Impact the world. Support global missions. Disciple teenagers. That's what I wanted to do when I moved to Germany to serve as a Resident Assistant at Black Forest Academy, a boarding school for missionaries' kids. The big picture goals on the school's recruiting brochure were resplendent, noble – almost intoxicating. And they were accurate.

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I hadn't seen the driver offering to take me back to Knoxville before I replied "Yes". I after I agreed to take the ride, both Randy and the other utility worker gave me a strange look. One like, "Are you serious?" Given they had both talked to and seen the driver I started to wonder.

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It was just about two months ago I had one of those experiences that as they say, "sticks to your ribs." One you remember for years to come and will tell to your grandchildren. An experience so strange that during it you pinch yourself to make sure it isn't a dream. So, bear with me as I setup the details of the story because it is in those details the beauty is found.

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The other night as I was preparing my evening meal, I was reminded of how cooking methods have changed in the past 80 some years. The state of the art refrigerator/freezer in my kitchen holds my frozen entrée which I pop into my state of the art microwave and presto! Along with a store bought salad, I have a meal - usually finished off with ice cream, also from my freezer.

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If you haven't read "Chicken Dance," you'll want to read that first for some insight into my dealings with poultry. You'll better appreciate this installment of Snippets if you do.

My family acquired fourteen chickens at the beginning of this year. Now we have seven. The reduction in forces can be attributed to one factor. But before I tell you what that factor is, let me spend some time building up to it for awhile.

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"Can I help?" asked my small cousin, Katie, as I pulled chocolate chips, flour, butter, and other ingredients from their respective places in the kitchen.

"Okay." I knew it would take me longer to bake the cookies with the "assistance" of a seven-year-old, but I didn't mind. She watched me microwave the butter and begin to mix in the sugar before she asked for a turn with the wooden spoon. Gripping it with two hands, she stirred with great deliberation – but not great success. After a few minutes, she asked me to finish creaming the ingredients because her arms had grown tired. Gladly, I finished mixing and making under her watchful eye.

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