This morning I woke up to a cold nose.
Well, to two cold noses.
One belonged to the cat, whose food dish was bare-bones empty, so she had decided to sit on top of my shoulder and stare at me, until I opened my eyes to see her pointing at her open mouth. A sure sign that she’s a bit stricken with hunger, and that she barely survived the night without her blood sugars dipping to dangerous levels.
But the other cold nose was my own, on account of this one simple fact: It’s getting to be fall in these parts, and although fall in places like Texas still means that there’s a long string of days left with which to enjoy the outdoor swimming pool, fall in our neck of the woods means that it’s time to drag out the sweatshirts for early morning outings.
It also means that most people start turning their thermostats to the word HEAT.
We have never fallen under the category labeled “Most People.” Our thermostat is not turned toward the word HEAT yet.
So this morning, when I woke up to find the famished beast perched on my shoulder, I realized that my face (the only part exposed to the elements) was a bit freezy. I glared over at Hubs and said, “Good grief! I can see my breath when I breathe! Don’t you think it’s time to actually turn the heat on?”
Hubs replied, “If you were a mountain man, you’d still consider this temperature to be balmy. Buck up.” His sympathies astound me sometimes.
I was persistent, however, and announced, “I need heat! I might actually have gotten frostbite overnight.”
Hubs, who had nothing but his nose sticking out from beneath our comforter, mumbled, “We’re not turning the heat on until November. Our house has terrific insulation. Pretend to be that mountain man, honey.”
Yeah, right. In our last Bible study, we learned that God has placed everyone in a specific generation for a reason. My reasons for being here, at this appointed time, are numerous. God knew that I would be a lover of indoor plumbing, hair dryers, HGTV, and Starbucks, not to mention the HEAT option on any given furnace.
“I’m not a mountain man.”
“That’s too bad. I wish that I was a mountain man. I would have made a good mountain man. Mountain men had really cool pouches full of gun powder. Now go get your shower started, so we can get some warm steam in here, and chip the ice off the cat’s water dish when you feed her.”
“I beg your pardon?! What happened to being a mountain man? You need some shower-generated steam to warm up?”
“Well, if I WERE a mountain man, I’d use a stick to poke the coals in my fire a bit. And I wouldn’t gripe as much as you do.”
Clearly we got the day off on the right foot this morning.
And, speaking of sticks, it has finally happened. The boy, age nine, asked me a question the other day which horrified me.
“Mom, when you were little, like me, did you just play with sticks and rocks, since plastic hadn’t been invented to make toys out of?”
Without missing a beat, Hubs replied, “Trees were too little back then to get decent sticks off of. Your mother played with dinosaur bones.”
I love these two fellows. I do. But I have to keep repeating to myself, over and over, “God has appointed us to this specific generation for a reason. I have a purpose for being here!”
I’ll let you know when I understand what that purpose is.