Becky Bacon showed up at my house Saturday with a recipe for bread.  She brought the yeast with her, walked in, threw her bags in her bedroom and made home made bread.  She is one of those visitors who show up,  make themselves at home.  And make bread.

I always say that she is the one person who knows the second word I am going to say, so I don't have to finish sentences.  We read each other's minds.

Our husbands were--Joe still is--pilots.  Both served in Nam.  Joe is the full blood Indian who grew up in India.  Adopted in Texas and transported to India where his dad was America's Agriculture Ambassador.  Joe was flying back and forth to England when he was thirteen, and never stopped flying.  England ruled India at the time.  The pilots let him fly with them.  Actually they let him fly the transports.  He's been flying ever since.

Becky and I became friends, then Joe and Ken became cohorts of old air escapades and tall tales. Ken said Joe was the little brother he never had.

I love it when Becky comes for however long.  This time three days.  She is family.  God has given me wonderful friends.  They are precious.