by Audrey on October 7th, 2014










My daddy went home to be with the Lord on Sunday, September 28, 2014.
 
I’m still sad but at the same time, it's a sad filled with joy.  Broken hearted Joy.
 
I’m not sad for him.  I’m sad for me.  I miss him and I know the world will never, ever feel the same for me in this life.  But, it will be good again.  It will just be different.
 
Within the last month before my daddy died, I read these words by Jonathan Edwards:
 
“All gracious affections that are a sweet odor to Christ, and that fill the soul of a Christian with a heavenly sweetness and fragrancy, are broken hearted affections. A truly Christian love, either to God or men, is a humble broken hearted love. The desires of the saints, however earnest, are humble desires. Their hope is a humble hope; and their joy, even when it is unspeakable, and full of glory, is a humble broken hearted joy, and leaves the Christian more poor in spirit; and more like a little child, and more disposed to a universal lowliness of behavior.”
 
These words are so true.  And they were ringing in my heart those days in the hospital, those days of watching my daddy fade from this life.  God knew I would cling to those words and to the phrase, “a humble broken hearted joy.”  This is the way I feel.  My heart is so broken, yet in ways unspeakable, full of joy ~ only because of Christ.  In this life, God gave me gracious affection and a heart full of love for my daddy.  He and Mama gave my brothers, my sister, and me,  a happy childhood home. 
 
 
Back in 2003, I wrote:
 
I always called him Daddy –  I still do.  When I was a little girl I was afraid of many things . . .  the dark, thunderstorms, snakes and spiders, unfamiliar places. 
 
Back then I loved and still, to this day, love home.  I like stability, familiarity, routine. 
 
I remember my first day of school.  I didn’t want to go - I just wanted to stay home.
 
Home was a happy, safe, familiar place filled with affection.
 
Mama drove me to school that first day and we got to the school early. I was the first student in my class.   My teacher had wavy gray hair, glasses, and a nice smile. 
 
She told me in which desk to sit.  As I did, I looked around the room and noticed brightly colored letters on the walls and a huge chalkboard behind the teacher’s desk.  I watched my teacher as she worked at her desk.
 
She spoke with me a little; I don’t remember what she said but I do remember getting used to my desk and somehow thinking this new place would be OK.  It was becoming familiar.
 
The class began to fill up with other children.  I watched them come in.  Then I saw an adult come to the teacher, then to me, and they told me that I was in the wrong room.
 
I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. I gathered my things and followed the adults out of the room, all the while looking for my mother.
 
I saw her and she saw me.  As I think on it now, she must have seen the tears in my eyes because she quickly made her way over to me and said how sorry she was and told me that I would like my new teacher, I really would.
 
She told me that this teacher had taught her and my dad when they were in school.
 
I still remember standing in the little foyer of the classroom, in front of the cloakroom, just outside the new unfamiliar big room, holding tightly onto my mother’s legs
 
My new teacher took me by the hand and brought me to my desk and said, “I taught your mommy and daddy.” 
 
Somehow that comforted me.
 
It was also during my early years that I had a frightening, recurring dream.  I would wake up in the middle of the night terrified because I dreamed that spiders and snakes were crawling all over me. 
 
Scared and trembling, I always got up and ran to Mama and Daddy’s room.
 
Their room was safe, protected, and secure.   Daddy was there.  When I appeared at the side of their bed, on my mother’s side, she would say, “Get in and don’t wiggle.”
 
I wasn’t going to wiggle. I didn’t want to go back to my bed where the spiders and snakes lived.
 
Having my mother’s arms wrapped around me, and hearing my daddy’s breathing on the other side of the bed, knowing he was right there comforted me.
 
I had other fears.  I was terribly afraid of thunderstorms.  I remember one storm in particular when the thunder popped, the lights flashed, and I ran to Daddy’s room. 
 
I just stood in the doorway.  He was studying at his desk – he didn’t even look up but he obviously heard me because he said, “Come on in, Audrey.”  I did.  And I was secure.  I was with my daddy.  I just sat on his bed while he worked until the storm was over.
 
Something about him being close made everything OK.  He was strong – like a tower – I ran there and I was safe.  The storm could rage but I felt safe because I was with my daddy.
 
One night, however, daddy taught me to trust Someone other than him or my mom or the secure things around me.  I don’t think it was his intention yet it is the lesson I learned and one that I still carry with me to this day.
 
My childhood home was in rural South Carolina - the same 40-acre farm on which my dad grew up.  And one night, he decided he had a job for my sister and me. 
 
It was one of those really dark nights out in the country.   There were no street lights and even the sky was dark; no moonlight or starlight.  And it happened to be a night when Daddy needed something out in the barn that was just beyond the pasture behind our house. 
 
He handed a flashlight to my sister and me and sent us out.
 
I was stunned.  He was telling us to go out into the dark night with just a flashlight.  Didn’t he know I was frightened? 
 
When I was growing up, we didn’t question my dad.  If he told us to do something, we just did it.  I thought Daddy knew everything and I thought he was so great.  If I ever put anyone on a pedestal – it was my daddy.
 
All these years later I still remember walking out of the back porch hearing the screen door slam behind us. The light from the porch wasn’t very bright.  It certainly wasn’t going to guide us all the way to the barn.  And the flashlight was dim.
 
But we began our journey.  
 
After a few sluggish steps, I whispered to my sister, “Are you scared?”
 
“No,” she whispered back as she held on tightly to my hand.
 
I remember seeing the light from the flashlight dancing on the scary ground in front of us.
 
There we were out in the darkness – alone and quiet, hearing all kinds of noises which I would later learn were just the pine trees swaying against each other in the night air.  But to me they sounded like ghosts, bad guys, and boogie men. 
 
I whispered again:
 
“Hope, let’s sing.” 
 
And so we did.
 
The pine trees continued to sway, the light on the ground danced, and the sky was as black as ink but as we trudged on towards the barn we began to sing - softly and meekly,
 
“Have faith in God when your pathway is lonely, He sees and knows all the way you have trod; Never alone are the least of His children, Have faith in God. Have faith in God.”
 
And then we got louder on the chorus.
 
“Have faith in God, He’s on His throne; Have faith in God, He watches o’er His own.  He cannot fail, He must prevail; Have faith in God, Have faith in God”
 
We sang all the verses and before long our focus wasn’t on the dark night or the bad guys or the noises – our focus was on God.  And we made it back home that night with whatever it was my dad sent us to get.
 
I don’t remember that part.  What I do remember, however, is that God seemed to reach down out of heaven to hold my hand and extend His care to me.  He etched in my memory His tender care, through a hymn, on a dark night. 
 
God has used that night many times in my life.  Though I don’t know how much Scripture I knew at that time – God took what I did know and brought it to my mind.  I knew the hymn because we sang it often at the little church Daddy pastored.   It was in that little church that I would take my seat every Sunday on the second row and listen to my daddy open the Word of God. 
I took notes of my dad’s sermons in the Bible my parents gave to me for my birthday in 1964. 
 
Over Psalm 24, I wrote:  “Preached by Daddy on March 9th”
 
On the pages between Revelation and the maps, I wrote:
 
“Notes by Daddy’s sermon.  Daddy preached on covetness on December 24, 1967.   Preached by Daddy on December 24, 1967.  When we get gifts on Christmas they are just temporary.  People ask each other what we want for Christmas but we never ask God what we can give Him.  Sometimes people just give other people gifts because they’re expecting one from her or him.  People try to decide what they want to give a person, but somebody says, ‘why don’t you give them this, but the other person says, they have already got that.’  We don’t give God our lives because we are afraid He will use them.  We think about how much it will cost us.”
 
On another page, I wrote:
 
“Daddy preached in Ephesians and 2nd Thessalonians and Romans on June 29, 1969.  We cannot accept what Jesus did unless we accept Who Jesus is.  If we live we live to the Lord, if we die, we die to the Lord.  No matter if we live or die we do it to the Lord.  We are responsible for our life, for all of our life.  We are supposed to put Jesus first, not second or third, but first.  No matter what we do Jesus owns us, He is the head of our lives.”
 
Every Sunday and every Wednesday night, I listened to Daddy teach the Scriptures and my heart was pierced with God’s truth.  I don’t know if the people in the pews were listening but I was listening.  I still remember the day when I felt the weight of my sin – as a 6 year old girl – heavy on my shoulders.  I heard Daddy preach “Whoever will call upon the Name of the Lord will be saved.” 
 
I knew I was a sinner.  I had lied, I had deceived my sister, I had laughed at unholy things.  I had disobeyed my parents.  I knew I wasn’t good.
 
I heard him explain that people can never be good enough to get to heaven.  I heard him tell how Jesus died in my place, as my substitute, and made the way for me to have a personal relationship with God.  I heard him tell the old, old story - over and over again. 
 
My daddy did that.  He told me the story of Jesus.  And it was through hearing the Word of God that I came to know the Word, Who became flesh and dwelt among us.
 
I remember the day I walked down the aisle of the church, hugging my daddy and telling him that I had trusted Christ as my Savior and Lord and I wanted every one to know.  This was my public profession of faith.  It was a few weeks later that my daddy baptized me.  I remember that day, too not only because of its significance in my life, but also because there was a spider in the water!  I was scared of spiders but Daddy reached for my hand, told me it would be OK because I was with him.  He was there.
 
So many years have passed since I sat in the pew of that little Baptist church.  And in those years, my daddy served as pastor of other churches in the Carolinas.  In each one, I  learned so many things from the life of this man.
 
Though my daddy wasn’t perfect, I knew he loved God and I saw him live his faith.
In all my growing up years, he continued to watch over me. 
 
Once when I was 16, not long after I got my driver’s license, my sister Hope had come home from college for the weekend.  On Sunday, Daddy asked me to take her to a friend’s house so she could ride back to Chapel Hill with her. 
 
I had instructions from my father to drive straight there and straight home.  I did what I was told - at first.  But after dropping off Hope, I noticed that half the school was playing baseball at a field one block away.  It wouldn’t be out of my way, I thought, to drive by the park and say hi, would it?
 
“Go straight there and come straight home,” my dad had instructed.  At first, I listened as I turned down the road that would take me home.  But then as I was getting ready to pass the next road I thought, “Surely my dad wouldn’t mind if I just drive by the field.  It’s not really out of my way.  I am still going straight home.  And besides if I had chosen to go this way at first, I wouldn’t even be making this turn now.”
 
So I made a choice.  I turned.  Instead of heading straight home, I was heading straight for the park.  I wanted to see who was there, say hi to my friends and then I would go straight home.  My dad wouldn’t even have to know.  Well, as I approached the yield sign, I slowed down and looked both ways.  But the sun was shining in my eyes and I didn’t see anybody, I really didn’t. 
 
I can still remember hitting the steering wheel, seeing the glass shatter, and hearing metal crunch.  I felt the force of my dad’s blue Buick slamming into a car.  I looked up, shaking and in front of me I could see the driver of the other car getting out – his head bleeding.  All the people from the field were quickly gathering around us.
 
I heard police, saw lights.  I was crying in my car until my history teacher came and helped me out.
 
 I remember screaming, “My dad is going to kill me!  My dad is going to kill me!!!”  I screamed it over and over.  My teacher was trying to tell me that my dad would be glad I was OK.  “No he won’t, he’ll kill me,” I continued, sobbing uncontrollably.
 
What a thing to say.   I can’t even remember a time when I was growing up that my dad ever even yelled at me.  He spanked me.  He made me obey. Sometimes he had to cup my face in his hands and be stern with me, stubborn that I was. But he was gentle.  I was never, ever afraid of him.  I never, ever knew him to lash out in anger even when I deserved it.
 
But here I was screaming for the whole town to hear, “My dad is going to kill me!”
 
Well, my daddy didn’t kill me.  He didn’t yell at me.  He didn’t even lecture me.  He just appeared.  Comforted me.  Took care of everything and took me home.
 
Some time later, I was sitting in my room doing homework.  My daddy came home from work, opened the door to my room, and gave some papers to me.  Then he left.
 
I looked at one of the papers which informed me that his insurance had gone up.  Another one was the bill for fixing the car.
 
I felt so ashamed.  He didn’t have to yell.  Or lecture.  I got the point.  And he still let me drive.
 
Two years later when I was a senior, it was my daddy who took me to buy the dress I would wear for homecoming at my high school.  I’ll never forget it.  Homecoming is a blur in my memory but the day spent with my dad is as fresh as if it happened yesterday.  I still have the dress.
 
Some time passed.  One Sunday afternoon in January of 1978, after I had been home from college for the weekend, I was in my room packing my stuff before I drove back to Chapel Hill.  My daddy again walked in my room and gave something to me.  He said he thought I would like it.  This time it was not papers.  It was a box.  I opened the box and there I found a burgundy leather-bound study Bible.
 
I was surprised because it wasn’t Christmas or my birthday.  My dad knew; however, that I needed this Bible at this time in my life.
 
A few months later, I met Carl.  The first time I saw him he was sharing his testimony at a meeting I attended.  Then later he was teaching God’s Word to a group of college students, including me.  I took notes in my Bible. I was amazed at his passion for Christ.
 
It wasn’t too long before I walked down another aisle in another church where my daddy was pastor.  This time instead of walking by myself to meet my dad, I was holding onto his arm before he gave me away in marriage.  As I let go of his arm and took Carl’s, my dad turned around and married Carl and me.  Later, when Carl was ordained, my daddy served on Carl’s ordination board.  Often, when we visited my parents, my daddy would trust Carl with his pulpit.  He mentored my husband.
 
I grew up as a daughter hearing my daddy preach and grew into a wife hearing my husband preach.  It’s been good. 
 
My dad is now 70 years old and hasn’t served as the senior pastor of a church for a few years now. He still mentors young pastors and counsels people when they ask.  I have often missed hearing him preach.
 
But a few weeks ago, the pastor of my daddy’s home church asked him to deliver the morning message.  Mama told me about it, my son Jordan asked me about it, and then GraceAnna and I drove up to hear him.  It was Jordan’s birthday and he and his fiancé drove from Columbia to hear my daddy    
 
I entered the church and took my seat.  I hadn’t told Daddy that I was coming.  When I saw him make his way out of the door next to the stage, it was like traveling back in time.  Everything was so familiar.  My daddy in his suit, holding his Bible, and looking out at the congregation awed me.  There he was – the man I had listened to all my life.
 
When he got up to open God’s Word, I instinctively reached for my pen.  I took notes on Daddy’s sermon.  He preached from Philippians 4.
 
“Therefore, my beloved brethren whom I long to see, my joy and crown, in this way stand firm in the Lord, my beloved.  I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to live in harmony in the Lord.  Indeed, true companion, I ask you also to help these women who have shared my struggle in the cause of the gospel, together with Clement also and the rest of my fellow workers, whose names are in the book of life.”
 
It was homecoming at my father’s church.  It was time to encourage God’s people to stand firm in the Lord as true companions, as faithful people.  Sometimes God’s people forget the “cause of the gospel” and get bogged down in petty things.  Paul knew that Euodia and Syntyche had gotten bogged down – they weren’t getting along.  My daddy then urged the people.  He said that church membership should mean something to a believer because -
 
The Church Needs:

1. People who are faithful.Jesus said, “Be faithful until death, and I will give you the crown of life.”

2. People who are willing to work anywhere just to serve the Lord.People with a vision to grow, to care about the unsaved and the unchurched. “Jesus said to them, ‘Behold, I say to you, lift up your eyes and look on the fields, that they are white for harvest.’”
It is a sin to know that the fields are white for harvest and to do nothing about it. 

3. People who are willing to share, to give, to tithe. “And He sat down opposite the treasury, and began observing how the people were putting money into the treasury; and many rich people were putting in large sums.  A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which amount to a cent.  Calling His disciples to Him, He said to them, ‘Truly I say to you, this poor widow put in more than all the contributors to the treasury for they all put in out of their surplus, but she, out of her poverty, put in all she owned, all she had to live on.’”

4. People who are not afraid of giving too much to God.  

I listened intently.  My daddy’s hair was a little more gray, he was not quite as robust as the dark-haired man who awed me when I was a child. But the truths from God’s Word were robust; His Word stills awes me.  And I have come to realize that it wasn’t so much my daddy who awed me so many years ago; it was my daddy’s God. 
 
Then my daddy closed his message by saying something that grabbed me.  He said:
 
 We need to be people who are not just Bible-toters but Bible-readers and Bible-obeyers.
 
I keep thinking about that.   See, in the South, Bible-toting is part of the culture.  Going to church is a natural part of life.  I was reminded that we need to do more than just tote our Bibles around.  I have come to realize that growing up in my daddy’s home stirred a hunger in my heart to know and obey the Word of God.  So much of what God has done in my life over the years is linked to my daddy.
 
Walking on a dark path with just a flashlight and a command, I have learned to have faith in God.  When my pathway is lonely, I have learned to have faith in God.  He sees and knows all the way I have trod.  I am never alone because I am His child. He’s on His throne.  He cannot fail.  He must prevail.
 
Psalm 139:
 If I say, “Surely the darkness will overwhelm me, And the light around me will be night,” Even the darkness is not dark to You, And the night is as bright as the day.  Darkness and light are alike to You.

Hebrews 13:
He Himself has said, “I will never desert you, nor will I ever forsake you,” so that we confidently say, “The Lord is my helper, I will not be afraid.

Sitting and taking notes in a little country church in the ‘60’s I learned that my life belongs to God.  He can use me no matter what it costs me.  I know what He did and I know Who He is. If I live I live to the Lord, if I die, I die to the Lord.  No matter if I live or die I do it to the Lord.  Jesus is first, not second or third, but first.  No matter what I do Jesus owns me, He is the head of my life.
 
Philippians 1:   “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.”
 
Sitting and taking notes in another country church in the fall of 2003, I was reminded that God wants me to be faithful to the end.  He wants me to be willing to work – anywhere – just to serve Him.  He is the One who gives His vision for unsaved people - the fields really are white for harvest.  It is a sin for me to do nothing about it.  I want to share, to give, to tithe.  I don’t want to be afraid of giving too much to God.  And most of all, I want to be a Bible-reader and Bible-obeyer, not just a Bible-toter.
 
I think often of my days growing up in the country, outside of a little town in South Carolina.  I think about the familiarity of that place and how my life as a little girl centered on home, family, and church.
 
And I think about my life now as a grown woman.  It really hasn’t changed all that much some 40 years later.  It still centers on home, family, and church.  I still take notes on sermons.  I still listen to great men preach.
 
Oh there have been times when it seemed that God has handed me a flashlight on a really dark night and sent me off to do something for Him that I was afraid to do.  And I have been stunned.   Didn’t He know I was frightened?  How could He do this thing?  I’ve been scared of boogie-men and bad guys, first days of something new, thunder claps, spidery dreams, and swaying pine trees. 
 
Yet He persists. He convinces me of His presence.   And I don’t question God as much anymore.  If He tells me to do something, I just do it.  He knows everything and I think He is so great.  He’s the Only One Who belongs on a pedestal. 
 
He has sent me to many places – some places I have wanted to go and some places I have not wanted to go.  I’ve been off to two liberal universities - one as a student, and one where I worked, I've lived halfway across the country and traveled halfway around the world.  I have walked in small, dirty villages where the people have nothing and I have lived in the middle of the greatest affluence of our land.  I have been amazed at both the complexity and simplicity of our world.  I have been both afraid and exhilarated when faced with the unfamiliar and unexpected.
 
But I want to tell you something.  Nothing and I mean nothing, compares to a South Carolina back porch, a South Carolina farm, and a South Carolina man who taught me Who Jesus is and what Jesus did.  Nothing compares to knowing that God sees and knows all the way I have trod.  Nothing.
 
See, it was just outside that little town in South Carolina where the Lord raised up a man to tell a small girl the story of Jesus - Who would never leave her alone. Thank God for such a man.  Perfect man?  No.  Good man?  Yes.  It is my prayer that God raises up a new generation of real men who will be the leaders, providers, and protectors of their children – who will, without apology, tell the story of Jesus. 
 
 
“Tell me the story of Jesus; write on my heart every word.  Tell me the story most precious, sweetest that ever was heard.  Tell how the angels in chorus sang when they welcomed His birth.  Glory to God in the highest, peace and good tidings to earth.  Fasting alone in the desert, Tell of the days that are past, How for our sins He was tempted, Yet was triumphant at last.  Tell of the years of His labor, tell of the sorrow He bore; He was despised and afflicted, homeless, rejected and poor.  Tell of the cross where they nailed Him, writhing in anguish and pain; tell of the grave where they laid Him, tell how He liveth again.   Love in that story so tender, clearer than ever I see:  Stay, let me weep while you whisper, love paid the ransom for me.  Tell me the story of Jesus, write on my heart every word; tell me the story most precious, sweetest that ever was heard.”
 
Thanks Daddy.
 
 2014
Today, God has taken me to a new place – I will live the rest of my life without my daddy’s physical presence.  But I know it will be OK.  I join many who have walked this rode before me.  My daddy walked this rode when he was a young man.  He lived most of his adult life without his parents. 
 
I miss him. I know I will always miss him.  I will reminisce with Mama, my siblings, my husband, my children, and grandchildren with great fondness.  I still have so much to say - so much to write.  

I will always have a gracious affection and a broken hearted joy when I think of him.  Heavenly sweetness.  A humble broken hearted love.  I am so grateful for the love of God.
 
“All gracious affections that are a sweet odor to Christ, and that fill the soul of a Christian with a heavenly sweetness and fragrancy, are broken hearted affections. A truly Christian love, either to God or men, is a humble broken hearted love. The desires of the saints, however earnest, are humble desires. Their hope is a humble hope; and their joy, even when it is unspeakable, and full of glory, is a humble broken hearted joy, and leaves the Christian more poor in spirit; and more like a little child, and more disposed to a universal lowliness of behavior.”


by Audrey on July 10th, 2014

I received the following as part of a long letter from a very perceptive young woman a few years ago.  She asked so many great thought-provoking questions but the one I am sharing today is one I have been asked countless times over the years. Below is her question as she penned it.  My reply follows.

"Do you honestly feel as though every woman will LOVE mothering?  My sister struggles.   She loves her children, she loves her family, but she doesn't love the job of mothering.  I know older ladies that gave their children their all, but they are glad that season is over with.  They don't miss the diapers, the dirty dishes, or constant laundry....but they were diligent and committed during that season."


First of all, the issue is not whether all women will LOVE mothering.    Although most women possess an instinctive love for their children and will mother them, God tells us in His Word that the kind of love women are to have for their children must be taught.  Secondly,  if I had some time with your sister,  I would ask her why she struggles.  And I would listen to her answer.  Then I would ask if there is a misplaced longing to be somewhere other than where God has placed her. 

See, I really believe that one of the reasons so many young women struggle with "wifing" and mothering is because we want so many other things.  Husband and baby get in the way.  Women want it all.  Please understand, there is nothing wrong with pursuing interests - seriously - there isn't. BUT,  interests can be set aside - they can wait or they can be done/pursued in a woman's spare time.     A mother has to remember that her family can't be managed in her spare time, nor is mothering an interest or a hobby.  If we invest too much of our time in our interests - our families will suffer.   

Here’s the thing - if you have a husband and children, they are your ministry - they are your fulltime job - and a fulltime job cannot be done properly in a woman's spare time.  Mothering is not a hobby - it is a calling.  If God has given children to you, then you are called to be a mother.  Period.

And if we struggle with the calling, we have to ask God to give us the heart for His calling in our lives.  We have to ask Him to give us undivided hearts. 

Yes, there are struggles with any calling and/or job.  I immediately think of Jonah whom God called to go to Ninevah but he did not want to go.  His struggle with his calling didn't relieve him of his responsibility or his obedience to God.  God said go.  God put that calling on His life.  And we know from his story, that Jonah didn't love preaching or calling the people to repentance. Yet that's the very assignment God gave to him.

Most moms, I believe, just need a fresh perspective about this high and holy calling.  God never promised us that being a wife or mother or homemaker would be easy.  What job is?  I mean, really?  In fact, God's curse on women was in these very areas. God didn't change His plan because Eve sinned - she'd still be a helper to her husband and mother to children - yet now these areas in her life would bring struggle.  This is the reason God says that young women must be taught even to love their husbands and children.  This is the reason older women are supposed to know doctrine as it relates to home and family.  Temperaments have nothing to do with it.  I constantly have to bring my feelings, attitudes, and selfishness under the scrutiny of God's Word.  He is the One Who gave this calling to mothers - not me.

I am a sinful fallen woman who wants what I want - yet God hasn't given up on me.  Satan is always there tempting women to place everything and anything above His calling - even good, spiritual things.  He hates EVERYTHING God loves.  He wants to ruin EVERYTHING God planned.  We have to decide if we want to cooperate with God or the evil one.

If you have children, mothering them God's way is your calling.  

For those of us who are parents, He wants us, as His people, to raise a godly heritage and once again this job, this responsibility cannot be done in our spare time.  A husband and wife work together, each in their primary spheres of influence, to get the job done.

And please understand,  just because a woman is past the diapering, dirty dishes, constant laundry stage in her own life (though frankly, I don't know if that ever ends unless you isolate yourself from people or remove yourself from the presence of young mothers and children), doesn't mean that any of those tasks are demeaning or beneath her.  Those very things are humble service - ways to demonstrate to our families and others what Jesus taught when He poured water into the basin, washed the disciples' dirty feet, and then wiped them with the towel with which He was girded. He took off his own towel to take care of His men.  We, too, have to take off our towels and wipe our children's feet. 

Women have far too long wanted the place of honor rather than the place of humble service. Yet,  it is in the home where we learn to be like Jesus.  Any woman can be super-spiritual with her Christian girlfriends at a women's retreat or at church or in some outside ministry somewhere.  But the rubber meets the road in the home. The home is where life is really messy, where sin natures rise to the most ugliest of clouds, tempers and growls and nastiness sometimes reign, and where nerves are tested to their limits.  Yet, it is also the place where, if we will allow Him, God will conform us to the image of His Son. Home and all the selfish, sinful people who live there, including our children,  become the tools God uses to make us useable for His Kingdom.  All this mothering is kingdom work.  But when we humble ourselves, embracing God's good design, and let Him do His work through us,  sin natures are subdued, ugly is replaced with pretty, tempers are washed out to sea, and nerves are calmed.

Do we struggle with it?  Of course.  But God calls us to it AND He wants us to lay any struggle we face at His feet.  His feet are clean.  He wants to make ours the same way.  How great He is to use all of it to make us more like  Him.  Let Him.

I could teach on this the rest of my life and still not even scratch the surface.


by Audrey on July 5th, 2014

 And as I was typing in the title for this post, instead of typing "housework" as a compound word, I decided to make it a command ~ House, Work!  Wouldn't you just love to tell your house to work?  Wouldn't you just love to give commands to all the stuff that accumulates? Like .... cobwebs,  disappear!  Vacuum, clean the floors!  

Why doesn't it work that way?

When I was a girl, my brothers, sister and I had to take turns cleaning the kitchen after supper. I disliked it very much.

One evening in particular, when it was my turn to do the dishes, it seemed we had the biggest meal we had ever had. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and loads of vegetables. Biscuits. To a little girl, the pots and pans seemed overwhelming.

Sigh.

I looked at the mess. I looked at the outdoors. I looked at the mess. I looked at the outdoors.

I chose the outdoors and out I went. I reasoned in my little mind that it wasn’t fair that I should have so much work to do. I thought my sister Hope always had the easy nights. I thought my brothers Tony and  Trent always had the easy nights and now Trent didn’t even have to do it anymore because his skin started breaking out.

Since my sister liked housework, I just figured that when she walked back into the kitchen, she would clean it up. See, not only did she like housework, she was kind.

I played and played outside ~ forgetting about the mess in the kitchen ~ until I finally came in. Then I saw it. Only now, the food had hardened on the plates. I complained to my mother. No sympathy. “It’s your own fault, you have made the job more difficult by running outside to play.”

I was devastated. Now, not only did I have to clean the mess, but also the job was more difficult and it would take longer.

But I learned something that night. Some things you just gotta do because you just gotta do them. Doesn’t matter if you don’t want to do them. Doesn’t matter if it’s not fun. I want everything in life to be fun.

I do remember being in the kitchen very late that night. After complaining and grumbling to myself a little while, I finally realized that I could choose to be cheerful and try to make it fun or I could choose to be miserable. But no matter which I chose, I still had to do the job. I chose, finally, to make it fun. I sang my way through the pots and pans. And I have since thanked my mother for making me do the job when, as I now know, would have been easier for her to do it herself rather than fight with me.

The memory of that night has helped me as a grown-up woman. See, I would still rather play in the yard than do the dishes.  I got that honestly, my mom is the same way.

But somewhere along my path of life, God seemed to hit me over the head with Proverbs 6:6-11

6 Go to the ant, O sluggard,
Observe her ways and be wise,
7 Which, having no chief,
Officer or ruler,
8 Prepares her food in the summer,
And gathers her provision in the harvest.
9 How long will you lie down, O sluggard?
When will you arise from your sleep?
10 “A little sleep, a little slumber,
A little folding of the hands to rest”_
11 And your poverty will come in like a vagabond,
And your need like an armed man.

This passage has sustained me through many days of mundane housework. This is what God requires of me.

I should not need a chief, officer or ruler. I am to prepare for my family. I am not to be lazy. I am to be productive doing what needs to be done just because it needs to be done.

See, the housework thing is good for me. Even though I have spent far too much time complaining about the mundane tasks of housework, there is great satisfaction to be found in doing it. God has worked much joy and even fun into my life through it.

As I go about washing the feet of those in my home, I have time to treasure up things, to ponder them in my heart. I found myself doing that even as a young girl when my mom gave chores to me ~ cleaning out my closet, picking blueberries, snapping beans, picking butter beans.

Housework has a way of keeping me humble. Why? Because it is usually not appreciated. It is usually not noticed. It only seems to be noticed when it is not done and then it is expressed negatively like, “So Mom, what did you do with my stuff?”

Not, “Oh thank you mother dear for always washing my socks. Thank you for making this home so pleasant. You are such a wonderful mother. It is so rare that the laundry gets backed up.”

After years of doing housework, I’ve learned that it really is humbling. I suppose that’s why so many women don’t do it.

But I really do want to be like Psalm 131 records, O LORD, my heart is not proud, nor my eyes haughty; Nor do I involve myself in great matters, Or in things too difficult for me.

You know, as I write this,  I know there are many overwhelming issues facing our nation. Too difficult for me to solve. I cannot solve them - yet, I can organize a closet. I can eventually get to the bottom of the laundry basket ~ if only for a short time. I can plan, prepare, and then serve a nutritious lovely meal for my family. I can set a pretty table.

I can change the sheets on the beds. I can get the tub clean (usually). These things are not the sum total of my being. These chores are not all that I live for (not even close), but there is satisfaction to be found in small matters. Some things are too difficult for me, but I can maintain a home, teach grammar, potty-train little people, read books, and proof papers. These things quiet me just like the Psalmist goes on to describe: Surely I have composed and quieted my soul; Like a weaned child rests against his mother, My soul is like a weaned child within me. O Israel, hope in the LORD From this time forth and forever.

When I do these things for the Lord and have my perspective kept in check through His word, I hope in the Lord for my nation. And I trust Him that I do so much for my country when I do so much for my home.

And you know what is so great about mundane, home things? Jesus Christ relates. He sympathizes with me. He knows what it is like to just do the next thing. He knows more than I do. He is constantly cleaning the messes of people's lives, messes He did not make. And you know what else? Wasn't God so good to have His own son grow up in a regular home - with a mom who was there making a home for Him?

Another thing I’ve learned. Housework keeps me out of trouble. If I am busy maintaining the affairs of my home, I can’t be watching daytime dramas. Nor can I be a meddler, a gossip or a busybody.

This is precisely what Paul had in mind when he was discussing young widows in 1 Timothy 5:13-14: And at the same time they also learn to be idle, as they go around from house to house; and not merely idle, but also gossips and busybodies, talking about things not proper to mention. Therefore, I want younger widows to get married, bear children, keep house, and give the enemy no occasion for reproach . . .

(Try that for a career goal on a college application!!)

Housework lets my children and my husband know that I care about them. That I am here. It becomes a training ground for them, too.

Of course, I still wish I could command my house to work.  I still wish I could snap my fingers like Mary Poppins. I really do. But I can sing doing the chores like her. I really can.

It is necessary to keep house, to do housework. I do so want to make a home and build up my family. I do it for them but even more, I want to do it to bring glory to God.

Colossians 3:23-24 says, Whatever you do, do your work heartily, as for the Lord rather than for men; knowing that from the Lord you will receive the reward of the inheritance. It is the Lord Christ whom you serve.

So, housework shows my obedience to God. Doing housework has nothing to do with whether or not my family or anyone else appreciates me.  Our culture may never really appreciate mundane work. To be honest, I cannot ever remember a time when I was growing up in my parents' home telling my mom that I was so grateful for her work in the home. Maybe I did but I certainly don't remember it.  

But you know what? God cared about her work.  And I've told her since I became a grown-up.  She taught me how to keep a home (even though I, many times, shirked my duties) and I am so very grateful.

The writer to the Hebrews, in chapter 6, says this: For God is not unjust so as to forget your work and the love which you have shown toward His name, in having ministered and in still ministering to the saints. And we desire that each one of you show the same diligence so as to realize the full assurance of hope until the end, that you may not be sluggish, but imitators of those who through faith and patience inherit the promises.

So, yeah, there are many issues facing our nation. And I will pray for and carry out my civic duties. But more importantly – I’ll carry out my home duty, raise my children to know the value of housework, teach them to be great Americans and lovers of God, and I will keep my house.

And then, we'll go play in the yard.



by Audrey on June 28th, 2014

June 28, 2014  ~ My 34th Wedding Anniversary

Not too long ago, I was in waiting room and on the coffee table was an issue of Brides magazine. Seemed fitting for me since my anniversary was quickly approaching.  I picked it up and began to flip through it ~ admiring the beautiful dresses, the beautiful veils, the beautiful hairstyles, and of course the beautiful brides.

The ads were beautiful too.  But I was drawn in by one in particular that stated:

Marrying the Wedding of Your Dreams . . .



Wow.   Did I read that correctly?  I looked again.  Yes, that's what it said.

Not the man . . . but the wedding.


And it hit me.  For so many young women, it's all about the wedding.  All about the bride.

Now, that's not bad - it is such a special day.  And it's natural and right for a young woman's heart to want to be beautiful on her wedding day.  And so she should.

But goodness - a great marriage is not about a great wedding.  It's not about a great event.  A woman may have a fantastic event planner who can guarantee a great event - but he/she can't guarantee a great marriage.  Great marriages are built.  The wedding is just a doorway.

And of course, we all know that a bride doesn't marry her wedding.  Even the the one who created and designed the ad knows that.

A bride marries her man.  And her man is not supposed to be just a prop - or an accessory to HER big day.

It's not just her day.  It's his day too.  It's their parents' day as they give away their daughter, as they've prepared their son.  Most importantly, it's God's day.  At least it's supposed to be.  For believers, it is supposed to be a sacred worship service.  Somehow we've lost that in the planning of an event.

Weddings were "thought up," if you will, in the heart of God.   He is the One who performed the first wedding ceremony and at that time, no one was registering for gifts or shopping for wedding dresses.

Nope.  It was just Adam and Eve and God.  And they were making a serious covenant to each other - and to God.

And their wedding?  It was gorgeous. She was a beautiful bride. We know what Adam thought of his bride when he saw her for the first time. Just read Genesis 2.  That first groom was expressive!  And we know how God decorated the venue - with onyx stone and gold and four rivers and beautiful trees and flowers.

And we also know what Jesus said about marriage:

"Have you not read, that He who created them from the beginning made them male and female and said, 'For this cause a man shall leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave to his wife; and the two shall become one flesh?'  Consequently they are no longer two, but one flesh.  What therefore God has joined together, let no man separate."

Marriage is a holy covenant.  We don't just say "I do,"  we say "I will."

Love is not some floaty emotion.  It is built on a covenant.  And it grows with time.  It is a commitment to love, not a feeling.

When Carl and I got married back in June of 1980, we chose a song to be sung at our wedding with these lyrics:


I could never promise you on just my strength alone

That all my life I'd care for you, and love you as my own

I've never known the future, I only see today 

Words that last a lifetime would be more than I could say


But the love inside my heart today is more than mine alone

It never changes, never fails, never seeks its own

And by the God who gives it, and who lives in me and you

I know the words I speak today are words I'm going to do


And so I stand before you now for all to hear and see

And promise you in Jesus' name the love He's given me

And through the years on earth and as eternity goes by

The life and love He's given us are never going to die.


We loved that the words acknowledged the fact that on our own, we could never love each other the way God intended.  We loved how the song acknowledged a complete dependence upon God to hold a marriage together.

We will have been married 34 years on June 28.

Our marriage is not perfect but it is great.  It's not perfect because neither one of us is perfect.  That pesky sin in our lives keeps us from having a perfect marriage.  We've had struggles, very difficult times . . . we are sinners and we live in a sinful world.

Over the years I have pouted way too much.  I have been moody and argumentative at times.  I have not always respected my husband the way I should have.  I have not always loved him the way God requires.

But I want to.  I am growing.  I am maturing.  And I know that as long as both Carl and I grow in our relationships with God - our marriage will be strong.  I always tell young women to care more about a guy's heart for God than his looks (or whatever else she thinks is so important).

All these years later, if Carl and I were having a renewing-our-vows ceremony, there's a song by Brooks and Dunn that I love.  I'd ask Carl to sing it but I don't know - don't think he'd do it.  Don't think he knows it.    I used to have it as a ringtone on my phone for my husband's calls to me but changed phones and well, you know how that goes.  The lyrics go like this:

I dropped to my knees in that field on your daddy's farm.
Asked you to marry me, all I had to give was my heart.
While other kids went diving into swimming holes,
You and me dove off into the great unknown.
We were barely gettin' by, takin' care of each other.
Then I became a daddy; you became a mother.
Was an uphill battle nearly every day,
Lookin' back I wouldn't have it any other way.

I'm proud of the house we built.
It's stronger than sticks, stones, and steel.
It's not a big place sittin' up high on some hill.
A lot of things will come and go but love never will.
Oh, I'm proud.
I'm proud of the house we built.


Still workin' our way through the land of milk and honey.
At the end of the day there's always more bills than money.
I close my eyes at night and I still feel
The same fire in my heart I felt out in that field.

I'm proud of the house we built.
It's stronger than sticks, stones, and steel.
It's not a big place sittin' up high on some hill.
A lot of things will come and go but love never will.
Oh, I'm proud.
I'm proud of the house we built.

Oh, look at us today.
Oh, we've come such a long long way.


I'm proud of the house we built.
It's stronger than sticks, stones, and steel.
It's not a big place sittin' up high on some hill.
A lot of things will come and go but love never will.
Oh, I'm proud.
I'm proud of the house we built.

I'd change a few of the lyrics though.  Carl dropped to his knees in the parlor of my dorm.  

And I know I'd say "I'm proud of the house God built."  

See, God has been the One Who has kept us together.  I married a man whose love for God was bigger than his love for me. My husband married me ~ a woman whose love for God was bigger than my love for him.  A wedding doesn't build a marriage - God does.

And because of His building - we've come such a long long way.  

Unless the Lord builds the house, we labor in vain .......




by Audrey on June 20th, 2014

It's coming up.  My wedding anniversary.  

I've been married nearly 34 years. I declare I am just not old enough to have been married so long.

When I think about my husband,  I am often reminded of the reasons I married him.

Like most young women, I had a mental list of what I wanted in a husband . . .

On my list for husband were things like this: he would be taller than I was, he would be rugged, and he would definitely be handsome. He would love to laugh and I, of course, would be the center of his world. He would look into my eyes and tell me that I was the most beautiful thing in the world. He would work hard to provide a living for our family of at least six children. He must love children. And he would definitely be southern.

Growing up in the South, I never thought I would marry a boy from anywhere else.  For me, however, it wasn’t just a southern thing – it was a Carolina thing. North Carolina – where I came of age or South Carolina - where I was born.

Well, I remember the first time I saw the boy who would become my husband.  I was a student at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill. It was my junior year. I was very involved in the ministry of Cru (though then it was called Campus Crusade for Christ) and some of my friends and I went over to a sorority house one Sunday evening for College Life. College Life was a meeting filled with singing, skits, a testimony or two and a message to share the gospel with the students who came. On this particular night, a tall, lanky, dark-haired boy dressed in very non-preppy clothes got up to share his testimony. He opened his mouth and spoke in what sounded like a foreign language to me and to most of my friends. He said in a distinct New England accent something like, “My name is Carl Broggi and I grew up in Worcester, Massachusetts.”

Everyone laughed, including me. Who was this guy? Worcester? How do you pronounce that? (Just so you know, it’s pronounced “Wista.”) Please understand, we weren’t laughing at the content of what he said – just the way he said it. He didn’t say y’all and hey.

Sometime later, I heard that he was the new staff guy on campus who had raised his support very fast. I also heard that he shared the gospel constantly and students were praying to receive Christ with him all the time. I heard him teach a few times at our Crusade meetings and learned so much. That’s about all I remember about him that year.

At the time, I was not remotely interested in him - mainly because of, well, a lot of reasons. My senior year, however, I found myself back at Carolina ready to share my faith with students, lead a Bible study on my hall, finish my studies, get my degree, and prepare for the mission field. 

I dated some but I was focused.  And I was ready for God to use me with no strings attached. I thought I was ready before but I was really ready now. It was at the first Campus Crusade leadership meeting where I had a conversation with the new staff guy – Carl Broggi. He asked me about my summer and my previous relationship. I told him about both. I also told him about my plans for missions.

Not long after that, after another Crusade meeting, I headed over to the local ice cream shop with a group of friends. Carl was one of the guys with us. Standing in line, he asked me if I would like to go to dinner with him on Friday evening.

I was a bit surprised but after thinking for just a moment, I agreed. I was not interested in him the least little bit – after all, he was not a southerner, not a Carolina boy, didn't dress very well in my opinion, not a student, and he drove a Volkswagen bug. Not exactly a cool car. But he loved the Lord and I thought I could learn a lot from him.  And to be perfectly frank, I had no idea that he was really interested in me. He might have been thinking, “She’s not a northerner, she is too fashion-conscious, she’s a student, and she drives her daddy's Buick.” Well, anyway – at the time, he seemed too godly to be seeing a girl as anything but a sister in Christ.  I had a lot to learn.

But just to make sure he wouldn’t think this was a “real date” or anything, I offered to pay for myself that night. I don’t do that anymore.

When it became evident to me that he was interested in me as more than just a sister in Christ, I’m not sure. But at some point, I knew. And I was very uncomfortable with it. So uncomfortable that I told my friend Cathy I didn’t like it.

I thought she would empathize but instead she quipped, “Well, what’s wrong with Carl?”

Nothing was wrong with him. In fact, there was so much right with him. But I still didn’t like his interest in me. Really – I just wasn't and I told her all the reasons he was not for me.   As I spoke those reasons outloud, everything I said seemed stupid. And I knew those reasons were stupid. Especially since I thought I was maturing as a believer. 

Not too long after this, I was making a trip to my parents' new home.  They had moved the previous summer while I was away on a missions project and I had never made the drive from Chapel Hill.  I asked a couple of different friends to come with me but they couldn't so I thought about Carl.  Would he like to come?  He did.  

My mother really liked him though she did ask, "Audrey, who is this man you've brought with you?"  I still think it's funny when I think of her question.

Yes, Carl was a nice person. Yes, I liked him as a nice person. But that was it.

As time passed, I grew to really like Carl. He was funny, yet he was serious. He was tall. He loved the Lord. It was difficult not to be impressed with his knowledge of the Bible and his love for God’s Word. He was 23 years old and had only been a believer five years but he had a zeal for the Lord unlike any I had ever seen in a young man. His heart seemed to beat to share the gospel with people - any person. It was like he was in debt – and the only way to be released of the debt was to deliver the gospel. He had fervor, still does, to make Christ known to anyone who would listen. He possessed a boldness to keep right on teaching and preaching Jesus no matter what.

I didn’t have this boldness even though I had been a Christian since childhood.

I had so much respect for this Carl Broggi. I was impressed but I was not in love. It wouldn't be long, however, before I learned respect is the foundation for real love.

I could tell Carl loved me. And by Thanksgiving, heasked me to marry him. I said yes. I’m not even sure why I said yes other than somehow I knew he was God’s choice for me. We began planning a June wedding – to take place after I finished my classes and internship and before staff training in Colorado.

He talked to my dad. I met his family. He kept working at his job as I was finishing my degree.

Sometime in the spring, I was walking across campus back to my dorm after my last class. I had to go through what we called the “Pit” – it was an outdoor brick courtyard between the Student Union and the Bookstore.

As I was approaching the Pit – I could tell a crowd had gathered, as it often did – and I could hear someone preaching. I could also hear jeers and hecklers.

As I got closer I could tell that it was a traveling campus preacher – one who had been at Carolina before and one whom so many students hated. Then I heard a voice change – almost as if someone was handing off a baton. And this voice was familiar. In fact, too familiar. I soon realized that Carl had stepped in to help the preacher and he was preaching Christ with the boldness and compassion that I had only read about in the book of Acts. As the issue of Christ took center stage, the jeers and the heckling increased. It didn’t seem to bother Carl.

I stayed back, near the wall – embarrassed – I just wanted to slither into the bookstore unnoticed. Then some girl I barely knew said to me, “Isn’t that your fiancé?”

“Um . . . well...” and I ducked away. Inside the bookstore, someone else I barely knew came up to me and said something like, “Why aren’t you out there? Isn’t he your fiancé?”

I am so ashamed to say it – but I just wanted to get away. Though I had been bought with the blood of the One they were preaching – I didn’t want to be identified with them. So, instead of standing there praying for the preacher, for Carl, and for the students who so desperately needed Jesus Christ, I slithered my way back to my dorm and all I could think of was how Peter denied Jesus.

Carl and I never discussed it.

Then, a few months later on June 28, 1980 Carl and I walked the aisle and said our vows before God and man. I became Mrs. Carl Broggi.

Well, it’s been nearly thirty-four years, five children, two daughters-in-law, one son-in-law, and nine and a half grandchildren since then. I am still impressed by this man and I know what real love is. It’s not the stuff that Hollywood offers and it’s different from what I thought love was in my pre-Carl days. It’s deep. It’s not about being northern or southern, dressing preppy, or driving a cool car.

A few years ago, I was reminded of all the reasons I was impressed by and grew to love this man. We were in Vienna, Austria on our way home from one of our Ukraine mission trips. We had a day in the city and wanted to see as much as we could. Our hotel was near an open market area where we found ourselves taking in the cathedrals, parks, and even an Austrian public school. There were all sorts of ‘artisans’ in the square, including two mimes. One was dressed as an angel, standing on a pedestal. The other was dressed like the grim reaper. Seizing the opportunity, my husband stood beside the angel and using them as props began preaching the gospel.

It was like he was part of their act. Or, I should say they were part of his act. At first, I thought, what is he doing? Then my mind flashed to Carolina’s pit and Carl’s preaching. For half a second, I thought about ducking into a nearby bookstore. But I didn’t - I knew God was giving me a fresh opportunity to stand my man and be identified with him.

See, years before in Carolina’s pit, I had slithered away. Well, in Austria’s pit, I was not going to slither away. In fact, I got out my camera and took some pictures. I felt like saying, “That’s my husband! Listen to him – he’s got a message for you that you don’t want to miss.” I told our children, “Be proud of your dad – pray for him – and pray for those who listen.”

A crowd gathered – some laughing, some standing, and some pausing before they turned away. But some were listening. Out of the some who were listening emerged four teenage boys. When Carl finished preaching, these boys approached him and began asking all kinds of questions about the gospel.

I was in awe of this man – who was tired from preaching and teaching non-stop in Ukraine. This man who had been sick with a stomach virus the entire time kept giving out the gospel and answering people’s questions. He was amazing.

Still is. And let me tell you, this wasn’t an isolated incident. This is how he lives his life. Always ready to share the message of salvation. This man I married bleeds the gospel of Christ. He lives to share the gospel with anyone, and I mean anyone who will listen.  In all these years, he’s never wavered.

Other reasons I love and respect this man? He is faithful. He is gracious. He is business-like. He doesn't return evil for evil. When slandered, he perseveres. And I, who know him better than anyone, who has lived with him for nearly thirty-four years, who knows all his flaws - I am still impressed and I am more in love today than I was when God opened up my heart to him. The world can’t touch the love that God gives, deepens, and grows.

I’ve been to lots of weddings over the years. I am always reminded that the ceremony is just a doorway into a lifelong marriage. I am reminded that the real beauty is not the wedding itself – as important as that is – the real beauty is the covenant kept. A wedding is a sacred trust and a picture of Christ and His bride. A marriage is really about God. Our wedding invitation so long ago declared, “God has called the two of us to be one flesh, united in Him, to reflect the image of His Son.” That’s what it’s all about. Reflecting Him.

Now - about that mental list of a future husband? Well, Carl is taller than I am (lots), he's definitely rugged (you should see him under the hood of a car or working in the yard) and handsome. He loves to laugh - loudly. From time to time (though he’s not given to overdoing it), He looks into my eyes and tells me that I am the most beautiful thing in the world. He works hard and we are content. He makes a living that has always provided for our five children and me. He does love our children and I guess now, after all these years in the South, he is definitely southern. But . . . I am not the center of his world. That place belongs to God and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I am thankful today that God, in His sovereignty, brought Carl to North Carolina all those years ago. Who, but God, would have ever placed a Boston College graduate from Massachusetts on a Carolina campus? Hey, I guess I really did marry a Carolina boy after all.

​Part 2 coming soon ... all these years later ....




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