four-minute friday: bread butts

Go. I can't stand banana butts. Or hot dog butts. And I really don't like bread butts.

But I used to feel like I needed to be a bread butt martyr. I'd eat them, even though I hate them. Simply so someone else didn't need to. I'm realizing that I do that with a lot of things. I'll choose what I don't like if I feel that decision will be better for others in some way.

But I had an epiphany about the butts: Some sacrifices just don't need to be made.

Bread butts simply do not need to be eaten. By anyone. So I stopped taking one for the team and started giving the butts to the birds.

Everybody wins.


Your turn! Leave a four-minute comment about bread butts...

apples for sale

Late for his flight, the businessman ran through the airport with his briefcase in one hand and his trench coat folded over his other arm. In his haste, he barely noticed the boy leaning against the wall. The blind boy held a tray of apples. In one corner of the tray was a tin cup filled with change. The boy pleasantly called out, "Apples for sale!" The man heard him and glanced in the boy's direction, but never slowed his pace. He had to catch that flight to make it to his deal-breaking business meeting. As he ran passed the boy, his trench coat knocked the corner of the tray and it fell right out of the boy's hands. The apples bounced and rolled through the corridor; the change made a loud ruckus as it spread out all over the floor; the tin cup landed with a loud thud. The tray fell upside down a few yards away.

The businessman registered what happened and glanced back to see the blind boy getting down on his hands and knees to find his belongings. But he could only think of how detrimental it would be to his company if he missed his flight, so he kept running toward the gate.

The boy felt his way over to his tray and turned it upright. He scoured the floor for his cup and coins and apples. The man looked over his shoulder and the scene unfolding before him finally registered with his heart. He stopped dead in his tracks and tuned around. He walked briskly back to the child.

"I am so sorry," he said as he helped round up the apples. "I'm sorry that I thought what I needed to do today was more important than you are. I'm sorry for knocking over your tray in my rush and for not stopping right away to help you." He put all the coins back into the tin cup and loaded everything back onto the tray. He helped the boy stand upright and placed the heavy tray in his hands.

He dug in his wallet and pulled out some cash. "I'm putting $100 in your cup. I really am sorry for thinking you weren't as valuable as I am. Can you ever forgive me?"

The boy, though blind, looked directly into the man's eyes and asked, "Are you the Jesus I always hear about?"

french cuisine

I'm about to fly home to Africa after being in America for five months. That means for almost half a year I've...

  • stayed in other people's homes.
  • not sat at a desk for a normal days' work.
  • traveled a lot.
  • not cooked a real meal.
  • drank gallons of frothy beverages from Starbucks.
  • had friends on speed-dial and made frequent use of those buttons.
  • did my own laundry.
  • strolled through Target whenever I wanted to.

I'm going to miss aspects of each of those when I'm back home. (Yes, even the laundry!) Okay, I may not really miss staying in other people's homes; I am definitely ready for my own space with my own couch.

I think even more than I'll miss my beloved grande non-fat extra-hot chai lattes, I'll miss not cooking. I'm not good at it. I don't like it. And I hate having to plan out meals. But alas, duty calls. And cook I shall.

French toast anyone?

brownie points

We recently crossed the 10,000 comments mark here at The Grit. Brandy won the competition by posting the coveted 10,000th comment. And oh, what words of wisdom she had to share.

Brandy's prize was a box of baked love from Fat Witch Brownies. From the pictures she sent me, I think she enjoyed them...

What do you think the prize should be for the 20,000th comment?

lost in translation

I met my South African husband eleven years ago. I was working at a missions organization in Texas; Niel was going to host our first team to South Africa. Even though it wasn't my department, I was asked to be involved in the planning of the trip. When Niel came into town to go over final logistics---his first time to America---he spent quite a bit of time hanging out in my office.

I'm a snacker---always have been and always will be---and I had a drawer full of snacks in my desk. One of my favorites to stock up on was animal crackers. Mainly because they were cheap. And came in big bags.

On one of Niel's many visits to my office, I offered him a handful. It was his first time to ever see or eat an animal cracker. I don't know if he was more intrigued by the animal-shaped more-cookie-than-cracker snack sensation or the fact that I had a king-sized bag of them in my desk drawer.

A while later Niel came back into my office. He sauntered over to my desk, with his stunning blue eyes, wavy blond hair pulled back in a pony tail, and heart-stopping accent.

"Can I have some more pet biscuits?"

I burst out laughing. "It sounds like you're asking for a dog treat. They're called animal crackers," I told him as I gave him another handful.

Even now, after almost eight years of marriage, things often get lost in translation between us---sometimes comical, sometimes frustrating. But I wouldn't trade my pet-biscuit-eating man for anyone in the world.