The Car Wash by Betty Badgett

Today was beautiful, sunny and warm. I decided it was a great day
To get my car washed. I drove over
To the Flag Stop car wars and couldn't believe the number of cars
Lined up to be washed. I decided
There was nothing pressing on my
Agenda, so I sat back and waited for
My turn. 
Finally, a young man walked over and asked if I wanted to have  a
Basic wash or detailed. I decided to
Have it detailed since this was my
First time here.
This was the fanciest car wash I
Have ever seen. Once my car was
Placed on the moving belt, I was told
To through the glass doors and pay
At the desk. Inside was a large waiting room, filled with modern chairs, a counter with coffee and tea
And a large flat screen hanging on
The wall. After paying for my car
Wash, I helped myself to a cup of
Coffee and sat in one of the large
Comfortable chairs. I was impressed!!
I sipped my coffee and watched
Let's Make A Deal as I waited. Soon,
One of the employees opened the
Door and asked who had a gray
Lincoln. I quickly jumped up, gathered my things and followed him outside to my car. My car looked
As if it had just rolled out of the show room of Feduke Ford Motors.
Today was a good day. Aside from
Having my car wash, I used ten
Minutes to write this piece. You
Really can write in ten minutes!!

SATURDAY AFTERNOON AT THE AUTUMN CAFE by Betty Badgett

SATURDAY AFTERNOON AT THE AUTUMN CAFE

                        ********************************************************

                        

                        It’s a beautiful sunny warm afternoon, and I’m sitting on the back yard

                        patio of the Autumn Café’ with my writing buddy Natalie.  I took a

                        a break from all the cleaning and packing and decided to spend a moment

                        writing.

                         My life is going through a metamorphosis at this moment.  After having my

                         house on the market for the past three years since my husband passed,

                         I finally sold it.  For the past month there has been one inspection after

                         another. There’s portions of my life to pack away in boxes. There’s

                         things to gather together to be donated to the good will.  All pieces of my

                         life from the past eighteen years.

                         Natalie and I decided that since our writers group was on hiatus for the month

                         of June, that we would meet, have lunch and find a quiet place we could

                         sit and write.  We could concentrate on work we started, work that we are

                         editing or start something new. So, I did some editing and then decided to

                         put my feelings on paper.

                         Making the decision to pack up and sell the house was not an easy decision

                         to make.  Although, I knew I didn’t want to stay here in the North East with

                         out any family close by, I was torn inside.

                         Giving up the home I shared with my husband for the past eighteen years

                          meant giving up apart of myself, my independence, my connection to my

                          husband.. Although he was no long there in the flesh, his spirit was there

                          with me.  Bringing me comfort, sometimes tears. Leaving my home, closing

                          the door to the house would mean closing the door to my heart, to my

                          memories. How could I?

                          I took a moment from writing and putting my feelings on paper, as we

                          sipped a glass of wine and began talking and laughing.  So nice to have

                          a friend.        

                      

                        

                         

                                                                                                                    

Her Name was Charlotte by Roberta Lacey

My mother was sweet and sensitive to the especially those whose psyche may be   fragile.

feelings of others, Perhaps that is why she would encourage me to go over and spend a little time with Charlotte.   I, a nine year old, had plans of my own, as in riding my bike, seeing my friend, Eleanor, and playing with paper dolls. Charlotte was not on my selfish agenda that day or any other day. But with a little prompting, I crossed the street in my quiet neighborhood in Bayside, L.I. to visit Charlotte. She sat on her front stoop alone, under the watchful eye of her mom.  I could see her mother as she moved the curtain to check on her daughter from time to time. When I said "hello" to Charlotte, she smiled her nervous smile. She seemed so happy that she had a possible playmate. She said "my name is Charlotte". I did not remind her that I already knew.

Charlotte was plump, short, with thinnish brown hair mixed with gray.  Her answers were generally in monosyllables, but always with a smile on her face.      I would guess this woman/child was in her  mid forties, now that I look back.    My mom would never ask the age of her neighbor's only child.   However, we kids were curious. Charlotte's mother opened the door and asked if we would like to play checkers. Charlotte beamed with delight at that suggestion.     How could I say anything but "yes"?   Surprisingly, Charlotte was well adapted to the game which I'm sure she played many times a day with her elderly parents.

After about the second or third game I said "I have to go, now".

She smiled and said "bye"  to my farewell.   After my lunch I hastily went through the alley way to see Eleanor at the house directly  behind ours.  We enjoyed cutting out paper dolls from the previous week's Sunday funny sheets.   Tillie The Toiler had many stylish dresses to cut out and add  to her wardrobe.   Sometimes I'd join the kids on the next street to see the Saturday matinee; mostly westerns. Most Saturdays I'd see Charlotte sitting on her front stoop alone or with her mother.   I'd wave if she was looking  my way.  Sometimes I'd go over for a visit and then the inevitable game of checkers came out, to Charlotte's delight.

2.

As a kid, I did not know the meaning of the words guile or averice.           This woman/child was incapable of either.     Even when she watched us kids play "cops and robbers" in summer twilight, it seemed she took pleasure in seeing our wild antics, just as if she, herself, was in the game.

In those days no one had a name for what caused this sweet soul to develop childlike in an adult body.   She did not have Downes Syndrome.   Mentally challenged  would  be  a generic name  for                   her handicap. Her disposition was sweet and kind.   She must have been precious in her parent's eyes and most especially in the Eyes of God.

Sometimes other kids would walk by her house, staring and pointing at her, but would only wave when she smiled and said "my name is Charlotte.

SOMETIMES LOVE COMES SOFTLY- REWRITE by Betty Badgett

                                         SOMETIMES LOVE COMES SOFTLY- REWRITE

______________________________________________________________________________

                               Sometimes love comes softly, as the petals on a rose.

                               as a gentle balmy breeze that blows in from the east, west

                               God only knows.  Sometimes it takes us by surprise and

                               Jumbles our thoughts and confuse our thinking.

                                Sometimes love comes softly, in a whisper, or the chirping

                                sound of a bird in a near by Willow tree, beckoning me to

                                stop for a moment, catch my breath, and listen.

                                Sometime there is no fan fare.  No loud parade of words, lined

                                with soft velvet.  No band playing loudly or fire works blazing

                                the night sky. No cheering crowd, or public display. Sometimes

                                love comes softly.

                                Many yesterdays ago, love came softly.  It came in the brightness

                                of your smile, the soft, sexy baritone in your voice.

                                The endless morning phone calls to awaken me to another day

                                filled with excitement and anticipation. 

                                 Love came softly in the way you held the car door open for me,

                                 stood there until I was secure and strapped in.  It came in ways

                                 that made me feel safe with you.  No need for pretense or formalities.

                                 I could be me, with all the genetic makeup that encompasses who I

                                 am as a spiritual being, inhabiting this outer shell.  Your love came

                                 softly.

                                 One day I was a young woman, stepping out into the big, scary

                                 world, and suddenly there you were.  You made me feel safe.  You

                                 appreciated my uniqueness.  You never tried to change me, You

                                 made me better. You loved me first, even when I didn’t love you.

                                 You nurtured me and watched me grow, never over shadowing me.

                                  One day when I least expected it, I looked at you and in your face I

                                  saw love. A tiny spark ignited inside, leaped within my soul.

                                 I knew at that moment that I was in love also.  When did it happen

                                 I asked myself.  Why did it take so long for me to admit it to myself?

                                 I have no answers.

                                

                                 Sometimes love just comes softly.

                                

                                 

The Gospel Bus

by Jessica Reed

Every Sunday my legs bleed. I’m waiting in just my white cotton panties and itchy, lacy bobby socks, covered in goosebumps while my mama picks out my Sunday School dress. It don’t matter to me which one she chooses, cuz I hate them all.

“Why do I have to wear a stupid dress, Mama? Lots of the other kids wear jeans and t-shirts!”

“Those are just the bus kids,” she says, setting the pink and white checked dress with long sleeves on my bed.

When she leaves me to dress myself, I know who will be waiting on the other side of my bedroom door, just like every Sunday. The door opens, whoosh, my mama leaves, and my cat Pinky slips in. My cat hates my bare legs, nobody else’s, just mine. And I’ve got my arms straight up in the air stuck in the sleeves, and the dress caught on my face, trying to pull it over my head. I think this dress is getting too small, I can’t wiggle it down past my shoulders. I am blindfolded by pink and white checkers but I can see that cat circling down there. I’m twisting and turning to hurry when I feel those claws sink in. I let out a scream but the dress is covering my mouth so it ain’t as loud as it is inside my head. But that cat is climbing my legs and holding on with her teeth and ripping the inside tops of my legs with her back claws. Her claws are blurry they are going so fast. I can feel the blood running down, sticky and hot but cold and itchy when it reaches my socks. I am busy placing a gambling bet on which trickle gets to which sock first. Pinky lets go and runs out when my mama opens the door, cuz she knows my mama is gonna give her a swatting.

“That’s just a mean cat,” Mama says, “we should take her to the pound.”

“Nooo!” I say louder than I should cuz I’m crying. “I love her!”

“If you knew what a nice cat was, you wouldn’t love her,” says Mama. But I’m not listening cuz guess what I hear? I hear the Gospel Bus coming up our road. The Gospel Bus is so magical, it is all different psychedelic colors and has loud Jesus music coming out of the speakers on top of it. The song goes like this and right now I am singing along under my dress.
 
If you want to ride on The Gospel Bus,
the bible tells us that we must,
be born again.
So, if you want to get on board,
take Jesus as your Saviour Lord and right then,
all your sins will be forgiven,
and you’ll be on your way to Heaven,
for sure, when The Gospel Bus,
beep beep, stops at your door.

I know that riding that bus is the only sure way to Heaven. I think that when you die, the bus picks you up, but only if it knows where you live. Otherwise it’s down to Hell you go. The bus stops at my friend’s door that lives catty corner from me. I see it there every week. My mama has got my dress pulled down over me and is trying to sop up the blood with Kleenex she spits in that’s got her lipstick stains on it. The spit is burning my scratches, so I’m hop, hopping away to my window. I love watching The Gospel Bus, there ain’t nothing in this life more beautiful. I see my friend Eric and his little brother Derrick rush onto the bus and their mom is in her bathrobe reaching up to hand over her two-year-old little girl, Erica, who is also wearing jeans, to the helper. Their mama is pregnant and I just know that I know she is gonna name the new one Derrika.

“Mama! Please, please, please can I ride that bus? It’s going to our church! I bet it’s going to get there even before us!” I beg.

“No, we are going as a family,” she says as she is fastening my ten commandments bracelet around my wrist. I got my heart set on a ride on that bus though and I beg her every week and every week she says no.

So I can’t help but mention to the back of her head as she leaves, “But they stop for free ice cream after church!” She turns around and gives me that shush look.

I drop it cuz I gotta finish getting ready. There is no way I can be late for Sunday School. Eleven weeks ago, I’m keeping count, we were all given a gold bracelet. For free! And then they told us that if we learned a new commandment every week for ten weeks they would give us a commandment charm to put on it. So, every week we line up and go whisper it in the teacher’s ear. Some kids get all shy and red cuz they forgot to learn it, stupid kids. They don’t got all the charms. There are weirdo spaces on their bracelets, but not mine. I earned them all so far and when I turn my wrist back and forth and back and forth, the charms fly out and clink each other like music. The charms are real gold too, I know this cuz I bit one and it felt like gold, and then I scratched a window with it, which I know is for diamonds, but it scratched a little anyway. They all look like scrolls, and the commandments we learn are written on them in fancy, old-time letters. This is the last week and I gotta have that tenth one or else. Thou Shalt Not Covet, Thou Shalt Not Covet, Thou Shalt Not Covet, I say it over and over in my head so I won’t forget.

My brother is already standing at the door in his crazy cool patchwork denim suit that he cried for in the store. Mama gave in and bought it for him, even though it cost a lot cuz he don’t usually cry for nothing. He is twelve, two whole years older than me. He’s got a bracelet too, only it’s chunkier than the girl ones, but he said he likes mine better. My daddy is standing there all handsome and we climb into the green Gran Torino and we are off like gut shot rabbits. I’m standing in the back, bent over with my arms around Daddy while he is driving, we don’t gotta wear our seat belts like some dumb kids. “Thou Shalt Not Covet, Thou Shalt Not Covet,” I say under my breath.

“Daddy, what does covet mean?” I ask.

“Well,” he says, “I reckon it means not to be jealous of what other folks have or get to do.” And at that moment I see it out of the corner of my eye, that shiny Gospel Bus whizzing right on by us. And I reckon I am coveting those kids on that bus right now. Looking way up I can see them while they are passing, all laughing and comfy in their T-shirts. I see some kid named James waving from the back and making faces at us. It’s a full bus and I’m hoping there is enough tenth commandment charms to go around.

“Daddy! Don’t let that bus beat us to church,” I scream out real loud. And that is all my daddy needs to hear. He laughs and lurches out into traffic and I’m holding on for dear life while my mama yells at him cuz she was putting on her lipstick and now it’s jaggedy all over her face. And we are whooping and egging Daddy on, and we almost got them passed when Mama turns around, and she is not smiling. And the lipstick down one side of her mouth gives her a clown frown and makes me scared and so I stop laughing real quick.

And then she says in a growly voice that doesn’t sound like it belongs to her, “Don’t you know those are the kids whose parents don’t love them enough to take them to church themselves? Those are just the kids whose parents want to get rid of them for a few hours!” I am all kinds of shocked cuz I did not know this and I look over at that grand bus just as Daddy is pulling ahead of it and I see a kid in one of the windows who still has some jelly or something on his face from breakfast. His mama ain’t even wiped his face.

We make it to the church right before The Gospel Bus, but then it pulls up right to the curb at the front door. My mama and daddy go around to the side door for their class. My brother is about seven steps ahead of me on our way to the Sunday School door on account of his longer legs. I am trying to catch up but avoiding the sidewalk cracks cuz I don’t wanna break my mama’s back. I’m jingling my almost done bracelet and repeating, Thou Shalt Not Covet real quiet when I see James step off that bus. He’s the last one off cuz everyone knows all the bad kids sit in the way back. James is old. Old enough for lots of zits so that makes him like thirteen. James comes off the last bus step onto the sidewalk just as my brother passes. I see him looking mean at my brother.

“Faggot,” he says, and then he spits right where my brother is walking. Now, I don’t know what a faggot is, but I can tell my brother does and I heard him called that at school before too. He slows down, but just for a millionth of a second. And the backs of his ears look like the sun is shining right through them. His head drops just a little along with his shoulders but then he just keeps right on walking.

If he had turned around right before he entered the Sunday School doors he woulda seen a Goddamn miracle. Ain’t that what people come to church for anyways, a miracle? He woulda seen me flying through the air and landing right smack on top of James’ shoulders. I don’t even remember how I got there. It was like the angels picked me up. Everyone is inside and the bus has gone and I am holding onto James’ greasy, curly hair like there ain’t no tomorrow. My thighs are locked tight around his neck and my knees are dug up under his armpits, with my shiny, black church shoes stuck into his sides just like we are playing Chicken Fight in a pool. James is twisting and wailing but I’ve learned from my cat Pinky and I ain’t letting go and I am scratching with my claws. There is slippery blood on James’ neck, a lot of it. And I’m so proud until I see that most of it is mine from the scabs of my cat scratches opening back up. So, I reach my head down and I take the top half of his ear in my cat teeth and I bite down until I hear a crunch and my mouth gets salty blood in it, his this time. It tastes like when I sucked on and swallowed a penny when I was little.

And then just as I am opening my mouth to let go of his ear, I get real close and whisper right down into his eardrum, “You only ride the bus because your parents don’t love you enough to take you to church themselves, they only want to get rid of you for a while. And you wear jeans cuz you ain’t got no expensive patchwork suit like my brother.” Something changes in him and he stops twisting and screaming and his shoulders drop a little like my brother’s did, making it easy for me to climb down. I don’t look back when I go through the Sunday School doors. I’m too late to whisper Thou Shall Not Covet to my teacher so I don’t get a charm, and when I look down I see a weirdo space in my bracelet. I count twice but the Ninth Commandment is gone too! It must have fallen off during my miracle fight. I remember it from last Sunday, Thou Shalt Not Bear False Witness Against Thy Neighbor. My daddy had said that meant not to lie about others. I look over at James and he is sitting with his head down. And I think, I won’t bear false witness against him, I’m gonna tell the whole truth on him, and then some!

After church I run outside lickety split and see The Gospel Bus waiting by the curb again. That’s when I see the sun shining off the gold and reach down for my Ninth Commandment. It is right behind the bus tire and is all scrunched up with some gravel on it, on account of the bus running over it with both sets of tires. I grab it and see that it is scratchy and bent back on the scroll part and missing the piece that hooks it to my bracelet. I look at it real close up to my face and see that underneath the scratches, the gold is flaking off and it is just plain silver metal. It ain’t real gold, and it ain’t nothing special and I drop it. I look up at the bus while I am squatted down there, and I can see up underneath it, all dirty and greasy, and I can see it’s been painted cuz it’s still got old yellow paint in parts. I stand up and watch the bus pull out as it runs over my ninth commandment again, and I think to myself, that bus ain’t nothing special either.

Me and Cecil

 

Roberta Lacey

Decades ago, upon first moving to Delaware Co., N.Y. from Long Island, my family and I got to know this back-woodsman, Joseph.  He took great pride in his tales of deer hunting, fishing, even rattlesnake extermination.  Most of the rattlers were found in the Hancock area and there about, he recalled.  I believe there was a bounty on "them rattlers" as he could always use a few dollars for the necessities of life.  He was truthful and honest, except perhaps at times when going into details of his hunting and fishing expeditions. 

Joe had a small garden, providing his own needs, plus a few hens and a rooster.  Since he never admitted it, we guessed he probably hunted deer out of season if one of "them ornery critters" dared to visit his garden and demolish his vegetables.  Between venison, wild turkey and trout (in or out of season), Joe remained a strong and healthy man.  At times, he enjoyed freshly killed woodchuck he saw venturing into his garden. 

Joe was generous with the few neighbors he had, especially those in need.  He bluntly told those who were able bodied to get their own garden and fish and game.  Joe hunted for food; not so much for sport.

Cecil was one friend who was ever ready to hunt with old Joe.  Though I never saw the dwelling Joe called home, Cecil was a frequent visitor.  Joe and his wife were separated long ago, before my family and I ever met him.  He would accept only certain people.  Since we moved up from "the city" (Westbury, L.I.) we doubted he would befriend us.  However, "bye and bye", he did, especially upon learning my husband was originally from Delaware County.

Joseph found a jewel of a bicycle in a junk yard.  He doctored it up, gave it a new paint job and enjoyed his "new mode of transportation".  Whenever he planned on riding in an area where summer tourists took their daily walks along the country roads, old Joe was ever ready for them.  He disliked seeing the "city people" walking six abreast, leaving no room for him and his bicycle.  Therefore, Joe carried two brooms, putting one inside each handlebar.  Each broom extended about five feet on either side.  He picked up his speed and gleefully rode down the road, watching the walkers scatter to the sides of the path in great haste.  The hotel boarders thought this elderly man was insane.  He had his own reasons for doing things.  Joe may have been a little eccentric but never stupid.  That is, if teaching six people the consequences of hogging the road for themselves is considered "crazy".

It's been said, and never denied, that old Joe was part American Indian.  He certainly appeared so.  Joe was about six feet tall and had ruggedly handsome features.  His jet black hair with only a shock of grey about his temples, belied his age.  As he aged, his shoulders stooped; otherwise he was young and sharp in spirit, and sometimes with his tongue.  In summer, his skin tanned even more than usual.  We only guessed his mother's ancestry was Mohawk.  His father was full Caucasian.  Joe had the strength of a bull and some say her was ornery as one.

Joe could be very kind, especially to children and animals.  They were his favorite creatures, except for some four legged critters who ate up his vegetable garden.  He didn't mind sharing, but resented having all his work gone for naught in one day.  Some wire fences were beyond Joe's means, but he did buy or barter for sturdy barrier that was affordable.  He was proud and would not take a gift of money.  However, Joe never forgot a kindness shown to him.  My oldest son, John, gave him a gift of a good, warm wool sweater.  Joe wrote a sweet thank-you note to him.  He seemed to treasure that sweater for years.

This "die-hard" man lived as a pioneer.  The one luxury he admitted to having was a transistor radio.  His needs were met.  With a good spring on his property, outdoor plumbing, a wood stove and kerosene lamps, what more could a man want?  His only vice was chewing tobacco.

No doubt Joe's desire to live as he did was the reason for the loss of his marriage.  His only child, a son, visited him infrequently.  He was raised by his mother in a distant city and became a "business man", as Joe put it.  Nevertheless, Joe showed pride as his face would light up when the subject arose concerning his "boy".

This good man was somewhat like Henry David Thoreau who loved Walden Pond.  He too, had personal convictions and wasn't about to leave his bucolic quarters or to become one of the sheep in the flock of mankind.  He stood his ground and was uncompromising.  However, Joe did pay his property taxes, somehow.  That was one thing Thoreau refused to do.

Joe saw God in the woods and streams, in hearing the call of birds awakening at dawn, in the morning sunrise and in the evening sunset.

Joe's tales often began, "now did I tell ya 'bout the time me 'n Cecil went huntin'?"  Whether or not we answered "yes" or "no", Joe, looking off into the distance, continued his long, detailed narrative; reliving every moment of it.  "Yes, sir, me and Cecil seen this here buck, he was a beauty of a ten-pointer, but along come a doe.  She stood up aside the buck, like as if to take a bullet for him.  Sudden like, this here buck run 'tother way...but I managed to get a shot or two in his hind quarters.  Me and Cecil went after that 'ole boy 'till almost dark, me and Cecil did"...and on and on Joe talked.  Finally, he said rather proudly with a tinge of sadness in his voice, "we kilt it dead, me and Cecil did".

Now old Joe is gone and surely hope he's happy.  We know God is patient, and may listen to Joe's stories without wishing he would soon get to the climax of the many tales of "Me and Cecil".

The Children are Crying, is Anyone Listening?

“And the Lord answered me, and said: write the vision, and make

 it plain upon tablets, that he may run who reads it. For the vision

 is yet for an appointed time; but at the end, it will speak and it will

 not lie. Though it tarries, wait for it; because it will surely come.

 It will not tarry.”  

                                                    - Habakkuk 2: verses 2 and 3.

  

Last night, I heard the cries of babies, small children screaming in fear,

crying for their moms and dads.

What’s happened to our country?  Who are we, as Americans, that we can

sit back and be somber as breast feeding infants and small children are

being ripped from their mothers arms.  Fathers being handcuffed and put

in holding cells, separated from their wives and children. What have we

become?

What’s happened to our ideals and the moral fiber of who we are as a people,

as a powerful nation? What’s happened to the principles we hold dear to our

hearts, that sets us apart from the very people we call our enemies?

As I sit here and pour my heart out on these pages, I hear the sounds of children

crying and screaming to be with their parents playing over and over in my

mind.  In my heart, I hear a faint whisper saying, this is not how you show love

for one another, as I have shown you.

We as Americans have been blessed to live in a country where we have the

freedom to speak out, to worship as we please, go and come as we please, to

take part in electing those who govern our country.  We don’t know what it’s

like not to have these freedoms. But, how are we truly free when children who

for no fault of their own are stripped out of the arms of their mothers and fathers

and placed in holding cells, with their cries going unheard and ignored?

When the President says Let’s make America great again, is this how he and

his comrades think is the way to get it done?

I say, Mr. President, America is and always has been a great country.  We’ve

fallen short on a lot of things and turned our back on God to a certain degree,

but yet, we’re still a blessed country. You, Mr. President, are contributing to

the very swamp you claimed you would drain.

If I were physically able to go to those detainment centers and reach out to

each and every child that’s crying, I would hug each one, and apologize for

the inhumane treatment they are experiencing.

As a mother, my heart hurts for these innocent children. As an American, I

am sickened as I watch politicians night after night cast blame on each other

as the children continue to cry.

Lady Liberty stands in the harbor with her arm lifted up in pride for who we

are as a country. Once, we welcomed immigrants here to work, pursue an

education and raise a family. Now, we call them murderers and rapist and say

Go back to where you came from, you are no longer welcome here.

Many of my ancestors fought, bled and died just to be treated and respected

as human beings. I speak on their behalf when I say this can’t be the country

they gave their lives for.  Complacency and apathy has set in like mold,

covering and drowning out decency, humility and compassion.

When did this happen to us?

When did we become a nation of greed, hypocrisy, self indulgence and

cold heartedness?

Harsh words for harsh times!

Let’s make America care again, love again, welcoming again. If we would

show love and compassion, we could end this torturing and dividing

evil that’s come upon us and taken captive our country and the values we hold

dear to our hearts.

Many politicians have taken to reciting scriptures to give merit to their

sadistic behavior.  Using the word of God to bend it to fit their purpose.

They seemed to have skipped over the part where Jesus said to show love

to one another, as He has shown love to us by sending His son to die on a

cross.  That’s amazing love!

The children are crying, is anyone listening?

                                                                                     -Betty Badgett