Tell me what you want what you really, really want

I have a new computer and noticed at the top center is an icon of a little light bulb that reads, “Tell me what you want to do.”  Maybe it’s because I had a perpetually messy room as a child and watched too many episodes of “I Dream of Jeannie,” but I’ve been looking for a light bulb like that my entire life.

My son drew this picture of Jesus of the Eucharist when he was 11-year old.  It hangs in my hallway.

Haven’t we all?  How much simpler life would be if we could just get what we want, what we think we need, what we know will finally fill that persistent ache of our humanity.  When I look at my life, the things I wished for as a child, the vows of certainty I made as a teenager, the ambitious plans I made as a young adult, and the middle-age accumulation of decades of yearnings, efforts, achievements, and disappointments, I wonder why I long for anything.  It hasn’t been a ‘your wish is my command’ experience, but it has been magical, even if that magic felt black at times.

I know both the joy and vulnerability of childhood, the discoveries and confusion of the teen years, the naivete of young adulthood and the knowledge I learned from my mistakes, the exhilaration and exhaustion of motherhood, and, now, the balance between improving myself and accepting who I am.  I’ve learned every stage has challenges, triumphs, and part of the answer of what God calls us to do.  The sufferings I lamented, resented, and mourned have shaped me into a wiser, stronger, and more resilient person.  They’ve also taught me to surrender, be softer, and stand firm.

I bring the waves of vacillation that shape my life to the altar during the Eucharist as a plea, “Tell me what you want me to do, God.”  I feel more connected to him at this moment than any other.  I feel both surrender and strength.  Sometimes it feels scary like a dare.  Will I do what he asks?  Will I obey?  Other times my plea feels like a brave truth.  l trust in his mercy, have faith in his plan, and feel love so genuine that I know it will bridge the difference between truth and dare.

“Tell me what you want to do” has evolved from being a means to get what I want to a way to give what he wills.  I don’t know what the years ahead hold or if I am promised any.  But I know that the trajectory of my life, with all the roads that sometimes felt too narrow, too fast, too winding, and too dark, led me to him.  It hasn’t been as simple as the light bulb icon on the computer screen promises, but it has illuminated the darkest parts of my life, not by giving into my commands, but by teaching me the right questions to ask.

God, tell me what you want me to do.


Read last week’s post here. 

Are you someone who trusts in God’s will?  When you look back at your life can you see the ways he was at work?  



Spring Christmas

A friend of mine confessed on a recent girls’ night that her Christmas tree was still up.  It was past mid-March. New Year’s resolutions had already been forgotten, Cupid already shot his arrow, leprechauns already spent their pots of gold, and cumulus clouds were already forming April showers in the skies, so I didn’t really know what to say.

She seemed relatively nonchalant about it, and I told her I didn’t know whether she had become fully liberated or if she had simply gone over the edge.   There seems to be a fine line between those things.

She explained that she hasn’t had time between working, chauffeuring children, and the daily demands of life.  She was mortified recently when another couple stopped by unexpectedly.  After all, a fully-decorated Christmas tree isn’t something you can just jam in the closet or under a couch cushion.  But the other couple was more interested in her company than her Christmas décor, and they sat around the tree drinking wine and catching up.  It sounded rather peaceful, like one of those made-for-TV moments that we are too busy to have during the actual Christmas season.

We are told time and again to keep Christmas in our hearts all year long.  But not in our living rooms.  Keeping your heart red and green and glittery gold all year sounds wonderful, but your living room should have delicate hints of spring tucked into the décor by now.  That’s what my Better Homes and Gardens magazine says anyway.

But what my friend’s better way of living suggests is that her priorities are less interested in decor and more aligned with devotion to others. Maybe it’s because of this that she had such ease making her Christmas tree confession.   There was no blaming her husband or kids, no claiming it was going to be one of those seasonal trees, no plans to take it down the following day, no guilt, just a shrug of indifference that she hasn’t had time to get to it.

I thought back to a few weeks earlier when another dear friend passed away unexpectedly.  I had been at the hospital all day hoping, praying, and comforting.  I was with her husband, daughters, and another friend throughout the tragedy.  After everyone left, I stayed behind with my husband to meet the priest and deacon to pray over my friend’s lifeless body.  It was a long, horrible day.  That little baby that was born in a manger on Christmas felt terribly far away.

I came home depleted, dreading the many phone calls I still had to make to share the devasting news, having already said over and over again, I’m sorry, to too many people.   It felt like the most apologetic day of my life, and there were still more apologies to make.

I was surprised to see a Styrofoam cooler on my dining room table.  On top of it was a bouquet of long-stemmed sunflowers that suggested the return of sunny days.  Inside was dinner for my family.  I started sobbing, overcome with humility that someone had thought of extending mercy to me. The day had been about my friend, her husband, children, and other friends, and now it had been about me, too.

Marked on top of the cooler were two words: Mercy Matters.

My friend who hasn’t had time to take down her Christmas tree did that for me.  No one knew that there would be a terrible loss that day.   No one had planned for it.  No one ever does.  So how remarkable it is when people show up anyway, rearrange their plans, give their time, are generous and thoughtful and reminiscent of a holiday that for most of us is packed away in boxes in the attic.

As unorthodox as it is for her Christmas tree to still be up, this girl knows what matters.  She lives it.  The red and green and glittery gold of her heart shines year-round.  She reminded me how much mercy matters, and that’s a better gift than anything I’ll ever find under a tree.

Did you ever have anyone do something so unexpected and kind for you?  I was desperate for mercy that day and sure enough, it showed up for me.  I would love to hear how it has shown up for you too.


Miss last week’s post? 




Easter Rose

During this Lenten season, I lost a dear friend unexpectedly.  It was a Tuesday, and I planned to go to the grocery store.  Instead, I was in the ER and then the ICU, waiting, hoping, and praying while trying to comfort her two daughters who are the same ages as my boys.  I had so many joyful memories with these girls:  picking blueberries on a hot summer day, watching them bob in the pool, laughing, and splashing with abandon, and chatting leisurely in their kitchen on carefree topics that meandered like the veining in the marble on their island.  We went trick-or-treating with them, hunted Easter eggs, and watched fireworks on the Fourth of July.

The girls call me Mrs. Lara, and it always makes me feel fancy.

Their mom had the flu.  I had the flu last year.  So did my husband and children.  None of us died.  It seems like a gazillion people get the flu.  It hardly seems like a reason to die.

Her death felt unfair, too soon, too fast, too cruel, and too unbelievable.  Suddenly, those ashes that were spread thick on my forehead in the shape of a cross a little less than two weeks before on Ash Wednesday had new meaning.  They no longer represented the inevitability of death, but the actuality of it.  It was no longer a someday, but a very unexpected today.  Losing my friend—this mother, this wife—went way beyond Lenten sacrifices.  Praying over her stillness with the priest and deacon was a penance unlike any I had known.  It was a darkness that went beyond black.

Despite this, I know the promise of eternal life that awaits the end of the Lenten season was fulfilled for her.  She encountered Easter.  She always radiated it anyway, with her easy smile and kind words, her spirit of adventure dancing in her twinkling pastel eyes.  She loved everyone, reflecting her beauty in a way that helped others see theirs.  She lived with color, softness, and a vibrancy that mimicked spring but endured all seasons.

The gift of Easter, beyond the white lilies and choruses of jubilant Alleluia’s, outside the pastel dresses and the wide-brimmed hats, sweeter than the chocolate in wicker baskets or the smiles of delight they invoke, is the resurrection of the Son of God, who suffered, died and was buried so that we could live perpetually.  His rising takes the black ash of our sufferings, grief, and sorrow and wipes it clean, so that we no longer know death but are assured life.

The life of the resurrection can’t be taken by disease, accident, or the stupid flu. It’s not a life that takes, but a life that gives.  It’s the life my friend basks in now.  The one that comes at the end of the darkness.  The one that is offered universally, but not universally sought.  The one that comforts me when I endure sufferings of this world.  She has that now, that redemption that transforms ash into exaltation, eternity, and love everlasting.

She has risen, and because she lived seeking and exuding light, I have risen higher for knowing her.  And I rejoice this Easter for the one who makes everything possible, the one who gave his only Son, the one who blessed me with a friend so dear, that I learned that Easter isn’t just a Sunday marking the end of Lent, but a rebirth we encounter every day in the people we love.

In loving memory of my dear friend, Teresa Rose.  


Miss last week’s post?

Dog Days of Mercy Work

Reunited and it feels so good,” are lyrics from the 1978 song by the vocal duo, Peaches & Herb.  But upon returning a stray dog, the lyrics that played to the song’s melody sounded more like, “Reunited, and it feels like crud!”

It was far from peachy.

When I found the elderly dog, he was thin, filled with fleas, and uncharacteristically aloof for his breed.  After twenty minutes of convincing him I wasn’t a serial killer, he reluctantly succumbed to my coaxing him into the backyard. Within minutes he escaped and sat stubbornly in middle of the road.  I directed cars to drive around us while begging him to follow me.  Perhaps, the dog binge-watched Criminal Minds before running away, because he clearly knew the finer points of stranger danger.  After getting him into the backyard for the second time, I  jammed logs in the passage in the gate he eluded, creating fine fence folk art that I am sure would become the envy of my neighborhood.  Then I went back inside to post his picture on lost-dog websites.

Desperate to ease his obvious discomfort from fleas, I took him to the vet. While getting him in the car, he severed the leash with his teeth like a geriatric Cujo.  Off he ran into the street for the third time that day, prolonging our misadventure.

With a half-leash dangling conspicuously from his collar and an additional leash that I held tight, we managed to get flea control medicine and a rabies vaccine from the vet.   Then we drove to the groomer to get the dog we now called Buddy a bath.  (Sometimes, I called him B-A-D).

Unfortunately, dogs have to wait two days after their vaccination before they can be groomed.  So, no bath for Buddy.  We settled on a new bed and, still smelly and itchy, went home.

By day three, I decided that Buddy was a true stray.  No one appeared to be looking for him, and the condition of his skin, with patches of hair missing from the flea frenzy beneath his fur, made me skeptical of ownership.  Of course, I was getting attached, too, and maybe less eager to find his home.

But it wasn’t to be. His owner saw one of my Facebook posts and contacted me.  This is where I had to practice not being judgmental, despite feeling justified.  I asked the owner to text a picture of the dog as proof of ownership.  Buddy isn’t the only one who’s seen Criminal Minds. She sent an adorable picture of him with her child.  I shared my conflict about the dog’s condition with two animal-rescue experts, and they advised me on how to best handle the return while advocating for his care.

When Buddy saw his owners he greeted them with the same enthusiasm I had seen when he was yanking me around the neighborhood on walks (while I prayed he wouldn’t eat through another leash).

It was bittersweet, exhausting, emotional, adventuresome, and messy.  It was also an embodiment of several works of mercy: (feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, shelter the homeless, visit those imprisoned (even if they are in your backyard), comfort the sick, admonish sinners (by encouraging the owner to get flea medicine, identification tags, and a microchip), instruct the uninformed (the expert guidance given to me) counsel the doubtful, comfort the sorrowful (I needed a lot of both when I returned the dog) be patient with those in error (I gave the benefit of the doubt despite my inclination to judge) and, prayer, because I petitioned for the right thing to happen.

When the young child opened his front door and the dog ran in, I knew the right thing happened.

Reunited, and it felt so good. 

At least, it did for Buddy.

I know on the surface it looks like I just rescued a dog, but like so many times in daily life, it encompassed many opportunities to give and receive mercy.  Do you ever think of the kindnesses you do as mercy? 

Miss last week’s post?


God: the Mess We Make

I’ve been on a search for the holy grail of vacuums. This isn’t a new thing. I’ve been at it for years.  Other people travel the world, I buy (and, often return) vacuums.

I guess I am looking for the perfect vacuum that has among its features a desire to actually use it.  So far, all I have had is a longing for clean floors.  A friend of mine lent me one of those robot vacuums.  I figured even I could muster the motivation to try it since it only required me to push a button.

The dog and I suspiciously watched the wayward machine.  It was like a mini R2D2 after a night out at the bars.  It swayed in one direction and then the other, continuously running into things.  I couldn’t help but feel sorry for it.  It was trying so hard.

It reminded me of humankind.  The way we set off definitively in one direction and then suddenly veer into a different one.  We repeat mistakes and sins in the similar way the miniature vacuum kept roaming over the same area when, if it would just move a tad to the left (like I kept telling it too), it would have picked up the orange Dorito crumb that mocked it.  I followed the robot urging, directing, and cajoling this blind machine to see what I clearly could, but avoided doing myself.

I guess we are always looking for the shortcut, hack, or magic formula to make life easier.  This is often true with our relationship with God.  We want to do the minimum: check the box of Sunday mass, grace before meals, and a bedtime prayer.  We compartmentalize our faith, so that it doesn’t complicate our messy lives because following God can be as cumbersome as lugging the big vacuum out of the closet.

You know, the one that actually works.

We waste so much energy trying to change our lives, fill our void, and find our purpose when in the depth of our hearts we know that God is the only one who can fulfill these innate desires.  I do it too.  I keep God at an arm’s length, because it feels too scary to trust him completely.  I’m afraid to surrender to him, because I don’t know what he will ask of me.  I search for answers in other people’s well-meaning advice instead of seeking him, who knows everything and wants the very best for me.  Without God at the helm of our lives we are wandering aimlessly.  Maybe eventually we will find that crumb that eludes us, but he wants so much more for us than crumbs.

After watching that poor little robot frantically struggle to find its path, I couldn’t help but think of my own.  I went to the closet, pulled out the big vacuum and began the messy work of cleaning up.


Do you find that you often repeat the same patterns in life looking for a solution that’s going to make your life better?  That’s a tough question for most of us.  So, if you’d rather just comment whether you like those robot vacuums, I completely understand!

Did you miss last week’s post?


Light: Out of the darkness


As a native Floridian, winters are hard for me.  It’s not just the closed toe shoes and the cumbersome layers of clothes that make me feel constrained liked a mummy wrapped in fleece.

It’s the darkness.

The shorter days, gray skies, and the browning emptiness leave flowers blighted and bare trees somber.  I don’t notice how much it affects me until spring arrives, and I am awed by the glorious light. I catch myself staring out the window. I see the green growth of new leaves on the mounds of sticks sprouting up from the earth and the reliable bloom of azaleas bursting bright with joy, but it’s the light, pervasive and ethereal, that captivates me.

It reminds me of my relationship with God.  How at times, he seems dormant and, despite my efforts to seek him, I feel alone wandering in a thicket of weeds.  The weeds of life are everywhere: dissatisfaction with our jobs, difficulty with our children, disappointments in our marriages, and disillusionment with our lives.

I hate the weedy parts, feeling out of touch with someone who I know is so beautiful.  They scare me and remind me of the fear and abandonment Jesus felt in the Garden of Gethsemane.  He was knowingly awaiting torture and death.  My problems pale in comparison.  Still, I know they matter to him, just like Jesus’s did to our heavenly father.

During these times, I try to trust as Jesus did.  Thy will be done.  But mostly, I feel like a toddler writhing out of a winter coat.  It’s like Jesus is hibernating in my heart, and I badly need him to come out and warm the chill that aches me.  I am desperate for his light that helps me navigate the nuances of life.  And despite my wrangling, there are times he just seems asleep in the tomb, with that big heavy rock that might as well be a mountain sealing it closed.

This is the darkness I fear most, that’s the hardest to endure, and the loneliest feeling I know.  It’s also when I cling tight to my faith, remind myself I am rooted in his love, and redeemed by his light.  Knowing this doesn’t make the time in the dark any easier, but it reminds me that like winter, it will pass.

Light always returns. Once again, I see the bloom of his love, the light of his hope, and the color of his conversation that without words communicate his preeminent presence.  And because of that darkness I so dreaded, colors are more vibrant, the sun brighter, and the flowers more fragrant.

As nature dances briskly in the breeze, barefoot I step out of the shadow into the light that is no longer just a promise of what awaits, but the fulfillment of what was always there.


Lent is a time to grow closer to God, to weed out all of the distractions and disillusions that keep us from him.  How do you stay close to God when he feels far away? Did you read last week’s post?



Stillness — the action of finding God

Be Still. God knows I heard this often as a child.  I remember one time my mom promising me a new doll if I would just sit still for ten minutes.  When you are a kid, ten minutes is an impossibility, a lifetime, a duration that exists in fairytales along with “happily ever after.”

Stillness remains a challenge for me.  By far, the hardest part of writing is getting myself to sit down.  I reheat my coffee, let the dog out, tell the cats they are pretty, stuff my face with white cheddar popcorn, nibble chocolate, check email, Facebook, scoop kitty litter, and reheat curdled coffee again.  Then, I sit, twitch, and fidget for a bit before I succumb to the stillness that begets words. It’s like an exorcism.

“Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).

I am part of a group of women at my church who will be hosting a retreat this month, and we chose this as our theme.  It’s not a message we hear often, and it is certainly counter to what society encourages. Stillness is a renegade concept, a weapon that destroys the inauthentic notions of life.  I associate it more with someone like Yoda in a galaxy far, far away than I do anyone on our planet.

Our world teaches us our value is tied to busyness.  Go faster, be efficient, do more, be more, make more, and have more.  But for heaven’s sake, don’t be still.  Don’t stop and smell the roses.  Get them in the ground and check it off your list. Or better yet, pay someone to do it.  Your time is too valuable.  You need to be producing.

The message is clear, if you are still, the world will pass you by.  You will be considered slovenly.   You will miss out.  You will fail to measure up. You might as well be a concrete statue for pigeons to stoop (and poop) on.

When we believe these messages, eventually our motion spins out of control.  We lose touch with who we are called to be, the things we enjoy, and who matters most. We get lost and dizzy from all our spinning.  And tired.  So many of us are tired.

Last year for Lent, I challenged myself to spend ten minutes a day in stillness with God.  I was terrified.  I didn’t want to commit to such an endeavor and not honor it.  Usually, the things we need most are the hardest to do, the least appealing, and met by the most resistance.  But I decided to be brave and embrace the stillness that always eluded me.

And you know what?  I didn’t turn green like Yoda or get soiled by pigeons.  I didn’t even feel like demons were being dispelled from my body like I do when I sit to write.  I didn’t miss a single day of my commitment.

Contrary to what we may think about motion, the real action begins with stillness.  I was more calm, aware of myself, closer to God, and felt a genuine sense of peace.  It was so much more of an intentional way to pray.  I even read scripture before I started my timer so I felt more deliberate about my conversation with God.

I continued my habit for a while after Lent and then slowly traded the stillness for the unregulated motion that’s so much easier to fall into.  Like a child, I resist.  But I know that stillness waits for me, wants for me, and will embrace me anytime I am willing to surrender to its calm.

And the reward for stillness is far greater than a new toy.  It is a chance to sit with the knowing that is God.

Want more to help you on your Lenten journey read this.  

Prayer and a Prostitute Ministry

I was reminded of the power of prayer by some of the people who need it the most.  I often travel on a portion of highway littered with seedy motels, drug dealers, and prostitutes.  It’s been that way as long as I can remember. My oldest son knows it as the road where we have the drug talk, again.

It’s easy to witness the devastation of drugs on that stretch of highway. Women of all ages, who I could easily portray with vivid and acute adjectives, I describe with only one word: hollow. They are a shell of who they are meant to be. Their eyes are large and blank. Despite their feigned hospitality, their desperation is obvious. The essence of their existence is missing, despite the sway of their bodies. Hollow.

And it feels wrong to just drive by.

But I do, just like everybody else. Well, almost everybody. A few years ago, I wrote an article for the newspaper about an organization called Grace Ministry of Helping Hands, a non-profit that helps women in the grips of drug addiction, alcoholism, and prostitution. Every two weeks volunteers minister to these women, bringing them toiletries, offering them a way out, and if they are not quite ready to leave their brokenness behind, planting an incorruptible seed that is the redemption of Christ.

I love their mission – the grittiness of it, the discipleship, the message of hope, and, more than anything, the mere acknowledgement of these outcast women. Just their willingness to see them as children of God instead of sexual objects, addicts, and throwaways is so incredibly Christ-like and beautiful.

Not far from that highway, I recently saw a woman slouched at the entrance of the post office. She was frail as if pounds were shed along with her dignity, and there wasn’t much left of either. I walked passed her and avoided eye contact. Of course, I didn’t feel like I had much dignity for my cowardly inaction. It bothered me to walk by her and do nothing just as it does to drive by those women on the highway.

It’s hard to know what to do. If I give money, it will likely be spent on drugs. I didn’t have any food to offer her, assuming it even appealed to her in her waif-like state. I couldn’t take her home with me, because my husband would have a fit, and I really wouldn’t know what to do with her when I got her there.

I kept thinking, “What can I do? What can I do?” And then I remembered, prayer. I can always pray. So I did, all the way home.

Later that evening, I got an email that Grace Ministries was helping a former prostitute and drug addict set up her new apartment. They were looking for household items. It felt like such an answer to my prayer. I donated some towels and a gift card to a grocery store. I knew it wouldn’t specifically help the lady I saw at the post office, but it would help someone in a similar situation.  I trust that God will reach that other woman, too.

It was such a gift to be reminded that there is always hope and there are more than addicts, dealers, and prostitutes that walk that stretch of highway.   There are disciples of grace, reminding us that the constancy of God’s mercy is a path available to us all. “Come, follow me” (Mathew 4:19, NRSV).


Have you ever felt like you wanted to help someone, but you weren’t sure how?  What do you do when you find yourself in a similar situation?  Please share your experiences in the comment section.  These issues are complicated and there is so much we can learn from each other. This is also about an answered prayer.   To read more on prayer:

To learn more about the work of Grace Ministry of Helping Hands visit their website at

Heaven is for real; Earth is for miracles

You know that big spread in the high school yearbook where the senior superlatives tout the “most attractive,” “most athletic,” “best all around,” etc.?  Well, heaven knows I didn’t get one.

Instead, I was on another page in our yearbook where there were more non-traditional, dubious superlatives assigned. Some were “Eddie Haskell Award,” “Biggest Flirt,” “Most Likely to Burn Down the School,” and “Could Give the Best Dirty Look.”

The one picked for me was “Most Gullible.”

I like to think it was a fancy way of calling me nice. Or, maybe someone just told me that is what it meant and I believed them.

In any case, I have not bought any swamp land, taken any wooden nickels or sent any money to Nigeria, so I think I am doing okay.

Still, when the book, Heaven is for Real came out and I learned the story of Todd Burpo’s son, Colton, who went to heaven during an emergency appendectomy, I believed it.

I believe in God, in miracles and in heaven, so to me none of it is too far-fetched.

Miracles are all around us. I think we just get kind of numb to them. We go to the beach and we forget to marvel at the vastness of the ocean teeming with exotic life. Someone has a baby and we may think to make a casserole, but we don’t stop and think how absolutely phenomenal it is that a man and a woman can create life.

But Colton went to heaven. Heaven.

The Burpo family gave a talk at a nearby church tonight and my family and I attended. I didn’t go as a skeptic, but as a believer.

Burpo talked about how angry he was with God when he thought he was going to lose his son. I loved that he went to God with his anger. I think our inclination is to turn away from God when we feel such rage.

As Burpo tells it, while he was raging on God, his son Colton was sitting in Jesus’s lap. I thought that was such a poignant image to think about. When we feel angry, ignored or betrayed by God, it rarely occurs to us that He is indeed with us, embracing us. We are always in His care.

Burpo, a pastor, spoke about his struggle with faith when he was confronted with his son’s account of heaven. Perhaps, that was what was hardest for me to grasp.

I had no trouble believing, why did he?

But then I think of what it is like before the book, the New York Times Best Seller’s lists, the movie, all of which validated the possibility of this miracle. I thought of the clarity of Colton’s claims, some of which go against traditional church teachings such as animals being in heaven. I thought of Burpo putting his career and reputation on the line to stand up to such an incredulous notion that a child that never even died went to heaven — not came from heaven, but went to heaven; sat on Jesus’s lap; saw the sister who was never born; hung out with some angels and then came back to this reality which is not nearly as pleasant, but that we are all more comfortable believing.

And, I understood his doubt and was left in awe of his faith to work past those doubts, to take the risks that he did and to share his miracle with the world.

One of my most favorite things that I heard Burpo say though was that his son was not special. I believe him. I listened to Colton speak and I listened to him sing. I think he is a great kid. But so are my kids and so are yours and so are the ones in Africa, China and Timbuktu.

I believe in an extraordinary God and I believe in the ordinariness of His people in the sense that none of us are without sin. I believe in equality and although it is lacking on earth, I believe that God loves us all passionately and individually – but not one more than the other. I do not believe that He has favorites. I do not believe He gives out superlatives.

Colton experienced a miracle, and I bet you have too. We need to remember to look for the miracles in our lives because they remind us of God’s enduring love. They strengthen our faith and help us get through times of doubt.

His miracles are never ordinary, but I dare say they are often. Whether they get shared with the world or not, whether you believe in them is up to you.

As for me, “Most Gullible, Class of 1990,” I choose to believe.

If you have experienced a miracle in your life, please share it in the comment section. If you believe in miracles, please share this post with someone. Praying for miracles today and the openness, the willingness to notice them.  To read more about being closer to God: and to read more of the Burpo story