Tonight, I’m thankful that God pulled me out of that double-double chocolate life and let me settle back into the world of plain vanilla. After all, isn't plain vanilla the basis for every good thing in this life? Thank you Lord for every good thing. May we all only look to you to satisfy our lives.

For years, I’ve searched for a book I know I once owned. I must still have it, I tell myself. Is it tucked away in a dusty box in the garage? Is it hiding in plain sight on a shelf, eluding my aging eyes? I’ve even forgotten the title, yet the weight of its message remains etched in my mind.

Now, I realize our Roman Catholic brothers and Orthodox friends might want to pull the emergency brake and shout, "Whoa, back up the truck, mister! Why are you tossing two millennia of church history into the trunk just to give the Bible the driver’s seat?" To which I would politely, sardonically retort: Why aren’t you?

So, there I was—gorging on bacon and a side banana (and NO, I didn't put the banana on the sandwich; I’m not a Philistine)—when I opened Facebook to snoop at who’d glanced at my post from last night. Gotta stroke the ego, ya know? Then I heard it: Ba-llingggg!

I wonder if God orchestrates these "brain-leak" days on purpose? It makes sense. He did, after all, create the Sabbath. As Mark 2:27 says, “The Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath.” God knew we’d need to re-coop so we can tackle the next mission. He knew that sometimes, the most spiritual thing you can do is admit you’re running on fumes and stop trying to be profound.

I spent a couple of summers in the BWCA as a kid and, if you’ve never been, let me tell you: the beauty is stunning. I’ve always been grateful for the lessons I learned there as a teen. Even now, as an "aging adult," I long to return—if only to gaze upon its grandeur. Not that I necessarily want to go on a portage-heavy canoe trip and get devoured by thousands of man-eating mosquitoes again, mind you. But if we could enjoy the sights while keeping our flesh intact? Count me i

Rob and I chatted briefly today, reminiscing about the "good old days." Neither of us could have envisioned what God had planned while we were busy worrying about hairspray and guitar riffs....

As we drove home, I couldn't stop thinking about that phrase: The Good Old Days. I chuckled to myself as I walked through our back door, thinking that you really know you’re getting old when you start unironically reminiscing about them. But then, as I was putting on my "comfy clothes" (read: elastic waistbands are a blessing from the Lord), it dawned on me....

There isn’t a Little Caesars within striking distance of these parts, but we do have Casey’s. And while Casey’s isn’t exactly the crème de la crème of the "za-za" world, it’s an absolute life-saver when you’ve promised to feed a literal horde of hungry teenagers. Enter the Casey’s Pizza Pickup Party. Well, it’s less of a party and more of a strategic peace treaty. Let me preheat the oven and tell you the genesis of this particular story.

Sometimes, we need to stop and smell the roses—or look at the roadside trailers—because what’s here today is truly gone tomorrow.

I’m thankful for that circle—for those we honor, like Mary, and for the little ones who haven't yet arrived. You were put on this planet to love and be loved, and that is the loveliest part of the whole ride.

The old saying is true: Laughter is the best medicine. Probably because it's the only one without a terrifying list of side effects read by a fast-talking narrator. Tonight, I’m thanking the Father for the gift of a good guffaw. Without it, we’d all be a miserable bunch of "knights who say Ni."