The day was a normal one and for that, I was grateful. The week had started off with a bang that goes by the name of "Halloween," so I was happy for a typical Friday filled with only the mundane of life as a stay at home wife and mother of two. There was laundry to fold, toilets to clean, floors to vacuum, errands to run. I sent the kids off to school with a quick kiss and my morning catch phrases.

"Have a great day. Be your best selves. I love you."

Then I took a deep breath, gave myself a pat on the back for refusing to succumb to the pressure of two children begging for Halloween candy for breakfast, and turned to face the chores that would fill the coming hours of the day, thankful for the temporary quiet of an empty house.

I thought about my children many times throughout the day. I pictured their sweet faces, wondered how their day was going, considered things I'd like to do with them over the next few weeks. I even missed them for a moment or two as I went about the process of checking off items on my to-do list. Yet, there were other things on my mind as well, things that had nothing to do with my children.

The afternoon was as ordinary as the morning. The kids smiled as they hopped in the car after school and began answering my usual array of questions about their day. We got home and our routine unfolded the way it always does. Snacks, homework, reading, playtime, showers, dinner, bedtime. I talked to my children. I smiled at them. I read to them. I let them have dessert and brought their pajamas down and combed their wet hair and even put toothpaste on their toothbrushes, just to be helpful. I hugged them, I think. And when I turned out their lights and left their bedrooms, I was sure to send them off to dreamland with my evening catch phrases.

"Say your prayers. Sleep tight. I love you."

It was a good day. A normal day. When I entered my own bedroom a couple hours after leaving my children's, I felt content . . . fulfilled. I believed I had accomplished things of importance to myself and my family as I had done all the things a mother was supposed to do. I kept a safe, clean, organized home for my children. I prepared meals for them. I talked to them, helped them, reminded them, drove them. I played with them. I loved them. I hugged them, I think. It was a good day.

My daughter loves sweets as much as I do. That might seem hard to believe if you know me, but, lest we forget, she does have half my genes and on my side of the family a love of sweets runs deep. Real deep. My daughter doesn't simply have a sweet tooth. She has a mouth full of them. She asks for a treat after every single meal, every single day. I'm not sure if she thinks I'll slip up one day and allow her to have dessert after breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or if she just believes her consistency will eventually wear me down, but either way, the child is nothing short of relentless.
My kids came home with obscene amounts of candy on Halloween night. I knew we reached a rite of passage as Charlie and Libby discovered the ultimate goal of trick-or-treating is quantity. Their bags were literally overflowing with every kind of junk in the book after sprinting through our entire neighborhood on October 31st.

I allowed them to bask in their sugary abundance for a day or two. Then, I did the good mom thing and forced them to choose thirty pieces of candy they wanted to keep and set aside the rest for an organization that would ship it to American troops overseas. The kids actually got into the giving once they started. They were quite concerned with what the troops would really want to have, and they put a great deal more thought into creating an even mix of deliciousness for the soldiers than to which pieces of candy they would save for their own enjoyment.

And so when I began to crawl into bed that Friday night, less than a week after Halloween, I was satisfied. It had been a good day, a normal day. All was well in my world.

Then, I picked up my pillow. And I saw what was underneath it. And my heart shattered into a million pieces as love and pride and gratitude and shame consumed my every cell.

A pack of peanut M&M's.  My favorite candy.  I knew exactly who had left it there for me.  And all I could think was . . . I hugged her today . . . didn't I?

Happy Thanksgiving!!!

Thank you, God. Thank you for allowing me to wake up and take another breath. Thank you for the eyes to see, the ears to hear, and the words to tell others what you did . . . what you still do. Thank you for a warm bed, in a dry home, in a city filled with every convenience, in a country where freedom reigns. Thank you for the thousands of men and women who serve and, sometimes, sacrifice it all to protect that freedom. Thank you for the man lying next to me, who shows me each day what it means to truly love. Thank you for Charlie and Libby, who are love. Thank you for my family and friends, for the lessons they share and the joy they bring. Thank you for health, for a body that moves and functions without a thought. Thank you for the abundance of food on my table today. Enough for many days. Enough for many people. Thank you for the countless miracles I can witness every second if I simply take the time to notice them - the glory of nature, the change of seasons, the passing of time. Thank you for happiness. Thank you for laughter. Thank you for peace. Thank you, God.

Life's like an hourglass glued to the table. No one can find the rewind button girl. From "Breathe" by Anna Nalick

I remember the way his head fit perfectly against my chest. I remember when only my embrace could make his tears stop. I remember when he wouldn't take a step forward unless I took the step with him. I remember when my lap was his favorite place to be. I remember when he looked at me with stars in his eyes. I remember when my entrance into a room made him the happiest boy in the world.


I remember it all. I have to. I have to remember because . . . he won't. Already, he doesn't.


He's eight now and he's forgotten. I know he's forgotten because lately, when I reach for his hand and squeeze tight, he doesn't grab hold and squeeze back as though he never wants to let go. That warm, soft, innocent hand, still so small inside my own, no longer squeezes back. It just goes limp, his fingers hanging loosely across my knuckles while his eyes dart around to see if any older kids are witnessing him holding his mother's hand.


He still loves me, I know. He'll always love me, I hope. Still, a shift has occurred. A noticable one. The relationship has transformed and it will never go back to what it once was. I suppose this change didn't happen all at once. I suppose I played a bigger role in the change than I'd like to admit. Every time I said, "Go play upstairs and mommy will be there in a few minutes," I was nudging him forward. Every time I persuaded him to try something without my help, I loosened our connection. Every time I kissed his forehead and put him down to tend to laundry, or dishes, or his little sister, I was moving him towards independence. Every time I dropped him off at preschool or at a play date or at his grandparents' house, I helped him realize he wouldn't always need me.


Looking back, I'd do it again. It's my job to encourage my children's autonomy. That's always been a responsibility of parents, along with a whole lot of other messy stuff. I want my son to be a confident child who believes in his abilities. I praise him when he tries something he's never done before and cheer for him when he accomplishes a new skill. It fills me with joy to witness him master something that was once out of his reach.


Most of the time, I'm glad my son doesn't demand my constant attention the way he did as a newborn, infant, and toddler. I'm grateful the physicality of the early years of parenthood has ended and each of my son's actions no longer requires a reaction from me. I enjoy having more time to myself, more time to complete tasks that don't involve nurturing another.


The shift in my relationship with my son isn't always in the forefront of my mind. Some days it seems nothing has changed - he wants me to get a knot out of his shoelace and help him with his homework and find a prized lego. He looks at me after making a great catch on the baseball field to see my response and asks me to lie in bed with him for just a few more minutes at night. He needs me just enough to reassure me I'm still an essential part of his life. Sometimes, however, the shift in our relationship takes my breath away. Sometimes, it's so evident, so blatant that it makes me want to turn back time, to press a rewind button that can never be found. Because sometimes, when we're walking together and I reach for my son's hand, I can tell he is wishing I wouldn't. He doesn't want to hold my hand. He doesn't need it anymore. And my heart clenches inside my chest as I realize I am doing my job. I am doing exactly what the Lord has called me to do.


I am helping my little boy grow up.

I'm not a dog person. I know, I know. Some of you are vowing to ignore me forever because I must be a terrible human being. I get it. You're dog people. If you're running down the sidewalk and see a neighbor with a dog coming towards you, I'm sure you squat right down and rub that pooch behind his ears. You tickle him under his chin as you ask your neighbor the dog's name, age, breed, and favorite type of bone. If I'm running down the sidewalk and see a neighbor with a dog coming towards me, I cross the street.

I blame it on my parents. My brother and I requested a dog for every birthday and Christmas throughout our childhoods to no avail. I don't know why my parents were against our family owning a dog. My father had a boxer named King when he was growing up. My Granny used to tell the story of how King let her know her youngest son, my uncle John, had fallen off his bicycle in the street by jumping up in front of the kitchen window and barking his head off until my grandmother finally looked outside. I find that rather impressive. My mother grew up on a tobacco farm in rural North Carolina. We visited my grandparents there several times a year and almost every time we did, there was a litter of puppies frolicking in the backyard. My brother and I would inevitably become attached to the cutest one and beg our mom to let us take him home. She never caved.

We had a couple of goldfish for a while. They didn't smell so great. We even had a parakeet named Joey. We chose Joey because the teenager at the pet store told us male parakeets make wonderful pets. He claimed male parakeets like people, enjoy being held, and even have the capability of learning to speak. I spent hours recording myself saying phrases like, "Hello, how are you," over and over on a blank tape in the hopes that Joey would begin saying such phrases himself. Unfortunately, we had to return Joey to the pet store after only a few weeks of ownership. He hated us. He pecked and bit and flew around his cage as though desperate to escape. He also made more noise than any animal on the face of the earth. Turns out the teenager who sold Joey to our family suffered from gender confusion. Joey was actually a Joanna.

About a year ago, my in-laws purchased a puppy. Her name is Lucy and she's a Cavachon, which is a cross between a Bichon Frise and a King Charles Cavalier. I suppose that means she can bark in French AND in English. We used to call dogs like Lucy mutts. Now we call them boutique or specialty breeds. Don't you love how humans do that? We can make anything sound special.

Lucy was a cute puppy, I admit. Yet you must remember, I'm not a dog person, so I didn't fall in love with her at first sight. Recently, however, my in-laws have been traveling and our family has become the dog sitter. Surprisingly, Lucy has grown on me. In fact, I'm starting to like her a lot. Lucy has quite a personality, when she isn't sleeping. Actually, her extensive sleep schedule might be one of the reasons I like her so much. She keeps me company, but doesn't demand much of me. She simply wants to be in the same room I'm in while she takes one of her many naps. Sometimes, I wish the other inhabitants of my home were so effortless.

When my in-laws purchased Lucy, they hired a canine expert to come to their home and teach them how to train her. The expert suggested Lucy be kept on a leash at all times. This was meant to help her get used to the leash while also teaching her she would not have full reign in my in-laws home. Lucy is over a year old now and the only time she does not have a leash around her neck is when she goes to sleep in her crate each night.

Recently, while dog sitting, I decided to take Lucy's leash off while we were hanging out with the kids in the basement. I thought she would enjoy running around unhindered. Within seconds of its removal, Lucy picked up the leash in her mouth and dropped it in front of me. She looked down at the leash and back up at me, down at the leash and back up at me. Then she barked, which is rare, and tried to push the leash towards me with her noes, which didn't exactly work but certainly got the point across, regardless of the fact that I'm no dog whisperer. I hooked the leash back onto Lucy's collar and off she went, happy as could be. I grinned, instantly reminded of a toddler dragging a dingy, frayed baby blanket behind him wherever he goes.

We all have our leashes, I guess. We have things in life that bring us comfort; things we don't want to live without, and we hold to those things tightly. Freedom can ignite fear and when we are afraid, we look to the steady, reliable things in our lives to provide assurance.

My husband is a comfort to me. When he walks in the door after being at work all day, I feel my shoulders instantly relax as I take in the pleasant fact that my reinforcement has arrived. I find it comforting that my partner in crime has appeared to help me take care of all those things that need to be cared for - the children, the laundry, the evening meal.

Control is comforting to me as well. When my home and my life and my family are in order, I feel a sense of calm. That peace simply doesn't exist if I haven't cleaned my toilets in a few days or it's after 8:00 pm and my children have not been fed, bathed, and tucked into bed.

In 1 Corinthians 1, it says, "Blessed be the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in trouble, with the comfort which we ourselve are comforted by God."

Whoa. That's a whole lot of comfort in there. Comfort from God . . . for us . . . to give to others.

I want to find comfort in God. When I'm scared and can't seem to find stable ground, I want to believe the One who created me can also comfort me. I want to look to Him to soothe my anxieties, because He is the only one who knows my heart and can provide exactly what I need.

I often wear a necklace with a cross charm on it. It looks good with just about everything so I slip it on over my head many mornings as I rush off to complete my daily to-do list. "Cute necklace," someone will say at the grocery store or in carpool or in the check-out line at Nordstrom. "Thank you. My friend gave this to me when I finished graduate school." I twist the charm in my fingers as the casual exchange of words ends; an exchange I probably won't remember minutes later.

But . . . what if I realized the potential in such an exchange? What if I responded differently? What if I took the opportunity to make the exchange a meaningful one? Maybe even a memorable one?


"Thank you. This charm gives me comfort because it helps me remember where peace comes from.

Hey, I didn't say I've done this people. Trust me, there isn't a bit of evangelical in this chick. But what if I did? What if I reached out with the comfort so freely lavished upon me and offered it to someone who crosses my path. Someone God might have placed in my path for a specific reason. Someone who might need comfort more than I do.

I'm going to start paying a little more attention to the cross charm hanging around my neck. I'm going to think of it in the way Lucy thinks of the leash around her neck - as a symbol of safety and security. As a necessary reminder that comfort is available to me whenever I want it, as long as I look for it in the right place. And maybe, if the opportunity presents itself and I'm feeling my inner Billy Graham, maybe I'll take a chance and offer that comfort, God's everlasting comfort, to someone else. Because who doesn't need a little more comfort in their life? Everyone needs a little more comfort now and then.

Even dog people.

It was one of those mornings. You know the kind. Before the clock had even struck seven, I was already cursing motherhood.

It should have been a great morning. We love Wednesdays in our house. The kids have what they call "late arrival" at their school, which means they have to be there at 9 am instead of 8 am. If your school doesn't know about this late arrival idea, I encourage you to bring it up. You might even want to start a petition or, honestly, a picket line. Late arrival is that good. I don't know how to explain the greatness of a sixty-minute schedule adjustment other than to say that is's a perfectly timed change of pace, a blissful way to reach the middle of the week. I'm sure it's even more blissful in some homes because there are probably children in the world who are capable of sleeping past 6:45 in the morning. Unfortunately, I don't live with such children. Still, our family looks forward to late arrival Wednesdays.

Why? 

One word . . .

Breakfast.

On Wednesdays, mommy bakes.
I try to feed my kids healthy foods like the rest of you well-meaning parents out there. They eat a lot of high fiber cereal in the mornings, with almond milk for the protein, of course. Sometimes they have Greek yogurt and bagels. My daughter has even been known to go for a cheese stick and some applesauce before school.

But not on Wednesdays. On Wednesdays, we have an extra hour of prep time on account of the fact that my kids get up at the same time every morning regardless of their school's schedule, or their parents' for that matter. On Wednesdays, we can make waffles and pancakes and blueberry muffins and, if daddy is up for it, his famous French toast. I even throw a little flax seed and protein powder in whatever we make just to ease the guilt over the amount of sugar I'm allowing my children to consume before they begin their day.

So this Wednesday started out like the others, with plans for baked goods. Only mama had an inspiration. You see, the night before, when daddy was putting Charlie to bed, he issued his usual Tuesday evening reminder.

"Now remember son, tomorrow is late arrival so you can sleep late."

Hey, you can't blame us for trying, can you?

Charlie's response, however, had nothing to do with sleep.

"Yay! I love late arrival. What is mommy going to bake for us?"

Well . . . when my husband told me what Charlie had said, my chest got all puffy with mama pride. You know that feeling too, don't you? It makes your heart swell and sing and feel as if it's lifting right out of your chest with unbridled happiness. As my heart lifted, I decided I would make something extra special for my kids the following morning. Forget the waffles. I would surprise my children with something new, something exciting, something they would swoon over. And so I jumped out of bed on Wednesday morning and headed straight for the oven to begin preheating.

The kids came downstairs a few minutes later and did what they always do. They headed straight for our bed and climbed in to snuggle with their dad so I could go through my morning routine - turning on the coffee maker, emptying the dishwasher, transferring laundry. But this morning, I put the routine on hold and got right to work on my baked goods.

My plan wasn't unique, I assure you. I just rolled out some canned biscuits, coated them with butter, cinnamon, and brown sugar, and topped each one with a chocolate chip. I popped them in the oven before the kids emerged from their snuggling session (which, as usual, had turned into a wrestling session) and eagerly anticipated the smiles on the faces of my kids when they discovered what chef mom had made for breakfast on this late arrival Wednesday.

And then, in all it's impossible glory, motherhood came calling.

"What's for breakfast mama?" He grinned as he walked towards the kitchen and saw the oven light shining like a sweet beacon.

"How about we have muffins, mom?" Her grin was just as wide, right before she put her thumb back in her mouth.
"Well kids, we're going to have something different today."

As I turned to face my offspring, the smile on my face was, by far, the biggest of all. Unfortunately, it didn't last long.

The grumbling was both immediate and intense. It sounded a lot like this, only in stereo because the words were tumbling out of the mouths of BOTH my children at the same time.

"I don't want anything new because I wan't waffles or blueberry muffins because it's Wednesday and we always have something good and I don't want something I've never tried before and it's probably something I won't even like because it's not waffles or blueberry muffins and why can't we just have something we love like waffles or muffins because it's Wednesday."

The heart that had been raised in gratitude for almost twelve hours sunk like lead in my chest.

They presisted with the complaints and I decided to go the ignoring route. It seemed my only option as I knew I couldn't convince my kids that the baked goods in the oven were sure to knock their socks off. They did, in fact, knock their socks off. They ate all but two. Still, the tone of the morning had been set. My kids were ungrateful and I was pissed off about it.

We made it through the extra hour that late arrival Wednesday, but only by the grace of the God whose wisdom I was secretly questioning the entire time. And the moment I dropped my kids off in the carpool line at a quarter to nine, the tears began to fall. My mind raced with thoughts of inadequacy.

How can I be doing such a terrible job? What kind of mother raises kids who are so rude? How can I be such a failure when I'm trying so hard?

I didn't say anything to the kids that afternoon or evening about how tough my day had been because of their bad attitudes that morning. I wasn't quite ready to have those conversations about being open to new experiences and treating people with respect and being thankful to have food on their plates every day when millions of people all over the world do not. Those are big conversations. Conversations I've already had with my children on numerous occasions. Conversations I'll likely need to have with them a dozen more times . . . this month alone. I just couldn't muster up the strength that afternoon. I was spent. I was hurt. I was defeated. I was sure it wouldn't matter anyway.

I put them to bed the way I always do. With books and prayers and cuddles and the phrase I say a dozen times a day but which seemed to come out a little less smoothly that particular night.

"I love you."

And when I got into my own bed a short while later, the prayers poured.

Dear God, please help me. Please help me love my children when they act unlovable. Please help me have patience with my children when they try my patience. Please help me know what to say when my children say things they shouldn't. Please help me model the attitudes and actions I want my children to emulate when their attitudes and actions upset me.

I could feel my anger dissolving, my sadness dissipating with each whispered prayer.

After the events of the day, I was certain of two things . . .

My children weren't always listening.

God was.

I slept well that night. And the next Wednesday . . . I made waffles.

I've always wanted an egg person. I know plenty of women whose best friends live next door, or across the street, or seven houses down. My husband and I have lived in our neighborhood in for almost nine years and I barely know any of our neighbors. It isn't that I haven't made an effort. I smile, I wave, I greet. I even deliver holiday goodies. Our neighborhood, however, is full of empty nesters and couples who work full time. The stay-at-home mom of young children demographic isn't thriving and I happen to belong in that demographic. So, I don't have an egg person.

What's an egg person, you ask. An egg person is the same as a cup of sugar person. Or a stick of butter person. An egg person is the neighbor you can go to in a pinch. When you lock yourself out of the house, you can knock on your egg person's door and they will invite you to come in and hang out until your husband gets home with a key. When you cut your hand trimming bushes, your egg person will watch your kids while you head to the emergency room. When you are out of town, your egg person waters your flowers and picks up your mail. Most importantly, when you are in the middle of an emotional crisis and desperately need brownies to solve your problems, but you only have one egg and the brownie mix calls for two, your egg person saves the day. You can walk to her house, knock on her door, and she will gladly give you an egg out of her own fridge without even an inquiry as to why you need it.

An egg person is essential to good living, in my opinion, and I don't have one. When I'm in the middle of an emotional crisis and brownies are the only thing that will help, I have to drive to the grocery store for a missing egg. I find this very depressing.

The neighbors who used to live across the street from us were potential egg people, but they moved to the lake years ago and have rented out their house ever since. The first family that rented was from Sweden. They were quite nice and even a bit fascinating, but they weren't egg people. The second family to rent came from Japan, here in the United States for three years. The husband speaks little English. The wife speaks less. We first met her just days after they moved in when, believe it or not, she locked herself out of the house. My husband found an open window, she crawled through, we were the great American heroes, and our relationship with the new neighbors began.

Throughout the next few months, our neighbors came to visit on a regular basis, usually showing up when we were outside playing. Along with a baby, they have a daughter who is the same age as our little girl and, surprisingly, language barriers don't seem to be an issue for six year olds. So the girls played together while I talked to my new Japanese neighbor, who nodded her head but rarely attempted to respond to my incessant efforts at conversation.

After about a month of hanging out together in our yard, the neighbors knocked on our door one afternoon. I had bread baking in the oven so I invited the neighbors inside to play. The mother was very hesitant to come in, but once she did, she uttered the same phrase over and over. "So happy. First time." Trust me, if I had known inviting my neighbor in my home would have made her face light up so brightly, I would have done it weeks earlier.

The relationship progressed, although 'progressed' probably isn't the right word because there is very little progression in a relationship between two people who are unable to communicate with one another. I'm ashamed to admit it, but there were times when I wished for different neighbors. I wondered why I couldn't have a friend across the street who would be able to sit on the porch with me and talk about husbands and children and botox and the Bible. Instead, our doorbell would ring and I would feel a twing of bitterness in my heart about having to entertain someone who couldn't understand a word I said. And trust me, I was saying a LOT of words. On one occasion, I launched into a ten-minute tirade about our backyard and how it used to be filled with "all trees" until we had landscapers remove the trees to put in grass. At the end of my lengthy monologue, my neighbor held out her arms in the manner of someone shooting a bow and arrow and said, "Ah, archery." I guess "all trees" sounds a lot like "archery" to someone trying to learn one of the most difficult languages in the world.

Despite my occasional frustrations, our neighbors became regulars in our lives. I made them bread for Thanksgiving. They brought our children gifts from their trip to Disney World. I made them candy for Christmas, wrapped in a brand new kitchen towel. They brought the kitchen towel back, not realizing it was meant to be part of the gift. In January, we received a written invitation to our neighbor's house for lunch. We politely accepted, set a date, and spent days preparing our children for the possibility of what might appear on their plates in the home of a Japanese family. On the day of the lunch, I had many concerns. How do we share a meal with people when we can barely speak to one another? What if the food is unrecognizable? How long should we stay? How can we show our gratitude without words?

When we arrived at our neighbor's home, the wife was in the kitchen making sushi. It looked just like the sushi my husband and I often enjoy at local restaurants. A good sign. I relaxed. We sat down to lunch. There were no forks, only chopsticks. I got nervous. The food was set on the table and my nerves grew. My children would never be able to fake interest in raw tuna and seaweed salad.

Lunch ensued and the kids, as they often do, surprised me. Our son found pieces of rice and avocado in the sushi. Our daughter discovered edamame in the seaweed salad. My husband tried to make small talk with the husband while I kept telling his wife how amazing the meal was. Then, out of nowhere, God appeared. I don't think the neighbors saw Him because they're Buddhists, but I did. Well, I didn't actually see Him. I heard Him. God spoke in the form of a Japanese man who left his family, his friends, his culture, his home to spend three years working in a foreign land on the other side of the globe. He showed up in suburban Atlanta over a table full of tea and miso soup and He said one simple sentence, in broken English.

"We so nervous, we thought we just order pizza."

The tredpidation I had been feeling for days dissolved into disgust. I had spent hours worrying about visiting someone's home who couldn't speak my language. What I'd failed to do, however, was consider how it must feel to move to a country you've never seen, to a city you can't navigate, to a neighborhood full of strangers.

We had been studying the book of James in my weekly Bible study. How appropriate. For weeks I had been discussing God's ideas of loving neighbors as yourself, and loving one another, and loving as Jesus loves, and loving deeply and loving, loving, loving. And all that time, God was trying to tell me something important. He had been speaking specifically to me.

It's been close to two years since we met our neighbors from Japan and recently, we had a breakthrough. The doorbell rang and my daughter called out, "The neighbors are here!" I opened the door and over the course of the next few minutes my neighbor attempted to tell me something from the steps of our front porch. I kept trying to invite her in but she wasn't interested. Finally, I gathered that she had something she needed to do at home and she wanted her girls to stay at our house while she did it. Now, you must understand, this family had been in my house at least once a week for well over a year and the mother had never been more than a few steps away from her children. If her six year old wanted to go upstairs with my daughter, she scooped up the baby and followed right behind. Of course I brought up the rear, probably clambering on about trees or archery or something else that seemed relevant in my life that day. Yet now, despite our inability to understand one another fully, my neighbor was leaving her most prized possessions in my care. She left her daughters in my home while she returned to her house across the street. I was shocked, proud, and, honestly, honored. She couldn't speak to me, but it didn't matter because . . . she trusted me.

Once again I heard God's voice, only this time, He was speaking in perfect English. He reminded me that He puts people in our lives for specific reasons. He reminded me that He is the creator of all things and the orchestrator of every experience and encounter. He reminded me that my words will always have the potential to be significant but it is my actions that show who I am - who HE is. God reminded me that the best way for me to share His love is to give it away.

I don't think I can just walk across the street, knock on my neighbor's door, and ask for an egg the next time my life requires brownies. I think I'll probably have to go inside my neighbors' house, open their refrigerator, and point out exactly what I need. But that's okay. Because in the most unlikely of circumstances, God showed up when I needed Him most. He spoke directly to me with the simplest of messages. Love. And finally, I think I have an egg person.