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.