This is called the zipper.
It’s a death trap.  I’d never let my children ride it.  But my friend would (you know who you are, darn you) and she convinced me that only the most over protective namby pamby mother would deprive her son the chance to become a man in eight and a half minutes with only two tickets and a solid constitution.  One of those steel cages holds my son.  I stood below getting sick just trying to figure out which was his and waiting for vomit to come spewing out the mesh.  Never.  Again. 
My life has felt like this ride lately.  Yours?  But now I can see that the ride is slowing down and I’m feeling like I’ve nearly made it through.  Been delivered.  But I’m trying hard not to get ahead of myself since I do that all the time and then I have to get back on and learn some humility and trust again.  And I hate it on the Zipper.  But I love getting off.  And looking back and seeing how hard and dangerous and scary it was and yet how safely I’d been held the whole time.  Because a fine mesh piece of government steel and a worn seatbelt have nothing on being in the very hand of God.  Did you hear me?  In the very hand of God. 
So, while I’m praying the Zipper stops soon and I can get off and get my legs under me, I’m being held and that’s the best place to be.  No tickets, so puck bucket, no regrets.  Just strap me into God’s hand and start teaching me about trust and letting go.
What ride are you on?
This is me being real.  And packing my boys off to deer camp so they can bring home the jerky.  And realizing that the case of tomato sauce I bought at Costco is not the same thing as diced canned tomatoes and has created a chili that tastes and looks like vegetables and organic beef swimming in Heinz Ketchup.  Sigh.

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