I am a difficult person to shop for; just ask my mother. Not to say that I can't be placated with chocolate and the like, but even when it comes to chocolate, I'm kind of picky. It's my own fault, but that doesn't make it any less depressing.
I'm a difficult person to cheer up; just ask my mother. Not to say I don't grin just imagining Mr Griffith doing the vocab dance, but even on good days, I tend to have an undercurrent that's dragging me down. It's my own fault.
When I was a kid, my parents had a remarkably effective policy regarding "treats" -- i.e. the chocolate bars in the grocery store. I only could only have one as a surprise; it had to be their idea, not mine. Oh, the many times I stood by the cash register, ogling the Kit Kats with bated breath, yearning for the parental go-ahead. Sometimes it came, usually it didn't. When it did come, the surprise was always sweeter than a mere granted request.
Where my parents see outward appearances, God looks at the heart. While my parents will always listen, before a word is on my tongue, He knows it completely. My parents' generosity never fails to leave me speechless, but God's generosity is on a grander scale. He brings me to my knees.