This is a big deal of a test. The administrator dude has attempted to teach me how to post for myself. If this is a success then we will have thoroughly obliterated the no longer truism that you can’t teach old dogs new tricks. If it doesn’t work then you’ll never know. So there. Here we go:
Where have you been? I have been aiming to write with some measure of consistency, but you just show up kind of whenever you want to, seemingly without rhyme or reason. Just kidding! I appreciate you, o faithful reader. You have learned that it is I who just disappears for vast stretches of time. For that, please forgive me. I may drop off the map again, but I have had a burst of recommitment and I now have a plan to do weekly posts to DavidShivar.com. Prepare to be inundated. Call your friends and neighbors!
Here’s the new deal (that has nothing to do with Franklin Roosevelt, who I definitely did not vote for, because I wasn’t born yet): I try to write devotionally just to encourage and build up fellow believers. I’ll still do that. But I’m occasionally going to do something different. Brief historical interlude: As most of you know my father died back on January 6. My dad was a great story teller. He loved to tell stories that he mostly made up about his childhood. I have a genuine regret: I wish more people had heard his stories. His primary audience was mom, brother, and me. I do not have his creative imagination or story telling ability, but I did inherit a love to make up and tell stories. So I’m going to tell you some stories. I may even bring up some of his, but mine revolve around a family in Croweville, TN. I hope you will be able to tell the difference between exposition of Scripture and a made up story because I may do one or the other as I so desire. I hope you can handle that. So here is a little introduction:
For as long as she could remember Shirley loved flowers. While other children anticipated the end of the school day to play sports, go to work, or visit with friends, Shirley watched the clock with eager excitement of tending to her flowers. Maybe it was the bit of color in an otherwise dark world. Shirley had experienced a difficult life in ways that we need not explore here and perhaps the beauty of her flowers allowed some wonder to slip its way into the corners of that life. Maybe she just enjoyed the solitude, the feel of the soil, the fresh aroma of blossoms. I’m no psychologist so I really can’t say, she just found tremendous joy in her flowers. It was no surprise then that as Shirley grew older and began to allow her mind to begin to shape what her future life may be like, she often found herself daydreaming of children. Nurturing and tending and watching them grow and blossom in love. She wanted lots of children and she determined that she would name every child after a flower. That’s how we arrive at this moment in Croweville. Shirley has grown up, married a local man, Jedidiah Jackson, a car mechanic who could fix anything, settled down and had a big brood of children. We’ll meet them next time. Until then, peace out and party on.