I was complaining about a batch of Beans and Rice, “I can’t understand how these can be so hard, they’ve cooked all day in the crock pot, and beans at Seabra Grocery usually move right off the shelf, so they can’t be old.”
K started to watch her plate of beans closely. She leaned down and poked them with her fork. “Move beans, move. Mom, my beans don’t move by themselves!”
At Sunday school this week, Dan read the next section of Window on the World and was beginning to pray for the “underground church,” in North Korea. K looked up through the basement window at the front lawn, “Momma, are we in an underground church?”
M’s allergies have been bothering him, on top of a cold. I was promising him I’d tear his bed apart and re-make it so he’d have clean sheets when K looked at her favorite blanket in alarm. “Momma, you aren’t going to tear my bed are you?” I fumbled through some explanations when she relaxed and asked, “Is that a figure of speech?”
