I drive to worship in the house of the Lord on a crisp October Sunday. It's time for brown leather boots and leggings under dresses. It's time for crunchy leaves underfoot and yellow, red, and orange confetti twirling to the ground from the windy sky. The sermon comes from Luke 5 and details how Jesus heals a paralytic man. How those four men faithfully carried their crippled friend to be touched by the healing hands of Jesus. How those men never gave up- even in the midst of

I once cut my finger pretty deeply with a sharp knife. Amidst the makings for fish tacos, blood spurted from my fingertip making my stomach turn. I thought maybe I would pass out! How had this happened? What did I just do? I wrapped my finger tightly with a tissue hoping to stop the flow. It didn't work. Nothing could stop the pulsing sensation running through my finger. The denial lasted a long time. I put more pressure on it. I iced it. I held it so tightly that I practical

I've always known that I would be a teacher. Ever since first grade when the beautiful Mrs. Shade taught me to become a better reader, and in second grade when Mrs. Munday read aloud to us from Bunnicula, I knew that someday that would be my job. In my first year as a second grade teacher I wondered, what have I done? Will I ever be a good teacher? Why did I choose this profession? Every day I wondered if the parents were thinking what an impostor I was. Gradually over many y