community

January 17, 2018

Don’t Do Belief Alone

There has been a small spiral-bound notebook sitting beside my comfy red chair for the past year. On the outside, it is as ordinary as any Target impulse buy. But inside? It contains all the tender hopes and beliefs of a small village.

Last year I chose the word believe as my anthem for the year. There was one thing I was specifically hoping for and believing God for in my own life, but I knew I wasn’t the only one out there with a God-sized dream. So I asked the people around me: What are you believing God for this year?

The responses cracked my heart open in all the best ways. My friends’ hopes were beautiful and vulnerable and achingly real. Some of these people had been rubbed raw from years of agonizing waiting; some were voicing their quiet hopes for the first time. But all of them were united in their bravery, in the guts it takes to bring big dreams into the light.

I didn’t take it lightly that people were entrusting me with something so precious. I wished I could wave my magic wand and give them what they longed for, but I couldn’t. So I did the only thing I could to honor those tender shoots of hope: I wrote their dreams for the year in my notebook, and in the mornings I sat in my red chair, coffee steaming my in hands, and asked God to intervene. I believed on their behalf.

I wish I could tell you that after a year of my crash course in believing, I have it all figured out. I don’t. In fact, the nature of belief may be more of a mystery to me than ever. Some of the things I believed God for were answered in miraculous ways, and other requests—just as valid, just as earnest—were met with silence.

I believed for a baby for four of my friends—women who were made to be moms. One had a baby before year’s end, and one is currently pregnant. But another friend miscarried, and one is still in the agony of waiting.
I believed on behalf of three beautiful friends who long to be married. One had a whirlwind romance and got married last fall, and one is dating a good man who treats her with the love and honor she deserves. But the third one, for reasons that are lost on me, is still waiting for her turn to come.
I believed on behalf of two talented writer-friends who are hoping for a home for their books. One has a book contract, while the other one continues to send out submission after submission, to no avail.

I saw miracles last year—some that unfolded slowly, like the gentle healing of a marriage, and some that happened all at once, like the long-awaited job offer. But there are other miracles that seem notably absent: the parents whose adopted children are stuck in layer upon layer of bureaucratic red tape, the daughter whose liver is failing, the loved one who continues to run from the Father-love of God.

To my surprise, it was much easier to believe for other people than for myself, and to have them believe for me. At first I felt guilty about this . . . why couldn’t I trust God with the things closest to my heart?

But as the year went on, I started to see that this is part of how God wired us. We’re not meant to do faith alone; we need each other. When we get weary, we need someone else’s hope to cover the gap for us. And when we see God at work in other people’s lives, it can give us renewed hope, a down payment of sorts to remind us of his power and goodness and love.

In the midst of the answers and non-answers from 2017, I realized that we all have a need greater than whatever it is we’re longing for. We need our God more than we need our miracle. And we need each other along the way—in the celebrations, when the answer is yes; in the heartbreaks, when the answer is no; and in the agonizing middle, when the answer is wait.

It is important to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we truly and fully are . . . because otherwise we run the risk of losing track of who we truly and fully are. . . . It is important to tell our secrets too because it makes it easier for other people to tell us a secret or two of their own.
Frederick Buechner

July 12, 2017

Hope Is a Boomerang

Have you ever experienced that odd sensation of having your words boomerang back to you?

Maybe you’re a parent, and you hear your own expressions coming off the lips of your child. Maybe you’re a teacher, and you overhear a student parroting back one of your lessons. Or maybe you’re a writer, and God uses your own words to preach right back to you.

A beloved group of women threw a baby shower for me last week, and as I looked around the room, it was all I could do to keep my mascara in its rightful place. I’ve worked and prayed alongside these women for the past 14 years, which that means they’ve seen me through a lot of hopes and heartbreaks and life stages. They knew me when I was single and attended bridal shower after bridal shower, unsure if I’d ever be the one to tell my story of how God brought the right man into my life. They knew me when I was married to Daniel, longing for a baby of our own and wondering if God would grant this desire of our hearts.

As I looked around at the decorations made specifically for Baby Spark, with the tiny white lights and the banners that said “Twinkle, twinkle,” I was overwhelmed by God’s kindness. These women had hoped on my behalf when I couldn’t muster up hope for myself. That’s one of the secret weapons of community, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s easier to hope and pray for the tender places in another person’s soul when we can’t pray for our own. And it’s a privilege (albeit a humbling one) to allow them to hope for us.

I saved the cards from the shower to read when I got home, because let’s be serious, we would have had a serious mascara situation on our hands if I’d read everyone’s kind words to me and Spark right there at work. On the inside of one of the cards, I read a quote a friend had written. The words hit exactly where my heart was—grappling with hope as Daniel and I wonder about our baby’s health and count down the days until we meet this little one. The words seemed somewhat familiar, although I couldn’t quite place them:

Hope doesn’t usually make its debut in a flashy way, with trumpets and fanfare and paparazzi. It doesn’t start out as a huge bonfire or a stunning blaze; rather, it’s just a small spark, the mere flicker of a candle. But in the midst of the darkness, that lone flame is enough. It’s the promise that even though you can’t yet see what your heart is longing for, even though there’s no indication that it will happen at all, you can keep hanging on.

I was surprised by the appropriateness of the quote, and impressed that my friend had found something that mentioned spark, to boot. Then I saw my friend’s note at the bottom: “This is from the Christmas letter you sent in 2010,” she said.

Sure enough, the words were my own. They had come back to haunt me in the most beautiful and unexpected way. That was the year I met Daniel—the year so many hopes I’d cherished for years were at last fulfilled. And now I find myself on a similar precipice, but on the other side: hoping for a miracle that hasn’t happened yet.

Isn’t that the beauty of having some history with hope? When we can’t look forward, we can look back. When we don’t know what the future holds, we can remember what God has done in the past and be reminded of his character. He may not write the same story twice, but those previous chapters are evidence of the overarching themes: that he is faithful and that he loves us like crazy.

It can be scary to let people get close to those tender places of our deepest hopes. But it’s worth it. Because when we invite people in, not only can they hope on our half; they can also bring our own words of hope back to the surface. They can make sure our hope boomerangs back to us, right when we need it.

Hope is what is left when your worst fears have been realized. . . . Hope is what comes with a broken heart willing to be mended.
Patricia E. De Jong

March 3, 2015

10 Minutes with God: The Joy of Inclusion

I’m excited to be writing the devotions for my church again this week! (See this post and this post for previous devos.) My favorite musician (aka Daniel Rische) wrote the musical intro and outro again this week. You can listen to the audio version here.)

This week I’m writing about Acts 15 and how our differences can bring us together.

***

When my husband, Daniel, and I were first dating, one of the characteristics about him that stood out to me immediately was the way he included other people. It’s as if he has a constant radar up for those around him who are on the fringes, who feel left out, who don’t quite fit in. He has a knack not just for acknowledging these individuals or showing kindness to them but also for integrating them with the rest of the group. With these gifts, it’s no wonder he has devoted his life to working with individuals with special needs—and no wonder that in some groups he’s known by the nickname “The Includer.”

Over the years, as I’ve witnessed Daniel interacting with people the rest of the world might shun or ignore, the thing that strikes me most is that while Daniel treats these individuals with compassion, he doesn’t view them with pity or condescension. He includes them not because he feels sorry for them but because he feels sorry for what the rest of us would miss out on if we were deprived of these individuals’ unique contributions.

He knows that every person has a role to play in creating a healthy community, and we can only be the unified body God created us to be when members of all backgrounds, abilities, and gifts are represented.

When the early church found themselves at a crossroads in terms of the Gentile question—could non-Jews be accepted as followers of Christ just as they were?—they faced a dilemma about what the membership dues would be to enter the church. To be part of the “in” group, would people have to show a proper pedigree, have the right external markings, and have the right background, the right kind of family, the right nationality?

After some discussion among the church leaders, and after they sought wisdom from the Holy Spirit, here was the decision they came to: that the Gentile believers should not be burdened with additional requirements (Acts 15:28).

The early church came to the same conclusion Daniel has come to, both in his job with special-needs students and in life: that much joy can be found in inclusion. When we bring together people who are different from one another, we experience a deeper, richer unity than we could experience from a group of people who are exactly alike.

What types of people might not feel welcome in our church (or in the church as a whole) if they walked in on a Sunday morning? What’s one way you could include someone who’s different from you and make that person feel welcome?

December 12, 2014

Friday Favorites for December…

Here are a few of my favorite things recently. Enjoy!

For aspiring cooks . . .

This “edible cookbook” is the first cookbook you can actually read, cook, and eat. I think this might be the kind of foolproof cooking I need . . . Edible Cookbook

For my fellow grammarians . . .

If you’ve ever found yourself amused by unnecessary and often ironic quotation mark usage, you’ll get a kick out of this. The 30 Most Unnecessary Uses of Quotation Marks in History

For anyone who likes an encoded message . . .

Did you know that FedEx, Amazon, and Tour de France all have secret messages embedded in their logos? 11 Hidden Messages in Company Logos

For the word lovers . . .

Do you know what golem and claymore mean? How about taffeta and decoupage? If not, it might be because you’re the wrong gender. The 24 Words That Are Most Known Only to Men or Women

For anyone desiring true community . . .

“Vulnerability is less like a sweet golden retriever, all directness and love, and more like a cat—unpredictable, reserved.” Be Brave Enough to Make a Mess

October 1, 2014

The First Word of Jesus’ Prayer

Jesus’ disciples wanted to pray, but they weren’t quite sure how to go about it. So Jesus gave them a lesson in prayer—a model that Christians all over the world still use thousands of years later (Matthew 6:9-13).

I’ve said the Lord’s Prayer countless times, heard sermons about it, read books about it. But there’s one word in the prayer that I’ve brushed right by in the past. It’s a small word, just three letters, but it’s a critical one.

How could I have missed it for so long? It’s the first word, for crying out loud. Our.

Our Father who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name . . .

Why, I wonder, didn’t Jesus instruct his disciples to address their prayers to God individually? “My Father who art in heaven . . .”

But from the very first line of the prayer, it’s apparent that Jesus sees prayer as a communal activity. Certainly we are to spend time with the Father one-on-one, but our default should be to come to him remembering that we are part of a community. He didn’t create us to be lone-wolf Christians, howling our prayers from the isolation of our dens.

Jesus tells us to call God our Father, which means that fellow believers are our brothers and sisters. We have the privilege of linking arms with them as we talk to our Dad about the things that are close to our hearts. Together, we can share our burdens. We can cry out for healing, for peace, for a relationship to be restored, for a prodigal to come home. And together, we can share our joys. We can offer thanks to God for his faithfulness, his goodness, his answers to our prayers.

My friend has a twentysomething-year-old son who cut ties with his family several years ago, leaving no forwarding address. Ever since, she and her family have tried everything shy of hiring a private investigator to find him. She wants more than anything to let him know that he is loved, that he is wanted, that there is a spot reserved for him that no one else can fill. I’ve had the privilege of praying with my friend every Thursday, begging God to reunite them and to show her son how much he is loved—by God and by his mother.

Our Father . . . please.

In Matthew 18:19-20, Jesus says, “Truly I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything they ask for, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven. For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.” I don’t know exactly what it is about praying to our Father with other people that makes it so sacred. Obviously God’s ears are just as attuned to the prayers we pray in solitude; it’s not as if we need to meet some kind of quorum for him to answer us.

But perhaps communal prayer is more for our sakes than for his. God knows how easily we lose hope, how quickly we get discouraged when we’re left on our own. But when our brothers and sisters stand united with us, they can believe and hope on our behalf when we grow weary.

On Mother’s Day weekend of this year, my friend received the best gift she could ever hope to receive: an unexpected reunion with her beloved son. As she held him in a long-awaited embrace, with tears streaming down both their faces, the hundreds of prayers that had been uttered on his behalf over the years seemed to swirl around them.

When my friend shared this news with me and the other friends who had been praying, I experienced another gift of communal prayer. Not only does it allow us to share our burdens; it also gives us the chance to multiply our joy and our gratitude.

Our Father . . . thank you.

So whatever we find ourselves up against this week, may we embrace the model Jesus gave us in his prayer. In our moments of need, we can come before him as our Father. In moments of rejoicing, we can come before him as our Father.

We can come to him together, as brothers and sisters. For that is exactly what we are.

August 19, 2014

That Big Announcement I Was Telling You About

Note that my book even had a ribbon tie and a custom spine. Classy!

When I was in fourth grade, I wrote a book called Molly Mouse Returns Home, the riveting sequel to my third-grade debut (curious minds can read about it here).

I loved to write under any conditions as a kid (especially if I had those cool multicolored gel pens), but there was something special about Young Authors week, when everyone in the class got to write, illustrate, and bind our own books. (Mrs. Strukel, if you’re out there, I’d like to thank you, as I now realize what an undertaking it must have been to help some thirty ten-year-olds complete this project, no doubt requiring excessive amounts of time, patience, and rubber cement.)

When it was Young Authors week, suddenly I wasn’t just a writer anymore; I was an author. My words weren’t merely tucked in a notebook in my dresser drawer; they were out there for the world (or at least my twenty-eight fellow classmates) to see. In short, I was getting published.

The final day of Young Authors week was an all-out literary party. We read each other’s books and signed them in the back, and as I read my classmates’ stories, I marveled at these people I thought I knew. Wow, Jackie is so creative! Who knew Darren could draw so well?

The pinnacle of the day was when the local acting troupe came in. They chose one story from each grade to act out in front of the whole school at an assembly, and we all sat on the edge of our seats, wondering whose stories would be chosen. My mind swirled, recalling all the amazing tales I’d read that day. The one scenario I never imagined was what actually happened.

When it was time for the last skit, the emcee stepped up to mic. “Our next story is . . . Molly Mouse Returns Home!”

I sat there stunned. Of all the stories, they had chosen mine?

Fast-forward to 2014. Just a few weeks ago, I received a twenty-six-page packet in the mail, filled with big legaly words like indemnities and proration and force majeure—and also the two most important words: BOOK CONTRACT. It has taken me a while to get my mind around it, but it’s true: For the first time since fourth grade, I’m going to be published.

After I watched my story about Molly Mouse come to life onstage, my ten-year-old self was shaking out of sheer gratitude and awe. That’s when I saw my mom in the crowd. I didn’t know until later that my teacher had called to fill her in on the surprise, but at the time it didn’t matter how she’d gotten there; it just mattered that she was there.

This is me rocking the side ponytail with the actors who acted out my book. I have so many questions about this. For starters: Who exactly was Molly Mouse in this scenario?

I threw all my fourth-grade bravado aside and ran straight to my mom’s arms. This big thing had just happened, and I got to share it with someone who knew me and loved me. (Added bonus: My teacher let Mom emancipate me for an hour to get lunch off campus.)

And you know what? That’s kind of how I feel right now. As exciting as it is that someone is making my words come to life in a real-live book, it’s equally an honor that I get to share it with all of you. You have encouraged me, loved me, and shared your stories with me for the last several years. And it feels amazing that God has allowed me to share this adventure with all of you.

I got rather long winded with this post (I guess that happens when you start by going back to the fourth grade), so I’ll save my announcement about what the book is about for the next post.

Until then, I want to know about you: What’s something you’re looking forward to, big or small?

January 31, 2014

Virtual Book Discusson: Cooked

Thanks to everyone who joined us for our virtual book club for January. This month we’re discussing Cooked by Michael Pollan.

Here’s how it works: I’ll throw out a few topics for discussion, and you can write your responses about these topics (or others you’d like to discuss) in the comment section.

Discussion #1: Cooking with the Elements
I thought the author’s structure for the book was fascinating. I’d never considered how different types of cooking fit into the categories of fire, water, air, and earth, and it made for an intriguing setup. I also enjoyed the way he showed his own progression from kitchen amateur to apprentice to blossoming cook. I felt like I could relate since he didn’t start out as an expert, and I appreciated his willingness to jump in to various types of cooking with both feet.

Did you have a favorite section? Which of the elements are you most comfortable in when it comes to cooking? Which elements are you least comfortable in?

Discussion #2: Cooking and Community
I really appreciated the author’s observations about how the way we cook and the way we eat effect how communal we are as a society. I was especially intrigued by his theory that the style of the cooking itself impacts the way we consume meals. When people prepared food around a fire, they cooked and ate together as an entire community. Then when people started cooking with an oven in individual households, cooking and eating became family-centric events. Now, as microwaves and fast food become the meal-prepping tools of choice, the focus is on the individual. One of my favorite parts of the book was seeing how the author’s various cooking experiments brought his family together and resulted not only in edible rewards but also in intangible gifts, such as bonding and conversations with his wife and teenage son.

As our cooking and eating become more individualized, do you think we’re in danger of losing a sense of community and family? Is there anything we can do to promote these values in our own homes?

Discussion #3: Intentional Food Choices
One of the things I appreciated most about this book was the way it opened my eyes to the underlying ramifications of the choices we make about food, cooking, and eating. When we mindlessly stick something in the microwave, pick up dinner at the drive-thru, or prioritize other activities over “scratch cooking,” there are consequences—both for us as individuals and for us as a culture. Although I haven’t necessarily revamped my approach to cooking after reading this book, it certainly has made me more aware and more thoughtful about the choices I make to get dinner on the table. I wasn’t nearly as ambitious as the author (no whole-hog barbecue or beer brewing for me), and I didn’t try any of his recipes, but this book did inspire a few modest “from scratch” attempts. My biggest success was my bread-baking adventure (the first time I cooked with yeast!). I wasn’t ambitious enough to make a starter and baby it for weeks like the author did, but it felt like a step in the right direction.

Did this book cause you to reevaluate any of your cooking/eating choices? Have you ever attempted any cooking experiments similar to what the author describes in this book?

Rating ★ ★ ★ ★
I’d give this book 4 stars. It made me think about food choices in a new way, and I appreciated the author’s style. He was at once knowledgeable and brilliant (I was impressed with the historical context and scientific background he offered throughout), but he was also accessible and an engaging storyteller.

How many stars would you give this book (out of five)?
As a side note, if you liked this book, I’d recommend Bread and Wine, which we discussed here.

{Remember: there will be a free book giveaway for one lucky commenter!}

July 30, 2013

Fireflies of the Soul

At first glance, it may seem that God sprinkled the Midwest with the leftovers when he was distributing nature’s gifts. We can’t see the purple mountains’ majesty from here, and our shorelines boast no waving palm trees. We don’t waken to the sound of crashing ocean waves or plunging waterfalls, and our rest stops don’t sell postcards of stately lighthouses.

But over the years I’ve come to suspect that God had a few secrets up his sleeve when he made the heartland, a few gifts to compensate for an otherwise lackluster showing. These gifts aren’t big or loud or dramatic, and only those with a discerning eye notice them. But once you discover them, like so many clues on a treasure hunt, you just may find yourself settling in and calling the place home.

There are the sunny daffodils that peek sleepy heads out of the ground after a long, cold winter. There’s the never-ending canvas of sky, alternately dotted with cotton-ball clouds and painted with fiery oranges and pinks as the sun dips below the horizon. There’s the beautiful dying of the trees as they explode in a final display of color before hunkering down for the winter.

And then there are the fireflies that make their appearance on hot summer evenings. Maybe most of all, the fireflies.

My friend and I were walking along the trail at dusk the other night, and it was one of those evenings that succumbed to nightfall in a whisper of a second. One moment we could see the path beneath our feet, and the next we were treading into darkness.

Maybe the cover of evening makes it easier for truth to leak out, but it was in that sacred moment of dusk-to-darkness that my friend’s secret spilled over the edges. Her happy, surprising news that just couldn’t stay bottled up inside her anymore.

The words were barely off her lips when the fireflies ignited in a symphony of lights, illuminating the sky with their pulsing. Just one moment earlier they were nowhere to be found, yet with the single flip of a switch, we were surrounded by thousands of tiny flashlights, small enough to fit in the palm of our hands.

And I wondered: Had they appeared out of nowhere, on cue somehow? Or had they been there all along, and I just couldn’t see them without the curtain of darkness?

Most of the time I fear the darkness, shrink away from it, attempt to push it back. But what if some of those secret bursts of light God has hidden in my heart can only show up against the backdrop of darkness?

I don’t want to miss anything in this ordinary, glorious landscape of my Midwestern soul. So if the darkness needs to come as a backdrop to those little divine beacons, then let it come. Let it come, so I can see the flickering light, so I can hold it in the palm of my hand. I don’t want to miss a single firefly of the soul.

“We do not truly see light, we only see slower things lit by it, so that for us light is on the edge—the last thing we know before things become too swift for us.”

—C. S. Lewis

July 23, 2013

Where Is God?

This summer our small group is taking a break from our usual routine of studying and discussing and making our way through a book together. In an attempt to go deeper with each other, we decided that at each gathering we’d have two people share about what God has done in their lives.

All the stories are different—some of us grew up knowing about God; some of us didn’t meet him until later in life. Some of us went down such dark paths we probably shouldn’t be here to tell about it; some of us were more subtle in our sins of choice. But there’s one thing we all have in common: we’re all broken and in desperate need of grace.

As we started sharing our stories, we noticed a pattern woven throughout each one. As we looked back, the places we could see God at work most clearly were the lowest points in our lives—our most grievous sins, our darkest seasons of failure, our struggles through grief and loss and loneliness.

After one person finished her testimony, there was a moment of sacred silence. Finally Daniel broke in: “Isn’t it amazing to think how we’re hemmed in and held, even when make the wrong choice . . . even when we don’t do the right thing?”

I thought of the three men in the Old Testament who were thrown into the fiery furnace (Daniel 3)—how if I’d been in their shoes, I’d no doubt have asked God to take me out of the fire. But as it turned out, God was right there in the midst of those flames.

And I thought of Peter walking on the water to Jesus as the storm raged around him (Matthew 14). Scaredy-cat that I am, I surely would have asked God to calm the storm. But Jesus surprised Peter with something even more profound: he was right there in the midst of the waves.

So what about my own life? I beg for the fire to be quenched, for the storm to be stilled. Sometimes he does just that. But other times Jesus is right there with me—in the midst of the flames, in the midst of the waves.

You have searched me, Lord,
and you know me. . . .
You hem me in behind and before,
and you lay your hand upon me.
—Psalm 139:1, 5

Even in the storms and the fire—maybe especially in the storms and the fire—we see the face of Jesus. It’s then that we are hemmed in, held.

God is here.

June 26, 2013

My Husband, Good Sam

One of the nicknames I have for my husband is Sam. Which is weird, when you think about it, since his name is Daniel. But in his case it’s Sam as in Good Samaritan.

Here’s the thing: If you ever found yourself on the side of the road with a flat tire or a skinned knee or an empty tank of gas, Daniel is precisely the person you’d want to find you. In the three years I’ve known him, we’ve given a ride to a woman who was walking home in dress shoes after her car broke down, loaned an Allen wrench to a guy with bicycle troubles, and dropped someone off at the bicycle shop to get a new part for his bike—to name just a few examples.

It’s always a rather startling experience to be with Daniel, I mean Sam, in these situations, because before I’ve even noticed there’s a problem, he has already diagnosed the situation, pulled over the vehicle, and procured the necessary tool.

So it was fully in character for Daniel to stop when he spotted the two guys off to the side of the bike path poring over their map the other evening. Daniel and I were on a bike ride together, reliving our first date from three years prior—our “blind date-iversary,” as we call it. We were pedaling to the park we’d gone to on our first date when we spotted—okay, when “Sam” spotted, the pair of guys, looking weary and a little lost.

“Do you know where you’re going?” he asked, coasting his bicycle to a stop.

It turned out the duo was a father and a son, on a 540-mile trek to celebrate Will’s high school graduation. They’d started in Iowa six days ago, and they were now on the last leg of their journey, hoping to arrive at their friends’ house before dark.

There was just one problem: the paths had changed significantly since the last time the dad had been in the area some thirty years ago. And the map didn’t seem to be matching up with the signs around them.

Daniel went over directions with them, coaching them through the forks in the path and the landmarks they could expect along the way. Then, just as they were getting ready to head out, Daniel said, “Hey, we could ride with you for this leg. That would at least get you past this tricky part.”

Their sweat-streaked faces lit up at the offer. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

But as it turned out, we were the ones who reaped the real benefits. As we rode together, they regaled us with tales from the journey—how they narrowly made it to shelter just before a spontaneous storm struck, how they pushed through the pain of the brutal Wisconsin hills, how they managed to pack light enough to carry all the belongings they needed for a week.

As we rode together, I thought about what a gift it is to have friends who travel with us on various legs of our journeys. No one can journey with us all the way from the start to the finish line, but God has a way of sending fellow pilgrims just when we need them . . . when we’re climbing that big hill, when we feel too weary to go one more mile, when we’re lost and in need of directions.

Finally we arrived at the spot where the trail diverged, and we offered our new friends some banana bread (another nod to our first date) before saying our good-byes.

“Bless you,” the dad said, shaking our hands warmly. The son nodded, his mouth full of another large bite.

But we’d already been blessed. That’s the funny thing about hanging around with the Sams of the world. You start out thinking you’re offering a blessing, but the blessings come pouring back to you a hundredfold instead.

Happy three years of knowing you, Sam. I’m so glad God gave us each other for the rest of this journey.