I like scissors.

 

I like scissors.

I like my old, small scissors.

 

 

 

I like my old, big scissors.

 

 

 

I like my pretty little embroidery scissors.

 

 

 

I like my everyday scissors.

 

 

 

And I like my decorative-edge scissors.

 

 

 

I really, really like my kewl, curved-blade scissors that were given to me by Beeg Seester for no special reason except that she is nice like that.

 

 

 

But I couldn't find any of my small scissors last Friday night when I wanted to cut something teensy.

And it made me feel very badly about myself.

I have felt so privileged to own more than one pair of tiny scissors, that I felt equally rotten to think I had been careless with them.

I searched.

The Prince (seeing my distress) searched.

In vain.

I went to bed.

And when I got up Saturday morning, I was still feeling rotten.

I told God that I was so sorry I had treated my blessings so carelessly.

I told Dennis that I could see how it seemed ridiculous to be so upset by such a thing.

Then I searched again.

And I found all but one pair.

Then Miss Helping Hands and I proceeded to make a double batch of peach and sour cream muffins, a peach cobbler, an apple pie with crumb topping, and a pan of apple crisp.

And right smack dab in the middle of that cloud of flour, Dear Reader/New Friend Annski unexpectedly dropped by.

She brought me this:

 

 

 

She didn't know anything about my 'scissors sadness'.

She only knew I had been beating back the blackness of an inexplicable depression.

She brought me scissors because she knows I cut.

 

 

 

But God had them delivered on Saturday so I would know He loves me even in my careless, scissor-losing humanness.

 

 

 

You see how He loves?

You see how He uses people to show us?

It's amazing.