A couple days ago I wanted to pack up my weapons. I didn't think I had that many, just a couple swords and knives, nothing major. Well, apparently it's been a while since I really checked my inventory. Let's just say if a small army showed up at my door, I could give everyone a bladed weapon.
A couple years ago, after I fasted from carrying, researching, drooling over etc, all weapons, I decided that I wouldn't buy another one for a very very long time. So why had my collection gotten so big? I inspected every piece and realized that most were gifts. There was the heavy, scary even for me, Bowie knife my Dad gave my for Christmas. There was the ornate and colorful dagger William gave to me 2 years ago, the authentic French military rapier I got from my Uncle whom I'd never met before and my favorite sword, perfect for my size, my grandfather found at a yard sale and gave it to me as a late birthday present.
I had some sentimental moments, yeah I'm pretty sure I'm the only girl who does that over pieces of steel, but I remembered every piece and the person connected to it. And that's why swords will always be more than just tools to me. They each have a story, kind of like a book, except the words are left up to the imagination.
It makes me feel blessed that even though I'd let go of something, God gave it back to me in His way. It's a little stupid thing, my love of knives and swords, but I guess God cares about it.
**Authors Note**
I always feel silly when I write posts like this, sentimental, emotional things that they are, but as an avid blog reader myself, I don't like blogs that are one dimensional, clean crisp chats about facts, so that forces me as a writer to not do just that. What's good for the goose is good for the gander I suppose, but that doesn't mean I feel comfortable with it.
**End Of Authors Note**
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