I just came off a weekend of three back-to-back three funerals and a wedding, sandwiching the normal Sunday celebration. Pretty wiped out by the whole barrage. But somehow I found something meaningful to say to the grieving families. Somehow I could offer some solace and support. Somehow no one went careening off the rails of healthy grieving.
In my Sunday sermon I suggested that the widow who put her last two dimes into the collection plate was actually a dupe, conned by the self-righteous scribes, like some old biddy signing over her welfare check to a slick televangelist.
But her heart was in the right place. And guess who happened to be observing her every move? Talk about love.
Sometimes I feel like I'm a mite short of two mites. But somehow, God takes the negligible little bits that I have to offer, and adds His limitless grace to it, and it comes out all right. Somehow.
|Come to think of it, |
there may be a slight