Serial Thriller Co

Perhaps in the grand scheme of things, all history is but a flutter, all life is but a breath. And these things we hold dear as symbols of time, and growth, and strength, and shelter, these things that bear our hopes and sense of mystery, perhaps they too fall weary and succumb to the weight and gravity of that which they stand for. Only so that we know eternity is not here, it is now, but not in this space. No thing can carry it, the promise is kept by the promise maker. The time is marked by the timeless. And we need not carry more than the promise to every breath, and mark each moment an opportunity to plant a seed that we may never see grow. So that we may live by those who planted before us, and eat of trees tended by the gardener Himself. Never stop planting.

Let me tell you a story. Like most true stories, I may never know the ending, but this is where it begins. In a little blue house with risky plumbing and a patchy roof. Where the lawn is seeded every spring with a half acre of scrumptious dandelions, the kind that waft puffs of dreams and wishes across the hazy summer horizon. Where the trees grow tall, but the weeds may grow even taller if I don't manage to fix this ride on mower. It's a little broken down farmhouse where the train rumbles past each night almost loud enough to drown out the YouTubers and their unboxing videos blasting from competing devices in each bedroom. This little house where the rescue dogs have created their own doggy door into the garage, a feral cat guards the front porch atop a mountain of old pillows on the porch swing, and the floor is littered with bits of plastic the tiny remnants of any little things the puppy chewed on. We blame the puppy, but it's roughly a 10% chance it could have been my son. This dingy, old, worn out slice of heaven is our home. And it's where this story begins.

Fixing to put my shop on & back together. This girl is back in town 😜