I needed a coffee table for my apartment, and saw one being thrown away, and asked for it. It came from a counseling center for troubled missionaries and their families, as is evidenced by the word I found written under the coffee table: poop.
I could just picture some troubled kid laying down under the little table and writing that one word. Who knows why, perhaps they were upset at being trundled off to a counseling center, but they weren't supposed to complain, hence the unspeakable word hidden away just under everyone's noses.
That is what this blog is like for me, since I am sure few will ever read it. It's like the underside of a beat up old coffee table, where I can write to my heart's content.
Today I'm writing about the death of a former colleague. He wasn't even as old as my parents, but suddenly died this week. He loved God, and cared about people. He used to pray for me, when I was a missionary and sent out prayer letters.
Anyway, I just think he must be very happy now, being in heaven, because he gets to see Jesus and ask all his questions, and see people he knows there, and see the answers to his prayers. Maybe that sounds silly, but the coffee table wouldn't care.
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