The Best Medicine

Somehow, through a strange twist of events, I ended up going to see Dave Barry with my friend last night.  He’s on a book tour, and yes, his hour-long appearance frequently referred back to his current collection of essays, (Why else do you go on tour?) But he was really, really funny.  After it was over, I turned to my friend and said, “I needed that.”  It feels good to let out those laughs that sound like someone just hit me in the stomach with a foam baseball bat.  I’ve been taking myself too seriously lately and it’s been showing.
Also, after a hard day, it helped to talk to my parents the other night, too.  I shared my dream of living in a tiny house and we talked of property to buy on which to put it, and what they saw on DIY, you know.   My dad, knowing my dream, too, of writing a book about Joseph, reassured me with this guy’s timeline.  God is never too slow, and there was, finally a time, thirteen years after he was thrown into slavery when Joseph finally got his heart’s desire.  Our conversation also ended with another tidbit of advice that my dad loooves to give–on dating:
 Hang out my apartment’s dumpster. 
Cause this is how your aunt met her husband.  She was trying to drag a discarded yet still perfectly utilitarian piece of furniture out of her apartment’s dumpster when an attractive stranger offered her a hand.  Whammo, a year or two later: wedding bells. 
Rachel, why have you been making this so complicated?

Who’s in your corner?  Who will say, “I get it, that’s stressful/You don’t deserve that/I’ll come punch that person in the face for you/You need chocolate, let me buy you some?”  Give them a call today.

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