Compassion has set up a great page that shows the intro to each bloggers post and you can read on from there; if you want. Check it out, you won't be sorry. Go ahead, I'll wait right here for you.
I knew some of you would just keep reading here, must be because I'm so awesome, I'm sure.
Angie Smith's blog, Bring the Rain shows how real our bloggers in Peru are. She is afraid to fly! And she has her two daughters along... just take a glance:
A lot of people ask me how I fly so much now, and my answers are less spiritual than I would like for them to be. Yes, it’s absolutely the grace of God. But I still have some weird controlling issues.Layla and Kev over at The Lettered Cottage have hit the ground running...I love how she has a letter in her post, "Things I'd Tell My Grandma Evelyn." Very touching to me.
Number one: I can fly as long as there are no storms.
Number two: And I’m by a window.
Number three: And it’s not night time.
Number four: And if I have personally interviewed, fingerprinted, and breathalyzed the pilot(s).
Number five: I have enough Xanax on hand to tranquilize a horse.
I’m kind of kidding.
I’m not really kidding. keep reading!!!
For some reason, as I’ve grown older, my comfort zone seems to have gradually gotten smaller.How cool is God that he selected "Lifesong" to play on pandora as I started writing this!!!
Maybe it’s hormonal? Maybe it just happens to some folks with age? Maybe it’s something else?
All I know is that when I think about my comfort zone nowadays, I think of it as being a bit on the small side- and I don’t like that. It’s edges feel harder and closer in than they used to- and I don’t like that either.
Shaun Groves, an awesome musician and talented writer shares this:
“I remember,” Jey said, “a boy so sick he could not hold his dish of food. He fell and his food was on the floor beside the toilet. All the people ran to him and ate his food from the floor – from the floor by the toilet. That is how hungry I was.”
I was supposed to be coaching Jey over lunch. He was supposed to tell me his story and I was supposed to figure out how best to fit it into the ten minutes he and I would split between us on stage later.
I was supposed to…Please, finish the story here. It's what THIS is all about.
But I’d forgotten about all that. A good story – a true story – has a way of making us forget about all doesn’t it?
I had to know how the hopeless boy eating food from the floor became the confident muscled man eating brisket with me at a baseball stadium in Texas.