Three out of three boys in my house wear some article of clothing backwards. Two out of three wear something inside-out.

I’m enjoying this time. We thought we would have our baby, my daughter, by the beginning of next year, the very beginning, like in a few months. But with prayer and asking for wisdom about timing and finances, we put the adoption on HOLD to start again at the beginning of the year, which can rip a heart nearly out,

except for peace. Peace does not exclude pain. In fact I’m learning to recognize peace by the pain that surrounds it, like a perfect fire in the middle of snowy tundra.

This place where we live isn’t fancy, but it suits us so fine. Our closest friends, in fact backyard neighbors, dig in our dirt. We all plant garden with peppers and tomatoes, squash, zucchini, and okra. I’m going to fry okra come soon, and we’re going to drink sweet tea, too. It’s just the nature of the southern beast.

The flowers around here are prettier than I’ve seen in my 11 years around the Haines people. Tulips popped up after years of dormancy. The azaleas are crazy like cotton candy in the front beds. It makes me straight want to request Azalea as a flavor from the local snoopy shaved ice place.

I have now put honeysuckle on my hate list, and before this is all overwith, I’m going to hack it all down for trying to squeeze the life out of our roses and lilac. I smelled the lilac holding on for dear life near the mailbox, and found it lassoed and curled from above and beneath by the dern honeysuckle. There has to be a moral to the honeysuckle story.

What do you think it is?