What’s your language of love? No, I’m not talking about French, Italian or Spanish. My hubby and I had been married less than a year when we came across a book called, The Five Love Languages, by Dr. Gary Chapman. In it, Dr. Chapman describes the five languages as Acts of Service, Physical Touch (not just sexual), Gifts, Quality Time and Words of Affirmation.
Smoke plumes billowed into a summer blue sky last Tuesday afternoon. I had just stepped outside to put some chicken on the grill. The wind kept blowing out the flame. When I turned around and saw the thick gray smoke pouring upward, my stomach dropped and my hands began to shake. This was close. Very close. It turns out, the Black Forest fire (a few images here) began less than ten miles northeast our house, as the ash flies.
I know it’s a bit early to blog about Father’s Day. I hope you’ll bear with me since I won’t post again until after Father’s Day . . . . .
I’m fortunate to have a father who I am close to. Poor man, during my childhood years, he shared a house with four females and one, count it, one small bathroom. In spite of the testosterone minority in our home, he was a leader and a man who taught me to love in my growing up years.
Most of his childhood was spent without his father in his life. In spite of that, when I came along, he learned well how to wear and embrace the mantle of fatherhood. He was not a perfect father, but he was the perfect father for me. My dad taught my two sisters and me what love looked like—in how he loved my mother, how he loved the three of us girls, and how he loved others in his life.
The crazy daze of summer is here again. The kids said good-bye to their teachers on May 23rd with excitement filling their every word, exuberance directing each of their actions. I anticipated relaxing mornings, with unrushed quiet times, some blog time and a chatty breakfast with my wide-awake boys (about in that order).