Dear Friends, I know you along with me have seen the homeless men and women standing right off the highway exits with signs like this: "Homeless, disabled, please help. God bless." In our world, we never  know who is honestly in need or not. My husband told me of a news coverage where a "homeless" man was followed after begging at the side of the road, and actually lived in a nice neighborhood and had a very nice house! Talk about shameful! I also have my doubts when I pull up to these people. I often rationalize that if they are truly homeless, they brought it upon themselves. Everyone else has to work hard to have things, why do they get off so easily? I thought that homelessness was really nothing more than a disorder of sorts, where money management and irresponsibility were the real culprits for their situations. But I have been reading a LOT of verses in the Bible lately that talk about charity and giving to the poor. Jesus says we will ALWAYS have the

If I could capture a picture right now of the inside of my home, it would look like this: Toys, books, and scattered random objects on the living room floor, courtesy of my kids; Open patio door, listening to the fountain outside; Kids playing in their room, me calling the occasional time-out for not listening; Our brand new baby kitty, Kittle, lying on the soft brown rug in the bathroom, asleep; Fading flowers in a vase spread out in different directions, with the pink rose having the biggest, most beautiful bloom. If I could capture a picture of the inside of my thoughts right now, you would see: The anxious anticipation of my husband's return home from his 'man-cation." My dread of the approaching late hour as I wrangle four beings to bed; My reluctancy to pick up all the objects on the floor; My laziness (and frugality) to go turn on the air even though I'm roasting; My wishing my kids had tape over their mouths so they can't call my name

I was born and raised in Lansing, MI. I was born on August 23, 1986 at St. Lawrence Hospital. When I was 2 I was taken in by my daycare providers while my parents tried to get on their feet in order to provide for me. When they couldn't, I was adopted at age 5. I don't remember a lot of happiness between 7 and 18, but when I was a sophomore in college I packed my bags and left for school and wiped the dust of that town off my feet. Today I hardly ever return. It is, to me, a ghost town. Every blue moon when I go to visit, I may drive past my old house, they one I was raised in as a child. I see myself playing on the driveway, being careful not to trip on the raised crack. I remember shaking the ant off my shoe while howling loudly as my sister laughed from inside the house. I remember pretending to re-enact the stories of Cinderella in the backyard. And I remember how I used to pretend the giant gnarly tree in the backyard of the house next door (which my parents owned also)