It feels appropriate to re-awaken the blogger in me with an excerpt from my history, and some honor for the roots I grew from. I have a lot of memories of my Daddy sitting in his armchair with a tattered leather Bible on his lap. I remember him reading his, and when his Dad passed to eternity, he held my Grandpa's in it's place. He's a teacher, and a Bible teacher, and crawls deep into the word, looking for the Lord. My grandpa was a worshiper with every part of his being. I sat with him on the tall, wooden organ bench, feeling the grand and glorious rumble of sound from within. He played with his hands and his feet, and his eyes smiled out of his long, english face. He hummed hymns while he walked, and longed for heaven not with the sorrow of this life, but foreshadowed joy for the next. My Momma gave me a little blue book when I was eight. She told me to write my heart out to the Lord. She told me to tell him all the woes of my childish worldview, and sent