Testing God - More Bad News

I’m sure it seemed to Joe that all news from his new trainer was bad news. With Hamilton’s dismal race record and now refusal to train, we told Joe that we wouldn’t keep him in training any longer.

Of Joe’s other race-ready horses in training with us, Digger had shown no inclination to find his way to the winner’s circle over the winter, and the grass season was many training bills away. The hope that racing on the turf and covering more ground would actually turn Digger into a winner was a longshot at best.

The first filly Joe sent us, Retirement Plus, had problems of her own. A wiry little thing, she came to us labeled a “head case.” She had gotten to the point where she couldn’t be galloped in the morning—she bolted and ran off with her exercise riders—so the first trainer washed his hands of this one, too.

Not only did Retirement Plus (if there is a nickname for that name, I never figured it out!) exhibit erratic behavior on the track, but in the stall she looked like a ping pong ball on crack.

Luckily, with some turnout time in the round pen and paddock, the filly began to calm down a bit in the stall. But on the racetrack, we had to employ a new strategy. Her exercise rider would take her the wrong way around the track, and it seemed to confuse her enough that she forgot about running off. This particular rider was generally “riding under the influence.” Common sense would tell you that it’s a bad idea to put someone that’s a little loopy on a horse that’s a lot loopy, but it seemed his mellowness mellowed the filly out a bit.

Retirement Plus ran a few times for us, generally making a run from behind and stopping mid-pack. Jerry, exasperated, wondered out loud if burying herself among all the other horses somehow made her feel more secure.

In addition to all the newly purchased yearlings on the farm, we had three more fillies of Joe’s from the other trainer. The first, Lemhi Lightning, came to us for training but Jerry found a tiny bit of heat and filling in a knee right off the bat. More bad news for Joe—xrays showed an area that, if she continued to train, would eventually chip off.

The vet gave two options—inject the knee and go ahead and run the filly, or turn her out and give it time to heal. Option number one was not an option for us, so to the farm she went.

In retrospect, I suppose most other trainers would have left it to the owner to decide what to do. In our first meeting with Joe, Jerry told him that he absolutely would not, under any circumstance, run a horse that he knew had a problem, so I guess Jerry figured that the decision was already made.

The other two fillies were on the injured list as well. The weird thing about them is that no one had a clue what was the matter. The vets that had looked at them for the other trainer were baffled, so the general consensus was to turn them out and let time do its thing.

Soon after came Value Driver, Joe’s colt that had recently had a chip surgically removed and needed rehab before returning to training. Our farm was quickly becoming a lay-up facility, and I was having flashbacks to our ReRun days.

The financial pressure on Joe was mounting, and his theory on racehorse ownership was being sorely tested. But there were still some bright spots, as Joe had three fillies with the other trainer that seemed fairly promising.

As for our rag-tag stable, the heat was increasingly being turned up by Joe to produce results with The Unbelievable—at one time (according to the other trainer) his most promising horse.

Daily Notes: If I’m being honest, (and I really am trying to be) I’ve had a bad few days as far as being a better-than-I normally-am kind of person. I haven’t done anything horrible (rob a bank, trip a little old lady or smack a kid) but I had the perfect opportunity to do a good thing for someone, and I didn’t. And of course, I had the perfect excuse—it would have made us late for Jerry’s sort of emergency dental appointment. But not that late.

So there we were in the grocery, and this fellow came in right behind us. He was pushing a cart, but seemed to be using it more to hold himself up than for groceries. He caught my gaze and held it a little longer than usual, but I looked away and continued grabbing the few items that we had come in for. I did look at him long enough to notice that he was a little, well, disheveled.

I reached in the dairy case to get sour cream, and when I turned around, there he was again. Again, our eyes met and again I looked away.

We were unloading our cart at the register, and when I looked back, he was directly behind me in line. He was again looking at me, but not in a stalker kind of way—it was more in a “my presence here is no accident” sort of way. We paid for our groceries, and moved to the area for bagging.

I heard the cashier ask him if he needed help to his car, and he answered that no, he didn’t have a car—he had walked to the grocery, despite his emphysema, to get a few needed items before the forecast snowstorm hit.

As he pushed his cart (which I noticed included a sack of potatoes) past us, he again caught my eye. I just knew we should offer him a ride home. Jerry was with me, so I wouldn’t have needed to worry about safety, but I just watched him walk out the automatic door and head for the cart corral.

We finished bagging our stuff and headed for the door. As we approached the corral, I heard the mystery man conversing with another fellow who was just heading into the store. The second man asked where the first man was headed, and he pointed to some apartments not far from the store. He explained that because he was hauling groceries, he would have to take the long way around. The man heading into the store said that he wouldn’t be long, and that he would be happy to give the mystery man a lift home.

“Whew,” I thought. “No need to feel guilty now.” But yet I did. You no doubt know the saying about “entertaining angels unawares.” It reminded me of a show a few years back called Joan of Arcadia. The premise was that God was tooling around down here, and would randomly show up to challenge Joan. She never knew how God would appear—male or female, old or young, rich or poor, but it was never what you would expect.

It’s almost like God was giving me a pop quiz to test just how far I’ve come in my nearly month-long journey, and guess what? I failed.

And that’s why I’ve skipped a couple days posting—because failure is hard for me to admit. But I promised to tell the bad with the good, so I’m pressing on. But it’s a big goose egg for the RAKs, and that’s a shame.

Testing God - The Hamster Makes a Statement

Hamilton had run a couple times at Turfway Park, if you want to call what he did “running.” Actually, he just galloped along behind the rest of the field, prompting some pretty terse comments from the jockey.

Now a 3-year-old who had been in training with the other trainer since he was started as a yearling, Ham was what we call “sour.” He didn’t want to be a racehorse, and to him, it seemed like no one was hearing him when he expressed that sentiment.

We were listening, and we did everything we could to help him out. We gave him some time off on the farm to freshen him up, in hopes that that might change his attitude. It didn’t, but our pleas on Ham’s behalf to the owner seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Since finances seemed to be at the crux of nearly every conversation we had with Joe, we explained that getting a horse off the books that had no interest in racing would be good for the bottom line.

Whether Joe wanted this particular horse to be successful on the track because he was named after Joe’s young son, or whether Joe thought Jerry and I were complete idiots I never figured out, but Ham’s final statement prompted decisive action on our part.

Hamilton, alternately known as Ham, J. Ham and The Hamster, had yet another name. It was bestowed upon him by Jeanne, a friend of ours who came to work for us on the farm. She called him The Princess because of his many dislikes—cold temperatures, hot temperatures, rain, snow, sleet, mud, flies, the dark—you name it. Ham was into comfort, and didn’t care who knew it!

For several mornings, Ham had balked at the doorway of the barn when it was time to train. He would rear up, spin in circles and dance a jig before firmly planting his feet and refusing to move. Eventually, when he was coerced to the track it was obvious to all that he wasn’t happy about it.

Ham would stop and start numerous times on the track, which is a safety issue for all the other horses and riders out there training. On this particular morning, Ham had had enough. He propped and dropped Sam, who hit the ground hard. Most loose horses will take a couple laps around the track at top speed, but Ham headed straight down the exit ramp (he conveniently placed Sam on the ground right in front of it) and trotted back to our barn, where he found the door shut. He stood right there in the cold rain, glaring, until someone opened the door and led him back to his stall.

Sam, relatively unscathed (remember, he’s only 20!) was pissed off. I could see him from my vantage point, kicking dirt clods and no doubt cussing up a storm while he looked for his stick and began the long walk back to the barn.

Daily Notes: I picked up my copy of The Purpose Driven Life by Rick Warren this morning while having my coffee, and randomly opened it up. On the page where I landed, Mr. Warren is introducing a concept that is near and dear to my heart. I struggled for years with this concept, because I am the type of person that will drive myself nuts until I figure something out.

Mr. Warren states, “You were made by God and for God, and until you understand that, life will never make sense.” (Emphasis mine.)

He is so right, and I have had many debates with my hot-tempered son as he was growing up about why life doesn’t make sense. Or, more specifically, why life “isn’t fair.”

Mr. Warren continues, “It is only in God that we discover our origin, our identity, our meaning, our purpose, our significance and our destiny. Every other path leads to a dead end.”

“Oh, yeah? Why?” I can hear skeptics out there saying. Well, I don’t know why, but I know that this is correct. I know this because if you follow God’s promptings for your life, it works. Just like I know electricity works, even though I certainly can’t tell you how or why.

I’m living this out right now with something far stronger than my willpower pushing me on.

For the past two days, I’ve really had the desire to chuck it in on my experiment here. And for the past two days, I’ve not been allowed to quit.

Oh, today's pic is from waaaaaaay back. Jerry's such a cute 'lil cowpoke!

Testing God - Post Eighteen

The sales were over and all 11 of Joe’s yearlings were delivered to our farm. Jerry and I have always agreed that the best thing for sales yearlings that have gone through what must be for them a mind-blowing experience is to be “let down” afterward on the farm.

Most yearlings arrive post-sales a bit wild-eyed and jittery, so our Rx is to turn them out for 30 days and leave them alone except to give them feed, hay and water. We jokingly say they need to learn how to be horses again—run around, kick up their heels and roll in the mud. In other words, rid themselves of all that Show Sheen and hoof polish.

The plan was to give the youngsters a few months to relax and grow, and then begin the breaking process in February.

Back at the track, while The Unbelievable was getting accustomed to training in his “head gear,” the other horses were being entered in suitable races at Turfway Park in Kentucky and Hoosier Park in Indiana. Both tracks operate during the winter, and both have an abundance of lower level claiming races, which was where this group of horses seemed destined to run.

The only thing UB took more seriously than his training regimen was my rehabilitation. Each day, I had to tie him to the back wall of the stall to curry and brush him and pick his feet before putting on the saddle and bridle when it was his turn to go to the track.

I am cold-natured, and the winter months almost kill me when I have to be out in the weather. But even though it was unseasonably cold, for the first week or so after being told by UB that I was his caretaker, I would stand outside his stall, sweating bullets, clutching my grooming implements and willing myself to duck under the webbing and catch him.

For his part, as soon as UB would see me start to dip under the crossbar, he would turn his butt to me and lift a hind foot, jabbing it slowly and menacingly in my general direction.

“We don’t have all day, Shon,” Jerry yelled down the shedrow. “Do you need help?”

“No, thank you, I don’t.” I shot back, glaring at UB.

Note: I am so sorry, but this post did indeed get "lost in translation" somewhere yesterday--I thought it posted, but I must have hit the wrong button and saved it as a draft. Anyhoo, the pic today is a way back photo of Jerry. At 6'3", we jokingly call him the "extra size rider." LOL

Testing God - Post Nineteen

UB came to us already gelded; it was the previous trainer’s last-ditch effort to calm him down and make him manageable. He had a reputation as a bad biter, and showing his teeth while making his ears disappear was indeed a favorite pastime of his. He loved to rush his webbing, scaring the bejeebers out of anyone who inadvertently walked too close.

Even though UB himself had told me in no uncertain terms that he would not hurt me, his body language sent a different message. As I worked to get him groomed and tacked, he would alternately snap his teeth at me, wing a hind hoof toward me, or try to trap me up against the wall with his body.

Pride went a long way toward keeping me from calling to Jerry for help unless I absolutely could not get something done by myself. I still had snippets of our driveway standoff rolling around in my head.

As the days went by and UB’s antics continued, I had a revelation. He wasn’t trying to hurt me—the teeth never touched skin, the hoof never connected, and he never actually crushed me against the wall. What he was doing was a fine job of desensitizing me. My flinchy-ness was slowly disappearing.

Where this was most noticeable was with the other horses. In taking care of Hamilton and Digger, I found myself humming as I curried and brushed and picked their feet. And then one day I found myself in a fully seated position in the stall, bandaging Hamilton’s legs. I was totally relaxed, thoroughly enjoying my task, and I hadn’t even given a thought as to whether there was a clear path to the door.

Good work, Ubster!

I became obvious that other people weren’t so sure about The Unbelievable, because he did tend to instill fear in those who weren’t part of his inner circle. But it seemed to me that with the combined efforts of me, Jerry and Sam, UB was becoming a much happier horse. I guess it helps to be understood. :)

As far as racing was concerned, it was hard to get too excited about the other horses. Hamilton just wasn’t into it. It wasn’t a soundness issue, although had he put any effort into his races, he wouldn’t have stayed sound long with his pigeon-toed stance.

As for Digger, he was a big, heavily muscled horse with huge, saucer-like feet. He, like Hamilton, had never shown much talent to the previous trainer, which was why they were in the first batch of horses to be sent our way.

Winter racing didn’t offer the type of races that might possibly move Digger up--turf races. Very long turf races.

Old habits die hard, and I looked at both horses as if I was still running ReRun. Digger might like a second career in Western Pleasure, but Hamilton, well, he’d need a job where looks didn’t matter It didn’t take long for Ham to finally decided that he had had quite enough of this racing business. The morning came when he let us know this in no uncertain terms—and poor Sam got the worst of it.

Daily Notes: I don’t know why I am having such a hard time with this section today. Perhaps it is that my SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) affliction is getting the best of me. I’ve been a bit sullen the past couple of days, but there is a blessing to report.

Amish Joe, our neighbor (denoted as such so as not to confuse the reader, since Owner Joe has been mentioned frequently) stopped by to take a look at our downstairs bathroom reno project. He came at Jerry’s request to give us a quote on the reconstruction.

This neighbor has been working hard to finish construction of his own house on the farm across the street. He desperately needs to move his growing family (the count, I believe, currently stands at 5 kids under the age of 7) from the one-room building that has housed them for a couple years into the “big house” that is nearing completion.

The work these guys do is phenomenal. And they always seem to go above and beyond. So we were a bit shocked at the hourly quote Joe gave us to rebuild our bathroom—it was way too low!

It was partial payback, he explained, for our helping them out when they “have a need.” Use of our phone and electric for charging their power tools, picking up milk for them when I do my grocery shopping, dropping off their loan payment at the bank when I’m headed that way—it really never crossed my mind that any of those things was that much help to them, but apparently they made the Amish life much easier!

We feel very, very blessed to have them for neighbors—so much so I’m considering asking if they would consider making us “honorary Amish.” With an addendum that says we can keep our cars, electric and indoor bathroom.

The photo I’ve included today is one from back in my high school days. I will apologize now to my good friend Teresa, who I will no doubt hear from as soon as she sees the pic. This was taken our senior year in high school at Diamond Oaks Career Development Campus (a nice way to say vocational school!) In case you didn’t guess, we were in the Horsemanship class. I will also apologize to my daughter for my fashion statement, as she would sooner die than appear in public looking like this.

Testing God - Post Seventeen

Although my body was at the sales, my mind was back at the track with The Unbelievable. I was really looking forward to the sales being over.

As the remaining horses on Joe’s list came through the pavilion, I dutifully bid up to the amount that Joe had given, and on each horse I only managed to get in a bid or two before the competition left me in the dust. I really would rather have been heading home to get out of my wet clothes and put my feet up, but when I flipped to the listing of the last horse on Joe’s list (the last page in the book) I couldn’t help but smile.

It was a filly by Devil His Due. That sire was a very sound racehorse, and seemed to throw sound offspring. And if she looked anything like her daddy, she was probably big and lanky and dark, which is my favorite kind of racehorse! We had looked at so many horses, I honestly couldn’t remember her, but Jerry and I had kept her on our list.

As her hip number drew closer, I walked from the warmth of the seating area in the sales pavilion to the walking ring out back to have a final look at the filly.

There was quite a commotion in the ring, as people scurried to get out of the way of a fractious horse. The crowd scattered in all directions as the filly I was looking for took aim with both back feet on anything that moved.

I watched the filly (indeed big and lanky and as black as they come) dragging her handler this way and that, and then I recognized the lady on the end of the shank. She was an old acquaintance from the track, who was a good friend of Jerry’s now-deceased dad.

“Looks like she’s a handful,” I said, and thought that that was probably the understatement of the year.

“She’s really a nice filly,” Julie responded. “We bred her and raised her on our farm—I have pretty high hopes for her.”

I went back inside to bid when she came through the ring, figuring that I probably wouldn’t get this one, either.

Perhaps it was that the majority of buyers had already left, or that the antics of this filly had scared off some, but when the hammer dropped, I was the winning bidder. And, I had spent $3000 less than the maximum amount Joe allotted me. I grinned as I signed the purchase sheet—surely this would make our clearance-bin-shopping owner ecstatic!

Then I remembered the filly’s crazed kicking, and thought to myself, “UB, you’d better redouble your efforts to get me back to where I once was!”

Daily Notes: This section may be a little longer than usual today, but God’s led me to some good stuff. First, from Deuteronomy 10: 12-14:

What do you think God expects from you? Just this: Live in his presence in holy reverence, follow the road he sets out for you, love him, serve God, your God, with everything you have in you, obey the commandments and regulations of God that I’m commanding you today—live a good life.

Look around you: Everything you see is God’s—the heavens above and beyond, the Earth and everything on it.
The Message

Then, to The Miracle of Tithing, in which Mark Victor Hansen says:

What are the Universal Laws, and how do they work with tithing? Since the beginning of time, certain universal “truths” were set in motion that provide a constant, uniform and orderly method to the way the world works. These laws work in and around us, no matter what we do or how we think. They are:

The Law of Energy Becoming Reality—Energy moves into physical form. What you give out in energy (your tithe) materializes in physical results.

The Law of Vibration/Attraction—Everything in the universe vibrates, nothing rests. Your thoughts and subsequent actions are vibrations that you send off into the universe which, in turn, attract like-minded energy and vibration to you.

The Law of Relativity—Nothing is good or bad until it’s compared to something. For instance, some people may have greater abundance and prosperity than you and, likewise, you have more than another person.

The Law of Polarity—Everything has an opposite. If something bad happens in your life, there has to be something good about it. It’s how you look at the situation that makes it good or bad. Remember this as you begin to tithe, no matter what your situation.

The Law of Rhythm—The tide comes in, the tide goes out. When you’re on a down swing, know that the tide will be changing—it’s a law. “And this too shall pass.”

The Law of Gestation—Every “seed” has a gestation period. Manifestation into form or physical results is guaranteed to occur when the time is right. If you don’t experience immediate changes in your life because of tithing, remember this law.

And lastly, what Mr. Hansen considers to be the most important universal law for tithing:

The Law of Cause and Effect—What you send into the Universe comes back to you. There is no such thing as chance. Everything happens according to Law and nothing ever escapes the Law. When you give back 10% of your income, you will set this divine Law into motion—the question is, will you be ready to receive?

My son, Ian, whom I love dearly, nearly drove me ‘round the bend over the past few years. He's a believer in karma, and I told him that I believed in karma, too, since God invented it. I believe that karma is just another word for The Law of Cause and Effect. Or, even more simply put, what goes around comes around.

Oh, about the photo (an old one) that I posted with the blog today: Remember when I said the starting gate was dangerous? Nobody ever expects this to happen, but it did! That's Jerry in front of the starting gate at Turfway Park the night the wheels popped off of it just after the start of a race. Sheesh...it's always somethin'!

Testing God - Post Sixteen

To give the reader some perspective, the price range on Thoroughbred yearlings covers a vast expanse. The least one will spend on one is $1000.00, as most sales companies have now instituted a “minimum bid” designed to thwart the attempts of “killer buyers” to purchase unwanted horses for slaughter for human consumption.

The maximum has been upwards of $10 million. Back at the height of craziness in the 1980’s a yearling brought a record $13 million. I was actually privileged to be at Keeneland to witness that event—a college student working the sales to earn tuition money.

I remember watching, in stunned silence like most everyone else present, that colt being led away after the hammer dropped. I wondered to myself what in the world would ever make anyone pay that much money for a horse. I mean, hadn’t they heard about Murphy’s Law as it relates to equines? And, in actuality, that investment ended up being a bit of a flop.

As an aside, the guy that I had been dating for awhile was standing beside me as this little bit of history unfolded.

“Can we go now? I’m bored.” he wanted to know. And I made a mental note to cross him off my list of possible soul mates.

And, as illustrated by the story above, spending huge sums certainly doesn’t guarantee a champion. In fact, it seems to us that many, many good racehorses have been purchased in the $50,000 - $150,000 price range. In rare instances, a horse like Seattle Slew, bought for a mere $17,000, constitutes the bargain of the century. He won the Triple Crown and went on to be a major success as a stallion, too.

It was another bargain of the century that Joe was after, and the most he spent on any one horse, after the hammer fell on all eleven of Joe’s yearlings, was $12,000. I was not in the pavilion as that particular filly sold, but Jerry told me that he elbowed Joe several times to keep bidding, and in fact had considered jumping in if Joe stopped to get her for us.

To be honest, the last horse Joe purchased was actually purchased by me, as Joe had to get on the road south to tend to his business interests there. He left me with a list of the remaining horses that had passed our inspection that he was interested in acquiring. The amount he was willing to spend on each horse was clearly marked.

It was the last day of the Fasig-Tipton sale, and it was raw, windy and cold. I looked at the last horse on the list, who was also the very last horse in the sale.

“Perfect,” I sighed. “I’ll guess I’ll be here til the bitter end.”


Daily Notes: I mentioned a couple days ago about the water spout episode in our downstairs bathroom. My thought at the time was “well, it could be worse,” and as it turns out, I was correct. Turns out a small leak a couple years ago did much more damage that we realized before we discovered and fixed it. The result necessitates a total gut of that room, sub--flooring and all.

Gotta love old houses—this one (part of it, anyway) was built in 1816 by a colonel in the Revolutionary War. In addition, one of our paddocks contains a sacrificial burial mound of the Adena Indians who lived on our land about 2000 years ago. I think it is interesting that while Jesus was walking around over there, virgins were being sacrificed over here.

We have so much weird stuff happen here, that we frequently joke about the “paranormal activity.” But I’m not blaming my current house problems on haints. Perhaps this is a test. Since God is being so silent about the larger sum of tithe money I’ve set aside (and yes, I am still praying about it!) mayhaps the devil is trying to tempt me.

I spent a little time today in the Mark Victor Hansen book “The Miracle of Tithing.” One of the questions he received was as follows: “I believe the entire universe is God’s “church.” Can I tithe to a non-profit organization or foundation?”

Mr. Hansen’s response was, “Insofar as God is omnipresent throughout the universe, and insofar that he commanded us to be good stewards of the creation he’s provided for us, it’s better to give to non-profit organizations and foundations than not to give at all. Giving is giving. Jesus said, “Give and it will be given unto you.” Jesus did not say where to give.”

Our church has many good ministries, but one of my favorites is called Room in the Inn. We are part of a national program that churches can opt to join. Our church provides a meal, showers and a place to sleep for area homeless men one night a week. This ministry operates November through March each year, and my husband commits a night a month to stay overnight, drive the van to pick up the men, etc. We have both been so blessed to meet these guys and become a little part of their lives. Their stories, each different, can be quite eye-opening, and a blessing in themselves. Sometimes I direct our church tithe checks to benefit this ministry. I’m not sure why this ministry calls to us, unless it is that we feel so at home among these guys—maybe because it reminds us of racetrack life!

Oh, that reminds me—it’s almost time to introduce you all to Louie!

Testing God - Post Fifteen

So there we were at the sales, with Joe’s number of purchases, and my concerns, growing. Initially, we had been concerned about the huge expense that Joe would have getting these horses through the breaking process and the long length of time before they were ready to make their first start—the point at which there was at least the possibility of a return on his investment.

I remember coming in to the sales pavilion from my latest foray to the sales barns working my way down our list of possibles. I took a seat beside Joe, and I must have had a look on my face that expressed angst. Joe assured me that “he could afford it,” and since this was not his first foray into the racing business, I had no reason to think he didn’t know what he was getting into.

In truth, my concern was more about how Jerry and I would deal with so many horses to break on our farm. It would take much more in the way of employees than we had planned on, and good employees were hard to find. Not to mention, workman’s comp premiums would be large.

My concern grew when I met up with Jerry later, who handed me a release slip on a colt that immediately rang a bell.

“I thought we nixed this colt,” I said to my husband.

“We did.” He countered. “But apparently Joe decided to buy him anyway.”

We looked back at the colt’s page in our sales books-- by this point well worn and thoroughly marked—and compared notes. While this colt was indeed a big, fairly good looking individual by a currently fashionable sire, we had scratched him off our list. Jerry and I both looked at him, and both agreed that while we couldn’t put our finger on it, there was something just a little “off” about this colt’s movement. Something, though we couldn’t pinpoint exactly what, just wasn’t right, and these thoughts had been relayed to Joe.

It dawned on me then that perhaps our new owner didn’t have the greatest confidence in our abilities.

Daily Notes: As I began this blog, I promised to be honest in my failings. I have a BIG failure to admit, made more difficult because I have inadvertently drug my daughter down, too. Yesterday, we—Brit and I—had the opportunity to do a RAK, turn the other cheek and model Christian behavior, all in the same fell swoop. We didn’t do it. And I am feeling very, very small right now because not only did I miss this opportunity, I’m afraid I set a really bad example of pettiness for my daughter.

How human am I? I totally missed this yesterday, but God saw it all. He actually woke me up very early this morning (our one morning of the week set aside to sleep in) with this thought front and center in my mind. So I got up to make a note of it and post this blog before the devil could convince me that what I did wasn’t so bad.

I was also led to the following scripture in James 3: 13:

Do you want to be counted wise, to build a reputation for wisdom? Here’s what you do: Live well, live wisely, live humbly. It’s the way you live, not the way you talk, that counts.

The Message

Yup, that’s right. I can yada, yada, yada, blog, blog, blog all day, but if I can’t walk the walk, it makes talking the talk all the more hypocritical.

Oh, I found this pic of The Unbelievable in a workout at Victory Haven, with Sam in the irons. I couldn't resist posting it!