The Unseen Enemy

There are three unexplainable events that go on continuously in our home:

1. We have enough dirty laundry for at least six people. All the time. Even though I am chained to the washer and dryer daily.

2. We have enough trash in EVERY available waste basket, trash can, etc., all the time. At least enough trash for a family of nine.

3. We have enough dirty dishes to fill both dishwashers, both sinks, and possibly every available counter top in the kitchen every day. I do not own this many dishes. And I usually go to bed with a clean kitchen, left sparkling and pristine.

Who loathes me enough to do this?

What have I done to call down upon my head this misery of on-going torture?

What monster has the power of such onslaught, day after day after day?

Is our house haunted by a ghostly slob who revels in his (and it has to be a he, a female wouldn't be caught dead, pardon the pun, exhibiting such slovenly behavior) ability to rain havoc upon my cleanliness?

I am not even mentioning the way the bathrooms can sometimes look, or the thick layer of grime covering my furniture.

Where do I go for help? Who am I gonna call?

Ghost Dusters?

Good-Bye Garden, Hello Fall

Two days ago I picked the last tomato from our garden. We planted late so that we could have some tomatoes as late as possible. I think we made the right decision.

Yesterday, Husband grubbed taters, and we have enough for a big serving. He planted too much stuff in our raised bed, and this kept us from having a lot, but these will still be good for dinner.

I walked by earlier today, and there was one lone onion sticking up from the ground. I pulled it up, brought it in and cleaned it up to eat.

There is nothing left that I can see.

All to do now is to clean the site up, pulling up the dead vines and putting away the tomato cages.

I love the fall of the year, I really do.

But this - this just sorta makes me sad.

Sooner or Later, It Had to Happen

I've been in the know for years, but most have not.

Vegans feel that they are so above us meat munchin crew because we eat dead stuff. Like animals, and chickens and fishies for that matter.

Well, now the truth is out. According to this really cool blog BY A SCIENTIST!!!, the sweet smell of freshly mown grass is really a cry for help from the grass itself. It is in response to the "physical wounding the grass has received from the lawn mower".

Ouch.

The way I found out about the plants feeling pain (think of romping in the grass now, why don't cha?)was from watching "The Twilight Zone".

When I was a growing girl, your education was not rounded out unless you watched "The Twilight Zone" every week at ten p.m., then were so frozen in fear to the couch you couldn't get to your bed and everyone else in the house was sound asleep.

One episode dealt with this poor man, who for some reason, had suddenly developed the ability to hear plant life.

The thing that horrified me and shook me to the core, was when a tree was being cut down and we, the audience, were permitted to hear the groaning and screaming coming from the mighty oak as it was felled.

I was a tree hugger before the show...and after the show? Well.

So,back to my question: What are vegans going to do?

Meat, fish and fowl are out.
Dairy products are out.
Now, all plant life is out.

What's left?

Water (unless they develop guilt regarding all the live stuff swimming around in the water that I presume they kill when they drink it...) Well, unless it kills them first, of course.

Ramen noodles and margarine ( I hear they are both really plastic)

And surely rice cakes, as they do not taste like food, but cardboard.

Oh, wait. Cardboard comes from trees.

Ya'll vegans are in a world of hurt.

Just like the grass.

The Way to Pass a Happy Little Afternoon

For some self-deprecating, depressing, underlying sadistic reason, I counted up  how long I'd been out of high school.

I feel like, about, oh, say, twenty years.

It's been like, about, oh, say, a lot more.

We'll leave it at that.

Then I went on to cheer myself and count how many of my graduation class are deceased.

Eleven have passed away since graduation, all but two of them male. Two males also died before we ever even got out of high school.

Some of us folks who are remaining are in pretty bad shape, a few, I know have terminal illnesses.

A friend called me not long ago, and told me that one of our classmates has been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's Disease.

Looking at all the deaths, you  have to take a moment and wonder about the male population. The two females who have died both had health issues from birth. At least they  had an excuse. Males have died from: gunshot (2), heart attack due to alcoholism, lightning strike, diabetes due to alcoholism, a fast acting bacterial infection, a car wreck, a heart attack (genetic/hereditary) and one lost at sea.

Husband says he is surprised any males make it past the age of twenty-five, due to their risk taking behaviors ("Hey, ya'll watch this!")

I guess this may prove him right.

I am now trying to figure out what I could do to further cheer up my evening.

I think I'll go take my blood pressure.

It's always a little high.

I, myself, have been on television today. Granted, it's the local station and two guys from an insurance company talked (on and on) about - guess what? - insurance, before it was my turn. At least by then all my nervousness was gone, replaced by a state of stupor, which occurs anytime anyone talks about insurance.

It was fun, though. I got to read an excerpt from "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree", and talk about my new, upcoming book, "The Year of Nine: Where the Rain Begins". Hopefully I behaved  myself and will be invited back in November when my new book is released.

By the time the show was over, the adrenalin was pumping, and I was starving. Daughter and I went out to eat and had a great meal.

The waitress brought our bill, I put my card in the jacket, she whisked it away, but came back a few minutes later.

"I don't think this is the card you wanted to give me."

I thought, 'Why wouldn't I want to give you my card?', then looked at it. Took a second or so until I realized I was staring at my library card.

Daughter and I burst into laughter, as did the waitress. She confessed to not even looking at it and trying to run it through the machine with no success.

I've always heard you never could tell what bizarre, erratic behavior us TV stars are liable to exhibit.

I guess they are right.

Six Little Words

"Momma, I've been in a wreck." Trembling voice, shallow breathing.

Somewhere in my mind, I know the good news is it is Daughter's voice and not a policeman at my door.

"How bad? Are you hurt?"  My whole body feels lit up.

"I'm not hurt, except where the airbag deployed. I hit a truck."

"Where are you?"
She was almost home. Three miles away.

"I"ll get dressed. I"ll be right there. Your daddy is on the road headed your way in the truck. I can't reach him, so he'll just show up any minute. Let him see you first thing."

"Okay."

"I'll be right there."

I put on a half way decent shirt and pants, grabbed my purse, turned on my phone, got my keys out of the door, praying, praying.

My car had been having a bit of a hesitancy before starting for a few days, and I had called about a battery this morning. They urged me to take it to the garage first, to make sure it wasn't something besides the battery, as my battery is only a few years old.

The hesitancy was much worse, but it started and I kept telling myself to not drive like a maniac. NO tears!  I said. I heard myself whimper once.

I pulled in, and there she was. In one piece. Her car was in the middle of the road, bashed in. Water and antifreeze was all over the road. The truck's front tire was hanging limply from the truck, but otherwise didn't look hurt.

She came to me. I held her for a minute. She showed me her arm that was burned from the airbag. I asked the boy who was driving the truck if he was okay. He said he was.

The ambulance came screaming up the road. I was so thankful I was there and had seen Daughter before I heard that. They talked to both of them and seemed satisfied that there was no real injury to either of them.

The deputy pulled up. He was as kind as he could be. He asked Daughter three times if she had been wearing her seat belt. She kept telling him she had.

She was preparing to make a left turn and glanced at the little ones playing in the yard on the right side of the road, and as she looked again, she also started moving. The truck was on her before she could do anymore that collide.

Of course, it is her fault. She has a summons to appear in court, but the state patrolman told her to call in the morning, she probably wouldn't really have to go to court.

They towed away both vehicles and we were told we were all free to leave.

She talked to our insurance company for fifteen minutes.

Boyfriend, who showed up before the mess was over,  followed us to the garage. The battery in my car is dead, but they promised to have it ready to go first thing in the morning.

Then we all left in Boyfriend's car.

Daughter and I held hands all the way home.

Shaming the Family

I spent a good deal of my day in Canton today, first at a doctor's office, then lunch (I call it lunch instead of dinner cause it was out to eat and it was not The Cracker Barrel), and then Daughter pleaded to go into Target and look at a jacket she had seen upon her last visit several weeks ago and had been coveting ever since.

She now had some money in her pocket and was set on buying that jacket. I warned her I couldn't stay in there very long, because I had to be in fairly good shape (low pain) to make any sense when I got to my publisher's.

Somewhere on the way toward the coveted jacket, I would have made my granny ashamed of me. I didn't know it at the time, at least give me that.

You see, I've been in dire need of some new drawers. I guess all mine are wearing out at the same time because they were all purchased at the same time. Anyway, I saw a shelf as we passed by, and on the way back out I purchased a pack of three.

They are good drawers. They actually come up to my waist and circle my legs snugly, instead of looping way up toward my appendix. I've never liked low slung drawers, at least not since I've weighed more than a house cat. I see a lot of women (and girls, too) who could benefit from wearing some "granny panties". They wear a sleek dress and you can see every hump and bump. If they would wear drawers up to their waist, it would smooth a lot of that mess out.

Anyway, after my publisher's meeting, we went on home, where I tried to die, as I felt like I was going to anyway. But an hour of bed rest helped some, so here I am, not dead.

I decided to open the pack of panties and read washing instructions, etc.

They are guaranteed to stay in great shape, wash after wash, which is good. It says no problem to put them in the dryer, either.

But then it said: Do NOT iron.

Oh, lord.

Granny always ironed her drawers.

I'm going back to bed and cover my head up with the quilt. Perhaps, since she's in Heaven, she'll forgive me.

I promise to read the instructions before purchasing next time - but I still ain't gonna iron them suckers, and that's not the point. The point, at least in Granny's eyes, was that everyone would at least assume your drawers was ironed.

Ah, Granny. I don't even iron my shirts. I think they have been on to me for a long, long time.

But  you still love me, don't you, Granny?

Granny?

Attack!

We are under attack.

What sounds like gun shots are hitting our house. A sharp crack! echoes throughout the house every few minutes, sometimes rapid fire, sometimes only single shots.

It's making a nervous wreck out of the cats. Eli, the muscle man, is crouching every few minutes, then trotting to the window to do lookout duty. When he can see nothing amiss, he goes about his business, only to be in the crouch position a few seconds later.

I'm beginning to get fearful of walking outside. I've considered an umbrella, but would that really be protection from the harsh warlike assaults?

The danger isn't over after the ammunition hits the ground, either. Hundreds of round, slick objects cover the ground, and I feel like someone is going to do a vaudevillian act, their feet moving rapidly back and forth, while their arms are flapping above their head as though attempting flight, before landing on their tush.

That someone will probably be me.

What have we ever done to deserve this treatment?

Why are we being assaulted?

Do the oak trees hate us so much, they are trying to kill us all? It's like the trees in "The Wizard of Oz", only worse. Being hit by apples can't hurt as badly as being pelted by acorns.

If you come to my house wear a helmet.

And tie a pillow around your bottom so the fall won't be too bad.

It Starts...

Well, I'm on the cusp of a new book.

Makes me feel tingly all over.

Monday, I deliver to my publisher a thumb drive - this little thing that holds all the information needed for my book, and it's on the size of - well, a thumb.

Photos for cover creation: check
Acknowledgements:  check
Dedication Page:  check
What others are saying about Kathi's previous books:  check
Table of Contents: check
Manuscript:  uh, not so fast.

Daughter, who is giving the book one last look see before I take the plunge and send her (the book, not Daughter) off, has 47 more pages to proof.

She has till tomorrow evening.

Also, the talk show host of a local TV station contacted me and I will be her guest Thursday morning at 11:00 a. m.  You locals, please watch if you can. I'd appreciate it!

My boss for the newspaper (funpaper) I write for asked me how it was all coming, as book signings are around the corner. I'm hoping everything will come together in a timely manner.

It's exciting for me. Book signings, where I get to see people I don't often see, and where people get to see each other, too. And there's always a funny story or two going on.

Sometimes I even sell a book or two.

Each book I've written is very different than the books that have come before it - and they are different from one another.

When I can't do that anymore, I'll quit.

Here's hoping I don't have to quit for a long, long time.

Experience the power of a bookbook™ Something that will do away with e-books!

Bad Moon Rising

Do you ever wake up at, like, 3:00 a.m. with your feet on fire? Just because you used new medicine for neuropothy and you get a chemical like burn from it on all TEN toes. And, then, like, you use cold water, aloe gel, cold water, belly hurts and you eat a graham cracker (that you wake Husband up to go get because you are too busy sweating and almost fainting, so you figure after he carts you back to bed, he can go downstairs, right? I mean, he's already up). Anyway, then you can't find the Solarcaine for burns, so you wake Daughter up (by now it's 4:00 a.m.) and she crawls up under the cabinet and finally locates it. She goes back to bed, but when she hears me tell Husband I think I'm going to throw up she barrels down the stairs and hides in the sun room. You get relief for maybe ten minutes before the burning starts again, so you give up and take a Benadryl, which keeps you knocked out all morning and drowsy and thick headed (more than usual) all day. It doesn't help the feet much, and you wind up washing everything off before you pass out at 6:00 a.m. and putting Desitin and socks on, which helps a little.

Do you ever have nights like that?

Me, too.

Behind Every Great Man...

You know the saying, "Behind every great man is a woman tugging on his sleeve"?

It's true.

Most of us know that it is the woman who keeps the home in some semblance of acceptance if company drops by.

Sometimes I think if it weren't for me, a dish would never get washed.

What if I die?

Paper plates, I guess.

Anyway, anyone who has ever had a husband has probably saved him from some sort of gaffe regarding dress, inappropriate remarks, behavior, etc.

Some days, it's a full time job.

Yesterday in church proved my point that the whole thing is a genetic encoding or something.

A toddler, not quite two years old, ran up the  middle isle of the church as the choir was filing in. He had a pen in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. His paci was stuck firmly in his mouth.

Suddenly, instead of his mother appearing, as I supposed would happen, another toddler appeared, this one less than two also, with a paci in place.

However; this was a female. She stood behind the boy, tugged on his sleeve to get his attention, and kept looking back as if you say, "Will some adult come here and rescue this mess? He won't listen to me!"

I knew it right then, though.

Women are always behind the guy, trying to make social rules stick in his thick skull.

She's got a long road ahead of her.

You know, in the Bible, God says in the first book, Genesis, "I will make a helper who is like him." God is talking about the first man, Adam, and he proceeds to make the first woman, Eve.

God used the Hebrew word "ezer" when he said "helper". That word is only used twenty other times in the entire Old Testament. And in every other instance, the person being described is God Himself.

It's used when we need Him to come through desperately. Most of the contexts are life and death, and God is the only hope.

So, a better translation here is lifesaver.

God looked at Adam and said:"I will make a lifesaver who is like  him."

Boy howdy.

That cost HOW much??

When Husband and I got married, 29 years ago, a loaf of bread was 89 cents. This was the best bread you could buy, and if you waited until the end of the week, you could get it for 69 cents.

I remember when it went up to $1.09 and I was outraged!

It is now $3.18 and on sale. The loaf of bread width is smaller, as is the length.

What, they think we don't notice?

Gum is smaller, buns are smaller, candy bars are smaller, even toilet paper, for crying out loud, is more narrow.

Where does it end? (no pun intended)

My grocery bill has sky rocketed, and we are about to be on a very rigid budget, allowing as how we've had a deduction take place in the income area of said budget.

I reckon soup beans and corn bread can still keep a person alive.

Husband would eat that every day anyway, if it was served to him, and never complain at all.

He'd also like an onion, if available, but if not, oh, well.

I almost never buy new clothes (as those who see me Sunday after Sunday in my 1990's dresses can attest).

My weaknesses are things like quilts, lamps, dishes, that sort of thing.

But I ain't buying them much, either.  For two reasons: 1. No money 2. No place left to put 'em.

I remember we thought we'd be rich as soon as we didn't have to buy formula, baby food and diapers anymore.

Well, Daughter is 24 years old, so it's been a while and our bank account looks dismal.

Don't get me wrong. We aren't starving, we aren't about to lose our home or car or anything drastic.

I am just observing that prices keep going up and salaries keep going down.

Yet, the news tells us how great everything is!

I have two questions:

1. What are they smoking?
2. Who is buying them off to say stuff like that?
3. Where can I get the job?

Okay, that's three questions, but the last one is just a joke.

Sorta.

Time Flies

My hair, I noticed, is not behaving. It looks okay the day I wash it and "Fix" it. But the next day it's bedraggled.

I looked on the calendar and could not believe that it has already been three months since my last permanent. No way! Why, it's been six weeks at the most.

Only not.

I'm telling you: if this time speeding by faster than a bullet doesn't stop, I'm either going to quit putting up Christmas decorations, or stop taking them down.

My monthly bills seem like every two week bills, the end of the month is here before it should be the fifteenth, and so on

At this rate, I'll be sixty years old before you know it.

Oh. Wait....

Invisible Threads

I'm sure you've  noticed the giant spider webs that are artfully woven between two trees, or your car and fence (you really notice these when  you walk into them face first).

And, I'm sure you know the reason you walk into them face first as they are invisible, unless viewed from certain angles. The light has to be just right in order for their shimmering essence to be seen.

If you are viewing them from a distance, say at least a foot away from your face, you can appreciate the beauty, the intricacies, the fragile weave that is created by the spider, the artist.

Isn't it interesting  how our relationships with other people are like that?

If viewed from a distance, and from a certain light, we can see the web that is formed in our lives; the beauty, the artwork, the careful weaving the dance of relationship has formed.

Also, when we hit it face first, we may see nothing but the ugliness, the sticky, ensnared mess we have made.

Sometimes it takes something little, like a spider, to see something big.

Like relationships.

There Are Books Everywhere, Yet I Am Compelled to Write Another....

I have five published books: "Falling", The Crow and The Wind", "The Christmas Closet and Other Works", "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree", and "Signs from God"

I have another book in its final proofing and am fretting over the cover as we speak. I want it out before Christmas for obvious reasons. (You do give books as gifts, don't you?)

I can walked into Barnes and Nobel or browse Amazon.com and see so many books it boggles the mind.  And yet...

I am already writing another one.

It's like something inside wells up and must spill out. My mind becomes overtaken by these characters, and I think of them (and hear them think) as much or more than ya'll who surround me.

Spooky, ain' it?

I've sold around a thousand books, all told.

Not very many, if you are Stephen King.

But for me, it is almost unbelievable.

I mean, my mother just doesn't have that much money.

But that fact (the number sold, not my mother's financial situation) is not the reason I keep writing. Of course, I want somebody to read what I write. That's why I check how many people read my blog every day. (One day 127 read it. Some days only 15 people read it).

I am obviously not a New York Best Seller, but I bet their heads are as busy as mine.

I don't think we are that much different.

Well, except the bank account thing.

That's different.

Anyway, come late fall/early winter "The Year of Nine: Where the Rain Begins" will be published, and I'll be saying pretty please come to my book signings and annoying you with a little bit of self serving advertisement.

Meanwhile, I'm writing another book.

I'll keep ya posted, whether you want to be or not.

Off Ya Go!

I'm reading a book wherein a grandmother gets fed up with her out-of-work-working-on-becoming-a-drunk son and shrew of a wife, plus a slew of grandchildren. She and her husband are half-supporting them to keep the children from starving, and finally she buys them tickets to America in the early 1900's and never looks back.

How harsh, you say. And yes, it was. How could  you do that to grandchildren you love, knowing their chances were slim to none of doing much but going hungry?

But I started thinking: Is there any of us who at some point in time, at least for a moment, hasn't yearned to put some of our family on a boat out to sea and give 'em the old heave ho?

An aging, tyrannical parent? A rebellious teen? Someone who has angered you, hurt you, embarrassed you and the whole dang family, made you ashamed of them? Even for just a fleeting spec of time, the vast ocean seemed the answer, right?

Sure you have.

To be shed of the problem suddenly and forever, so you can get back to your happy place and no longer worry, fret, simmer or cringe every time you thought about them.

Of course, most of us get past that moment and buck up and face whatever the issue is, but still...

You know, God did that. He put his children on a boat and sent them off to sea. Noah and his family, all that were left for God to claim.

But He did it to save them, not Himself.

That's the difference between God the Creator and His created. 

That, right there.

Secret Code

I'm sure at your house you have stuff you say to one another that others would have no idea what you meant if they were within hearing distance.

We talk about Maggie at our house like she's a dog. She's actually our  GPS system, and the poor girl doesn't always make the wisest decisions.

When something doesn't work anymore, we say:"It is D.E.D. dead ma'am." that comes from someone I once knew who said that, and I brought it home.

"I'm full as a bull." Meaning we have eaten almost too much. This comes from a little boy my mother kept who got someone being full of bull a little confused.

My husband has a habit of saying, "Good girl!" If one of us (Daughter or myself) has done something that pleases him. He also, of course, said that to Molly, our dog, all the time, and Daughter took umbrage with it. So, every time he exclaims, "Good girl!" to one of us, we respond, "Woof!"

Hasn't made a whit of different.

My husband has a way of saying something to me in mid-thought. Thus, I have no idea what he had started thinking about, since he didn't say that part out loud. I say, "What are you talking about, Mae Webb?" Because Ms. Webb was a lady who lived when I was a tiny child and apparently did that mid-thought thing a lot, and my family asked that to indicate they had no idea what you were talking about.

If we like a video, we yell, "Again!", which comes from the Baby Dinosaur on the defunct show, "Dinosaurs".

We say, "I lush you" instead of "I love you" sometimes, which comes from Husband's family.

If someone says "You make me sick." the automatic response is "You was already sick!" which comes from Husband's father, who always responded that way to him.

At our house, it is always, "Sleep good." NOT "Sleep well." When Husband and I first married, he told me to 'sleep good', and being the wild and crazy girl I am, I told him to 'sleep well.' He turned on  me like a top. "NO!" he exclaimed. "Mama and Daddy have always told us to all sleep good and I want us to do the same for each other and our kids."

And so we have.

If I get interrupted  one too many times while trying to read, I threaten, "I'm going to start reading this out loud!" which gets protests galore.

We may answer "Otay" instead of okay, and that comes from Petey Fisk in "Greater Tuna".

If one of us asks for help, as in "Make me a sandwich," the response is always, "Poof! You're a sandwich." This shows our compassionate side.

If one of us is eating something and we are asked if it tastes good, the reply may be, "It's goodern snuff."

Calling woodpeckers "wicker packers" and photo albums "Moxie Pounds" and "What's that racket-noise?" and "It's cuteful, don't you fink?" All come from Daughter's toddlerhood.

"I'm sweatin' like a sinner at revival!" Comes from a book I wrote in which a character said such.

And on and on.

Welcome to my family.  Hope you sleep good tonight.

Billboards

We have become a country of walking billboards.

Last night at Bible Study, with around 60 people or so present, there were several billboards represented.

I, myself, had on a t-shirt advertising the News(fun)paper I am employed by. (Hi, Thia!)

I saw several auto auction t-shirts. The owners gave away t-shirts last Wednesday, so I guess people felt obliged to dress themselves and their children in them.

I saw a tree cutting service t-shirt, a tire shop t-shirt, a gas company t-shirt and several ball game/sports oriented t-shirts, also a few pop band advertising t-shirts. Throw in a Mickey Mouse, Thomas the Train Engine and a Dora the Explorer and that about wraps it up.

Why do we do this? Some of it, of course, is obvious. Free shirts, or advertising the place that you own or work for seems rational.

Sports, kiddie t.v. fans, etc. becomes a little less clear to me. I suppose it's because it's what one is excited about, eager to talk about or watch/listen to.

So, why at Bible Study, was there not one Christian symbolic t-shirt?

Just askin.....

The Sound of Silence

In Bible Study we somehow got around to talking about how we don't spend enough time in silence before God. That early morning prayer time with God the Father is obedience, because the Christ did that.

I asked everyone to make a determination to start doing this today, which I did.

When we went into corporal worship, the preacher preached on stillness and silence before God.

I think he had his ear pressed up against our door.

As he was talking yesterday, I realized that a lot of times when I am silent, my head begins to write, and characters begin to speak, and I watch a scene unfold before me.

That has bothered me some. But God speaks to us in different ways, and I believe He has given me the gift of story telling, and He has to give the stories first.

Anyway, this morning I sat on the back porch, read the 3rd Psalm, read about the 3rd Psalm, and asked  God to speak to me.

I took off my glasses and was engulfed by a Monet painting - everything became fused together, the leaves dreamily soft, the dogwoods reds blending with the greens. The lipstick red geranium's one bloom shimmered before me.

And sounds became louder, more distinct. The birds chattering to one another, the squirrels arguing over something, the wind bustling through the leaves.

I love Monet's work.

And it came because of a visual disability that grew worse with time.

That startled me.

You see, I have had a hard time with my own disability. I have seen no good come from it, no one helped, no wisdom gleaned.

But I never wrote a book until I was in excruciating pain and unable to stay in bed and sleep.

I don't think I'd ever moved to that place, instead I would have kept working with my short stores and my poems and my essays.

My books may  not be great literature, but I do know for a fact they have brought laughter and tears to many, and I have been told folks have been blessed by something I have shared through the stories in my books.

So, finally, maybe, I have stumbled upon something.

Maybe my disability slowed me down enough to do what God had in mind all along.

Food for thought, that.