“Don't feel entitled to anything you didn't sweat and struggle for.” --Marian Wright Edelman

So I have a problem at work.  Well, not necessarily a problem, but a frustration.  There is one employee who hinted yesterday that he would really like some jam or preserves to be provided for his toast in the morning, as we already have butter.  True, the company does provide basic condiments from time to time like butter, ketchup, mayo, and mustard, but beyond that, it's pretty much up to everyone else.  Well, he asked yesterday, and this morning, there was no jam, jelly, or preserves available for his toast.  Therefore, he griped about it under his breath while I was heating up my hot-pocket.

This is also the same person who gripes about running out of coffee and sugar, when he drinks at least a pot of coffee every day, while everyone else has one or two cups.  What he can't seem to understand is that the only thing the company is required to supply is good drinking water--which we do.  There is a water cooler with no fewer than four FULL bottles sitting next to it at all times.  All requirements have therefore been met.  If the company runs out of coffee, it is unfortunate, and will soon be rectified, but it is nothing to have a hissy fit over.  If we run out of sugar (as we do every week because someone is stealing 2.5 pounds of sugar at a time), it is again unfortunate, but nothing to raise a ruckus for days over.  And if the company does not provide you jam, then oh well.  That is not the company's obligation.

My frustration, I think, is his sense of entitlement.  Actually, I think it's the overall sense of entitlement around here.  Everyone here, who works for a construction materials testing lab, feels entitled to 8-5 hours.  The construction world doesn't work 8-5 so neither do we.  Each feels entitled to the cush jobs that require almost nothing of you, and then complain about how much they get paid when they get them.  Of course, on the flip side, every contractor feels entitled to have his job placed at top priority on the books, because we have "a contract with them."  They know very well that we have a contract with all of our clients, and that we have a "24 hour notice" stipulation in every contract.  If we are not notified 24 hours in advance, we are not obligated to supply them with a tech.  So technically, if they have a nine a.m. pour, and they call at four p.m. the day before, we are not contractually obligated to make that job.  But they're entitled to one an hour from now.

Then again, I come from an entitled generation.  I blame the parents, not video games.  Well, I also partly blame the internet for instant gratification, which leads to entitlement, but mostly I blame parents.  Your kid is not entitled to everything.  They are entitled to live free of abuse with plenty of food, and if you can't provide that for them, then they are entitled to get it from a caring foster parent.  Of course, I believe that you are not entitled to take them back, but must earn them back, but I'm not in charge.  Otherwise, your kids are not entitled to anything.  They are not entitled to go to the best school.  They are not entitled to go to college.  It's unfortunate but true.  By "entitling" kids to things they have no right claiming, we are robbing them of their natural talents and capabilities.  God did not create us with no purpose.  We all have one, but we also all have to work to fulfill them.

God also did not promise us comfort, so we are not entitled to a comfortable life.  Those who promise that you will have wealth if you just follow God are lying.  What God does promise, is to never leave you (Matthew 28:20).  He is always watching you (Psalm 33:18). And he does promise that HIS joy, not the world's joy, will come to you (Psalm 30:4-5).  THAT, beloved, is what God promises those who seek him.

"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas" --Bing Crosby singing Irving Berlin's classic

That's a lie.  I am doing no such thing.  I would never dream of a white Christmas at such a southern locale.  I have decided to never go through a snow in a place not equipped with snow plows ever again.  It really stinks.  And since I'm dreaming of spending Christmas at my parents house (in scenic Mobile, AL), I am decidedly not dreaming of a White Christmas.

Had Christmas early with my friends on Sunday night since Kim left yesterday.  Kim had picked out and received her present when we went shopping on November 14, so there was nothing for me to wrap up for her. I got Hayden a tank for Munson his fish along with some black rocks to go along the bottom (Munson is Georgia red, the rocks are black, and apparently somebody Munson is the "Voice of the Dawgs" or some such name).  For Justin, I got a Blockbuster gift card, as hardly a week goes by when he's not going to Blockbuster.  I picked the one with a heat sensitive spot that is supposed to help you pick out what kind of movie you wanna watch.

Justin got Hayden WWII the complete DVD set (from History Channel or something) and Kim got him the Office DVD game.  Hayden didn't go shopping yet, what with graduation and entertaining family members and whatnot.

Kim got me the hardware I wanted for my chiforobe (or however you spell that ridiculous word).  They're bronze-finished and they look like they have green glass handles.  Justin got me Beatles glasses which rock.  He remembered that I liked the Beatles, which is true, though, I'm impressed because I've mentioned it maybe twice ever in our acquaintance.  It makes me want to hunt up that episode of the Power Puff Girls where they speak in nothing but Beatles lyrics.  That's my favorite episode.

“Most hard-boiled people are half-baked.” --Wilson Mizner

I make phenomenal cheddar-garlic biscuits.  No, really, I do.  They taste a whole stinkin' lot like Red Lobster's, but are actually way easier than the recipe that Red Lobster published.  Want it?  Okay.  Here goes.

Ingredients:

• 2 cups all-purpose flower
• 2 1/4 teaspoon baking powder
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1 heaping tablespoon white sugar
• 1 stick chilled butter, chopped into little chunks
• 1 1/4 cup whole milk
• 2 teaspoons garlic powder (plus a pinch)
• 1 1/4 cups of shredded cheddar cheese

Steps:

1. Preheat an oven to 450° F or 230°C
2. Mix all powdered ingredients together (flower, baking powder, slat, sugar, and garlic).
3. Toss in the little chunks of butter and stir them into the dry mixture.  Don't worry about them blending, just make sure they're roughly evenly dispersed.
4. Pour in shredded cheddar cheese, and mix evenly.
5. Pour in ALL the milk, and stir until mixture is consistently sticky throughout (note: cheese and butter should still be distinguishable, but evenly dispersed).
6. On a baking stone or a greased cookie sheet spoon dollop-sized globs (or whatever size you prefer), making sure to leave room between them (they may double in width).  
7. Cook at 450° for eight minutes (for littler biscuits) or ten minutes (for larger biscuits).  Pull out of the oven when cheese is brown and bread is a dark yellow/light gold color.  

Caveats:

• I have never made these on a cookie sheet, so watch them carefully.  I only use my stone, and I know it cooks differently.
• If you have a stone, let it sit on the stone a little while after taking the stone out, to let the bottom cook more thoroughly.  Then, you should be able to lift the biscuits easily with a fork (works so much better than my spatula).
• You may want to go a little heavier on the garlic (depending on your affinity for garlic), or you may want to substitute some with seasoning salt (to give flavor without all the garlic).

And that's it.  You may have never made biscuits without Bisquik before, but this recipe is almost as easy as making regular Bisquik biscuits.  The ONLY time consuming thing is dicing the stick of butter, but it's still pretty easy.  Dicing the butter is best in this recipe, because as the butter melts, it gives that fantastic taste.  The official "authentic" Red Lobster recipe calls for you to baste the tops of Bisquik biscuits, which is honestly no fun. And yes, Red Lobster really did release that recipe themselves.  If you'd like to try it, here it is:

Dough:

• 1 1/4 lbs. Bisquik
• 3 Oz. freshly shredded cheddar cheese
• 11 Oz. cold water

Garlic Spread:

• 1/2 cup melted butter
• 1 teas. garlic powder
• 1/4 teas. salt
• 1/8 teas. onion powder
• 1/8 teas. dried parsley

Steps:

1. To cold water, add Bisquik and cheese, blending in a mixing bowl.
2. Mix until dough is firm.
3. Using a small scoop, place the dough on a baking pan lined with baking paper. 
4. Bake in 375 degree oven for 10 to 12 minutes or until golden brown. 
5. While biscuits bake, combine spread ingredients.
6. Brush baked biscuits with the garlic topping.

Told you mine was easier.  

"Is not the festive season when families and friends exchange gifts in memory of The Gift...to send forth the good tidings of great joy into all the earth?' --Lottie Moon

I was talking one day with a Christian friend about Lottie Moon, and she didn't know who Lottie was.  I was scandalized.  It took me a moment to remember that Lottie was a Baptist, so if you're not Baptist you probably don't know who she is.  Of course, there are many Baptists who were never GA's or in the WMU so they never learned WHO Lottie was, they just heard her name at Christmas time when the church was begging money for the foreign missionaries.

The whole concept of not knowing who that amazing personage was is a bit traumatizing to me.  I hold her on high as a beacon.  I know we should strive to be like Jesus, but sometimes we need a flesh-and-blood model to watch.  For me, it's Lottie Moon.

She was a single missionary to China in a time when no single lady did anything.  She was born in Viriginia in 1840, and was a rascally young lady.  She was a prankster who hated authority and loved fun.  At eighteen, her mother's prayers were finally answered and she surrendered to God.  She went to college and became a teacher, before finally at age 33 accepting the call to go to China.

She stuck out sorely when she first arrived in China, despite the fact that she was only 4' 3" tall.  She still wore her American clothes.  The Chinese people, afraid of her differences, called her the "Foreign Devil."

Lottie was perplexed on how to make friends with the Chinese people.  She took two major actions to help bridge that gap.  The first, was to dress like them.  Paul said that he became all things to all people so that he might reach some.  Lottie did no different.  By donning the clothes of those around her, she was able to show them that she was willing to meet them were they were.

Her second major action, was that she won the hearts of the Chinese children.  How does one do that?  You feed them yummy things.  She started to make tea cookies for all the children in the villages she worked with.  After making pals with the children, they would invite her home to meet their mothers.  Through these relationships, she won people to Christ, and people stopped calling her the "Foreign Devil."   They started calling her the "Cookie Lady," instead.  And I don't know about you, but I can deal with being called the "Cookie Lady."  In fact, I have been called the "Brownie Lady" before.

She served the people of China for nearly forty years--through hardships, wars, and famine.  In fact, at one point she was giving away all of her food to her Chinese friends, knowing that she could do with less.  Unfortunately, her heart was larger than her needs.  In 1912 her missionary friends found out that she had nearly starved herself to death (she weighed only 50 pounds).  They put her on a ship against her will to take her back to the states to see proper doctors.  She died, though, on the ship while they were docked in Kobe Japan, still close to her to beloved China, on Christmas Eve.

What an awesome testimony.  In 1912, 72 wasn't particularly young.  She had lived a long, full life, and she had lived all but eighteen years of it for God.  Nearly forty were spent sharing with those who had never heard the Good News of Jesus.  And then, she died on the day before we celebrate the Lord's birth, after starving herself to death for others.  I think we could all do worse than Lottie.

Every year, the WMU (Women's Missionary Union) has a special offering time in the month of December to take up money for the International Missions Board.  In 1887, Lottie wrote to a foreign missions journal, asking for a time of giving to be set aside for foreign missions.  The ladies of the Baptist world took this as a rallying cry and formed the Women's Missionary Union (an auxilliary to the Southern Baptist Church), with the purpose to educate women and children about missions.  They also set aside the Christmas season to collect money for missionaries--just as Lottie asked.  The very first Christmas Offering was collected in 1888, and the grand total rang up to $3,315 (which would be worth about $77,000 today).  This was enough money to send three new missionaries to China.  Ever since then, the WMU has hosted a Christmas Offering.  In 1919, Annie Armstrong, the founder of the WMU, suggested that the Christmas Offering be named in Lottie's honor.  In 1926, the name change was official, and ever since then, the WMU has sponsored the Lottie Moon Christmas Offering.

I think about her alot this time of year.  I grew up in GA's, the WMU's program for young girls, and Lottie and Annie were our heroes.  They changed the world in a time when women didn't change anything.  They reminded us that our contributions, large and small, mattered--to God if to no one else.  Lottie was a miscreant and a trouble maker that no one ever thought would amount to anything.  But she did.

We're going caroling as a church next Wednesday, and returning for hot-cocoa and cookies.  I think I'll make some of Lottie Moon's tea cookies, though I think I'm just going to modify the measurements of her original recipe instead of making the "redone" recipe that the WMU provides.

Sources: 
IMB's Letter Archive (archives some of Lottie's letters)
Measuring Worth (value of money conversion)
Article on Lottie Moon (Wikipedia--the internet's most reliable resource.)
WMU's Lottie Moon Focus (Facts about Lottie, the Christmas Offering, and Cookie Recipe)

"Yesterday, December 7th, 1941 -- a date that will live in infamy..." --FDR

Or maybe just a date that sometimes flutters across the consciousness of America whenever the latest movie depicting the attack on Pearl Harbor comes out, and even then, the headlining actors are more memorable than the actual date.  I dug out my "Remember Pearl Harbor" pin, which is my favorite because it has an actual pearl in stead of the word pearl on the pin.  I pinned it on, and no one noticed.  It's frustrating.  Unless you're the History Channel or Turner Classic Movies, the day just slides right by with absolutely no notice.

I get upset, and I don't really know why, because I shouldn't expect any different.  I mean, it's not this generation's cause, and all those who remember are dying.  My grandfather was there, and he was an active member of the Pearl Harbor Survivor's.  Now their sons and daughters are taking over, but it's petering out altogether.  I don't expect people to know that army bases, like Fort Benning, were also attacked, not just the naval ships.  I don't expect them to know about both waves, and how the island was completely cut off from the main land out of fear, or how the people were half starving and the army lived off of pineapples in pineapple plantation.

I just wish they...remembered.  Though, I completely less 9/11 and the anniversary of Katrina pass by without acknowledgement.  It's not that I belittle their experiences...they just weren't mine.  Yes, I was alive for both, but I feel completely removed.  Even living in New Orleans, I felt removed from Katrina.  It wasn't my tragedy, and I can't put those shoes on.  However, I have a little Hawaiian dust that's nearly seventy years old on my shoes.

My grandfather died when I was eight.  Only eight.  I remember how much he loved me, though.  One thing he never talked about was the war.  A church member asked him to talk about it while he recorded it on video, which he did before he died.  To my knowledge, it was the only time he talked about it.  I watched the video, and my heart was torn in two.  That wasn't just a man on a TV.  That was MY grandfather.  He watched the skies rain down fire for two hours.  He was so close to his attackers that he could see their mustaches.  He lived illegally off of pineapples from a plantation because he was dropped there with the rest of his unit, and told that someone would return for them.  But no one did.  Not for a long time.

Maybe that's it.  Maybe it's the personal connection.  Even still, though, I know plenty of people whose whole worlds were changed by Katrina.  Is it because I walked in expecting that?  I never expected to be so moved by my grandfather's story, so when I was, it floored me.  Maybe because I loved him so much before I was aware.  I love my friends who survived Katrina, but they were already survivors in my eyes.  My grandfather wasn't until after he died.  Then again, maybe because no else has forgotten Katrina, I don't get offended, as I do with Pearl Harbor.

In Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South, Margaret Hale befriends those beneath her class in a mill-town in late nineteenth century northern England.  The inner city is horrid and crowded.  But as she makes friends, her opinion changes of the town.  At one point, she rushes to the rough side of town, running late for a visit with one of her new friends.

"As she went along the crowded narrow streets, she felt how much of interest they had gained by the simple fact of her having learnt to care for a dweller in them."

I guess that's why no one cares about Pearl Harbor survivors anymore.  They just don't know any.  I suppose I'm the last guard.

"Dawn: when men of reason go to bed." --Ambrose Bierce

I can't sleep.  Not really.  For some reason, it is fifty percent elusive.  I'm just awake enough to not be able to sleep, but I can hardly get anything done sensibly--like typing.  I apologize in advance for any mistakes ahead of time.  I'm just sleepy.  But not sleepy enough to sleep.  So I'm wakey?  Slakey?

One thing I've noticed is that I'm mostly frustrated right now, which makes me want to cry, which is totally unproductive in this case.  Crying will do nothing for me at this point.  My eyes are already sore, and that doesnt' help me sleep.

Kim and I found a Christmas tree today.  We found a fifty dollar tree at Big Lots that I quite like.  It's full enough, though a little thin, and plenty tall enough.  Too much taller, and we wouldn't be able to fit it in the living room.  All in all, it's the best thing for that price.

"Santa Claus has the right idea: visit people once a year." --Victor Borge

I was thoroughly traumatized as a child.  For some reason, I have always been afraid of people dressing up as other people/things.  For example, when we first moved to Pinson, Alabama, a Little Caesar's Pizza opened up on the same strip as our grocery store.  One day, my mother took me on what should have been a boring and mundaine grocery run, and it turned into one of the most traumatic events of my life.  As part of their grand opening, they hired someone to dress up in a Little Caesar's mascot costume thing (like Mickey Mouse but Little Caesar), and pass out pizza coupons at the nearby grocery store, namely the grocery store we went to most often.  And then, horror of horrors, he tried to touch me!  Not in a creepy way, just in a "Hey there little kid who normally likes giant characters" kind of way.  But I spazzed.  Mom said that for weeks after when we would get close to Food Giant, I would say, "No Caesar Man?"  And she would say, "No Caesar Man," and pray that she was right. 

Therefore, it should be obvious that I didn't like Santa.  But Momma had to have her Santa picture every year.  The results are hysterical.

That was my first Santa picture.  I look so pleased.  Look, they even tried to get me to hold a teddy bear to distract me.  Didn't work out.  Mind you, I was nearly a year old (my birthday isn't long after Christmas), so I knew that he was a creeper.

That's my mom trying to hold me down.  You can see her black hair if you look closely.  Notice how I tried to run away from Santa, yet she determinedly held me down.  I was nearly two and that was only a few months before the "No Caesar Man" incident.

Nearly three-years-old and I'm still not happy, though, not screaming.  The truly traumatic part came after this picture.  You see, at our church, Mr. Jim was the one who always dressed up every year as Santa (in fact, that's him in the picture).  He loved kids, he was the right size (tall but portly), and he had the costume.  So, we would have a Santa photo night at church.  That was the first year that I really understood, though, that Santa would come into my house.  So, for a few days after the photo, I would periodically panic about Santa coming into the house.  My mom PROMISED me he wouldn't come when I was awake, and he wouldn't bother me while I was asleep, so I never had to look at him.  She also promised that he would only come on Christmas Eve while I was asleep.  That was the year, though, that Mr. Jim started spending his Christmas Eve paying visits as Santa at the homes of various church members with children.  Most parents and children found this delightful--the children because they got a surprise from Santa, and the parents because the surprise was from a friend they could trust.  Mother said her heart dropped when he showed up on our doorstep.  I.  Flipped.  Out.  Santa had come while I was awake!  And it wasn't even bedtime yet!  Fortunately Mr. Jim had the good sense to drop the charade and took off his hat and beard to show me that it was just him. I calmed down appropriately as he told me that he was just one of Santa's helpers, and dressed up to pass out messages from Santa to all of the kids in Pinson.  He was just one man, after all, and couldn't be everywhere at once.  I calmed down, gave him a hug, and then clung to my mother after he left.  I think she had to lay down in my bed with me until I fell asleep that year.

Almost four here, and we finally got a smile.  I knew it was Mr. Jim, though I was sworn to secrecy, so I didn't spazz.  To my knowledge, that is the best Santa picture of me ever.  I can still remember that year being at preschool and not wanting my picture made.  At my preschool, every year they would take us into the small auditorium (my preschool was at a large church), and they fed us donuts and milk while we waited for our turn to get a picture with Santa.  After you got a picture with Santa, they gave you a candy cane for being such a good boy or girl (they really wanted us to be hyper, didn't they?).  I can remember mom and I discussing the fact that I didn't have to get my picture made with Santa, and that she wouldn't be sad if I didn't.  I can also remember waffling, because I wanted to be like the other kids and come back with a candy cane (even though I didn't like peppermint then).  I can remember getting in and out of line a half-dozen times.  I don't remember what I actually did in the end, though.

Oh childhood Christmas memories.  How traumatic.

"Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade." --do I really have to tell you?

So, Norco definitely has the greatest parades ever.  I mean, truly.  I know, I know, you're thinking, "but Norco only has like on road!"  Well, that's not entirely the truth.  We have two, and the parade goes up one and down the other.  So there.

But seriously, it was fantastic!  We had the parade staples like marching bands, floats, local festival queens sitting on convertibles, shriners in dune buggies, fire trucks, Santa Claus, dance schools, horses (though, ours had fleur-de-lis painted on their hooves), and so on.  BUT Norco had some other fantastic additions to the Christmas parade.  Such as...

A taekwondo school!  And...wait for it....

Darth Vader.  Yes, Darth Vader.  Apparently the Bast Alpha Garrison of the 501st Legion made an appearance at the Norco Christmas parade--because nothing says "holiday special" like Star Wars...

Ugh.  Now I have to block that movie out all over again.

Anyway, the 501st Legion (otherwise known as "Vader's Fist") is "The World's Definitive Imperial Costuming  Organization."  Epically.  Awesome.  I didn't get a shot of them, but there were also storm troopers and like a grand moff or something (whatever grand moff Tarkin was).  It was incredible.  According to their website, the Bast Alpha Garrison is committed to "Protecting Louisiana from Rebel Scum."  Does it get any better?

But, after seeing them walk down Apple Street, I thought, "The next best thing to happen at a parade besides ninja vs. pirate, would be taekwondo kids vs. imperial troops."  It should happen.  I'm making a petition for next year.

Besides the beaucoup beads, I caught a three black and gold cups, a bendable Christmas tree, a do-it-yourself edible snowman kit (a.k.a. a package of marshmallows), a rubber tomahawk, and an alien cow.

Jury's still out as to his name.  But look at him!  He's green.  And on Farmville, green cows are alien cows.  So that obviously means that this one is, too.

If you'd like to check out the websites for the Star Wars folks, here they are:
Bast Alpha Garrison
501st Legion

"The burned hand teaches best." --J.R.R. Tolkien

No, dear Tolkien, not in my case.  I don't think I shall ever learn.  Yes, I have burned myself again.  I endeavored to take a photo of it for the world to see.  It's mediocre at best, and since I forgot to take it last night, not quite as impressive.

The pink swooping mark that is easier to see on the side near the pencil is my latest burn.  I made it on the sandwhich maker last night.  I wanted grilled cheese sandwhiches for dinner, and for whatever ridiculous reason, I closed it at a funny angle, and it grazed my arm as it shut.

I held in a cry, Kim asked me if I wanted ice, I nodded, and Justin was confused.  He asked me what I did, and I said, "What I do best!  Burn myself."  He told me, quite logically, to stop burning myself.  If only it were that easy!  I don't do it on purpose.  I just do it often, and never on the same thing twice.  So, sandwhich maker, check!

The burn starts at about an inch below my wrist and continues for another inch.  Fortunately, it doesn't hardly hurt today, which could be because I sat with a lunch-box cold pack on it while we played board games last night.

"And Abraham called the name of that place Jehovah-jireh. As it is said to this day, In the mount of Jehovah it shall be provided." --Genesis 22:14

A long time ago, there was Abraham.  And God promised Abraham that he would make his family into a great nation, so long as his family followed God.  There was one little problem, though.  Abram and his wife Sarah were old, and they had never had babies.  It's kind of hard for God to multiply your family into a nation when there are no children in the mix.  After years of waiting and mistakes, though, God gave them a baby named Isaac.  And they loved him.

One day, God asked Abraham to take Isaac to the mountain to sacrifice him.  Isaac, his precious boy whom he had waited decades for.  But Abraham trusted God.  He knew that God would provide regardless of what happened.  When Abraham placed Isaac on the altar, and brought the blade to his throat, God stopped him.  You see, God was testing his faithfulness, and Abraham had passed.  God told Abraham that there was a ram in the bushes.  He took it to the altar and sacrificed it instead of Isaac.  And he was so happy.

"And Abraham called the name of that place Jehovah-jireh. As it is said to this day, In the mount of Jehovah it shall be provided." Genesis 22:14

The very site where he nearly killed his son became a place of great rejoicing for Abraham.  God had provided, as he always shall!

Now, I don't have a son, or a daughter, and I don't offer sacrifices like Abraham did under the new covenant of grace.  I do, however, have needs.

Money's been a little tight lately.  Not "I can't pay my rent" tight, but tight enough to make me sweat, and not eat out.  Well, I made my lunch last night, and popped it in the fridge, so I wouldn't have to go out for lunch (I normally bring my lunch just because I hate going out at lunch time, but this week, I couldn't really afford to anyway).  I remembered when I walked into the office this morning that I forgot my lunch box.  I asked God to provide my lunch, and if he did not, I knew that he would make my paycheck stretch that far.

At 10:45 a.m. Tommy, one of our techs walks in and beelines to my desk.  I look up at him, and ask if I can help him.  Tommy's a great guy.  He works hard to support his son (he's divorced), he always shows up on time, he never gripes about early hours, and I know that I can count on him.  He also moonlights at Papa John's.

So, as I was saying, he walks in, and stands at my desk, and I ask him what I can do for him, and he says, "There's some pizza in the break room."  How about that!  From time to time, Tommy brings leftover pizza to the office for us.  He hasn't done it in a while, and I had almost forgotten, but God, in his provision, sent Tommy with pizza.  He brought in buffalo wings, chicken tenders, applie pie pastry pizza stuff, pepperoni and mushroom pizza (my favorite!), and chicken/sausage/pepperoni/jalapeno pizza.  Tell me my God isn't awesome!  He even sent my favorite pizza.

You might think it's silly to get so excited about a meal, but I don't want to overlook the little things.  And right now, even the dollar menu isn't that little.

Thank you God for providing my "daily bread"!  Thank you for giving me what my heart desired, not just the bare essentials.  You are an awesome, wonderful, and loving father who not only wants me to be fed, but happy, too.

Location : 4300-4398 Seminary Pl, New Orleans, LA 70126,