Under Construction

     We're in the 6th week of kitchen deconstruction/installation. The first few weeks were fun - like camping, with a makeshift kitchen installed in the family room, and lovely inventions like the electric frying pan, rice cooker, crockpot, microwave, and bread machine taking up the slack where our normal kitchen appliances were absent. We washed dishes in the laundry room's slop sink, and while the kids didn't enjoy trekking up and down the stairs with dishes, I actually found the time in that bright little blue room very reflective - how few steps I had to travel, to get to clean, fresh, clear water, compared to the task of most of the world's mothers. How quickly the water gets hot! I thought of mothers washing pots and fetching drinking water in running streams, muddy watering holes, or at village wells, after walking miles. I gave thanks.

     Then it got old - the dust, the contractor's sparse working hours, the leaks and things installed incorrectly, and hours of work my husband had to put in fixing things that were "fixed" wrong. We thought it might be nice to just run away, and come back when it was done. We had a week of lovely "vacation" at my parents' house (my childhood home), not far from away, while the wood floors were being refinished in our nearly-done kitchen and dining room. Their house has been lovingly restored, top-to-bottom, with my father's incredible craftsmanship and my mother's flair for Victorian decorating; it's a lovely, peaceful place to have some respite from remodeling, and I'm so thankful for the relationships we share.

     Recently, as I looked around at our four youngest boys, I realized that our kitchen isn't the only thing under construction at our house. These boys are huge - two of them each grew four inches taller and ten pounds heavier in the past year. There are three adolescents - two 12s, and one 15 - and the last voice of the three changed without warning, a week ago. I was upstairs and heard another man in the house, and went downstairs to see who'd come over - and there was my son, another deeper-voiced young man to confuse callers to our house, who find themselves suddenly unable to identify the boy who answers. Our grocery bill is more monthly than our mortgage, and we use at least a dozen eggs a day. And the shoes - the man-sized sneakers that line my foyer - when did their feet get so big? Three large boys to shuttle to and from rowing practice with their friends, lots of sweaty gym clothes to wash, and many, many meals and snacks to prepare and clean, with their help.

     The changes aren't only physical, I remind myself, as I see signs of other, deeper, changes. Skin seems thinner, finding offense where often none was intended, and needing desperately to be right. A normally compliant boy suddenly feels the need to argue about simple things - like whether it's ok to leave a wet washcloth on the new granite or whether the day is warm or what another person said or did; a sometimes exhausting litany of offense and disagreement from a usually very helpful and agreeable child. Happy, thick-skinned boys become fragile and sensitive; brooding becomes more common and feelings are hurt more easily. I find myself praying more, both for both these young people and for my own parenting, than I have before. Because the frequent little disagreements - they can wear a person down. The arguing, especially when it's with me - it's a struggle not to get offended, or hurt, and respond less like a parent and more like another adolescent; I need to respond prayerfully, teach problem-solving skills, and point them to Jesus. And their own hurt feelings - gosh, sometimes it would be easier to say, "ease up, stop worrying, get over it!" But the feelings run deep and they are real, and I'm reminded, too, that the brains are changing along with the bodies, causing all this disequilibrium and some mental chaos.
                                                           
     Around the age of 13 and the beginning of puberty, the structural remodeling of the prefrontal cortex in the teen brain begins. The prefrontal cortex helps make possible the executive functioning skills of planning, reasoning, impulse control and weighing risks and rewards.  In a process called pruning, up to 40% of the neural branches are sloughed off in this region. Despite the elegant brain growth that occurs during the next decade (thanks to environmental experience and the wiring of neurons over time), the brutal truth is that until maturation is complete in the early twenties, cognition and decision making are compromised by this construction project. Furthermore, the role of emotions becomes critical in the understanding of teen behavior, since emotions often trump cognition in any of us—and even more so for teens.

In all humans, the limbic area, and specifically the amygdala, is activated by highly arousing emotional events that trigger fear and anxiety.  Emotional flooding and “fight and flight” reactions can happen even more readily for teens, because they lack the established inhibitory mechanisms which help reign in impulses. Along with sexual hormones and the teen’s super-sensitivity to dopamine, a lot of extra fuel can be added to the fire of teen emotions. The dominance of neuronal activity in the emotional region of the brain during high arousal situations has been called an “amygdala hijack.” - Laura Kastner, Ph.D.

     Who knew? The quick emotional responses, the emotional flooding, the "thinking" with emotions...it explains a lot and makes me wonder, too, how early life experiences play into this and muddy the waters - do feelings of fear or abandonment, long buried, become more intensified during these years when everything is felt so deeply? Might the child who pushed back for independence from the start push more now, and might feelings of unworthiness or fear of rejection just happen, in these years, to look like cocky indifference or a need to be right?

     Praying, I'm reminded that I want to be the mother who goes again. (Do read this blogger's post, please - what wisdom in these words!) Praying through an older child's struggles years ago, a truth became blindingly apparent: we are as unruly and difficult to love as our children can be sometimes, and yet we serve a God who goes again and again, to find us, to rescue us, to save us and redeem us. He was faithful even during my years of stubbornness and rebellion; faithful even in my business and lack of attention to Him and to prayer; faithful in the face of selfishness and anger and outbursts. We serve a God who loves us deeply enough that He sent His Son to the cross to retrieve us. It's this love - this crazy, sacrificial, impossible love - I'm called to imitate, and will never, ever, come close to achieving without the help of the one who modeled it. Because I'm under construction too:

     "Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me." Philippians 3:12
   
     The dishwasher will be installed soon, and it won't be long before we can start moving things back into the kitchen; life will look more normal again. But the rest of the construction? It will be years - for all of us.

    "For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.  For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. And he who searches hearts knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.  And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose." Romans 8-22-28
    
     And so we pray for patience, for laughter, and give thanks for joy in the beautiful, everyday moments. We pray and trust these precious ones to One who loves them more than even we do, knowing that even when we are out of words, the Spirit knows our hearts  - and their needs - and intercedes for us. We give thanks for the music and the living room wrestling, the dirty dishes and grocery bills, the stinky socks and the pile of boys at the end of the night when we gather for prayers and devotions. Much is asked of parents; most likely far more than any of us imagined when we "signed on" as young and idealistic people whose own brains hadn't finished developing. We were going to do it "right," we were sure. I know, now, that the only "right" is in the keeping on trying, in turning to the One who holds us in His hands - who holds our kids in His hands. It is in the praying for wisdom, the giving of thanks, and being parents who keep on loving, and holding each other up in prayer.

So very thankful for this journey, construction and all.

Trusting in Him,
Aimee



    


    

    

Our All-Purpose, Gluten Free Flour Recipe

This is the flour blend we use for most everything here. It's been highly effective in recipes that call for regular flour, substituted cup for cup. Most gluten free recipes will tell you how much xanthan gum or gluten substitute you need to add, but if you decide to adapt your own recipes, do not forget the xanthan gum; I've wasted a good deal of lovely ingredients making baked goods with the consistency of either sand or rubber frisbees, by leaving out this ingredient.

Gluten Free Flour Mixture

1 24 oz bag Bob’s Red Mill white rice flour (I like the fine consistency of this brand)

2/3 c. tapioca starch

1 1/3 c. potato starch

Combine all in a large jar with a tight-fitting lid, and shake well. If the recipe hasn’t already been adapted for gluten free ingredients, you will need to add ½ t. xanthan gum per cup of flour.

Christmas Preparations and White Chip Coconut Cookies

 ***This seemed to post before I was done writing it - if you viewed it earlier, please take note of changes to the recipe***

        Planning ahead has never been my strong suit, and with a surgery in the weeks before Christmas, I seem to be a bit more behind than usual. We did several hours worth of online shopping Saturday morning, and I’ve never been quite so grateful for supersaver shipping, and a pass from going to a mall. We have long striven to keep Christmas simple, sticking to two gifts per child and donations in their names, but someone had to shop for them all the same. Perhaps it’s last week’s heartwrenching tragedy, but I have more of an urge than ever to stick close to home and hunker down with the people I love. The rower and I did venture to a fair trade gift shop, and to a coffee house where I drank tea that kept me up into the wee hours of the morning, but it was worth it.

          We’re giving ourselves grace to move more slowly, put up a small tree next weekend, and take it easy with decorations. I’ll give myself permission to keep school simple and incorporate Christmas preparations. In addition to our morning hymn, praise and devotional time, we’ll focus a bit on the OAntiphons – you may recognize them from the hymn O Come, O come Emmanuel.   Some Catholic friends, whose home is rich in liturgy and faith, shared this link and concept with us. Here’s a wee bit – do check out the link to learn more:

          “The importance of “O Antiphons” is twofold: Each one highlights a title for the Messiah: O Sapientia (O Wisdom), O Adonai (O Lord), O Radix Jesse (O Root of Jesse), O Clavis David (O Key of David), O Oriens (O Rising Sun), O Rex Gentium (O King of the Nations), and O Emmanuel. Also, each one refers to the prophecy of Isaiah of the coming of the Messiah.
       ...According to Professor Robert Greenberg of the San Francisco Conservatory of Music, the Benedictine monks arranged these antiphons with a definite purpose. If one starts with the last title and takes the first letter of each one - Emmanuel, Rex, Oriens, Clavis, Radix, Adonai, Sapientia - the Latin words ero cras are formed, meaning, “Tomorrow, I will come.” Therefore, the Lord Jesus, whose coming we have prepared for in Advent and whom we have addressed in these seven Messianic titles, now speaks to us, “Tomorrow, I will come.” So the “O Antiphons” not only bring intensity to our Advent preparation, but bring it to a joyful conclusion.”

          I’ve also been trying out this novel concept (don’t laugh) of baking ahead of time for the holidays, instead of in a mad, two-day frenzy that leaves me incapable of enjoying any of it, once Thanksgiving or Christmas or said holiday has arrived. It actually worked at Thanksgiving (who knew?) so we’ll give it a go this week too, freezing things as we go. I hope to share recipes for those also trying to do GF holiday baking – and to spare you the pain of trying to adapt a recipe off of the back of a chip bag, only to realize, after two trays of cookies have baked, that you’ve left out the xanthan gum. Ugh. You’re welcome. You might note that in most instances, I've adapted recipes to contain less sugar - up to half - than what was originally called for. If you like your baked goods sweeter, take note. We usually don't get complaints, and in fact, receive many requests for recipes, so I think you can get by without all that extra sugar. The recipe below contains plenty even with adjustments!

          Up today: the Wrestler’s favorite, White Chip Coconut Cookies. I double this recipe, and bake half chipless to make a few trays dairy free, and then add the chips (still two cups for a double recipe, since I've used half the dough) to the remaining dough.

Thankfully,

Trusting in Him,
Aimee

White Chip Coconut Cookies

1 2/3 c gluten free flour
1 t. xanthan gum
¾ t. baking powder
½ t. baking soda
½ t. salt
2/4 c. Spectrum Shortening (or margarine or butter if you’re ok with dairy)
½ c. packed brown sugar
¼ c granulated sugar
1 large egg
1 c. flaked coconut
¾ c. chopped walnuts (optional)
***2 c. Nestle Toll House White Morsels*** Optional, omit if you need dairy free, these DO contain dairy

 

          Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine shortening, sugars, and vanilla in large bowl and beat until creamy. Beat in egg. Gradually beat in flour mixture, and once incorporated, add the coconut and nuts (optional) and mix well. If dairy is not an issue, add the chips and mix well. Drop by rounded heaping teaspoonsful onto ungreased baking sheetsx, and bake 8-11 minutes, or until lightly browned but still soft. Remove to wire rack to cool. HINT – line cookie sheets with parchment paper, and slide each piece off onto the cooling rack after baking, with cookies intact. This makes clean-up so much easier and cookies bake more evenly.

Gluten Free Apple Bars - Yum!

         As soon as we returned home from the hospital after the Wrestler’s recent surgery, I had to bake. Seriously, not an hour had passed after we’d gotten home, before I was making a crustless, dairy and gluten free pumpkin pie (a great recipe, and so easy). Perhaps it was being away from home, perhaps baking is my stress release, or perhaps it was my dietary boredom after eating the simple foods I’d packed myself for a few days away. Likely all three are true.

          The next day I tried adapting the Apple "Brownie” recipe (no chocolate involved) that my mom made frequently when we were kids. With changes to reduce the sugar and oil, and to make the recipe gluten free, it turned out wonderfully. The wrestler peeled apples from his wheelchair, while I mixed the ingredients, and everyone helped eat. Judging from the nearly empty 9x13 pan, the recipe is a keeper. Next, cranberry bread…

 Apple Bars

1 c. sugar
1 ½ c. rice flour
½ c. millet flour
2/3 c. potato starch
1/3 c. tapioca starch
1 ½ t. xanthan gum
1 t. baking soda
1 t. cinnamon
¼ t. nutmeg
½ t. salt
1/3 c. unsweetened applesauce
2/3 c. canola oil
½ t. vanilla extract
2 eggs
3 c. chopped, peeled apples

          Combine all dry ingredients in large mixing bowl. In another bowl, combine eggs, oil, vanilla and applesauce, and mix well. Add wet ingredients to the dry mixture, and mix well. Batter will be extremely thick; be careful not to over-mix. Fold in chopped apples. Using clean hands, pat into a greased 9x 13” pan. Bake 45-55 minutes at 325, or until the top is firm and browned, and it is cooked through.

Try to cool a bit before you eat them. If you can.

Trusting in Him,

Aimee

On Surgery and Stories

          I should be writing something deep about our experience at Shriners Hospital this week, where the Wrestler had surgery on his femur. I wish I had photos to show you, of my brave boy, and the interesting people we met. Instead, I come to the keyboard with bits and pieces of stories, of people whose whole books I’d love to read, if they’d written them.

          There was the Amish couple, at the hospital with a son who’d suffered a terrible barn accident, which had caused lots of internal damage and a residual hip issue. I spent a long time in the tiny kitchen on the surgical unit, where the man, who looked much like an old friend of mine with a beard (no moustache), Amish haircut and suspenders, slowwwwly spun the story of his son’s injuries while he and his black-clad, white bonneted wife helped themselves to their snack of cheese, ham and ice cream. I could tell of the adorable 5-year-old Chinese adoptee recovering from cleft surgery, and the brief conversation his mother and I had while we waited for the Wrestler’s surgery to be done.

         At Ronald McDonald House, where we spent the first night and Husband stayed the night after surgery (I volunteered for overnight hospital duty; he got the two-hour drive home), there was a teen-aged boy who wore a cap that looked like a skull, and listened to music so loud we could hear it coming out of his ear buds. He held doors for us, saying in a Spanish accent, “we’re all family here,” and helped translate for the other residents, all Spanish speakers.

         Two of those residents were a woman and child from the Dominican Republic, who've spent the past year at the Ronald McDonald House, so that the little girl can get surgery and prosthetics. She came to see us in the Wrestler’s hospital room after surgery, and we talked in pantomime for a bit before she sat her little girl in the Wrestler’s bedside chair, and left her there with us for a while. The child’s tiny hands held a little Cinderella doll, and she looked at my phone photos, shaking her glossy curls and saying Beeuuuteeeful!” after each picture of our cat or dog. Through gestures and fingers, we ascertained that she has 8 cats at home.

          In the hospital recovery room, we met a local couple, and we waited together for our children to wake up from anesthesia. Their child was young, her hand wrapped and bandaged, and the couple was young, worried and sincere. We told them we knew how scary this is and how well we knew toddler would do, so quickly, and they seemed a little relieved. There was the nurse in that room, pregnant with her fifth child but considering adopting after that, and another nurse whose daughter had Celiac. There was a pharmacist, elegant with short silver hair and dangling earrings, with whom we discussed the challenges of raising teens, and the cleaning woman who told us she had been in fostercare, and wanted to give her toddler son opportunities she never had. She’s taught him English and Spanish and is working on Italian and sign language, she told us.

          Then there was the Wrestler. He is our quiet one, calm and capable and unflappable, who doesn’t like to fail, to admit defeat or upset. He can be the class clown, distracting others with a funny face, or trying to give a brother a wedgie during history, of all things. He is hard to know sometimes despite the fact that we spend all day together, and yet on this trip, I learned more about him and am further in awe of this young person I am blessed to parent. I realized, as we watched Home Alone together at the Ronald McDonald House the night before surgery, how much he just loves to laugh, and how much he enjoys it when I laugh with him. I don’t do that enough. I realized, as he woke in that recovery room and asked, voice raspy, “May I please have a drink of water,” how very, very polite he is even half sedated.

          I realize again, as he uncomplainingly recovers from an undoubtedly painful surgery that leaves him with a weak spot of bone on his femur (until it heals) and a sizable incision, how very brave he is. I knew this, when as a newly arrived three-year-old, I took him to the doctor for shots. Seeing the tray of needles, that tiny boy pushed up his sleeve and offered the nurse his arm. Today, two days after surgery, he wheeled about in his borrowed wheelchair, peeling apples for apple bars and insisting on doing his schoolwork even though I’d given him a pass to rest for the day. Now, mid-afternoon, he’s let himself sleep on the sunny library futon, a cozy and well-deserved nap.

          I had gone on this surgery trip hoping to minister, and connect with the people I knew we’d meet, and on reflection, I realized that what I’d done most was listen to stories. Stories in broken English, in Spanish I couldn’t understand, stories unspoken, stories hurried and stories slow and dramatic and told for the telling, from so many diverse people. I would love to read the book of each of their lives and am thankful for a glimpse at the pages and the chance to connect for even a few minutes. I am thankful for my brave young man, and the incredible gift we have of seeing him through surgeries, to hear his please and thank-yous in the middle of the night, to be the hand he grasped as he woke from anesthesia. Might you pray with us for his continued recovery? Thanks for sharing a bit of our story. I’d love to hear a bit of yours.

Giving thanks and
Trusting in Him,

Aimee

On What Makes a Cook's Kitchen, and Moroccan Chicken

          I’ve been reading posts on a kitchen forum as we plan some changes in our little workhorse of a kitchen, and a recent thread posed the question, “What makes a cook’s kitchen?” There are gorgeous kitchen’s on the forum – rooms as large as the footprint of my whole house, with multiple refrigerators and freezers and cooktops and big, beautiful professional ranges – and oh, the marble countertops. It’s taken some reconciling with reality to figure out what changes will optimize workspace and function in our own space, on our own budget, and sometimes it’s easy to lose the big picture when gazing at those lovely rooms.

          But that question, and the ensuing thread, did something magical for me. It brought to mind the kitchen of the woman who taught me to cook, many, many years ago. Ditha was Lithuanian, and a professional chef who taught cooking. When I was a young teen, she hired me and two neighborhood girls from our small village to come to her home, and cook dinner for her and her husband each afternoon while they were at work. For two weeks, she trained us, and after that, we'd come in alone or in twos, usually barefoot, and let ourselves in through the back door. The recipes and ingredients would be laid out, and we'd cook the dinner, wash the dishes, set the table in the little breakfast room, and leave dinner warm in the oven or on the stove.

          Her kitchen was small by today's standards, but very functional, with "real" cooking tools everywhere. There were wire baskets of eggs, fruits and vegetables hanging from the ceiling, and the butter was always left out of the fridge. The sunny breakfast room had a special baking station, with a wooden top, Kitchenaid stand mixer, and sections of the countertop that lifted up to reveal flour and sugar bins beneath. My mother was a wonderful cook who made good use of ground beef and macaroni to feed our hungry family and the frequent visitors, but Ditha introduced me to ingredients I’d never seen before. I met my first boneless chicken breast at Ditha's house (and learned how to debone them myself), and used lovely ingredients like vanilla sugar from Germany. I sampled generously and know that she must have learned to adjust her quantities to account for that.

          I credit my love of cooking to Ditha, and when I stand in my own small kitchen and chop, or mix bread dough with my own stand mixer – white and industrial, like hers -  I'm so thankful for the gift she passed on to me. She had a stroke when I was a young mother, and I was able to see her one last time, show her my young children, and thank her. She couldn't speak, but a tear rolled down her cheek. As I think about her and her kitchen, and what she taught me, I realize how much of it is incorporated into the way we live and cook here. My two youngest – Littlest and the Musician - are my most avid cooks, and I love to watch them stir, chop and taste as they cook alongside me or alone. When I know a dish “needs” a little something, given a taste, these two are the ones who will suggest a spice or flavor I might add.

          I realized, in my reminiscences; what I’ve known all along. What makes a cook’s kitchen isn’t the custom-built cabinetry or the restaurant style range, but the tools, the food, and the people who make and share it. I get such great joy out of sharing Ditha’s gift with my children, and seeing them love real, good food. Would it make your heart sing to have boys come home from youth group and clamor for the beans and greens you’d cooked for your own late supper, and thought to save for your lunch? It did mine, and I gave them the leftovers, smiling. I like to think a little of Ditha and her kitchen lives on here.

          Earlier this week, we had the privilege of cooking dinner for a friend who barely survived a ruptured and undiagnosed ectopic pregnancy (thanking God for her life, and praying for her continued recovery). We chose Littlest’s favorite, Moroccan Chicken and Chickpeas. There are lots of spices, but they’re fun to add, especially when you have a helper, and it smells SO good while it cooks. We hope you like it too.

Trusting in Him,
Aimee

 

Moroccan Chicken and Chickpeas
3-5 T Olive Oil
4 Chicken Breasts, boneless, cut into small pieces (I cut them into strips and each strip into two or three sections)
1 Large onion, chopped
4-5 large cloves garlic, minced
1 T Cumin (add more to taste – I usually add at least 1 t. more)
1 T Tumeric
1 t. Paprika
3/4 t. Cinnamon
¼ t. Black pepper
1/8-1/4 t. Cayenne Pepper
1/4 t. ginger
A dash each Allspice, Nutmeg and Ground Cloves
1 T Gluten free flour (your choice)
3-4 C. Chicken Stock (I love Kitchen Basics)
2 T. Honey
2 T Tomato Paste
2 Cans Chickpeas, drained and rinsed

          Heat oil in large saucepan or dutch oven. Add onions and sauté for about 5 minutes. Add spices and garlic, and cook for another few minutes, stirring constantly. Add chicken and stir well to coat with the onions and spices, and cook until the chicken is slightly browned and cooked through. Add the honey and 3 cups of chicken stock, stir, and simmer, covered for 15-20 minutes. Stir in the chickpeas and tomato paste, and cook for another 15 minutes, adding chicken stock if it’s too thick. Now, take the T of GF flour and put it in a small dish, and add a few Ts of chicken stock, and stir into a thin paste. Add this to the pot, stirring well, and cook another 5 minutes or so, until thickened slightly. You want a nice sauce for your rice, and can add stock if it’s too thick, or cook down a bit if it’s too thin.
          Add salt and pepper to taste (don’t be afraid to salt generously; I don’t normally like a lot of salt, but ½-1 t of salt really brings out the flavor of this dish). Serve over hot rice.

Thanksgiving Praise

          We gathered together, the bunch of us, for the first time in several years, but like we used to, on the Thanksgivings that came before. My parents, Aunt and Uncle in from Virginia, a cousin and her daughter, another cousin and her music-making husband. I wish I’d taken pictures, but by the time I remembered, the day was nearly done, and my batteries needed replacing. Who can ever find batteries when you need them on an average day, much less Thanksgiving?

          There was so much eating and even though we’d tried to cook lighter, there was too much in the end. No-one minded. There was a walk after dinner, and catching up, a flock of geese flying overhead as we walked off the turkey in the crisp fall air. After, there was dessert in the kitchen, sitting and standing and laughing and talking, and then the boys took out their guitars.

 

 

     Cousin M, who plays on a worship team, led the little group, and shared music notes with the guys later.

 

 

 

     What a blessing, on Thanksgiving evening, to be led in worship to our King in our living room.

          I’ve been quiet here in this little space, but needed to pop in to say I am grateful, so very, very grateful, for all the richness we’ve been blessed with. For family and friends, near and far; warmth of home; plenty of food; job; sons, big and small, who love much, work hard together, and teach me every day. For oldest, home for a few days, cooking alongside me on Thanksgiving morning and playing with his little brothers; for daughter, who laughs, checks outfits and shares life with me. For parents nearby, whose lives are intertwined with ours. For kind husband with servant’s heart, and most of all, for Jesus, who did for us what we could never do for ourselves – made us right before God so that we can enjoy Him forever. To God be the glory.

Giving Thanks, and

Trusting in Him,
Aimee