I went back to look at the first house I can remember living in a few years back, from the outside, and I was shocked at how small it seemed. I really would have loved to have seen the inside to compare, but what the heck. It was small.
It didn't seem that way growing up. It seemed to be big. The second house, the one in Lizelia that I still call home and will forever I guess, was huge even in my young memory. But the little house in Oakland Heights that sent me out into the world in the first and second grade was big to me.
I remember little other than two friends I had when I lived there, but I remember one Christmas Morning. I woke while it was still dark, I still believe prompted by some sound, and ran into the little living room. The small tree and its gifts were under there and I was ecstatic. But just before you got to them, there was a big boot print. Mud, as I recall.
Of course that sent me into a delirium that was matched by the frowns of my father and mother who were not happy I had risen so early. I saw EVIDENCE that there was a Santa.
I was thinking about this story and it led me to think of those disciples who continually wanted signs and wonders to be given to them by our Lord. They walked with the man, saw him, saw him heal and such and still couldn't believe.
We have been given a tough task, this faith road we're on. But I believe there are always a few boot steps along the way to give us hope. We just have to look for them
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