of the extended parkway and maybe that has something to do with my forthcoming confession. 

It was several months after Steve’s death and I was smack dab in the middle of the grieving process. I was in that place where no matter where I was, it was wrong. If I were at home, I needed to get out of the house. If I were away from home, I only wanted to be at home. I was a nomad in my own body, numb to everything around me and yet, oddly still functioning, well kind of.

I remember it being a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon. I was feeling nomad-ish, so I got in my car and took off. Noticing a passing street sign, I snapped out of my foggy state. Had my eyes actually seen what I thought they had, a new large green street sign pointing to the completion of the new parkway? Jumpin' Jehosophat! My adrenaline started pumping. I made a u-turn to take another look. Oh, my yellow brick road! My completed parkway! The concrete seemed to gleam in the sunshine beckoning me to explore first hand, this new passageway, complete with flyover.

I paused for a moment before beginning my excursion. You see, there was still a smallish barricade barring the entrance, but it wasn’t very wide and there seemed ample room for vehicles to skirt around them. I hesitated. I looked as far as my eye could see, the road appeared completely finished. I was sure it was ready for traffic. The city probably just needed to paint some lane stripes, maybe put up some street lamps or speed limit signs, but this road was ready for travel, and I wanted nothing more than to take the maiden voyage back to my house.

I knew if Steve had been by my side, he would have thrown a conniption fit, laid down in the middle of the street and would have forbidden me from even thinking about driving beyond the smallish barricade. Steve wasn’t with me, and perhaps that’s why this is now a story. 

Remember, it was a Sunday afternoon, thus, very little traffic. Seeing no one nearby, I turned on to the majestic new parkway. It was perfect, four wide lanes of brand new smooth sailing. Smiling as I drove, wind in my hair, I was halfway into the flyover when…BAM! My four-door sedan bottomed out. There was a sickening scraping sound, my head hit the roof of my car and my teeth collided. Uh oh, so this was why those barricades were up. They had yet to finish paving about five top layers of the flyover, oops. Slowly I inched forward to see if my tires were still on my car. I could move. I looked sheepishly around me…thankfully, no one was in sight. I bumped along the partially finished road, until I found the first place I could exit.. Once home, I examined my tires, they seemed okay. I sort of halfway crawled under my car, but it was pretty dark down there and besides, I hadn’t a clue what I was looking for. Crawling out, I determined, no harm had been done and vowed never to tell a soul. Oh well, such is life!

Several weeks later, I’d forgotten about my misadventure (remember I was still in my grief fog), when I noticed my tire pressure light. Not thinking much of it, I drove to Discount Tire. By the time I arrived my tire was on the rim. So, so flat.  After a quick examination, the young attendant told me not one, but all four of my tires were incredibly, irrevocably damaged. Checking his computer, he was surprised to see we had purchased all new tires the first of the year. Looking at me rather quizzically, he asked if I just might have driven over a pothole lately? Great, my secret misadventure was about to become costly. I sheepishly admitted, in detail, what I had done. This young man’s eyes widened, “Wow lady, that musta been some kind of crazy ride!” Perfect, just perfect…

I hadn’t thought of that escapade, until driving home from running errands today. I wondered if I would still make such an irrational, okay stupid, decision as I had that Sunday afternoon? I would like to think I have come a long way from those grief laden, foggy days. 

My life is much like a road under construction. I am a long way from completion and the direction of my pathways often seem circuitous. I wonder where this turn in my road will take me? I’m often baffled by the tangled events of my life, the cloverleaf of intersecting lanes that, at times, seem to have no exit. I grow impatient with my time spent under construction, with my bumpy roads, my detours and barriers.

My questions grow wearisome. Am I on the right path, or should I be making a detour at this junction?  What must be removed or paved over for my construction to continue? I’m curious to know where this path might lead, or how this lane might tie in to a new lane. So many questions, so few answers.

The good news is that I need not know the answers to all of my many questions concerning the construction of my life. My trust lies in the fact that I believe in a loving God who makes my paths straight. A God, who mercifully fills in my deepest potholes and who gently shows me how to follow His direction, His meaning, His purpose. I’m grateful God allows me choices and challenges while I’m under construction and my blessings come when I find the joy there is in discovering opportunity and shared experiences along life’s highway.

I know there will be many more times in life when I choose to ignore the barricades God has wisely and carefully put in place. I'm certain I will travel carelessly where I shouldn’t and I will, more than likely, scrape bottom every once in a while. Thankfully, my assurance allows  construction to continue, for my confidence is in the promise that God is true to His word. He is the Master Engineer and in His time, He will make all the provisions to build a road that will take me safely home.

For what its worth,

Janet

Proverbs 3:6 “In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He will make your paths straight.”