Scott loves chili and I think it's pretty good too. But I don't like the typical cumin-heavy, opaque gravy kind of chili. So, when the chance to review The Chili Cookbook by Robb Walsh came along, I said, "oh yeah!" 

First, the book is beautiful. It's hardcover but not heavy or clunky. The images inside really show you the chili up close and make your mouth water. And there are lots of pictures!

I love the information on the different types of chili peppers and spices. And the recipes are straightforward with no complicated steps or confusing instructions. There are a lot of different chilis represented too, even a venison chili. Yum!

This book would make an excellent gift for the chef who has everything and it would also look smashing on your coffee table. Plus the warm and hearty chilis will keep you fed and happy all winter long! 

I received this book from Blogging for Books for the purpose of this review. 

Your  heart is such a precious thing. It has desires so deeply hidden inside it that no one knows they're there. What it wants, it wants, and what it needs, it needs. In your life, there will be times when your heart speaks so clearly, so honestly that it will pull on you with a force that no physicist has ever witnessed. 

And my dear girl, I hope you follow your heart. Always. Listen to it. And follow it. No matter what. Even if I say that I know better. Even if I try and stop you. Follow it. And then tell me to read this post. I'll cry and argue, but that would be better than you living with regret inside your tender heart.

But there's something else I need to tell you. Your heart? That true thing inside your chest? It is more precious, more delicate than your doll. And just like your doll doesn't belong in the kitchen lest she break accidentally, your heart doesn't belong where it isn't protected.

Guard your tender heart.  Hide it deep in God's own heart. Bury it deep in His truth.

People, especially boys, will try and take your heart. They will try and buy it with their words, their gifts, their affectionate embraces. But guard it. Don't give it away too easily. Don't sell it to anyone for any price. 

Your heart is a priceless treasure. 

Dear girl, I'm not just talking about sex. You don't even understand what that is yet. I'm talking about all those things we women try and fill our hearts with, the things we try and exchange for them. Don't give it to a boy just because you want a date on Friday night. Don't give it to a friend because you don't want to feel left out. Don't give it to a job just because you need a paycheck. Don't put it on a scale just to make it fit into a smaller size. Don't cover it up with too much make-up and don't flaunt it in too short skirts. Don't put it on a shelf and don't wear it on your sleeve. 

God put your heart inside your chest because it's fragile and it needs a cage to protect it.

My sweet girl, we were able to pick up all the pieces and gingerly glue them back in place. But, her feet are not the same. Those cute shoes are cracked and glue squishes out of them. Then I covered them in lace, to protect the cracks and keep the pieces together. It's like a pretty band-aid. And you looked at those silly lace casts and said how beautiful they are. And this made mommy cry inside. Your gentle acceptance stirred something deep.

That you would see beauty where I only see brokenness made your mama weep. 

And though you're not perfect -- nor am I -- that is how God sees us. As beautiful, priceless treasures. He doesn't see our imperfections. He chooses not to see our mistakes and our sins. But He always sees our beauty because He made us to reflect Him. 

I know that as you walk through life, your heart is going to break. I know that you're going to have disappointments that hurt a little too much. I know that you're going to face choices that make you choose between your heart and someone else's wishes. I know that you're going to sometimes choose the wrong thing and break your own heart unknowingly. 

And that's okay, sweet girl, because I'm always here for you. I'll help you pick up the pieces and look for the beauty. But, sweet one, do me a favor, guard that heart. Hold it close like you hug that doll to your chest. And I'll be standing by, cheering you on and holding the glue.

​My own were misty as well. 

It could have been worse. Her right foot broke, but into big pieces. And the heel of her left shoe snapped off. But all the pieces were there. 

"She can be fixed," I said to your sister as we collected the pieces and put them on the counter. I turned to you and with my voice raised, asked "Why would you throw a doll to the floor? You should know better. Why would you do that?"

Again, you repeated "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." And I know that you meant it. I could feel it. It came from your heart. 

As I glued those feet back together, I said to you, "You know how you feel when she throws down one of your Lego models, Adam." You nodded solemnly.

Lego models are resilient. They can be tossed to the floor, picked up and reassembled. Sure, it will take time. But once they are put back together, you can never tell they were once a heap of anger on the floor. 

But son, the world is not made of Legos. 

​Dear son, I know you are a good, loving boy. I know your heart aches to know God more and this brings happy tears of pride to my eyes. Yes, I'm blubbering like a baby as I type right now. You are a good, smart young man and I have every bit of faith that you will grow up to be a kind, gentle, wise, strong man. A man who values a woman for who she is, not what she is. A man who handles her heart with kit gloves but leads her with a strong hand. A man like your father. And as the years ahead of us unfold, I know that the world is going to tell you different. I know that it will tell you that girls are to be used and thrown away. They're not. I know that the world will tell you that dating is for fun and marriage is about sex. They're not. I know the world is going to tell you that you're a sissy for being kind to women, and that women are liberated and don't need your good manners or your kindness. You're not and we do. 

I've always told you to look at every girl as someone's sister and someone's mom. And I've always asked you to ask yourself, "would I want my sister or my mom treated this way?" If the answer is no, then, you know what needs to be done. But now I'm going to ask you to also look at every girl as your sister's porcelain doll. As a treasured gift to be held gently and loved wholly.

And I'm asking you to remember we girls aren't made of Legos. Once broken, our cracks remain, and while our Heavenly Father can heal us and make something beautiful come from our broken bits, you my dear son, can't. 

I love you, Adam. And I am so proud of you. You will one day make one girl a very lucky princess. 

Love,
​Mom

"The Titanic was built by professionals. The ark was built by amateurs." 

In the last week, I've seen this cutesy quote in two different places at two different times and that has caused me to turn it over in my head, investigating it from every angle, considering its truth and wondering about its supporting evidence. And I think I've maybe come up with a reason why we can stamp #truth on this little church billboard gem.

The Titanic was built for man's glory. The ark was built for God's glory. 

The  men who built the Titanic knew exactly what they were doing. Or, at least, they thought they did. They thought that they had considered every possibility, prepared for every emergency and wrongly assumed that she would remain afloat thanks to her bodacious over-the-top finery and their out-of-control ego. 

They were wrong. It turns out that man's ego is not enough to keep 52,000 tons of steel afloat.

Then there's Noah. Faithfully building this thing he'd never seen before, made with wood and pitch, not knowing exactly what it was for or why he needed it. God told him to do it and that was good enough for him. He'd never built one before, in fact, no one had, and so there were no engineers or architects or boatswains to ask how to do this.

And he had faith that this behemoth boat God asked him to build would actually float.

Was the ark better constructed than the Titanic? I doubt it. It certainly didn't have technology on its side. Did it serve the same purpose as the Titanic? Of course not. But it's not really about the boat at all, is it? It's about what happens when we trust ourselves a little too much and God a little too little. 

We guess that it took Noah up to 100 years to build the ark. He was 500 when we first 'met' him in Genesis 5 and 600 when he boarded the ark.Can you imagine the walk of faith he traversed in those 100 years? Can you imagine the talks he had with God? If he's like me, I'm certain he asked God regularly what the heck He was doing and probably even thought up other ways to do it better, bigger, faster than how he was told.  

I'm certain there were blisters and splinters, stubbed toes and smashed thumbs. Noah probably tripped over a few logs and got pitch in his beard. He was probably the laughingstock, the village idiot. Yet he kept on building, slow and sure, one log at a time, doing what God put before him. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Noah didn't forsake his calling for his ego. 

Isn't that the point? He was righteous in a world that wasn't. He was a man of God in a world that was full of wickedness and evil. He wasn't a professional boat builder. But he was an obedient in his walk with God and that's why God chose him to build the ark. 

God doesn't need professionals. He doesn't need egos. He doesn't even need finery. He just needs obedient, willing servants who walk with Him and give Him all of themselves. 

We can build the biggest, finest boat and fill it with the fanciest furnishings and trim, but if we do it for our glory, it will surely sink when we push it out into the water. Likewise, a simple boat made by a righteous heart of obedience to God,  won't just float. It will likely save a life. 

A simple boat of logs and mud will be the finest we've ever seen when it reflects the glory of God and not the glory of man.

The kids and I made this silly decoration in 2011. I'm sure the idea was inspired by some seasonal article titled "30 Days to More Grateful Kids" or "How to Practice Thanksgiving this November" or something equally as kitschy. Certainly the article suggested a cute container and probably even leaf-shaped papers to drop inside.  But, that was way more than I had to give to such an idea.

We'd just moved back into our home after a 3-month evacuation due to the Missouri River flood.  Scott was working a new job that took him away from home at the drop of a hat and usually when it was most inconvenient. I was too busy to think straight, rockin' my Avon business,working for corporate from home and president of the Parent-Teacher League. Money was tight. Time was even tighter. Stress and exhaustion hung heavy in our home and heavier on my heart. 

Yet, I was grateful. Every where I looked that fall, I saw a reason to be so thankful. And I didn't want that moment to pass. Not for me, not for my kids. It seemed the least we could do was be thankful once a day, every day for one month. 

So we sat at the kitchen counter one night after supper and fashioned this thing -- this thing that no one has a name for -- with the intention of filling it with notes of thanks. The construction paper leaves are scribbled and not cut-out very well. I couldn't find markers, so I just used black crayon to write "Thanks" down the side. Gracey, a three-year-old with the attention span and energy level of a pinball, was bored almost as soon as we got started. But we did it. And every day after until Thanksgiving, we each wrote down one thing we were thankful for and slipped it into the canister. 

On Thanksgiving, we read them aloud. Things like friends, a job, and no school came out of the tube. Then came the notes that told more about where our hearts were: "God is always faithful" wrote my husband. "Thank you for a long, dry fall so we can complete our flood repairs" said one note I'd written. And my favorite, "Just thanks." Because sometimes there's just too much to list.

Now, four years later, our little oatmeal canister still holds every year's thankful notes. I've stuffed them into a Ziploc bag and we'll toss in this year's notes on top of it. But as I read the notes of the last three years, some of them aloud to the kids, I couldn't help but smile. I couldn't help but be thankful. Because for this little oatmeal canister, tomorrow was never planned; it was only meant for that one season.

And isn't that just how it is? Tomorrow isn't promised to us. We only have today. And today, we will be grateful.