Twenty one years ago today, I stood before a handful of friends and family in a little church and said, “I do” to the man of my dreams.

Except, he wasn’t exactly the man of my dreams. That guy I fantasized about for so long was a filthy rich businessman with a professional athlete’s physique. The guy I thought I wanted would give me everything I ever desired. He would spoil me and take me on fancy vacations and bring me roses and bottles of fine wine. He’d hire me a maid and a nanny, and buy me a new car every year.

For the longest time, that is what I thought I wanted.

And then came Donnie, a quiet, boyish-looking artist with a thin, lanky body and barely a penny to his name. We met in the way so many couples do—at college, through a mutual friend—and I only wanted to be friends. I told him, in no uncertain terms, that as an artist, I could never be in a relationship with another artist. I knew myself well enough to know that such a pairing could never work out. Two creative people would be too competitive, and couldn’t possibly be compatible. It would be disastrous. I just knew it.

Because I was twenty years old, and I knew everything.

Boy, was I stupid.

I almost let him go. After college, and a brief time dating, Donnie went overseas with the navy and I pursued my career in advertising at an agency in Florida. I’d gotten over the notion that two artists couldn’t get along—in a very short time, Donnie had become my best friend, the easiest person in the world to talk to. I loved discussing art with him, and religion, and every single topic that was supposed to be difficult just flowed between us in harmonious conversation.

He’d already declared his love for me, and I cared for him deeply. But how could I be sure he really was “The One”? Wasn’t I supposed to hold out for that man of my dreams? If I worked in the corporate world long enough, would he come along, sweep me off my feet and be the Prince Charming I’d dreamed about since childhood?

Though it was long-distance—and this was before email, Facebook and international cell phones—my relationship with Donnie continued to grow, along with my confusion. He told me point-blank that divorce was not in his vocabulary—if I married him, it was for life. Instead of reassuring, I found that terrifying. I mean, this was 1990, not 1770. If marriage didn’t work out, you split up. How could you make such a huge decision and not provide yourself a way out? That didn’t make sense to me.

It does now, but back then, it scared me so much that we nearly broke up. I still remember that night on the phone, him in Scotland and me in Florida, the pain in his voice as he said he couldn’t keep waiting forever for me to make up my mind about marrying him. And I’ll never forget the pain in my heart as I wept my way through a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream and finally knew that maybe Mr. Right didn’t         always show up packaged like a girl expects.

After a couple of decades together, I’m so glad it didn’t. God knew that Donnie was everything I truly needed and wanted in a man. I didn’t need material wealth; I needed wealth of character, compassion and integrity. I didn’t need someone to whisk me off my feet; I needed someone to plant them, finally, on truly solid ground. I didn’t need gifts of roses and fancy vacations; I needed someone who’d build a home with me so happy that I’d never need to go away. Sometimes I look at him, and our beautiful children and it takes my breath away that I get to experience something as precious as this life we’ve built together.

This girl’s fairy tale came true. And we’re living happily ever after.

“Forget the former things;
   do not dwell on the past.
See, I am doing a new thing!
   Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”

-Isaiah 43:18-19

May 2012 be the best year of our lives!

I know this probably sounds strange, but one of the most profound moments of my entire Christmas season happened while I was in the kitchen, making candy.

I make a mean peppermint bark. It’s basically crushed peppermint candies mixed into melted white chocolate, then broken into chunks after being spread out and cooled. I also add dark chocolate drizzle or chopped Andes mint candies to mine, because who doesn’t like a little extra chocolate with their chocolate?

In years past, I delegated the candy-crushing to my husband. Those little round Starlight mints are very difficult to break, and Donnie, with his greater upper-body strength, could always accomplish the task in no time.

But last week, Donnie wasn’t home and our guests were due to arrive any minute. I had no choice but to handle the pulverizing myself.

I placed the candies in a zip-top bag, and smacked it a few times with my heavy rolling pin. It barely flaked the edges off a couple of the mints. So I tried rolling the pin over the bag, pressing hard, and still—nothing. I realized that if this candy was going to be made, I had to mimic my husband’s actions and really put some muscle behind it.

So I did. I slammed that rolling pin as hard as I could onto one of the candies and watched it shatter into a hundred tiny bits. Then I moved to another, and another, and suddenly, it felt very satisfying, like doing something deliciously wrong.

And that’s when an experience at a therapist’s office came to mind. Years ago, while my husband was deployed to Iraq, I saw a therapist to help me through the experience. Next to her sofa was a basket of foam baseball bats. I asked what they were for, and learned that they were useful for venting anger; clients could use them to hit the sofa pillows to let out their angry feelings.

I laughed. I told her that I could not imagine doing that, or even needing to do that. It seemed so barbaric. She just smiled her quiet smile and said, “Perhaps that’s a sign that you, more than others, might actually need to do it.” And I thought her response perhaps indicated that I wasn’t the crazy person in the room.

But last week, as I smashed that candy, something clicked. And I knew exactly why she thought I needed a little “bat therapy.’ I also wondered why it took me 43 years to figure this out.

I began to put faces and feelings onto those mints. Bam! That is for the person who totally used me. Slam! That’s for the relative who is rude to my two-year-old because he doesn’t behave like she thinks he should. Crash! That is for the extreme poverty that is hurting my friend. Smash! For the person who lied about my family.

Oh, it felt so stinking good.

And that was the finest, most gloriously crushed peppermint I’d ever worked with—by the time I was done venting, some of those red and white chunks were reduced to pure powder. The resulting candy was probably the best-tasting batch I’d ever made.

I already run a small side business making birthday cakes. Maybe I’ll add a candy component to it as well: Kari’s Krushing Kandies, featuring Powerfully Pummeled Peppermint Perfection, or P4 for short.

Just know that if I ever show up smiling like a Cheshire cat, bearing a bag of P4—you’ll know it’s been a rough week.

Maybe making peppermint bark is the secret to world peace? Because if more people found positive ways to vent their anger, they wouldn’t have to hurt each other.

Thank God for my kids and the Christmas gift they inadvertently gave me. If it hadn’t been for their friends coming over, I wouldn’t have been rushing to make candy on short notice. And who knows how much longer this woman, who was raised to believe that nice girls didn’t act out, would’ve missed out on the delicious, peace-bringing release of physically venting negativity.

‘Tis just before Christmas, and here in my house

I hurry and scurry, like a fat little mouse.

The stockings are hung by the chimney, but bare—

Oh where did I put what I bought to go there?

The gifts are in hiding, all still unwrapped

Though I’ve worked my tail off and wish I could nap.

I’m a cleaner, a chef, a crafter and baker

Like all busy moms, I’m the Christmas-dream-maker.

But I’ve fallen behind, fear it won’t all get done

For I’m just one woman—not three, two, but one.

And I sadly display my most dreadful old trait:

I oft wait to do things ‘til I’m running quite late.

And this makes me crabby, my spirit not bubbly,

I’m scolding my kids and nagging my hubby.

For I need their help, but they’ve no time to spare,

They’re driving me crazy, I’m pulling my hair.

The tree’s still half-naked, there’s no wreath on the door

There are toys and clutter strewn all on the floor,

The bathroom is grimy, the dust bunnies run free

The laundry’s in piles straight up to my knee.

The Christmas dinner menu has not yet been planned,

And devoid of a manicure are my tired, old hands.

I haven’t yet thought of what I’m going to wear

Or what I might decide to do with my hair.

I still need to clean, to dust and to sweep,

To scour and scrub and oh yeah—to sleep.

But slumber’s for sissies and there’s no time for that.

I’ll have to rest vicariously through Max, my cat.

And I can’t help but question, as I do every year

Why I procrastinate, which kills all my cheer?

It’s not like the holidays show up by surprise—

I know that they’re coming, this I realize!

But yet I still behave like I had no real clue

Of the stress of December and all I must do.

I know it’s coming, I know what it requires

I shouldn’t act like I have unlimited hours.

But you know, when it comes to the end of the day

When Santa’s already zoomed in on his sleigh,

I forget all the craziness of the days before

And marvel and wonder at all that’s in store.

The best part of Christmas is seeing my boys

Smiling and laughing and playing with toys.

Reliving the magic from a child’s point of view

Is the most fun thing any adult can ever do.

And that joy is what’s remembered, for sure

I won’t recall all of the strife we’ve endured

No one will think about that dinner I cooked,

Or worry over how clean our little house looked.

Christmas isn’t about making perfection renewed

It’s not about the presents, the tree or the food.

But it’s about faith, and family and love

And a sweet little Baby sent down from above.

I tell myself that, sometimes minute-by-minute

As I look toward that day and the joy within it.

Because the spirit of Christmas will come and stay,

Nothing on Earth can ever keep it away.

After basking, at last, in that warm Christmas cheer

Comes a week full of peace that I always hold dear.

Beyond the festivities, a sweet time to rest

While the kids are lost deep in their toy chest.

Come Monday morning I’ll exclaim aloud

To lingering relatives and folks who still crowd,

“Go spend your gift cards, take off to the mall,

And dash away, dash away, dash away all!”

Then I’ll pick up the paper, the gift bags and bows

I’ll plop down, relax and prop up my toes.

And I might just crawl back to my flannel-sheet bed

To start resting up for the long winter ahead.

And now as I bring this work to a close

I thank you, dear readers, for heaven knows

How grateful I am for each one of you

Your support, your love, your feedback, too.

Before I go, one last thing I must say

As we rush ever closer to the holiday—

Merry Christmas to all, draw your loved ones near.

May God bless you and give you a Happy New Year.

Through the month of November, many of my friends have kept track of things they’re grateful for through daily Facebook posts. It’s been rather amusing to see how the deep gratitude for spouses, children and siblings mentioned at the first of the month trickled down into meager appreciation for things like coffee and rainbows last week.

I can’t wait to see what people are listing on November 30^th—I fully suspect that some will be reaching for straws and I’ll see things like septic tanks and egg salad listed.

Not that those things aren’t worthy of gratitude.

Anyway, it made me start thinking about some of the odd, random things that I’m thankful for. I doubt any of these things will come to mind when we’re praying over our turkey dinner tomorrow, but I’m grateful for them just the same.

1. By the time he starts college, my son Jonah will be sleeping in his own bed. Granted, he’s not given me any concrete reason to hope for this in the two years he’s hogged my bed—sideways—but friends tell me I can be fairly confident that by college, this co-sleeping stage will, indeed, come to an end.

2. No one in this family has vomited in almost two years. Chalk it up to an odd form of OCD or emetophobia, but yes, I do take note of the time between puking spells. Now, we have been positively inundated with snot over the past week, but it’s been a record-setting while since a bonafide stomach virus wreaked havoc on our home. I probably just jinxed myself by writing those words, but I hope not.

3. There aren’t any new dents in my minivan! I haven’t backed into another concrete column, haven’t had any shopping carts ping the trunk, haven’t had any more children crash their bikes into the rear fender. All those marks are still there, mind you, but I find they coordinate nicely with the hole in the carpeting, the sagging headliner and the steering column that honks like a dehydrated goose every time I turn left.

4. I’m truly grateful for the geographical distance between myself and a few certain crazy people because it has kept me out of prison. And staying on this side of the jailhouse is a good thing indeed.

5. Feeling ever so thankful that it’s 14 more months until my oldest can get his learner’s permit. It’s going to take every one of those 613,606 minutes to build up the courage I’ll need to climb into that passenger’s seat. Why? Because I’ve seen that boy drive on the Xbox—and it’s not pretty, y’all. Not pretty at all.

6. I can still afford cheese. As grocery prices have risen, I’ve noticed cheese really shooting up in price. My family eats a lot of cheese, because, let’s face it—just about anything is better with cheese. Except coffee, of course. I can’t imagine the mutiny in this household if we ever ran out of cheese. Even the little guy loves his string cheese and Kraft singles—if we don’t unwrap them quickly enough, he tries to bite through the plastic.

7. I’m thankful for the smooth, chocolaty, nutty goodness that is Nutella, and that sometimes, I actually get to eat a whole tablespoonful before the kids devour the entire jar.

8. Tomorrow, at approximately 3:55 p.m., my house will be clean. It’ll be over by 4:01 p.m, but I will have enjoyed a full five minutes in a clean environment—if Jonah doesn’t drag out his puzzles in that time frame—and I will be reminded of what I have to look forward to around 4:00 on December 24^th, the next time the entire house will be clean all at once.

9. I’m glad that the Hair Club for Men now includes women, because I should start trying to potty train Jonah soon. Between that, and acquiring a newly-driving teen, my already-thinning hair will definitely need some surgical intervention in the near future.

10. And finally, I’m thankful for all the horrible people who’ve thrown stones at me throughout my lifetime, because I used them to build a pretty strong foundation for one really awesome life.

November might just be this tired mom’s favorite month of the year. I used to think it was October, what with the arrival of autumn and all the fun family events surrounding Halloween. And my October was truly delightful—I finally made good on a two-year promise to my kids that we’d host a Halloween party, and we all had an awesome time enjoying friends, food and fellowship.

Halloween night, we met up with friends who combined trick-or-treating with a hayride, and I’m convinced that riding around, snuggled in a blanket on a warm bale of hay, is the only way to go.

It was such fun to see my little two-year-old Jonah running around dressed as a perfectly-sized Yoda from “Star Wars,” thrilled to discover the joy that is trick-or-treating. At the first house, he wasn’t sure about the whole thing, but then he realized he’d been given rare, precious candy. When the people at the second house gave him a pack of M&Ms, he clutched it in his little fist and said, “Eat snack! Eat snack!” all the way back to the car. And then he was hooked!

But even though it was a blast and worth every minute of work that went into it, I’m kind of glad that the Halloween madness is over.

November feels like pure peace after all the hurrying and scurrying to accomplish everything on our October calendar. The weather is still perfect, the leaves are at their beautiful peak of fall color, and the Christmas craziness has not yet begun—no matter how hard the retailers try to prematurely shove it down our throats. I refuse to accept it, as stubbornly as a toddler clamps her mouth shut against a spoon heaped with boiled spinach.

This month is a gift I look forward to every year, a blessed lull in an overscheduled calendar, a time for Thanksgiving and family, a time of peace. I want to relax and enjoy the downtime, not turn November into an extended December, no matter how wonderful the holidays might be. As the book of Ecclesiastes says, “To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.” For me anyway, the purpose of November is to rest and focus on gratitude.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could bring a little November into every day? My friend Tiffany Hendra is one of the most inspirational people I know. She posted something on Facebook the other day that resonated with my soul and reflects this concept of finding a bit of gratitude and peace in every day.

She suggested that each night, just as we take a good, hot shower to wash away the dirt, sweat and grime from the day, we should also take an internal bath before going to bed, to cleanse away the cares of life.

Unclench your jaw, let out a long exhale, loosen your shoulders and clear your mind. Let go of any drama or irritations that plagued you that day, forgive those who offended you, and give thanks for the gift of life and the comfortable bed you sleep on.

November is the perfect time to do this on a larger scale. Instead of fretting over what December might bring, instead of starting the Christmas planning and shopping, just release all the stress and enjoy the gifts hidden in today. That steaming mug of coffee, the brilliant red cardinal hopping among the orange and golden leaves, the cool breeze refreshing your lungs, the soft flannel enveloping your shoulders, the calmness in knowing there is nowhere else you have to be but enjoying life in this very moment—all those simple things are the gifts of November.

Take the time to enjoy them, won’t you?

But one word I never connected with motherhood was “lonely.” I couldn’t imagine how being a mom could feel lonely until I became one, and realized all too soon how totally isolating the experience could feel.

During Zach’s infancy and toddlerhood, we rented a tiny, unwelcoming house on a street disconnected from other neighborhoods, where no other families with small children lived. We attended a church where most of the congregation was older than us, people who were busy with teenagers or empty nests and who had no desire to spend time with a rambunctious toddler and his mother while his father worked ten hours a day in Atlanta and drilled frequently with the National Guard.

During those years, our family only had one vehicle as well, which my husband needed for his long daily commute. There were many, far too many, long days and weekends when it was just me and Zach alone in that dark little house. And though the Internet provided some connection with other moms, this was well before the blessing of high-speed Internet service. All we had was dial-up, and sometimes it took half an hour to download a webpage—not exactly helpful when your child kept you up crying all night and you only wanted to hear from somebody who just experienced that, too.

Yeah, I learned a whole new meaning of the word “lonely” during that stage of life. How I wish I’d have known about MOPS back then.

Mothers of Pre-Schoolers, or MOPS, is an international organization devoted to the needs of moms. Whether a woman has one child, or a dozen, all mothers are welcomed, valued and accepted regardless of race, faith, politics, education or marital status. For more information about MOPS, please visit their website at www.mops.org. MOPS of Conyers is the only group located in Rockdale or Newton counties, and we meet on the third Tuesday of each month.

This year, I decided that I love MOPS enough to be on the steering team, so I’d like to personally invite you to join us this Tuesday, September 20th, at Rockdale Alliance Church on Old Salem Road. Childcare check-in begins at 9:15 and the meeting itself runs from 9:30 until 11:30. There’s no fee to come to our meetings, though you can join MOPS officially later, if desired, for a small donation.

The content of each gathering varies a bit, but the three key ingredients of a good party are present every time: fun, food and fellowship. I might be biased, but I think the women in our group are particularly kind and welcoming. We try to get together at other times as well, just to chat at the park while the kids play, or at another casual, inexpensive outing between monthly meetings.

Even in this age of instant Internet connections, nothing can or ever will replace the value of one-on-one contact with other people living the same experiences as you at the same time. You can’t replicate a play date online for your children, either.

We need each other. As much as I love my computer, my Facebook, and to a lesser degree, Twitter—I need my real-life connections even more. And I am a firm believer that a woman can never have too many friends. So if you have kids under the age of six, come join us, and tell others about our local MOPS group. Because if I’d have known about MOPS a dozen years ago, perhaps “loneliness” would still be a word I didn’t readily associate with motherhood.

My poor blog. It’s been a bit neglected lately.

Poor little ol’ neglected blog…nobody loves her. LOL

It’s been an interesting week of…hmm…let’s call it “growth.” If you’ve ever prayed for patience, you know what I mean: you ask God to make you a more patient person, and almost immediately everyone starts jumping on your last nerve—usually all at once! I think God sends those times to test us, to see if we really mean what we prayed, and to give us an opportunity to exercise those virtues he’s trying to develop in us.

So this week, I was inspired by my pastor’s awesome sermon on gratitude to start focusing more on being thankful for what I have instead of focusing on everything that’s wrong. You know what’s next, right? It’s Thursday, and it feels like I’ve had about three weeks’ worth of things going wrong since Sunday. I have been battling frustration like I haven’t in recent memory.

I don’t want to list everything that’s gone wrong, because that’s just casting focus on those things. But this week is teaching me how very hard it is to only share problems with God when you’re in the habit of venting to other people. Yet I really believe it’s a sign of maturity to be able to do that, so it’s a goal I’m striving toward. But it sure isn’t easy.

I was going through that mental battle yesterday morning, when I got an email from a sweet lady who’s read my column for years. She was so encouraging in her brief note; it just brightened my whole day. Thank God for prompting her to send me that! But then I slipped back into mulling over some financial concerns, fretting over how to sort out the next payday’s budget, wondering about when Donnie and I might get paid for some freelancing we did, wondering how to make ends meet when they appeared ten yards apart. Just the usual fretting over finances around here.

It wasn’t a few minutes later that I got a message from a pastor who runs an orphanage in Uganda, asking me to pray for him to be able to meet the needs of the children in his care. They have been working to plant a garden to help feed the kids and it isn’t going well. His English is rather broken; I am not exactly sure what is going on. I know that he recently took in four siblings whose only parent, a father, recently passed away. These precious kids were crowded together in a mud hut about the size of my bathroom. And if the orphanage’s garden isn’t successful, all 29 of the children there will struggle to have anything to eat.

Talk about putting things into perspective regarding gratitude. I’d just fed a bowl of lunch leftovers to my dog, because I didn’t want to throw it away. And today I sit here and type in air conditioning, with a stomach full of broccoli cheese soup and tea, surrounded by healthy children who’ve never had to miss a meal or even a snack despite the financial struggles we have had.

And perspective suddenly shifts into very clear focus on how much I am blessed and how much gratitude I owe God. It also makes me realize how much I need to make sure that what I’ve been blessed with is given back to those in need. By American standards, I am not rich. But by worldly standards, my family, my extended family and all of my friends—we live as kings and queens! We all have so much to give—even if we don’t have tons of riches to give away, most of us can trim the budget enough to have something to offer those in need. Even the busiest of us have time to help others, even if it’s just taking ten seconds to say an encouraging word to someone who is struggling.

The Bible says that to whom much is given, much is required. We have been given so much; every breath, every heartbeat is a gift from God above. When we take a minute to be mindful, to stop complaining and just be thankful, we can see our blessings clearly and know that our lives, if we want to follow Christ’s example, must include giving back to others as an offering of thanksgiving.

Sometimes the most wonderful thing to do is absolutely nothing at all. Last week I was crowned the Queen of Sloth, the Duchess of Downtime and I loved every single moment of it.

I knew I needed a vacation well before we started packing, but it wasn’t clear exactly how much until we’d been in Florida a few days and I realized how much I’d been sleeping.

It’s no secret that I often whine about my continual sleep deprivation. Homeschooling three active boys, squeezing in freelance writing during breaks and into the wee hours, working face-painting and cake-baking gigs, volunteering, all while mothering a night-waking toddler has left me perpetually exhausted. And when I do sneak a nap, I feel terribly guilty. There are always dozens of things that need doing, and I’ve bought the lie that a good mom would do them instead of resting.

But last week on vacation, my husband and parents were there to help with the kids and they just let me sleep. And, oh how I slept! I stayed in bed every day until 11:00, and napped with Jonah in the afternoons—sometimes for two or three hours. I was astonished by the quantity and depth of my rest. I felt like a dehydrated sponge just soaking myself in slumber and it was divinely refreshing.

Of course, I didn’t spend the entire week in bed. We split our time between West Palm Beach and Cocoa Beach, but instead of the usual frantic hustling from activity to activity, even our recreation was low-key.

We swam in cool blue pools and in the warm summer sea. We dug in the sand alongside the boys and made puddles and canals, and castles with moats. We went to the pier and watched the boats come in as schools of shiny silver fish congregated in the water beneath us, hoping that we would drop them a morsel of something good.

We lamented over missing the city’s 4th of July fireworks, only to come upstairs and see that some considerate soul was setting off a pretty amazing show not far from us on the beach. It was like having front-row seats to an awesome fireworks display and instead of being scared by the big pops and booms, my little toddler clapped and squealed with each brilliant burst of red, white and blue.

Long after the fireworks ended, my middle boy, Eli, remained out on the balcony with me. We tipped back our chairs and stared up at the star-studded, black velvet sky, looking for shooting stars and talking about the wonders of God’s universe as the wind tossed our hair and the waves hissed quietly, breaking upon the shore.

And when we weren’t playing—or sleeping—we were eating, and wondering why food always tastes so much better on vacation. My mother made big, southern-style breakfasts for us around noon each day, and we stuffed ourselves with fluffy eggs and flaky biscuits, crispy bacon and creamy cheddar grits. What a rare treat to enjoy home-cooking that I didn’t have to cook! I truly savored every bite.

At dinnertime, we grilled steaks and potatoes, and fried garden-fresh green tomatoes, or went out for Mexican food and pizza. And my boys relished being able to drink soda and eat ice cream at any time of day, with no restrictions like we place on them at home.

I can truly say that I savored life last week, and it’s been far too long since I paused long enough to do that. Yes, it’s easier to cherish the moments when you’re lounging beside a sparkling turquoise sea, beneath clear blue skies framed by cotton-white clouds and softly swaying palm trees. But stepping away from day-to-day life gave me a clearer vision of it, and a greater resolve than ever to live in the moment and just be happy—not only on vacation, but every day.

I have to make time for rest, pursue peace, schedule downtime to relax with my family and simply enjoy being together. Because this life we’re given is such a brief gift, and far too precious to squander even a single moment of it.

After a glorious week in West Palm Beach topped with a couple of days in Cocoa Beach (where the above photo of my three beach bums was taken) we are back home.

I’m afraid there won’t be many photos to share, as we forgot our camera. (Yes, I did that and I ask: what kind of dingbat forgets to bring her camera on vacation???) So the only pics we have were taken with our phones, with varying degrees of quality. It kind of doesn’t matter, though, because we didn’t do a whole lot of photo-worthy things. It was just a beautiful week of downtime.

I knew I needed a vacation, but I didn’t realize how much until I was actually away from here. Look for a column and possibly another blog post detailing the blessings of this time away and what this vacation taught me about my priorities and how I spend my time.

Because honestly—there is nothing like getting away from it all to clarify one’s view of life. And I thank God for broadening my previously myopic vision.

While sitting by the beach, reading my YouVersion Bible, I came across this sentence from The Message translation of Proverbs 8. It sums up what God taught me last week:

“Mark a life of discipline and live wisely;

don’t squander your precious life.”