Story 1
I was so mad. It was Friday night, which meant I was washing my wife's feet, like I always do. She did not tell me about the cut on her foot. So I had to put the water away, find the nu-skin, apply it, wait for it dry and then get back washing her feet, from the top, all. over. again. I was heated. "I need to know these things!" I almost shouted. "I keep telling God to hear my prayers, because I am taking care of you like I promised. All the while, I look like a fool. My wife is cut, and bleeding and I am doing nothing." I took a deep breath and calmed a little that night. I know I was starting to get down into the toes when I said, "I have kids to pray for, friends to cover, parents to lift up. They matter so much to me. If you have a bump, bruise, scratch, sting, tell me. I need to know. I might not always make you happy, but at least let my fulfill my words to Him."
She was so mad.
Story 2
I am driving 60 mph to night. It is just over the speed limit and faster than I normally do. I need to get there soon. I stay just over the speed limit the entire way, 60 in a 55, 37 in a 35, and 28 in a 25, before I slow down to 16 in a 15 to get to his house. He is my discipler and he considers it a sin to another human being to be late. I don't mind that. Whenever I am late, he always forgives me. I don't mind that either. But when I am late, he forgives me, gives me a hug, with his hand cupping my ear. He does not cup it hard, or slap his hand against it, I just hate it when people touch my ear. I love him dearly, he has seen me through my darkest depression, my most addicted months, and the weeks where my faith has been hanging like a thread.
Still, there will be no ear cupping tonight.
Story 3
My back hurts. My father decided to pray for me one more time, before I was got in the car. College is only 3 hours away. We have visited there so many times for so many other reasons. It was part of the reason I chose to go there, I home away from home. I had just finished packing up the car. My back was fine ten minutes. I knelt down in our small kitchen, and my dad placed his hand on my shoulder. My grand father's hand joined his. He was still tall and proud, late fifties with more white then gray. He was there to see me off, you know, follow in the tradition. My great-grandfather hand joined his. He was in his 70's. He had to reach round his walker to get to me. He had taken a bullet to his leg way back in Obama's Iraq. He was almost always doubling over with laughter at his horrible dad jokes. I admit they weren't always that bad. My back was still good. I was beginning to feel the weight of so many generations. Collectively, their hands felt like I was carrying a couch without using my hands. I was beginning to roll my shoulders forward when my great-great-grandfathers trembling hand finally reached me. It felt like he put all his weight on me. He was an 80's baby, who talked about things nobody knew. He talked to himself often, and often said suprising phrases in mid-conversation. Unless he was talking with God. In those moments, he spoke in pure poetry, metres, foots, stanzas and all. Thankfully, my Dad had already to started to pray, and in terms of word-count, I quietly caught up to him. "Dear Lord may he hurry up!" I said over and over again.
"Lord, my back hurts!"
