Several of my friends from high school have occasional weekend getaways. One winter a few years ago, Ray and I hosted one at our house. Unfortunately none of the guy friends or the husbands of the girl friends were able to come, so Ray spent a memorable weekend as the lone guy with a bunch of giggly girls at a weekend slumber party. I use the term girls like my mother always has. If you are female and breathing, you’re a girl. Age doesn’t matter one iota.
Every time we girls get together for a girl time like we did on Friday, they bring up again what a good sport he was and they tell me I got a good one. They’re right.
They also bring up the unexpected end to that winter weekend. Ray and I left for church with several of the girls still at our house. They were going to finish getting ready for the day and lock the doors behind them. I can’t remember now why they didn’t go to church with us.
As Ray and I sat in church, his phone vibrated. My phone vibrated. I decided that maybe I ought to check it out, so I slipped out to see what was going on. Well, to our surprise, it was our home security system alerting us that the fire alarm had gone off. Not getting us, the security system began to go down the list of contact numbers we had given them. Living in a house that is perhaps 170 to 175 years old, we don’t take fire alarms lightly. Home we rushed.
On the way home one of our local friends called us to report their phone call from the security company. We got home and found my friends fine, our house fine, and no one having a clue why the alarm was going off. We never did figure that out.
Of course, the security company had called our house first; and, of course, my friends had no clue what to tell them. When we got there, they were wondering if they were about to be visited by the police. In the end, the only thing to do was giggle — and we still do when we get together.
Sheila, who loves flowers and gardening, brought a beautiful knock-out rose that weekend and even planted it in the garden for me. There it has bloomed every summer since. And in the fall, it blooms one last time before it settles down in its bed for winter hibernation.
More than half of the leaves on the tree I showed you yesterday are on the ground this morning. If I was going to get in pictures of the roses, yesterday was the day. Scattered around the bush were roses that are like your children. Some were buds, . . .
. . . others were opening just a bit, . . .
. . . some were half way there, . . .
. . . and one was in full bloom.
And everyone of them was exactly where it was supposed to be. No one was there asking why they weren’t all exactly the same and no one made a single one of them feel inferior because it was not at the same stage as the others. Each was glowing. One was even being a helper — it fed a moth that came to visit.
God made each of your children just right. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. They don’t all bloom at the same time either.
God created man in His own image,
in the image of God He created him;
male and female He created them.