Every couple of weeks I get a card in the mail.
I recognize the swirly-twirly handwriting. Yes, I do.
It’s mom’s handwriting.
Pealing back the envelope flap, I wonder which picture she cut out of Anthropology’s latest catalog this time. Then I find, pasted on a piece of cardstock,
a picture of a shoe, or a purse and on the other side, more of that loopy writing.
For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been reminding myself what mom reminded me in her latest cardstock treat.
That,
I live for an audience of one.
I don’t need to perform.
The level of performance the world demands of me does not equal the life I’ve been invited to by a kind Master. Under Him, I experience joy in giving my best.
But only because of what He already gave me.
It’s cool to have a mom who, after hard phone conversations, sends me reminders of things like that.
