The French Fries at the Bottom of the Bag

Don't act like you don't stop at McDonald's for the occasional order of french fries. And that is because they are the:

Best.
French.
Fries.
Ever.

You know how you thoughtlessly munch on those hot sticks of salty manna and come to the bottom of the box and don't feel anymore in there? You immediately jerk to attention and start scooting your hand around the bag for more? And there at the bottom of the bag lies two more french fries. And you feel relief/exhilaration/victorious as if they are the golden ticket to Willy Wonka's factory. There's a scientific principle at work here. It is this:

There will always be french fries at the bottom of the bag...even when you don't feel anymore left in the box.

I experience this phenomenon on almost a daily basis.

This past weekend my most of my family gathered in Nashville for the celebration of Belle's first year with us. Belle, in case you don't know, is the most beautiful baby girl on this planet. My son's daughter. She's a sassy mix of rainbow and butterflies and jalapeno. It was a whirlwind weekend in which we were there not even 30 hours. Not even a day and a half.

I'm not a good leaver.

It's ALWAYS hard for me to say goodbye to one of my loved ones. (especially when there's a baby in the mix.) I am usually sad for an hour or two after we back out of the driveway. This time I was really down for some reason even though I knew we weren't going to be there long and I knew we wouldn't have much one on one time and I was totally prepared for it...just glad to be going to the party. The fact that I was also getting a migraine headache didn't help either. You know the kind that makes you throw up?

So I'm laying on the foam mattress in the back of the van on the way home, waiting for my medicine to kick in, and this happens... I find the french fries at the bottom of the bag.

A hand reaches over the back seat of the van and starts gently scratching my back and massaging my temples. Then a conversation ensues from the two persons in the back seat, one of whom is scratching my back.

Bobby: "I'm picking my nose."
Grandaddy (from the front seat): "Bobby, don't pick your nose...you might stick your finger in your brain."
Bobby: "Mommy, can I die if I pick my nose?"
Andrea: "No Bobby. You won't die. You can pick your nose if you need to. I don't care." 
Bobby: "Mommy can I give oo a hug?"
Ange: "Of course, baby!"

Snippets of conversations between a mama and her three year old. Priceless.

I felt as if I was being given a special gift at that moment. A gift wrapped in blonde hair. Two kinds of blonde hair: spiky with dark roots and fuzzy like a duckling hair.

Thank you God for the gifts you give. The ones that show up when the french fry box is empty.

"I give you thanks, O LORD, with my whole heart…I bow down toward your holy temple and give thanks to your name for your steadfast love and your faithfulness, for you have exalted above all things your name and your word." Ps. 138:1-2
Amen.


P.S.
Happy Birthday, Karen. ♥