Coming to you today from a place I know well. What’s this place called? Doubt. Faith and doubt don’t mix. Like oil and water. Or do they? Writing is like weeding a garden. Trying to protect the good, while getting rid of the unwanted pests. In my garden between the sweet, red tomatoes are the weeds that try to overwhelm the fruit. I’m always still amazed tomatoes are a fruit. As I’ve gotten down on my knees plucking the unwanted to preserve the desired, I’m reminded of how parents do the same. My will has run wild much to my own detriment. I hate to admit when they’re right. I don’t like to say that I’m still young enough to not know everything. With each and everyday I only learn when I put my selfishness aside in the admission that with acknowledgement that as long as I breathe, I am being molded into the best creation I can be.