Redeemed

“Let the redeemed tell their story.” ~ Psalm 107:2-3

When the prison gates swung open, Josef stepped back into sunlight for the first time as a free man. Twenty years ago, in a moment of blind rage, he’d taken his friend’s life. The same little boy who’d later testify against him, had watched from the hallway.

Prison broke Josef before it rebuilt him. He surrendered what was left of his pride and slowly became someone new. He studied Scripture, led Bible studies, and sat beside dying inmates who longed for redemption.

Having served his time, he didn’t chase comfort or anonymity. Instead , he took to the streets as a preacher. Wearing a tattered suit and a wooden cross, he shouted: “Repent now! Free the prisoner inside you.”

Across the street, a young man watched with an icy stare. Ryan hadn’t forgiven, or healed, since the day  that ‘preacher’ ended his father’s life. Now, there he was hugging strangers, praying over addicts, and blessing babies.

“How can a murderer preach God’s Word?” Ryan muttered through clenched teeth.

Josef lifted his eyes toward heaven just as a single gunshot shattered the air. The crowd scattered. Pain tore through Josef’s leg as he collapsed to the ground. Ryan pushed through the chaos and stood over him. “Remember me?”

Recognition struck Josef like a second bullet. “Ryan,” he stammered. “I… I’m so sorry. I’ve waited twenty years to say that. I can’t bring your Dad back, but I’ll accept whatever comes next.”

“Apology not accepted,” Ryan snarled. “I was only seven!” Memories flooded him - the funeral, his mother’s tears, therapy never finished. Josef didn’t beg. He didn’t plead. He simply waited as sirens screamed closer.

“PUT THE GUN DOWN!” police shouted. Ryan turned toward them, gun still raised. They fired. He collapsed to the pavement. Death came instantly.

Josef woke the next day to a throbbing leg. A nurse entered his hospital room. “Visitor for you.”

Ryan’s mother entered quietly, her face worn with sorrow. She sat beside Josef’s bed for a long moment before speaking. “I never forgave you,” she whispered. “That day, I lost two men, my husband… and now my son.” She continued as tears spilled from her eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you completely. But hate has taken enough from me already.”

They sat in silence, bound by a grief too heavy for words.

Months later, Josef returned to the streets, limping heavily. His voice softer now; he no longer relied on noise to be heard. Instead, he told stories - his own story. He didn’t demand forgiveness; he lived what it meant to bear consequences and still choose love.

The weight of his past never left him. But he carried it differently now - not with shame, but with purpose. He'd found redemption from God. And slowly… from himself.

Forgiving Lord, I come before You with a repentant heart, seeking Your mercy and forgiveness. Cleanse me from my sins and guide me to walk in Your light. Help me find peace in Your presence and trust in Your plan. Amen

Profit Sharing

 “Don’t just listen to God’s Word. Do what it says!” ~ James 1:22

Rain pelted the window, echoing the storm brewing inside her. Cristina stared at the envelope on the table, untouched for several days. It felt heavier than normal as if it carried the weight of her future. Since the divorce, mail had become a source of dread - another bill, another reminder of how thin her life had been stretched.

With a surge of determination, she tore open the envelope. Her heart hammered as she braced herself for another financial body slam.

Inside, wrapped in a handwritten letter from her former landlord, was a cashier's check… for $2,500… intended for her.

Confused, Cristina read the letter once, then again. Tony Hillman explained that he’d recently sold the six-unit apartment complex where she once lived, turning a sizeable profit.

“I believe that keeping all the money from the sale would be predatory and selfish,” he wrote, “especially when rising property values have made homeownership unreachable for so many young people.”

“So I’m returning a prorated portion of the rent you, and other former tenants, paid based on how much the property had increased in value since I bought it,” he concluded. "It was a great six-plex and I'm glad that I was able to share it with all of you."

Cristina leaned back in her chair, momentarily speechless at what she’d just read. She reread the letter several more times, trying to reconcile such generosity, wondering how such a warmhearted soul had survived this long in such a world that often rewards the opposite. Finally, she laughed softly:  “You're not only kind-hearted, Tony, you're tough enough to stay that way.”

She considered it further, her thoughts lingering on the meaning behind the gesture. “There are people who talk about their values and there are others who actually live them.” So, she openly shared her story (Tony’s name is fictional), hoping to inspire others to live boldly their Christian values. “Do it off the clock,” she added. “Do it when no one’s watching!”

The kindness didn’t stop there. Cristina kept $500 for much-needed repairs on her car. The rest, she gave away to help others. “I want Tony’s gift to reach as far as possible,” she explained. And I'm putting some cash directly out on the street to people who need it. Let this inspire you to give whatever you can," she concluded.

Mark Twain said it best: “You’re never wrong for doing the right thing.” It won’t always be clear, and it will almost never be convenient. But Scripture assures us that when we choose obedience over comfort and do what’s right simply because it’s right, God takes notice. Honor Him and He will honor you. No reward compares to that.

Lord God, help me remember that when You call me, You also equip me. Forgive me when I’ve made excuses or questioned You. I marvel at Your work through me, and will continue seeking the right path according to Your Word. Amen

Lucky the Dog

 “O Lord, how great are Your works; perfect in every way.” Psalm 104:24–25

Harald’s wizened face emerged from beneath a heavy quilt, his wrinkles curving into a smile worn soft by years of love. Before the day fully awakened, Lucky was already there, greeting him with a gentle nudge, a cold nose, and the soft percussion of eager paws against the floor. There was something magical about this daily ritual, as dependable as the sunrise itself.

Lucky’s presence swept away any remnants of restless dreams and aching joints. With her joyful, golden-doodle enthusiasm, she ushered in each morning like a promise. Thanks to her unwavering companionship, Harald never felt the weight of loneliness that burdens so many his age. Lucky filled the space with purpose, warmth, and motion.

Unlike dogs who linger hopefully beneath the table, Lucky has always had a place at it. Since Lucky was a puppy 12 years ago, they’ve shared not only food, but the quiet comfort of familiar company side by side.

Afterward, they set out on their morning walk. The gentle cadence of paws and footfalls strength their bond as much as their bodies. Bathed in early light, breathing cool, fresh air, and accompanied by birdsong, the stroll nourished both body and soul.

Back home, time slowed. Whether lounging on the porch or napping in a sunlit room, their companionship required no conversation. Lucky’s steady presence was a constant reminder of life’s simple blessings  - a friendship spoken entirely through closeness and trust.

Playtime isn’t just for the young, but also for the young at heart. 

Laughter fills the room as Lucky chases a ball, squeaks a toy, or engages in a healthy game of tug-of-war, all while reveling in the Harold’s attention. These playful interruptions bring joy, sharpen their minds, and stitch delight into the fabric of ordinary days.

When mealtime rolls around again (never soon enough for Lucky), of course Harald talks to his canine pal! He shares stories, worries, reflections. Lucky listens intently, ears perked, eyes deep and knowing. She may not understand every word, but she “gets” him.

Lucky delight in being included. Gardening, sorting mail, watching television - nothing is too small to be shared. Dutifully following her owner around, she’s eager to be part of the action, turning ordinary chores into shared experiences.

As evening settles in, they close the day together - a soft blanket, one last treat, and a prayer of gratitude. Lucky’s presence invites calm and completion, easing them gently into rest. Wrapped in peace, both drift to sleep knowing they are loved, cherished, and watched over.

Perhaps Paul Harvey had Lucky in mind when he said, “God needed somebody who’d spend all day on a couch, with a resting head and supportive eyes, to lift the spirits of a broken heart.”

Father God, thank You for our dogs. Nothing under Your watch happens by accident, so thank You for choosing us to be pet owners. Caring for them gives us the respite and company we crave, and reminds us that we’ll never be alone. Amen

The Last Valentine

 “Forget the former things; don’t dwell on the past.” ~ Isaiah 43:18

Every year, a Valentine arrived for Clara. It slid through the mail slot with the same soft scrape, landing on the kitchen tile as it had for a half-dozen years. Cream envelope sealed in red wax pressed with a heart shape. No return address.

She didn’t open it right away. She never did anymore. At first, she laughed at the mystery. A secret admirer had felt romantic then, almost flattering. But mystery wears thin when it repeats itself without explanation, especially when it arrives on the same date a life ended.

Jonah had died on a February evening. Rain-slick roads. A Sheriff’s phone call split time into before and after. The cards began the following year, cryptic messages like, “Don’t stay. Move,” always closing with the same initial: -V.

This year, the envelope felt heavier. She hadn’t seen the photograph inside for years: her and Jonah at the overlook, the ocean stretched endlessly behind them, the wind carrying their laughter over the cliff. The night before everything fell apart. Her hands trembled as she read the card. “Meet me where our sun last disappeared.” -V.

She almost didn’t go. But love long-buried has a way of pulling us forward. The overlook hadn’t changed. The sky still blushed as the sun sank, the horizon devouring the last of the light. Clara stood alone, memories pressing in like the tide.

Her eyes fell on the man at the railing. He wasn’t Jonah, though the resemblance made her heart stumble. He introduced himself simply as Victor, Jonah’s twin brother.

The truth unfolded slowly. Jonah hadn’t died that night, not right away. He survived, but his memory was broken, shards of his former self scattered. His heart still loved her deeply, even as his mind no longer remembered her.

“He believed you deserved a whole man,” Victor began. “So, he stepped back, giving you space to grieve. The cards had been Jonah’s idea, when he could no longer write them, I interpreted his meaning. He died last spring. This time, completely.”

Victor handed her one final Valentine before leaving. The script carried the final words to his forever love: “Don’t dwell on the life that ended with me. Move forward where I can’t.”

The sun disappeared. Grief didn’t leave Clara that night, but it loosened its grip. Love, she realized, doesn’t always stay beside us. Sometimes it keeps watch from a distance, asking only that we keep living fully.

Jonah hadn’t been asking her to remember him. He’d been asking her to release him.

When the next Valentine’s Day arrived, Clara didn’t wait for the mail slot to clink open. She wrote a card of her own, sealed it in red wax, and left it inside a book on the bookshop’s free shelf. Inside were just four words: “Keep moving forward, always.”

Lord, thank You for love that remains even after loss. Give us courage to release what we cannot keep, and strength to walk forward into the life You still have for us. Amen

Idol in the Mirror

“Whoever wants to follow Me must first deny themselves.” ~ Matthew 16:24

Andrew’s mornings began with coffee, emails, and a glance at his reflection in the hallway mirror. Not to admire himself, but to make sure he looked “put-together.” Over time, the mirror offered more than reflection. It became quiet witness to everything he refused to see in himself.

The mirror caught him declining to help a friend because he “needed some self-care that day.” It observed him skipping church because he was exhausted, though never too tired for his own pursuits. It watched idly as his prayers, once rich with gratitude, thinned into requests for success, applause, and recognition.

He didn’t recognize it as pride. Andrew told himself it was simply being responsible, managing routines, and doing what normal people do.

The turning point didn’t come with a crisis… but with a small child.

One Saturday afternoon, his six-year-old niece, Hannah, visited with Andrew’s sister. While the adults talked, Hannah wandered down the hallway. Her tiny sneakers stopped before the mirror. Andrew watched her eyes scan the glass, not with vanity, but with a curious, unflinching honesty.

“Uncle Andy,” she said, tilting her head, “why do you look sad today in the mirror?”

Andrew froze. He hadn’t realized she could see the reflection he’d spent decades hiding. “I’m not sad,” he said quickly, his words thin against the weight of truth.

“But your face looks tired… like it’s not happy right now,” she said without wavering. Her words landed like a bell in an empty cathedral - sudden, pure, and impossible to ignore.

She saw what he’d refused to see in himself: a man hollowed by worship of his own image.

After they left, silence swallowed the apartment. Alone, he returned to the mirror and saw it differently this time. Not just the dark circles beneath his eyes, but he faint lines of a soul starved for meaning. The ache of a man who’d wandered so far from his real self that even he no longer recognized himself.

For the first time, his image reflected the cost of worshipping himself. He’d prayed for applause, not surrender; for adoration, not transformation. Standing there, he felt the cold shadow of what that devotion had cost him: joy, peace, true identity.

The mirror, of course, said nothing, but its truth settled heavily. Andrew had built an altar to himself and asked God to bless it. He turned away from the image he’d tried so hard to perfect, and faithfully returned to the God who’d loved him all along.

Later, Andrew lay down to sleep, unpolished and unfinished. Not because he’d suddenly become enough, but because he remembered the One who is. And when the idol in the mirror crumbled, worship found its rightful target again.

“Lord, forgive me for the times I’ve turned my heart away from You. Help me to lay down my pride, my need for approval, and my busyness. Teach me to seek You first, to rest in Your love, and to live for You each day. Amen

Willing Workers

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as if working for God.” ~ Colossians 3:23

Wednesdays always began the same, at Miller’s Diner, in the corner booth with cracked vinyl seats. The place smelled of bacon grease and fresh coffee, an aroma that wrapped around you like a familiar hug.

Bill arrived first, claiming he needed “time to organize his thoughts,” though everyone knew he just wanted the first cup of coffee. Charlie, the crew’s unofficial captain, brought steady leadership and encouragement. Pete faithfully studied the entire menu, “just in case today was the day waffles appeared.” Others soon filled the booth, their laughter and fellowship fueling the day’s work ahead.

They laughed, prayed, and traded stories of aching joints and grandkids. Only when the plates were cleared and the last cups drained did they rise together, ready to serve.

A few miles away, St. Luke’s Methodist Church waited. The men moved through it like caretakers of something deeply sacred. 

Doug tested every light, convinced a bright room welcomed a lively spirit. Jim circled the building, checking each door with the urgency of a professional security agent. And Bob, “Head of Plumbing,” proudly inspected every toilet, a title no one challenged.

Others painted, polished, and repaired whatever needed attention. Church members called them the Wednesday Willing Workers. They simply called themselves brothers.

For decades, these retirees had tended the church as if it were their own homes - patching cracks, repainting walls, polishing windows until they shimmered in the morning sun. They never spoke of payment; only of gratitude.

One morning, Pastor Johnny arrived early and found them already working. Tom knelt in the entryway, wiping dust from the baseboards. Ray dusted the pews, humming a hymn that drifted softly across the sanctuary. Benny mopped the Fellowship Hall floor in steady, practiced sweeps.

“Fellas,” the Pastor said gently, “You know we could hire someone to do this.”

Charlie smiled respectfully. “Why hire someone to love what we already love?” Gene nodded. “This church held us when we were young men raising families. It buried our wives. It baptized our grandchildren.” He tapped the wall with quiet affection. “We’re not just fixing a building, Pastor. We’re preserving what matters most.”

That Sunday, Pastor Johnny paused the service to honor them. The congregation rose, clapping and cheering, until the men’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. Bill quietly wiped his glasses, struggling to keep his composure.

“We’re not heroes,” Allen said later, slightly embarrassed. “We’re just old men who believe there’s no greater service than caring for God’s house.”

Everyone knew better. Their care had left a mark far deeper than paint or polish. Long after they were gone, their love would linger in every corner of the church they cared for with faithful, joyful hearts, a living testament to lives devoted to God’s work.

Holy Father, bless their hands that care for Your house, the hearts that give without seeking praise, and the fellowship that strengthens them for the tasks ahead. Teach us to serve with the same humility, devotion, and joy. Amen

Friend Circle

 “Two are better than one, for they can help each other succeed." ~ Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

Daryl’s hospitalization came without warning. Treatment followed swiftly—relentless and aggressive. Consumed by the fight to survive, he had little mental space for anything beyond the next round of therapy. The odds were clearly stacked against him, and he knew it.

Against his instincts, his wife Karyn urged him to be public about their situation - to be open, honest, and authentic with friends, family, and their faith community. Daryl resisted. Strength and self-sufficiency had always been core to his identity. Accepting help felt like surrender.

Karyn saw it differently, reminding him that Scripture calls believers to “carry each other’s burdens” (Galatians 6:2), and “rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn” (Romans 12:15). To her, asking for help wasn’t weakness, but humility. A circle of friends praying, encouraging, and helping out wasn’t optional; it was essential for surviving the ordeal.

Her argument won.

Karyn created a CaringBridge webpage to rally support and keep people informed without the weight of countless individual updates. An introvert by nature, she preferred the shadows to the spotlight. Every time she hovered over the “post” button, fear rose in her chest.

Something inside kept prompting her to continue posting until the miraculous day Daryl rang the survivor’s bell. Even then, she kept writing, regularly, for a full year.

Three days before her first post, a tornado struck their small community. Their home was partially destroyed. Smaller paychecks, delays by the insurance company, and Daryl’s chemo treatments paralyzed Karyn with the fear of becoming a bankrupt widow living in a crumbling house.

Then Jesus showed up... wearing work boots, carrying tools, food, and envelopes of cash.

Friends flew in from afar to help repair the damage. Others called, offering donations for materials, hot meals, and help navigating insurance paperwork. The generosity was overwhelming.

The blog quickly flooded with followers checking in for every update. She logged hundreds of prayers, each one, she later realized, had been answered in tangible ways.

They were sustained by a remarkable circle of friends, many of whom they’d never met.

Everyone’s situation is different, so this isn’t a prescription for how others should respond. Still, experience, and research, suggests that a loving community plays a vital role in healing. American Cancer Society studies show that survivors with strong emotional support often adjust better, maintain a more hopeful outlook, and report a higher quality of life.

Never underestimate the difference you can make in the life of someone facing cancer. A new friend is an opportunity to lift you both higher, because different people draw out different strengths within us.

Almighty Father, thank You for the gift of true friendship - for the joy we share in good times and the grace of showing up for one another when life is shaken. What a privilege it is to share good times and be present for others when challenges disrupt our lives. Amen

Guided, Not Ignited

 “Anger doesn’t produce the righteousness that God desires.” ~ James 1:20

The blast shattered the quiet of the evening, a sound no parent ever wants to hear near a child’s bedroom window. Glass exploded. Wood splintered. Smoke rose from the front porch of the small Montgomery home where Martin Luther King Jr. lived with his wife and baby daughter. The bomb barely missed them in 1956.

Neighbors ran. Sirens wailed. Fear moved faster than the chaos that followed.

A crowd filled the lawn from every direction, working men, weary women, some gripping bricks, some bottles, all carrying a rage that’d been gathering for years. They had seen churches burned, threats ignored, lives broken. That night, violence had crossed a line. It had entered the home of Dr. King and his family. Retribution felt righteous. Necessary. Long overdue.

Inside the house, Reverend King’s knees hit the floor in prayer. He’d preached courage while secretly carrying fear. This time, danger wasn’t theoretical - it had arrived with dynamite. For a moment, even he didn’t know what to say. But he stepped outside, anyway.

Standing amid his porch’s wreckage, unarmed and unguarded, he raised his voice, not in anger, but calmly and deliberately. “Put down your weapons,” he said. The noise immediately faded.

“We can’t solve this problem through retaliatory violence,” he continued. “We must love our white brothers, no matter what they do to us.”

Some wept. Others trembled. This was not the response they wanted, but the one they needed. King looked at them and said softly, “If you harm anyone, you harm me. If you have a gun, take me first.” Weapons began littering the grass.

That night, the Civil Rights movement stood at a crossroads between rage and restraint, between justice by force and justice by faith. In a broken house on a quiet street, King chose the much harder path, one that demanded discipline rather than release.

Decades later, another city wrestles with its own tension as sirens echo through Minneapolis. Crowds gather, grief and frustration close at hand. When agents, protesters, and media turn to blame, human dialogue collapses. When rhetoric escalates, solutions retreat. History reminds us that lasting change rarely comes from burning down the middle ground; it comes from widening it.

King’s response that night was deliberate, not passive. He insisted that anger be shaped into something constructive - something that could still speak to lawmakers, persuade neighbors, and leave room for reform. He understood that systems change through pressure and persuasion, protest and policy, moral witness and conversation from both sides.

The choice is not between silence and chaos. It’s between escalation and engagement.

The porch was damaged. The moment was volatile. But the path forward remained hopeful,  because someone insisted that justice moves best when it is guided, not ignited.

Lord, grant us the courage to stand for justice without yielding to anger. Teach us patience in moments of fear, wisdom in instants of outrage, and the strength to choose paths that build understanding rather than deepen division. Amen

It Only Took One

 “Teach kids to choose the right path, and they’ll stay on it when older.” ~ Proverbs 22:6

The teacher begged for more time to work with him… to help shift his focus, to show Mateo that someone actually gave a damn. He had the classic troubled childhood background that gave him little chance of succeeding in life.

Mateo’s mom was chronically ill from drug addiction, his father but a distant memory. At 17, he was alone – emotionally, financially, and academically. He wasn’t a high school dropout yet. But his failing grades and labels like “unfocussed, rebellious, and loser” had already begun to define him, steering him toward a dismal future many assumed was inevitable.

The principal argued that the teen had cycled through every program the district offered kids like Mateo. Mrs. Farley, his teacher, made a strong case for giving Mateo another chance  - and won.

Farley stayed late, listened longer, and showed up consistently. She focused on trust before instruction, encouragement before correction. Together, they identified areas for improvement, set realistic goals, and slowly built the mindset Mateo needed to make confident changes.

In time, Farley noticed some encouraging progress. Mateo’s attendance, attitude, and social skills improved. Other teachers noticed increased participation, steadier grades, and a boy who was finally beginning to engage.

Mateo had never known this kind of attention. It should have come from home, but like millions of young people, he was desperate for just one dependable adult. Then, without warning, Mrs. Farley left the school due to a family health emergency. The following semester, she learned Mateo had quit school and never returned.

Had she left too soon? Was it naïve to believe her presence could have made a lasting difference? She would never know—and the unanswered questions stayed with her. Now, she’d never know.

Years later, she spotted a man resembling Mateo talking with a group of young people. Her heart sank when the man broke free from the group and rushed toward her, wearing a shirt emblazoned with the logo of a local rehabilitation clinic.

“Mateo, how are you?” she asked, bracing for bad news.

“I’m doing great!” he beamed. “Mrs. Farley, come meet my friends.” She followed, expecting to hear about struggles rather than success.

“Sarah, Brandon, Jess,” he began, “this is my favorite teacher from high school, the one I told you about. She was the inspiration for me to become a drug and alcohol counsellor. Mrs. Farley proved that it takes the faith and kindness of one person to give someone the confidence to change.”

He nodded towards his friends. “Now I try to be that person for everyone I work with.”

Programs don’t change kids—relationships do. Peers influence teen identity. But relationships with caring adults form the building blocks for all future relationships. They model belief, hope, and consistency.  Don’t miss your opportunity to be one of them!

Father God, You’ve entrusted us with the privilege and responsibility of being Godly role models. Lead us as we walk humbly with You, dependent on Your strength working through us. Amen

Nana's Prayer

 “Even to your old age, I will sustain you and carry you.” ~ Isaiah 46:4

Every morning, in the silent moments before the house came to life, Nana sat at the small kitchen table with her Bible and a chipped blue mug of black coffee. The house had settled into quieter routines, its old clamor gone, yet now and then stillness gave way to the joyful presence of an infant grandchild  - happy gurgles and hungry cries that livened up the space.

Her hands were much older now, fingers stiff with arthritis. They’d once trembled in hospital rooms, clenched in prayer beside their teenage daughter fighting a childhood illness doctors weren’t sure she’d survive. Those hands had pleaded through restless nights, offering boundless love and hopeful courage, asking God to spare their child.

And He had.

For years afterward, Nana wondered what the future might hold. Would her daughter remain healthy? Could her body ever carry a child of her own? Nana never voiced these fears. She simply trusted the God who had already proven Himself faithful.

Today, Nana sat in her favorite chair near the fireplace, cradling her infant granddaughter. Maria’s tiny hands fumbled with the bottle as she fed, eyes wide with curiosity, soft coos escaping between suckles. Firelight danced across the room, casting a glow that mirrored the love in Nana’s heart. Every breath, every sigh, every moment felt like a miracle – life born from one nearly lost.

Her back ached. Her knees protested. But her heart was full. Nana closed her eyes, tears tracing paths down her weathered cheeks. She bowed her head and whispered, “Thank you Lord.”

Then she took Maria’s miniature hands and cupped them inside her own. A warm glow flickered across their faces, as if heaven itself had paused to watch. No words were needed – only the pulsing rhythm of breaths, heartbeats, and a shared sense of gratitude – tender, holy, and complete.

Nana felt the weight of years tighten across her chest: the hospital nights, the unanswered questions, the prayers whispered through fear. And yet, in that same breath, she felt the wonder of the moment bloom, living proof that God had been faithful through it all.

Time seemed to bend, past and present meeting in a single, sacred hush. She thought of the long road, from fear to faith, from hospital halls to bedtime stories. Gratitude, she realized, wasn’t forgetting the pain. It was remembering Who had carried them through it.

As she readied for bed and turned out the lights, she folded her aching hands once more in prayer, not because she needed another miracle, but because she never wanted to stop thanking the One who had already given so many:

Precious Lord, thank You for the life You spared, the years You carried us through, and the miracle I held in my arms today. Thank You for every answered prayer… even the ones that came wrapped in waiting and fear. As my strength fades, let my gratitude grow, resting fully in Your faithfulness and promises. Amen