It's Wednesday evening, August 15 . . . my husband's birthday. My pastor husband of almost 33 years.
I haven't always been the wife of a pastor. Once upon a time, in a kingdom far away, I lived another life. Sometimes it's hard to fathom, and painful to remember, but there was a time when I lived a life that didn't include the Lord.
It was shortly after making a committment to Him that I received a spectacular miracle. There are those who say miracles aren't for today. And they reason away all miracles as coincidences. Well, my personal miracle can't be reasoned away. It can't be explained away. And no amount of manipulating can morph it into a coincidence.
It was a full-fledged Jesus-Is-In-The-House miracle.
I've only shared this story with the public one time, in a small church Dee and I attended a few years ago. And I've been saving it for a bigger blog audience. I only have eleven followers (whom I prefer to call friends.) But my "page view totals" indicate I'm getting quite a few other readers. And from the urging I'm getting to share my story again . . . this must be the right time.
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My six-year-old son loved creamed corn. My first husband hated it. So much, in fact, he vehemently forbid me to serve it at a meal. Avoiding putting creamed corn on the dinner table seemed like a small enough thing to do to preserve the peace, so I never bought it. Of course that wasn't sufficient to keep the peace, but one must learn to "pick one's battles" and creamed corn didn't seem worthy to fight over. However, my mother - not knowing the gravity of the situation - was quite unhappy that her precious grandson was being denied one of his favorite foods.
Mother went grocery shopping with me every opportunity she got. Probably a couple times a month. We had a terrific relationship. Laughing, joking, singing. She was a joy to be around. And she was, unknowingly, my anchor on earth when times were rough. I say unknowingly because I never told her how rough times were.
One day as I was checking out I was suprised to see the cashier ringing up a can of creamed corn. "Where did that come from?"
My oh-so-innocent mother began whistling a little tune and looking anywhere but in my eyes. "Mother, did you put that in the basket?"
This cute, little, curly-headed person I called "Mother" looked up at me and blinked her big blue eyes, and I began laughing. Nothing further was said. I paid for the corn, took it home, and hid it in the pantry.
The next time she baby-sat for us I checked the pantry when I got home. The can was gone. It was in the trash, empty. Billy had eaten creamed corn for supper.
This became a regular routine that went on for a couple of years - until Mother's death. Sometime during every shopping trip, while I wasn't looking, Mother would sneak a can of creamed corn into the shopping cart. I'd pay for it without saying a word. And each time when I got home, I'd hide it in the pantry. But not so well she'd have trouble finding it.
We never discussed it, not even with each other. It was our little secret tradition.
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Be sure to visit again on Monday, after I've written Sunday evening's blog. You don't want to miss the second half of this story. It's so awesome that if it hadn't happened to me . . . I'm not sure I'd believe it myself.