The Titus 2:4 Project

My mom always referred to my wardrobe by the activity the clothes were intended for...play clothes, church clothes, school clothes....so naturally, as I was growing up I added my own references: work clothes, going-out clothes, cleaning-house clothes, fat clothes... not that 'fat' is an activity...maybe I should have called them my eating-too-much clothes.  My first real job was in a department store.  I worked in the Junior Department.  I loved that job.  I made friends with other employees, and the question was always, "What department are you in?"  Shoes.  Dresses.  Lingerie.  Misses.  Men's.   Perhaps a more effective way to organize a store would be by activity.  But today, as I begin a new year with the hopes of fitting back in my "not-eating-at-all clothes" (see yesterday's blog), I was thinking about what to put on this morning.  It occurred to me that the world now lovingly refers to athletic cloth...

Tempers flaring, we stood toe-to-toe.   "Well, what did you expect? " He roared. "Not this! " Tears pooled in my eyes. I stormed away and locked myself in our room.   I don't even remember what we were fighting about that day, only how I felt when my expectations had not been met.  I felt like he just didn't care.  I was disappointed.    In all my years of marriage,  I have come to understand one thing.  Every single frustration, no matter what it's about or the degree of emotional turmoil, always boils down to one thing: unmet expectations.   I expected one thing to happen, and it didn't...or I didn't expect something to happen, and it did.  Plain and simple.    I expected a card for Mother's Day.  He forgot.  I expected him to let me sleep late on Saturday.  He woke me up before the sunrise. I expected him to put his dirty dishes in the sink before he ...