A drop in the bucket: My cup runneth over (God's gift registry)

 I tend to be somewhat zealous in my interpretation of God's presence in my life. Better to see Him EVERYWHERE than no-where is my very strong defense. Crammed into Douglas's car, the many Mosimans who had made the trek to Sydney's wedding were barreling down a crowded freeway in San Diego when we passed a faded road-side sign, standing sentinel among the palm trees, almost lost among a backdrop of buildings. Hearing my sigh, my husband quickly scanned his surroundings to find the catalyst. Spotting the "Denny's" sign, he fought his eye-roll to drop me a quick wink, immediately realizing that I was thinking of my dad. 

There's no sense in arguing with me when the Lord so clearly sends me a (literal) sign but Brad Mosiman is always game. "Spotting a Denny's can hardly be counted as a miraculous occurrence," he teased me later. "There must be close to 2,000 Denny's in America. It would be like going to Canada and being shocked to find a Tim Horton's there." Thank goodness Sydney is more sentimental. "I thought of Grandma and Grandpa, too," she whispered. It was my dad's go-to place...a consistent menu with consistent prices. We would be graciously treated to a Denny's dinner for birthdays and anniversaries.

Dad would show up again later as Sydney and I approached the entryway for her receiving room at the venue. I paused beside the rusted old bucket hanging decoratively among the vine and flowers, thanking God for including Dad in this special day.

Really, Amy? An old bucket? Now you're really reaching.

Haven't I told you this story?

Where a young and foolish (as opposed to old and foolish) Amy DeLong snitched her father's metal bucket to pick wild grapes with a friend. The two idiots climbed the prickly pine tree ladders high up into the air, hanging the bucket on a branch so they could fill it with fruit. Suddenly, Amy's friend fell, plunging 40 (4) feet before catching hold. Scared straight, both children scrambled to the ground, forgetting about the bucket until it was too late. Neither kid was brave enough to retrieve it. Naturally, Amy never confessed her crime to her father who, we must imagine, never learned the fate of his missing bucket. (I'm sure he suspected...I was very naughty).

Years went by. My parents moved. But every time Brad and I drove by the property, we would glance up into the roadside woods to see the bucket, still hidden...like a needle in a pine tree. 

One day, driving by, I was startled and saddened to see that the highway department had trimmed back the trees. "The bucket is gone," I told Brad, my eyes wildly searching the vacant branches. My husband pulled over. Walking across the road, he jumped down into the ditch and immediately emerged with his prize. That bucket has been with us every since.

The Lord, of course, was not done with me. I wandered away, giving Sydney and Douglas a private moment before the craziness began. I toured the barn space that would house the bar, buffet, and dancing area. The walls and beams felt nostalgically comforting, filled with farm tools and implements. Stopping short, I saw one beam decorated with "random" license plates. Smiling, I noticed New York and California, separated geographically by 3,000 miles, parked right next to one another. And then my eyes widened as I read the letters on the New York plate...immediately spinning around to retrieve Sydney and Douglas. Pleased and thankful, I snapped the picture: Art Mosiman's great-granddaughter, on her wedding day, beneath her home plate. 

In mind, body, and soul...we were all there.