Books have always been a huge part of my life: a place to learn, grow and sometimes just escape from reality. I could spend hours in a bookstore. I get excited when you first walk through the door; the smell of new books and fresh coffee never fails to uplift me, no matter my mood.
It’s Wednesday afternoon and I am hungry. The week prior I had read a book called, 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess by Jen Hatmaker that talked all about conserving, going without and giving away. Which sounded perfect on vacation, as I read on the beach, with the breeze softly coming off the lake and a full belly. But I’m no longer in utopia and my rashly made decision that my husband agreed to last week is sounding today more like a prison than paradise. The basic premise of our self induced fast is: pick seven impoverished countries, eat like the poor there for three days each, while learning about the people/country and praying for them. The fast thus lasts 21 days. I’m on day two, ready to quit. I can’t have caffeine since poor people in other countries hardly have clean water to drink, let alone coffee. So I’m at home today with a pounding headache and an empty belly. I call my husband to see how he’s doing.
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