Whispers of His Movement

Copyright © 2013 Gina Gallagher.

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All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated are taken from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Front Cover Design: Erin Gallagher

Back Cover Photo: Molly Caitlin Photography

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-0765-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-0766-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013916262

WestBow Press rev. date: 9/20/2013

Table of Contents

Daily Living

The Lamppost

Universal Language

Dirty Windows

The Right Knees

The Stick Shift

Scavengers

Blotches

A Little Steeping

Attention Must Be Paid

Busyness

Comparison

Detours

Eavesdropping

Fences

Friendship And Perspective

Hospitality

I Love You

Joshua Perseverance

Leftovers

Milk Men and Ice Cream

Mishaps

Onions and Bananas

Out Of The Mouths Of Babes

Pay Forward

Reparation

Rut Response

Showing Up

Silently Approaching

Solomonic Wisdom

Staggered Start

The Gift of Work

The High Dive

The Hug

The Leash

The Menu

The Saga Of Someone

The Silent Cry

Tossed Overboard

Two Left Feet

What’s Important?

Prayer

Listening Prayer

Missed Opportunity

Naomi’s List

Forgiveness

Power Washing

Repetition

The Attitude Of The Heart

White Out

Discipleship

The Best Thing

Of Spoons and Spatulas

The Baking Cabinet

A-Ha Moment

Chronicler

Milk Cartons

Patina

Sent Ones

The Capstone

What Our Hearts Remember

Evangelism

Curb Appeal

Play Date

Radiance

Take My Hand

The Argument

Camouflage

Candlelight

Eggshell Walking

GAP

Simplicity

The Color Neutral

The Drummer

The Little Evangelist

You’ve Got Mail

Bible

A Bible In Our Hands

Boot Camp

Early Watering

Hamburgers, Pancakes, and Spurgeon

Plateau Place

Push Pins

Repellent

Solitary Time

Sound Bites

Spoon Feeding

The Real Thing

The Stone Fountain

The Suitcase

The Tree Stand

To Read Or Not To Read

Tunnel Stomping

Worn Out Sneakers

Faith

The Yoke

Amazement

Blue Moon

Dusting Floors

Entertaining Angels

Even If

Extra Steps

Faithfully Watching

Hand over Hand

Reservoir

Sight

Sin Tainted Glasses

The Nap

The Single Seed

What Happens To Me While I Sleep?

Salvation

Concrete Writer

Desert Island Challenge

Blindness

Gotta Dime?

Improvisation

Lost and Found

No Substitutes

Packed Away

Pierced Ears

Rock, Paper, Scissors

Round Lettuce

Royalty

Stones And Bones

The Playpen

The Quilt

The Right Combination

Trash Or Treasure

Wiggling Fingers

Holy Week

Basin and Towel Ministry

Darkness That Can Be Felt

Faithful Waiting

Geraniums

God’s Diorama

Silver Trays

Sunday Best Clothes

Worship

Catching Rainbows

Dancing Hands

Finding Him In the Strangest Places

Holy Ground

Perspective

Rapid Fire Questions

Road Trip Oasis

The Absurdity Of The Gift

The Gift Of Weeds

The Piano Teacher

Heaven

Pass the Baton

Over The Wall

Revolving Door

Scars

Seeing Home

Something Is Just Not Right

Sorting Laundry

The Dance

The Equestrian

Why She Sings

The Final Wave

This book is dedicated to my husband, Michael, and my five children, Erin, Claire, Kevin, Brian, and Molly. There are so many reasons to write because God has given me so many stories in you. My heart overflows with joy because of you.

My life has meaning and purpose because of my Lord Jesus whose Story I never grow tired of telling.

There are Whispers to be heard every day.

Be still and listen.

Follow the Whispers of His Movement devotional blog:

www.whispersofhismovement.com

Daily Living

The Lamppost

The house where I grew up had a road in the front and a road in the back. Our back porch, with its wrought iron furniture and glass top table, was the place to be. Not having air conditioning, it was the coolest part of the house. I sat there many afternoons with my mother talking about everything, and nothing, yet still feeling as if all the things I had to say were terribly important to her. She was a wonderful listener. She had the gift of making even the most mundane thing an event. When I met my soon-to-be, many years later, husband, in high school, I would come home and tell her every detail. How I dropped my book, on purpose, and he picked it up; how I did not understand math very well but he was so smart and understood it all; how I wish we could go to a dance together. We went to many dances together, but she never knew. My mother died when I was fifteen years old.

I was adopted and an only child. At a time when people had large families, I had only three people in mine. When families looked like each other, I looked vastly different. My tall 5'10 height seemed strange beside my mother who stood 5'3 and not much better beside my father who stood only 5'7". Stand tall, she would say, always be proud of your height. There is nothing nicer than a tall girl, who enters a room with confidence. Whether that was true or not really didn’t matter. It was drilled into me for so long, I believed it. Another gift.

As we sat on the porch many afternoons, we would see people go by. Many days, he would walk by, a small, elderly man, neatly dressed, walking his little dog. His steps were quick and sure. He always wore a hat, which he would tip in my mother’s direction. He waved as he went by. We knew nothing about him, but we could set our clock by him. His punctuality was comforting.

I remember a day, when we saw his silhouette coming down the road against a dark, gray sky. He seemed a bit slower, as he passed, since the wind kicked up a bit. It started to rain. My mother jumped up and grabbed her car keys and told me to come with her. We were going to pick the man up and drive him and his little dog home. It felt like an intrusion. It was the right thing to do, but up to this point, our two worlds never met. They were on either side of a screen.

We drove around to the back street, behind our house. My mother pulled over and instructed the man to get into the car. He did not hesitate. He picked his little dog up in one motion and placed it on his lap as he got into the front seat. I don’t remember them talking much, except when he gave her directions to his home. That was it. He was safely home. He tipped his hat, in this new place, his place and walked into his house with his little dog in his arms.

Not too long after that, my mother died, a heart attack in our kitchen. Lines were blurred and familiar things seemed unfamiliar. There was a new normal to get used to, jobs to do that used to be hers, and school to go to that was always mine.

At the funeral home, there were many people, saying all the right things, but nothing I needed to hear. I was hot and tired and confused in this sea of faces. I looked up. There he was, the small, elderly man, neatly dressed coming towards me. He took my hand. It was rough. Hard work made its callouses. I didn’t know what to say. He bridged the silence. She was my friend, you know. He walked away, the hat he always tipped held tightly in his hand.

I needed air. I went towards the door without stopping. I had to see where he went. I opened the door and stepped outside. It was as if he disappeared. Then I saw him. He was by the lamppost out front. Tied to the lamppost was his little dog, on a leash, waiting patiently for him. He stooped down and rubbed the dog’s head, stood up slowly and walked away. I will never forget the shadow of that pair in the lamplight. I often wondered how the man got home. He was far from where we drove him that day.

My mother’s small act of kindness bridged two worlds. She saw a need; a tiny one and she met that need with loving-kindness. A stranger became a friend. Go and do likewise. I am beginning to understand.

Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers? The expert in the law replied, The one who had mercy on him. Jesus told him, Go and do likewise. (Luke 10: 36, 37)

Universal Language

If you asked my children to recall a game we played in the grocery store when they were young, they may not all remember. It was not intentional. It just happened. There we were: one mother, five children, two shopping carts, many questions, and many helpers. That weekly shopping trip was an event, a teaching tool really. It was a time to learn how to budget, how to use coupons, how to plan a week’s worth of menus, how to choose healthy foods, how to behave in a store. Little did we all realize that a far more important lesson was being learned.

Often, on our weekly trips, we would inevitably come upon a cashier, or a person behind the deli counter that was not having a good day. The reason didn’t matter, but the result of that reason was all over their face. Usually, the littlest one of my children would notice first. That person is not smiling. Sometimes, the dreamer in the group would try to come up with a scenario as to why.

The challenge was on. Could we make this person smile before we left the deli counter or the check out line? I don’t know how the game started, but it was important to my children. The tenderness of that desire made the game worthwhile. I loved to listen in on their attempts; listen to their ideas of how they could get that person to smile. Many times, they were met with little success.

But one day, as our cheese was being handed over the counter to us, one of my children reached up with a big toothless smile and said, thank you. It was nothing special really, no magic formula, no script. Just a sincere, precious heart of a child, with an adorable toothless grin, saying the two words they had been taught to say for as long as they could remember. Except this time, the words didn’t float off in the air. This time the words were heard, they were felt, in the innocence and sincerity of a child’s smile.

The person smiled back. My toothless wonder was amazed. Mission accomplished. The smile game was born. How does it work, Mom? How does my smile make the other person smile? Can we do it again? Needless to say, it made the shopping trip very pleasant.

I remember driving home that day and talking about our smiles. It is the universal language, I explained. Even if we don’t understand the words someone is speaking, we can always smile. Then we are all speaking the same language no matter where we live in the world. Everyone understands a smile.

I was remembering the smile game the other day. I have to admit, I still do it from time to time. I still get the thrill of making the other person smile back. But there is more to it than that. We live in a world of many languages and cultures. We may not understand the nuances of the people we come in contact with; we may not speak their language. But we can speak the universal language of a smile.

I have read that there are two types of smiles: Duchenne Smile, the kind that comes from your toes and crinkles your eyes, and seems to fill every crevice with joy, and Social Smiles that are posed and intentional. People tend to know the difference. The smile that comes from your toes and fills up every crevice with joy is the smile that is contagious. That is the smile that multiplies smiles. That should be our smile if we are in Christ.

We all have difficulties. We all have problems each day, but we have a Savior, our Lord Jesus. If we are in Christ, we carry His Spirit wherever we go. That is our reason to smile. How can another person come to know that God loves them, if they don’t experience His love through us first? Are we approachable so that others can ask us the reason for our joy? Do we realize the volumes that are spoken when we are able to smile even as we are going through hard times? Our smile is a way to point others to HIM. He is the reason we can smile from our toes since He fills us up with His presence. We have a Gospel to share with the universal language of a smile. A smile breaks down the toughest walls, and breaks through the stoniest heart. We have much to say. They have much to hear. Start a smile game, with the Gospel on your lips, and see what God does. For God so loved that world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life. (John 3:16)

Dirty Windows

A young mother spent the days at home with her small children. Some days were simply delightful, playing with them, reading with them, training them. Some days were difficult and exhausting, when nothing seemed to go right. Remnants of breakfast were on the floor under the high chair. Jelly was stuck in the two year olds hair.

As the sun shone through the glass storm door, she could see every handprint, every nose print, and little forehead marks pressed upon the glass. She knew each print and who put them there. She sighed and felt like she would never catch up. Just when she got a little bit ahead, a diaper needed changing, the baby needed to be fed, and a favorite toy needed to be found.

When she finally sat down for a few minutes rest, she looked through the smeary glass door at the house across the street. Manicured lawns, freshly painted doors, newly blacktopped driveway. Clean windows! The clean windows did it! I bet she never has fingerprints on her glass door. I know her kitchen floor is immaculate, without a crumb. She probably never gets behind in her work.

She didn’t even know her neighbor except when they waved from across the street. She never made brownies when her neighbor moved in, because there was always something else that needed to be done. She should invite her over one of these days. She looked around her house trying to see it through her neighbor’s eyes and was embarrassed.

On a particularly hectic day, a day when the beds were not made, and the children were still in pajamas; a knock came to the door. It was her neighbor from across the street. She had a piece of mail in her hand that got delivered to her house by accident. Would you like to come in?

I would love to!

Her heart racing, she stepped on a plastic toy and hurt her foot. She could feel the tears so close and the knot in the back of her throat getting tighter. The two year old had sticky jelly fingers and was grabbing for her neighbor’s hand. There was a doll to be shown, as the little one led the way, not wanting to let go. The jelly would make sure of that! Her neighbor lovingly cuddled the doll, expertly burping the illusive gas bubble. I’m sorry for the mess. It has been a busy morning. Can I make you some tea?

I would love some. Thank you.

She watched her neighbor play with her child. She put the baby on her hip and filled the teakettle. Her child took to her neighbor easily. Her child talked in words that only she could understand. If her neighbor didn’t understand toddler-speak, you would never have guessed. An expert with children, too!

The teakettle whistled and jolted her out of her sour mood. She poured the tea into mismatched mugs. One had a chip on the handle. Nothing was freshly baked, but there were graham crackers and there was jelly. They sat for a while in silence. Finally, her neighbor spoke first.

I have wanted to invite you over…forgive me for not doing that. I see you all the time through my glass door. I watch you when you take a walk around the neighborhood. I see how great you are with your children.

Thank you…I should have had you…made you brownies…but there never seems…

To be enough time? She shook her head in agreement. The sun was shining right through the glass door. In addition to the fingerprints, there were lines drawn by sticky fingers right down the glass. She got up, by impulse, and wiped the door with her napkin. Oh, don’t do that. It’s lovely! I never have prints on my door. I KNOW, she grumbled in her mind. We never could have children. We always wanted them…just never could. I would give anything for some handprints on my door.

Do you want another cup of tea, so we can talk and get to know each other better? She poured the tea in the mug with the chip on the handle. Fine porcelain could never look as good as this!

Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling. Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully administering God’s grace in its various forms. (1 Peter 4:9-10)

Hospitality is so important. Sometimes it is the best way to share Christ with another person. Sharing Christ in relationship with another, in the everyday, in the ordinary. Living out His Truth. Living out His Love. One-anothering. Hospitality doesn’t have to be fancy, in fact; it is probably better when it is simple. Hospitality can be grilled cheese on paper plates and it will be wonderful! Hospitality is time. Time set aside, even unplanned, to show someone else they are important. Hospitality makes you feel warm inside, heard, understood. Hospitality shows another that they matter. If they matter to God, they should matter to you! Don’t wait until the house is perfect and all the jobs are done. Your dirty windows will never stand in the way of God working through you. Get out the rags and clean if you must. Your Spirit-filled heart, your smile, and your time are all anyone ever needs. God will take care of the rest!

The Right Knees

I saw her pirouetting around the room. Obviously trying to pass the time while her mom was shopping. I almost envied her abandon. She was wearing a twirly skirt, which she obviously loved to wear as she danced. She had rain boots on her feet, not the ballet slippers I would have imagined. She was carefree, not yet affected by the whims of the world. She was an individual, just like the little boys I see in their superhero capes. I can dance and I’m good at it! I can defeat the enemy, before breakfast.

The little dancer spun around too much or too fast. She stumbled a bit. I’m sure the room was moving as well. She needed to balance herself and grabbed the closest thing to her. My knees. I was standing nearby and wearing jeans, just like her mom. From her vantage point, jeans were jeans. I must be her mom. She grabbed the wrong knees.

I didn’t mind. It was a precious moment, to help steady her. She looked up as I looked down. She realized I was not her mom. You could see the panic in her face. Her mom was right there and called to her. She ran to her and grabbed the right knees! The mom and I laughed at the tenderness of the moment. Only her mom would do and I wasn’t her mom! Motherhood is a sacred calling; one person alone, with the right knees.

Every year His parents went to Jerusalem for the Feast of Passover. When He was twelve years old, they went up to the Feast according to the custom. After the Feast was over, while His parents were returning home, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem, but they were unaware of it. Thinking He was in their company, they traveled on for a day. Then they began to look for Him among their relatives and friends. When they did not find Him, they went back to Jerusalem to look for Him. After three days, they found Him in the temple courts, sitting among the teachers listening to them and asking them questions. Everyone who heard Him was amazed at His understanding and His answers. When His parents saw Him, they were astonished. Son, why have You treated us like this? Your father and I have been anxiously searching for you. Why were you searching for Me? He asked. Didn’t you know I had to be in My Father’s house? But they did no understand what He was saying to them. Then He went down to Nazareth with them and was obedient to them. But His mother treasured all these things in her heart. And Jesus grew in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and men. (Luke 2:41-52)

The one window we have into Jesus’ childhood is when His parents lost Him! Imagine the panic, the confusion they must have felt. Jesus was just fine. He was in His father’s house. That is where He belonged. Even moments like these are treasured in a mother’s heart. They may not be understood at the time, but they are precious to her. The right knees, hers and her child’s, even if they are scraped a bit.

Having the right knees has less to do with birthing and more to do with loving. The mother with the right knees is the mother who sits up at night when you have a bad dream, the mother who rubs your back when you are sick, the mother who is your biggest cheerleader, the mother who tells you that you can be anything and you can do anything, the mother who tells you about Jesus and reads His Word to you. Those knees may be scraped, and covered with Band-Aids, but they are the right knees for you. Looking up into the right pair of eyes and seeing your reflection mirrored back.

The right knees are less about birthing and more about loving. Those are the knees that have held you as you sit on her lap. Those are the knees that have knelt in prayer for you and with you. Those are the right knees. The noble knees of motherhood; one set of knees, divinely matched with one set of knees.

The Stick Shift

When my husband was eighteen, he bought his own car. It was an older Saab that looked like a Volkswagen beetle. But don’t tell him I said that! My husband worked hard, earned money, and always seemed to be able to save. His first job was delivering newspapers on his bike. Later, he worked for a man who had a large property complete with a barn and many out buildings.

One summer, while we were in high school, he painted all of the buildings by himself; an interesting job when you are Irish and fair skinned with freckles. Needless to say, he had a lot of sunburn, but he looks back on that time fondly. He actually asked the owner if he could bring me to the property to go swimming. There was on old mill with a water wheel that fed the pool with cool, fresh water. I remember the man’s large dog jumped in and swam with us.

My husband also worked for a construction company, owned by the father of our dear friend, who would one day be our best man. He had many skills, was a hard worker, was able to save money, and bought his first car at eighteen. My husband was the fifth child in a family of eight children. He was born on St. Patrick’s Day. The brother before him was named Patrick. So, he was named Michael, with Patrick as his middle name. My mother died in our sophomore year of high school. His oldest brother died in a car accident the following year. Attraction may bring two people together, but difficult things, that you both go through together, often act as glue. You support and encourage each other. You get through those times together.

His mother was not very happy when he bought a car so soon after his brother died. He was eighteen, going off to college soon, and though he loved his mother, this was something he had to do. Anyone that knows us well remembers that green car. He took such good care of it. Each fall, when he left to go back to college in Atlanta, he would remove the tires and put his car on concrete blocks. I asked him why he did that, and to this day, I don’t really know the reason. Something about pressure on the tires as it sat for most of the year.

Actually, we left for our honeymoon in that car, decorated with shaving cream and crepe paper, just married written on the windows with soap. Needless to say, we left in style! It had rained a lot while we were gone. You can imagine what that car looked like when we saw it in the airport parking lot. Even though there are great memories surrounding that car, it is also the scene of our first argument.

He wanted to teach me to drive his car. I already knew how to drive, of course. However, I never drove a stick shift. This was not just an ordinary stick shift. This stick shift was on the driving wheel column not on the floor. To anyone else, that may not be a problem, just a bit of a learning curve. But I am left-handed, VERY left-handed. I cannot do anything with my right hand. In order to drive his car, I had to shift gears with my right hand. Imagine having someone tell you that it is just a simple H…that’s all you do! That meant nothing. I did not have the dexterity to maneuver the stick shift. He didn’t take me to a parking lot or a back road, he took me on a real road that was near my house, near a swim club we belonged to; a road with traffic and people I knew well!

I tried to tell him that I couldn’t do it. Maybe after the gears made a grinding noise, he began to believe me. He was still insistent that I could master this new thing. Finally, the gears made the grinding noise one last time. I put the emergency brake on, since we were on a slight incline, and I got out of the car. He just sat there, not knowing what to do. The person behind us was honking their horn. He either had to get out of the car and walk around to the driver’s side or sit there and cause a traffic jam. We circled the car and each got in the other side. He drove me home. I have resigned myself to the fact that manual transmissions are not for me. My husband agrees with me.

Can you imagine if God got out of the car? What if God got so frustrated with us, He gave up on us? What if He said, You will never get this. Why am I wasting My time? He would never do such a thing! God keeps keeping the covenant when we keep breaking the covenant. That’s just the way He is! Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See I am doing a new thing! (Isaiah 43:18,19)

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; He will never leave you or forsake you. (Deuteronomy 31:6) No matter how many mistakes we make, or how many gears we grind, He is there. God will never get out of the car. Never. Ever.

Scavengers

Our trash day is on Wednesday. We are required to put our trash out the night before because our trash men come so early. I appreciate them and their dedication. I usually see them on my walk and wave to them each week. We had a picnic this past weekend, which meant more people and more trash. The large trash bin wasn’t able to close properly.

I am not the only one out early in the morning. So are the crows! How they love to feast on the trash of others. Maybe that is why I appreciate our trash men so much. They serve us well. They do not have the pleasantest job! Here I am, 6:30 in the morning, cleaning up uneaten food the crows left on the road. It is not very appetizing to see delicious food that I love to prepare, strewn on the street. The crows left things like paper towels and tea bags. They ate things like hamburgers and rolls from our picnic.

Anyone could see what we had for dinner the past few days. And the crows are not even quiet about it! They caw and caw announcing the fact that they are feasting on garbage.

Then the word of the Lord came to Elijah. Leave here, turn eastward and hide in the Kerith Ravine, east of the Jordan. You will drink from the brook, and I have ordered the ravens to feed you there. So he did what the Lord had told him. He went to the Kerith Ravine, east of the Jordan and stayed there. The ravens brought him bread and meat in the morning and bread and meat in the evening and he drank from the brook. (1 Kings 17:2-6)

When my youngest daughter was small, we had our devotions each morning. I read the passage about Elijah to her. She looked very concerned as I read, and I asked her what was wrong. Thinking she was troubled that the ravens fed Elijah, her answer surprised me. Mommy, the Bible says that Elijah was fed his breakfast and his dinner. What about his lunch? I always smile when I think of her innocence.

It was not permissible to eat any kind of scavenger bird, as noted in the book of Leviticus. (11:13-19) Yet God used an unclean bird to feed his prophet, Elijah. I thought of that as I cleaned up the mess the crows left on the street and driveway. Yet, I thought of much more. The crows feast on garbage. How about us?

We may eat in a five star restaurant, but what are we feeding our mind? We may detest cleaning up after crows, but have we cleaned up our DVD’s? Have we sifted through our books, magazines, and bookmarks on the computer? Are we feasting on garbage as well? Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. (Philippians 4:8)

Kingdom living is holy living. Every day, we are to be closer to our Lord Jesus than we were the day before. Day by day, as the Holy Spirit sanctifies us, we are to be more like Him. There is no room for garbage in God’s kingdom. We are to feast on HIM, not on the trappings of this world.

I swept up the remaining food scraps, smelly, disgusting, and not appetizing at all. I thought of what I might need to sweep out of my own life. What needs to be thrown away and placed in a trash can with the lid tightly shut? I don’t want to be a scavenger for the things of this world. The only thing I want to search for is the wisdom that is in God’s Word. There, I will find Him. So, broom in hand. Trash can ready. Garbage sifted. Lid shut tight. The cheerful heart has a continual feast. (Proverbs 15:15) Swept clean. Refreshing!

Blotches

Anyone that knows me well can tell you about my blotches. That’s what I call them. I get red very easily. It doesn’t matter the reason: Happy, sad, afraid, nervous, excited, it’s all the same. They are my barometer, the determiner of my emotions. That is why I love to wear scarves so much. Scarves are a fashionable way to hide blotches. My emotions are right on my face, my neck, and my upper arms. I can’t hide the red blotches that suddenly appear! My blotches are my gauges to any situation. Apparently, everyone else’s gauge as well, since they are there for everyone to see. Blushing puts me in an incredibly vulnerable situation. My emotions are an open book. You can tell what I am feeling by looking at my face. You just have to wait and see whether I am red or not.

When I was a teenager, I really wanted a mood ring. Two New York inventors designed the mood ring in 1975. It was believed that body heat fluctuates with your emotional state. The stone of a mood ring is really hollow quartz in a glass shell. The shell contains thermotropic liquid crystals. Changes in temperature cause the crystal to reflect different wavelengths of light, which changes the color of the stone. The crystals are calibrated using the average person’s body temperature. The mood ring usually has a blue or green color. The temperature of your finger increases as more blood flows to your extremities. Blushing will cause your temperature to go up.

My mood ring always remained on the violet end of the spectrum. The mood ring never worked for me! My blotches are a part of me. In some strange way, I would miss them if they went away. I can’t hide the way I really feel about anything. From the least to