Being self-employed has its advantages.  This particular week in April isn’t one of them.  The due date for filing tax returns and paying unpaid taxes from the former year has always been one of those days which I approach with apprehension and disdain.  Oh, I know for most of you reading this, that statement makes no sense.  You’ve worked another year; your employer withheld the amount of taxes you requested, and you probably already received a refund from your wealthy Uncle Sam.  I’ll try to go easy on this point, but the reason he has all that money is that you gave him an interest free loan for the past 12 months.  That said, I have dreamed about receiving a refund from the Treasury some April, but it will probably never happen.  At least, it is to be hoped not.  As a businessman, it’s not to my advantage to allow any capital to leave my control except for investment in merchandise which will net a profit.  If I’m giving interest-free loans to my Uncle in Washington, I can’t be buying guitars in my hometown.

There was one April, twenty-five years ago, when I wished I had given the IRS a fair amount more money, because when the time came to pay up for the year, all the capital was tied up in assets.  They didn’t appear to be liquid assets either.  I was devastated to learn the week before the fifteenth of the month, that we owed almost $4000 dollars in taxes on the previous year’s income.  I argued with the accountant, to no avail.  “The numbers don’t lie, Paul,” he explained as he showed me the facts in black and white.  We had purchased too much inventory and the government was treating that increased stock as profit.  Cash or no cash, we needed four thousand dollars within the next week or the penalties and interest would begin to stack up.

It was a little ironic.  Just the year before, when the accountant handed me the packet of forms to mail in, he asked delicately, “Paul, do you need anything?  We’re about the same size.  I’d be happy to give you some clothes…”  I thanked him, but gently brushed aside his offer.  We didn’t know we were financially embarrassed.  Our two children had nice clothes, we were making our payments on our house and business, and the old cars were paid for and running (most of the time).  The Lovely Lady and I giggled about someone thinking we needed to be helped and then kept plugging away at the business we had just acquired and were struggling to keep afloat.  Now, barely a year later, we owed almost twenty percent of a year’s profit in taxes because of poor planning on our part!

Where were we going to get that kind of money in a week?  We didn’t believe in borrowing money to pay taxes; it just didn’t make any sense.  But, we never had that kind of cash come in in such a short period of time, at least not funds that weren’t already designated for rent and other overhead, or inventory purchases.  I nearly panicked.  What to do?  Aha!  I had it!  I would call my Dad.  Obviously, I wouldn’t ask for a loan, but after hearing our predicament, he couldn’t do anything but offer to help, right?  I made the call that night.  After making small talk for awhile, I mentioned my problem.  He listened and then offered advice.  Not money, advice!  Evidently, he hadn’t gotten the memo that when his son, who never asked for money, called talking about money problems, it meant that he was expected to pony up.  That’s what Dads do, isn’t it?  Well not my Dad, at least not this time.

“Hmmm.  You know, the disciples in the Bible had a similar problem.  What did Jesus tell them to do?”  Well I knew the answer from Sunday School days, just as most of you do.  I was disgusted with him, but I responded anyway, “He told them to go fishing and they caught a fish, with the money for their taxes in its mouth.”  I couldn’t resist a little jab though, “How does that help me?”  His laconic reply came, “I really don’t know.  I was just remembering that’s what He told them to do.”  With nothing else to be said, we ended the conversation.

“Great!”  I groused at the Lovely Lady.  “No help at all, just some stupid line about what the disciples did in the Bible.”  I still had no plan, no visible means to take care of my obligation.  I went to bed, only to toss and turn as I lay there.  “What does it mean?  What does it mean?”  Sleepless, I got up and went downstairs to sit and read the passage in the Bible.  No help there.  I knew what they had done.  They went fishing.  They were fishermen, and they went fishing.  The light in my head came on with a brilliant flare!  They went fishing!  They did their jobs; nothing more, nothing less.  Their profession was catching fish from the sea, so that’s what they did.  I still wasn’t completely sure what it meant to me, nor how the money would come, but for now, all I was sure of was that I needed to go to work and do what I was trained to do, what I had been gifted at.  And, that’s just what we did.

For the next week, we opened the music store at the regular time in the morning and then, at the regular time in the afternoon, we closed it and went home.  In between, we did a bunch of praying.  I kept expecting some moneybags buyer to walk in and purchase half of our stock, paying cash for it, but it never happened.  We rang up sales on the cash register, day after day; some were significant amounts, some were small, but there was no spectacular, miraculous event.  We paid our rent and our electric bill, as well as the invoices for merchandise which we received during that time.  And, on April fifteenth, we placed our tax forms in the stamped envelope, along with a check for nearly four thousand dollars, completely covered by cash in the bank!  There was no hoopla, no extraordinarily large sale, no borrowing; we just did our jobs.  I will affirm that we never had that much extra in a week’s time before or after, without a large sale.  I still cannot explain it.  We paid our bills, did our regular tasks, and were provided for.

“How anticlimactic!”  I hear you say.  “No huge miracle?  No wealthy benefactor?  No mysterious check in the mailbox?  Just, go to work?”  That’s it.  And, you know…my years on this earth tell me that this is how most miracles happen.  No genies, no lamp to rub, no magic wand; just simply doing what we were made to do.  God rewards faithfulness.  In the quiet, plain paths, His miracles are inconspicuously bestowed.  Not with the commotion of a dog-and-pony show, not in the glare of the spot-lights and television cameras, but in factories, and shops, and homes, He cares for His own.

“Going fishing!”  That’s how I answered the question from my young children about how we were going to take care of our need, that April so long ago. I’ve thought of it often at other times too, but without fail, the events of that week in early spring twenty-five years ago are called to mind every time April rolls around again.  I’m still amazed today.

“…go down to the lake and throw in a line. Open the mouth of the first fish you catch, and you will find a large silver coin. Take it and pay the tax for both of us.”
(Matthew 17:27~New Living Translation)

“When we do the best that we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in our life, or in the life of another.”
(Helen Keller~blind and deaf American author and educator~1880-1968)












Originally published April 13, 2011

“I’m a lover, not a fighter.  I kinda like it that way.”  I haven’t thought of the song for years, but tonight, I’m hearing the country twang of Skeeter Davis in my head, imagining her singing as she bounced along to the steel guitar, fiddle, and guitars.  You see, I picked a fight today.  No, not a fist fight.  But, actually, the way I feel tonight, it might just as well have been.

Earlier, I replied to a post by an acquaintance on one of the prominent social media.  He expressed a viewpoint with which I disagreed and, since it involves a pending referendum in my community, I thought he should know that not everyone agreed with him.  Now, after a number of hours, and a lot of words (most of them by yours truly), I’m wondering if there is a modified DeLorean automobile somewhere in the vicinity to which I might gain access.  I’d like to take a little spin with Marty McFly and turn back the clock on the last few hours of my life.  Can anybody help me with that?

Did I make any statements about which I am ashamed?  Not exactly.  Did I attack anyone personally?  Not at all.  It’s just that…how to say this?  I’m not the guy I used to be.  I guess that’s what I want to say.  I used to be the arguer.  I’ve told you that my mom suggested I would argue with a fence post and expected me to become a lawyer.  I even told you that my brothers called me a little motorboat, since every statement with which I disagreed was met with an instant, “But, but, but…”  I have sat on boards and argued, played in music groups and argued, even been in table conversation with my family and argued; all to the detriment of relationships and the general welfare of the forum in which I chose to be combative.  I’m not that person anymore.

Except that I am.  It’s been a little while since the motorboat was brought out for a spin, but given the right conditions, it sprung to life as if it had never been stowed away.  I can go through extended periods of time without standing next to a single fence post and gesticulating wildly while ranting.  But let someone push (or even brush) the right button and I am in full voice, brain racing ahead (barely) of my words, letting the unfortunate human have a large piece of my mind.  Most of you know all too well that I can ill afford to give away even a small part of my mind, much less a large piece.  I am an arguer.  Worse, I am frequently undisciplined in my control of my tongue.  In the New Testament, James talks about the tiny rudder that directs the huge ship, describing the tongue.   My problem isn’t the rudder of a huge ship, but just the little thing that guides that pesky motorboat.

Tonight, I repent.   REPENT verb (ri-`pent): To turn away from, as from sin; To feel regret for one’s actions.    I want to believe that I will not return to this activity again; I want to say that I am definitely NOT  an arguer.  I will never fire up the motorboat again; will never stand next to a fence post and talk until I am blue in the face.  I want all those things to be true and will attempt to make them so.

That said, I do, in reality, know what I am and who I am.  I know that I’m not man enough to tame this little piece of skin that’s right behind my teeth.  I’ve tried it on my own and failed miserably again and again.  For some reason, the picture in my mind right now is of some smokers I’ve known who tried to quit on their own many times, without success.  They can go for days, sometimes for weeks, without lighting up, but one day you meet them on the street and the little white stick filled with tobacco is smoking away between their lips again.  The Lovely Lady has a brother who was in that situation for many years, until he had a heart attack and the doctor told him that he was certainly going die if he didn’t quit.  Two things moved him from being a smoker to being an ex-smoker – the motivation of the potential death sentence, and the medication that the doctor prescribed, which took away the physical symptoms of his addiction.  His desire to continue the destructive habit was stilled.  With my problem, I’ve definitely got the motivation, but I need the medication.

I think I may have discovered the prescription.  I’m going to put the patch on my arm tonight.  I’ll let you know how it goes (or maybe you can let me know if it’s working).

What’s that?  The prescription?  Oh…James had it all along.  “…The wisdom that comes from Above…”  I thought it had to come from inside me.  Go figure!

“But the wisdom that comes from above is first of all pure.  It is also peace-loving, gentle at all times, and willing to yield to others.  It is full of mercy and good deeds.  It shows no favoritism and is always sincere.”
(James 3:17~NLT)

“I am not arguing with you.  I am telling you.”
(James Whistler~American artist~1834-1903)

It was a tragedy waiting to happen.  The boys were gathered around the concrete reservoir of the irrigation canal near the golf course.  What is it about water that attracts boys so?  They will wander for miles just to have a chance to dangle their feet in a tiny stream; will make stick boats to float in puddles that are more mud than puddle.  The bodies of water seem to call their name from miles away.  In that long ago time when the episode I’m thinking about tonight occurred, there weren’t so many restrictions placed on children.  They roamed their neighborhoods, building forts in groves one day and hiking across town the next.  Neighbors watched out for them; strangers corrected misbehavior.  It seemed, without doubt, a more innocent time.  There were dangers, nonetheless.

So, the boys played in the little reservoir, the place where that particular canal descended underground for at least two miles. As they dropped pieces of debris into the swirling water, every particle of the flotsam was drawn inexorably downward, to disappear under the road without a sign of return.  Even so, they had no fear.  The youngest boy was four, the oldest eight, and they were invincible.  The little vessels they floated into the water, however…they were doomed.  Suddenly though, in the midst of their revelry – disaster!  The four-year old got too close to the edge and into the swirling water he toppled.  He couldn’t swim; couldn’t even scream because of the water in his mouth.  The playground of water that moments ago had been swirling little bits of sticks and paper for his amusement, now had the youngster in its grip.  It sucked him down, deeper and deeper.  Within seconds, he was under water and in peril of being drawn underground to a certain death.  The oldest boy of the group thought quickly and jumped into the concrete canal, right before it descended into the reservoir, where he could stand without the water pulling him down too.  Reaching underwater as far as he could, he gripped the flailing arm of the little one.  There was no way he was letting go!  The water tugged hard, but he tugged harder, bringing the gasping small-fry to surface and almost flinging him onto the hard ground beside the canal.  The little fellow was half-drowned and bleeding from a cut on his foot, caused by broken glass at the bottom, five feet down…but he was alive!  The frightened little guy was soon delivered, dripping wet, to his horrified mother and peace reigned again.  Well, except for her ranting, and a few new edicts about appropriate play areas being issued…

It happened over fifty years ago.  I will never forget it.  Terror sticks in your memory.  So does gratitude.  But time also passes and circumstances change.  The older boy grew up, as did I, and he married young, going into the military immediately thereafter.  One might say that he jumped into the deep water of his own volition, but however you describe it, the current had him in its power.  One disappointment after another, with a volatile marriage, led him into deeper water.  He thought he saw something that would help.  The bottle was a false hope, but by the time he figured that out, he was caught in the tight grip of that whirlpool, too.  Alcoholism sucks everyone in the vicinity down to the bottom, inflicting wounds as it swirls them around.

I can’t count the number of times I have attempted to reach out and rescue my rescuer.  But, there was never a hand to catch onto; the man didn’t want to be rescued.  Then suddenly, after a number of years of disastrous living, aborted relationships, lost jobs, and court dates, he was at my door.  I felt his grip in mine.  Finally, I could rescue him!  It was a false hope.  Mere weeks later, he again succumbed to the siren song of the liquor and the draw of the dives, where most are also foundering, but still are able to convince their peers that it’s not really a bad situation at all; that no one is really drowning and all is well in their world.  Of course, every night, when he leaves the camaraderie of the drowning crowd, and stumbles into his own room, alone, the truth hits again and he is overcome.

He saved me.  Why can’t I save him?  I’ve struggled with that, lying awake in the dark for many nights.  I still haven’t found an answer with which I am satisfied.  I know that all of us have a free will, with which we make choices for our life path.  I know that until he chooses to accept the help offered, or makes his way out himself, he will suffer the consequences of the maelstrom.  I still live in hopes that someone will reach to him and find a hand ready to hold on for dear life.  I will keep praying.

Again and again, as I walk through this life, I have realized that many others agonize over the same issues.  We all have friends or family members who are lost in the maze of choices they’ve made.  If nothing else, I’ve come to recognize that I can’t fix life for any of them.  I am, by nature, a problem solver and allowing others to work through their issues is difficult, almost painful, for me.  I am learning patience.  I am also learning to have faith.  There is One who really can save, who actually knows man from the inside out.  His time-table isn’t always convenient for me; He doesn’t always seem to move in the same time zone in which I do.  Still, I think His hands reaching down into the chaos might have a better effect than my inept, clumsy efforts.

I’ll wait.  Maybe you can wait with me.

“He has made everything beautiful in His time.”
(Ecclesiastes 3:11)

“Faith is the strength by which a shattered world shall emerge into the light.”
(Helen Keller~American author and educator~1880-1968)

I felt small today.  Twice.  The Tall Man called to tell me that he had the “perfect score” which he knew I would not be able to pass up.  As I began the phone conversation, the Lovely Lady heard me call him by name and she was immediately shaking her head and mouthing the word, “Don’t.”  I’m a sucker…an all-day one, it seems.  The Tall Man has been to visit me many times over the years; Every time he has the “perfect score”, it seems.  The only problem is that the man has a penchant for the cheap; for the bottom of the heap.  No.  That’s not absolutely true.  He loves nice things, but brings me the bottom of the heap things in anticipation that I will not recognize them for what they are.  He has visions of me opening the doors to my top merchandise and bidding him take anything he wants in trade for what he already owns.  It is not a likely scenario.

I suppose, I am the worst type of enabler.  I always believe that people can change.  I am always living in hopes that this time, their word is trustworthy; this time, they’ll come through.  So, when the Tall Man calls with news of a wonderful drum set, in “amazing condition”, which he wants to trade for “just one guitar”, I tell him I will take a look at it.  The address is given and found and he meets me at the door.  Once again, I am dwarfed by the physical size of the man; my hand is engulfed in his as he thrusts it at me to shake.  I am led to a bedroom, in which the “drum set” resides.  The disappointment is immediate, as he shows me a broken cymbal while apologizing, “I don’t want to mislead you.  This one isn’t any good.”  The other cymbals aren’t broken, but they’re no good either.  The top-brand set he promised is a Frankenstein’s creation, if ever there was one.  Only two of the five drums started out life together; mounts have been moved to avoid broken shells, and the “snare drum” is actually a timbale, intended for Latin-style music.  In short, this “perfect score” is a complete strike-out, with no value to me whatsoever.  As I patiently explain the reasons I cannot use the monstrosity, the Tall Man shifts uneasily before me.  He already knows every defect, every shortcoming.  He has put together this set from spare parts in the false hope that I will be ignorant of their lack of authenticity and offer him the valuable instrument he covets anyway.   My hopes for truthfulness and honesty in a man I know to be untruthful and manipulative are once more dashed.  I firmly demur, passing on the “perfect score” and head back for the music store.

As I drive, I turn on a radio news program to take my mind off the dismal failure my trip has been.  The reporter is discussing a well-known legal case which will be argued before the Supreme Court of the United States next week and is spotlighting one of the attorneys who will present the evidence for one side.  He casually mentions the man’s age and I realize, with a jolt, that the attorney is exactly the same age as I am.  This man–my peer–will be arguing what is possibly one of the most important cases to come before the Supreme Court in my lifetime!  Here I am, standing in bedrooms, explaining the demerits of drums to a man who will never tell me the truth, and this man is standing before some of the most powerful people in the nation, explaining the demerits of his opponent’s case.  The sense of disproportion is staggering!  Again, I feel small.

I’m not sure that the juxtaposition of these two events is an accident.  Sometimes, I believe that the sequence in which our lives unfold is part of the learning process.  I haven’t always connected the dots.  I still miss much of the topography, but this dichotomy is not lost on me today.  My mind jumps, as I write now, to the parable of the gifts that Jesus told to his disciples.  He told of a wealthy man who gave varying sums of gold to his servants and asked them to use it wisely.  Hearing the story as a child, my sense of fair-play, always overdeveloped, demanded to know why some got more than others.  I have come to realize that the significance is not the size of the gift, but it is in what is done with the gift.  That said, I still find myself time and again, focusing on the original gift.  I did that again today, as I coveted the gift of mighty influence, which the attorney in the news story has. 

Tolkien tells us that even a slow person can see through a brick wall, given time.  I stared at the brick wall in front of me today and I think that I am beginning to realize the truth.  I am not responsible to do more than what I have been gifted to do.  What is required of me is to work with the material I have in front of me.  I’m not a famous lawyer; I’m not the President of the United States; I’m not even the Mayor of my town.  That doesn’t make me a small man.  It means that I have been given different gifts.  My physical size has nothing to do with it, either.  The Tall Man, sadly, has chosen to exercise his gifts in a selfish way that tears down everyone with whom he interacts.  He’s put me in that frustrating position many times.  I want to employ my gifts so that lives are improved, so that the world I leave behind is a little better for my having walked through it.  There are days when I succeed in that goal. And, a few when I don’t.

Do you need a little encouragement today?  Here it is:  You are uniquely gifted to fill your place in this world!  How you use that gifting is up to you.  One of the characters in the parable I mentioned earlier hid his gift, thinking he was guaranteeing success.  He (and the world) lost because of his inaction and disengagement.  The gift you carry isn’t for you and you didn’t earn it, but it must be used to benefit those around you.  And, I’m not suggesting that you exercise a haughty pride as you walk, but you can walk tall as you follow the path marked out for you.  The gifts given to all of us actually obligate us and give us a task to fulfill.  No one is better than anyone else as they succeed in that function.  The gift isn’t the goal; its usefulness is.  

It’s a little gratifying to realize that our tasks in this life are neither more nor less important than are those that are carried out by people in the public eye.  There is no comparison to be made between us, except for this:  Did we use what we have in our hands to the end of our strength?  If not, will we make a new attempt tomorrow?  And the next day?  I love the idea of new beginnings and new chances daily.  I think that’s the reason that Grace draws us so.  The past is erased; the future awaits, clean and inviting. 

Morning approaches again.  I’m gratified that I don’t have to face it as a small man.  I’m no Paul Bunyan either, but I think I’ll settle for just plain Paul, working at walking tall.  There’s room here on the road for more than just one to walk.  You coming along?

“Now, it is required in a steward, that he be faithful.”
(I Corinthians 4:2)

“One must know, not just how to accept a gift, but with what grace to share it.”
(Maya Angelou~American poet)

Dessert came just before the end of a perfect time around the table. As usual, the delicious meal had been prepared effortlessly, it seemed, by the Lovely Lady.  The table was full, and soon, so were we.  Every dish was perfect, from the salad (complete with diced avocados), to the brown rice and basted chicken breasts, along with the cheesy spinach, which even the kids love.  To top it all off, the pretty chef appeared from the kitchen with a perfect New York style cheesecake, golden brown on the outside and creamy smooth on the inside.  A little homemade strawberry jam drizzled over the top, along with a cup of coffee on the side, and the meal was complete.  Perfection!

It hasn’t always been so.  Just let her appear at the table with a fresh-baked apple crisp, and the inevitable question comes, usually quite soon.  “You left out the garlic, we hope?”  It was in the dim, distant past, but the collective memory still recalls.  A strange flavor in the apple/cinnamon pie-like concoction led us to believe that she might have substituted an inappropriate ingredient.  We’ll never let her forget.

And, I don’t talk about it much, but there was a time, much longer ago that I still recall clearly…

We had been married three or four months.  The lovely eighteen-year old redhead was juggling the unenviable tasks of caring for an immature and demanding new husband and attempting to maintain her own high standards for academics at the local university.  This week, to top it off, an old friend of mine had called.  “I’m coming to the university to recruit for the ministry which I represent.  Can we get together for a meal?”  Without a second thought for my young wife’s well-being, I immediately insisted that Bob come to our home for supper.  It would be no skin off my nose.  I was working at the music store and would be happy to arrive home ten minutes before he came.  The Lovely Lady didn’t offer a word of complaint.  She just planned ahead and, during her lunch break that day, instead of eating, she prepared a tuna casserole for the evening meal.  It was placed in the refrigerator, to be popped in the oven when she arrived home after classes that afternoon.  She would have forty-five minutes before our guest showed up; plenty of time to preheat the oven and then cook the casserole for thirty minutes.

We sat down with our guest that evening in our tiny combination kitchen/dining area.  Bob looked at the salad and casserole and said, “Mmmm…Tuna casserole!  My favorite!”  After we asked the blessing, the portions were served and we set to.  The first bite was great!  Hot and creamy, just as we had expected.  Funny thing, though.  The further we went, the colder the temperature of the food.  By the time we dug into the center of the pile of tuna and noodles on our plates, it was as frigid as if it had just been taken out of the refrigerator.  The beautiful young housewife had made a small miscalculation.  Thirty minutes is the amount of time it takes to heat up the ingredients when they begin at room temperature.  This dish had chilled for several hours previous to that and would have taken twice the time to be heated through.

Whenever I think of that meal, I remember, vividly, several things.  The first thing is the graciousness with which our guest handled himself.  Ignoring the temperature of the dish (he couldn’t not have noticed it), he wolfed down his portion and asked for seconds, exclaiming about how delicious it was.  Not only did he not mention the problem with the food, he made sure that the cook knew how much he appreciated her work!  The second thing I remember is that, in spite of her embarrassment at the culinary faux-pas, the lovely young lady handled herself with aplomb and was the perfect hostess for the entire evening.   One final thing I remember, the thing I’m personally the most proud of.  For a wonder, the young lady’s husband was supportive as she transformed from the perfect hostess to the mortified teenage girl when the front door closed behind Bob.  I remember assuring her that it was of no consequence and reminded her that he had asked for and eaten seconds.  After a tear or two, we began to laugh as we moved past the embarrassed stage and I hugged her and told the beautiful girl that I loved her and still loved her cooking.

I passed the test!  As hard as it may be for you to believe, I have not always been so discerning, nor caring.  There have been any number of times in our marriage when I have failed miserably.  I am impatient and selfish, again and again.  I am thankful for the grace which she has shown each time.  But, on this one occasion, I realized how much she needed me to be supportive and sympathetic.  I’d like to think that it’s part of the reason I enjoyed such a perfect meal today, over thirty years later.  I may be dreaming, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility.

I remember a pastor’s wife, in the church where I grew up, who refused to sing in public.  She would sit (or stand) with her mouth closed the whole time the congregation sang the beautiful old hymns of the church.  I never could figure out how anyone could sit without singing those great songs.  But, there was more to it than simply a person who didn’t like to sing.  It seems that her husband, the pastor, had on more than one occasion, publicly made fun of her and told folks that she couldn’t “carry a tune in a bucket.”  She believed him, or else was too embarrassed by his words.  Regardless, she refused to even try anymore.  Shame on him! 

I’d love to have you try the Lovely Lady’s amazing roast beef some day.  And her apple pie?  As the saying goes, it would “make you want to slap your mama.”  I know better than to take credit for any of the great food.  But, deep down inside, I think that I had a little (a very little, mind you) part in the development of a fine cook.  I won’t insist on it.  She may even have something to say about that…

This I do know; words spoken in encouragement build confidence and a resolve to do better; words spoken in criticism are destructive and build a resolve to quit trying.  I’d like to be the one speaking the words that egg people on to do good things.  I’m guessing you would too.

Another serving of tuna casserole, anyone?

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better.  It’s not.”
(Dr. Seuss (Theodore Seuss Geisel)~American author of children’s books~1904-1991)

“Therefore, encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact, you have been doing.”
(I Thessalonians 5:11)