“But thanks be to God, who made us his captives and leads us along in Christ’s triumphal procession. Now wherever we go he uses us to tell others about the Lord and to spread the Good News like a sweet perfume.”

—2 Corinthians 2:14 (New Living Translation)

As we approach this season of Thanksgiving, I can’t help but review the events and people who have left their mark on my life. At the time, I probably didn’t appreciate them as much as I do now, but hindsight is always 20/20, isn’t it?

I’d never thought much about heading off to the mission field. In fact, after an extremely boring slide show during fourth-grade church camp, I prayed that God would find something—anything—for me to accomplish closer to home. Our special Saturday night guest arrived at an after-dinner meeting towing a slide projector, a gargantuan case of slides, and a stack of handouts. His wide-eyed expression reminded me of Aunt Bea on Mayberry, RFD, right after she realized that she’d ruined her whole batch of dill pickles.

I’d never met a real-life missionary until that night. Maybe they should have sent a guy who laughed once in a while. Maybe he should have dressed down a bit and wore jeans instead of slacks and a white dress shirt. Or maybe it would have helped if he’d warmed up his audience with a funny story or two. He didn’t seem like any of the dads or pastors I knew. His description of missions work sounded very much like torture.

After switching off the lights, this nervous-twitchy little man cleared his throat, then quoted a few key verses that dripped with “thee’s,” “thou’s,” and “thy’s”. The show began with a grass hut deep in some faraway jungle, and moved on to slides of huge snakes with exotic names I couldn’t pronounce.

“We found this mammoth python coiled around a bucket in our washing area!” he said breathlessly.

Oh great. Pleee-ase, God, do NOT ask me to be a missionary!

The slide show moved on to a series of hairy spiders and a pile of huge mosquitoes that might have drilled the jugular of unwary victims while they slept, had he not done some fancy baiting to lure them into the Mason-jar trap.

When the lights flicked back on, nobody said a word. (Imagine two hundred kids stuffed into a steamy dining hall, and nobody speaking.) It was quite the night to remember. Afterwards, on my trek back up the hill to our cabin, I aimed my brand-new red flashlight back and forth across the path. A girl couldn’t be too careful. You never knew where snakes would hide, the missionary had warned us.

With maturity came a better understanding of God’s “call”. I realized that as a believer, wherever I live, whatever I spend my life doing, He asks me to view my little corner of the world with new eyes. To reflect Jesus by watching for opportunities to show simple kindnesses. To be a friend to the friendless. Encourage a stranger. Cheer a child on. Lift someone’s chin. Leave a good word.

This season, when our hearts turn towards the blessings we enjoy, and the concerns we share as a nation, I’m thankful I had the opportunity to attend church camp as a child. That experience helped me think beyond my own small community, to a world filled with needs I couldn’t begin to imagine. I never thought I’d count that “boring” camp speaker as one of the most influential people God ever brought across my path, but it’s true.

God’s timetable always casts a shadow of the bigger picture.

©2008, Bonnie Bruno

For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie’s Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com

“Behold, I will do a new thing, now it shall spring forth; shall you not know it? I will even make a road in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” -Isaiah 43:19 (NKJV)

It has been said that life is unpredictable, but change is inevitable. Live long enough, and each of us will experience births, deaths, celebrations and setbacks. Change is a part of daily life, the ebb and flow of our existence.

Two Octobers ago, my husband and I witnessed a surprising change that took place at my favorite wildlife refuge. Situated back off the highway in an area reachable only by a dirt road, Baskett Slough is a wintering home for Canada geese and a host of other wildlife. It’s a rare visit when we don’t spot beaver and nutria paddling their way across the water, or a Great Blue Heron tiptoeing through neck-high grass on a fishing expedition.

This visit proved to be different, though.

We pulled up to the viewing area and I steadied my telescopic camera lens. It was then I realized that a drastic change had taken place within a few weeks’ absence. Instead of clear blue water, we found a whole lot of nothingness. No water, no geese, no songbirds. No furry animals paddling to the other side. Baskett Slough was uncharacteristically desolate and dry. A single fish flip-flopped in a small puddle of muddy water near the shore.

We whined about the awfulness of it all, but quickly recognized a rare opportunity: we could walk out across land that was usually submerged! A trail led down a grassy hill, where we made our way onto rock-hard, parched ground. Its deep crevices reminded me of a photo of a leathery, lined nomad’s face I’d seen in a recent issue of National Geographic magazine.

I wandered off with my camera, not knowing what to expect. To my surprise, I discovered life springing up between those crevices like miniature gifts of autumn. Splashes of gold and red dotted the parched landscape, where delicate, blooming vines curled over and between rocks. Tiny blossoms sprouted in tangles along a sandy edge where water once lapped. It was a fascinating dichotomy of nature, this mix of desolation and new life.

Drought has an astonishing way of forcing change. We witnessed it that day at the wildlife refuge, and again after a forest fire, where wildflowers eventually transformed charred ground into an artist’s palette of colors. Change sweeps through, and a once-predictable plot of land becomes something else seemingly overnight.

It’s not unlike what happens to you and I, when suddenly we realize that our journey through a season of drought has worked something deeper and richer and better into our lives-something we could not have learned any other way.

©2008, Bonnie Bruno

For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie’s Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com

“I see the moon,
The moon sees me…
The moon sees the one that I want to see
God bless the moon
And God bless me…
And God bless the one that I want to see.”

I remember my mother singing that song to me when I was very young. My grandparents lived in another state, and I’d wonder what they were doing at their house at that very moment.

I’d stand on my bed, pull the curtain aside, and peek out my window at the moon. I clearly remember holding my breath at the beautiful sight, and asking how God could make a light so big and bright. How did it stay up in the sky without falling? Could people everywhere see it, or was it just hanging over my town?

I was not quite three years old, filled with a curiosity so huge and intense, I thought I’d burst if I didn’t get my questions answered. Thankfully, my parents had patience. Lots of it.

Does the moon feel cold?
Where does it go when the sun comes up?
How come it sometimes looks round, but shrinks later on?
Will it ever fall to the ground and hit my roof?

I don’t remember ever questioning the fact that God made that big flashlight in the sky. I sometimes pictured kids in faraway lands, asking the same questions. Did their moms sing them the same song?

“God bless the moon
And God bless me…”

My mother’s matter-of-fact answers planted a simple seed of faith in my young heart, which helped me move from curious questioning to a point where I could relax in my heavenly Father’s care. In time, my barrage of questions gave way to a tender awe. I had the answers I needed. All was well.

God made the moon, and He had everything under control. The moon was a permanent part of the sky. It was not going to hit my roof. When I understood God’s role in the universe, I also settled into the fact that He made me, too. He saw me long before I was born. He knew that my eyes would be brown and my hair curly.

A young child’s faith is so very fragile. Each question is an opportunity for us adults to listen with our hearts as well as our ears. Parents who pay close attention to a child’s curious questions are in store for a precious moment: the birth of awe.

When that day arrives, seize the moment! Scatter seeds and see that they’re watered often. Then step aside and allow the Lord to work.

“Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”–Matthew 19:14 (NIV)

©2008, Bonnie Bruno

For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie’s Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com

“Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The earnest prayer of a righteous person has great power and produces wonderful results.”
- James 5:16 (New Living Translation)

I remember the day Mary’s note arrived, because I had spent most of the night before tossing and turning about a medical test I’d be taking the following day. I never considered myself much of a worrier, but this was different. I was in my thirties, busy with family and a blossoming writing career. I didn’t have time for breast cancer.

After needling it for fluid, my doctor turned to me and said it definitely wasn’t a cyst. “It’s good you found it,” he said, “and if it’s anything serious, don’t worry. We’ve caught it early.”

I suppose that was his way of saying everything would be fine, but it set my worry wheel in motion.

I tore into Mary’s letter (yes, this was in the days of real paper letters, folks), glad for such timely contact from an old friend. “I don’t know what’s going on with you,” she wrote, “but God has been pestering me to pray for you. What’s up?”

God is a nudger. When we’re willing to listen, He’ll often whisper the name of someone in our ear and urge us to pray. Sometimes the nudge comes in the middle of the night. That’s what Mary claimed she received numerous times over the course of that week. Sometimes the nudge to pray comes when we’re in the middle of doing something routine.

I love those nudges because I know that I can trust God’s timing. It’s not that He needs you or me specifically. If we’re too sidetracked, too sleepy, or too lazy to respond, He’ll quickly find someone else, but He doesn’t give up.

Sometimes the Lord nudges me to pray for a passersby, like the old woman I saw walking along the highway one afternoon, or the young mom screaming at her kids in a parking lot. Usually, though, He nudges me to pray for people I know, without a clue as to the urgency of their need. (I remember one night waking up at 3 a.m., with a friend’s name on my mind. Little did I know that she was awake in her house, too, struggling with the thought of her upcoming kidney transplant.)

Many years ago, I read an article about a woman who was awakened with a sudden need to pray for a missionary couple from her church. She’d never experienced such a panicky urge to pray, and couldn’t go back to sleep until the feeling had lifted. A few months later, that same missionary couple visited this woman’s home church while on furlough, and were speaking to a gathering of friends one Sunday evening. They described a day when they were traveling across the African plains in a Jeep.

“Suddenly the ground shook and we automatically thought, EARTHQUAKE!” he said. Seconds later, a quick glance in the rearview mirror told him everything he needed to know. “A gigantic cloud of dust rose from the earth as a herd of elephants bore down on us. I didn’t know what to do. It was obvious we couldn’t outrun them, so I just stopped the Jeep right then and there. It all happened so fast!”

Miraculously, the stampeding elephants tore past on either side of their vehicle, like the Red Sea parting to let the Israelites through. After the church meeting, they discovered that God had awakened their friend in the middle of the night in the U.S. At the very hour they were in danger of being overrun by stampeding elephants, this dear friend was answering a nudge to pray–without knowing why.

God’s nudges are never wrong. My friend Mary’s prayers strengthened and comforted me when I was facing the unknown. Thankfully, a biopsy found the lump was benign, but if it had been cancer, I know that God would have provided plenty of prayer support.

I have a feeling that someday in heaven, we’ll discover how the prayers of both friends and strangers played a vital role in our lives. In fact, answering the call of those gentle nudges from God might be the single most important thing any of us will ever do.

©2008, Bonnie Bruno

For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie’s Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the things I take for granted. Blessings of everyday life, like being able to turn a knob on the kitchen sink so clean water flows into my glass. Loading the washer with detergent and more clean water, instead of scrubbing clothes in a dirty stream. Heading off to church on Sunday morning without fear of persecution or arrest.

My lifestyle isn’t showy, but it’s comfortable. It’s what I’ve enjoyed for my entire life, a byproduct of freedom. I’m well aware, though, that freedom is not free. It has been paid for by generations of patriotic types who were willing to step out of their comfortable cocoons and serve their country well. I learned early on in our marriage what it means to commit to a military man. Together, we learned how to create a sense of home wherever our country sent us.

_______

I’m 23 years old, and my plane has touched down 7,000+ miles from home. My husband meets our toddler son and I at Frankfurt International Airport, and hugs us like he’ll never let us go. We’re amazed that all three pieces of luggage have arrived safely, and within minutes we’re heading up the autobahn towards home. We chatter nonstop, trying to make up for the five months we’ve been apart. Home for the next three years will be a cozy two-bedroom place on the second floor of an American apartment complex. Welcome to the world of military families who are skilled at sinking roots, making new friends, and adapting quickly to a new environment.

Yet…I’m hungry, jet-lagged, and already homesick.

Delivery trucks scream past, their sides plastered with words that I can neither pronounce nor understand. A few miles later, rain is slapping the windshield like a mood-detector. The wipers beat a monotonous rhythm that my weary brain interprets as, “You’re stuck! You’re stuck! You’re stuck!”

A good night’s sleep works wonders. I awaken refreshed and happy to be living under the same roof with my husband again. In the following weeks, I’m convinced that God often works best when one feels stuck. I pore over the book of Jeremiah, where it describes the Israelites’ adjustment to their new life as exiles in Babylon. I’m certainly not in exile, but the advice God gave to his people back then also rings fresh and true in this new chapter of my life: “Build houses and make yourselves at home. Put in gardens and eat what grows in that country.” (Jeremiah 29:5, The Message)

In other words, sink roots. Trust God. Carry on as usual.

So, with a determination to make the most of my time overseas, I think of reasons to celebrate our new surroundings; small, shaky steps that fuel my enthusiasm. I ask God to renew my mind and open my heart to new experiences, sort of like little Samuel in the Old Testament: “Speak, Lord…I’m listening.”

Within days, I meet two new friends who also happen to share my Christian faith. We talk about the churches we left behind, and the ladies’ fellowship groups we belonged to in the U.S. It seems only natural to begin a new fellowship, and we invite others to join us every Thursday morning at my house. Over the next six months, our group of three grows into a circle of almost thirty women! We split into two groups and take turns hosting. God is hard at work changing not only us, but our community.

God soon opens another door, as well. I apply for a job with the local military chaplaincy and am hired for a position that includes greeting newcomers with “welcome packets”. The packets are filled with practical information about our community and the surrounding German countryside and culture. It’s a perfect opportunity to make a tangible difference in the lives of other military families, who often feel like their lives have been shaken up and blasted out of a time tunnel. It’s a paid position, but in my heart it feels more like ministry. Young wives far from home respond well to the outreach. I invite them to our Bible study, and our numbers continue to grow.

Three years overseas pass surprisingly fast. Our family has increased in number from three to four. On the morning of our return flight, I’m not at all surprised when my eyes suddenly cloud with tears at the sight of our temporary home fading from view. What began as a dreaded assignment became a period of memory-making opportunities and a chance to grow closer as a family and as believers. Over the course of three short years, the Lord transformed my homesick heart into a fertile garden plot. There, precious new relationships took root. New challenges stretched me as a person. The seeds He planted would grow into a bumper crop that not only met my immediate needs, but would continue to nurture my soul for many years to come.

Freedom isn’t free. It’s the hard work of men and women who willingly go when they’re sent, and who represent our country well. That freedom blossomed long before you and I were born, and with God’s blessing, will continue long after we’re gone.

©2008, Bonnie Bruno

For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie’s Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com

It’s a pie-baking day and I’m dragging a chair up to the kitchen counter in our little house in Arizona. At three years old, anything important usually happens up there, far above chin level. I watch Mama work her magic, measuring and blending flour and sugar, shortening and salt. Then it’s my turn to help.

I add several tablespoons of water to the mixture. With quick movements and a shiny fork, I help her cut through the flour mixture, transforming it into a big ball of dough. I watch her divide it into three chunks. She rolls each into a perfect circle, which she lifts and spreads across a glass pie plate.

“Can I help with the pinch part?” I ask, knowing she’ll say yes. She always lets me help with the pinch part.

Using a butter knife, Mama cuts away excess dough that hangs over the side of the plate, then we tuck the ragged edges under and crimp them into a pretty design. Our sticky fingers meet at a certain point and she tickles my fingertips. “What a beautiful pie this is going to be,” she says. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

We repeat the process two more times, until a small lump of leftover dough remains.
“What’s that for?” I ask.

Mama hands me a smaller, child-sized rolling pin. “Here, it’s all yours.” I dip my hand in flour and spread it across an apple-shaped cutting board, then pat my lump of dough as I’d seen her do countless times before..

“This pie is for Daddy,” I say. “It’s gonna be his fav’rite.”

It wasn’t my father’s birthday. It wasn’t Thanksgiving or Christmas. It was the day before Father’s Day, and I wanted to surprise him with my very first pie.

I kneaded and flipped that dough until it was tough and dry. Mama offered to help, but I was a three-year-old know-it-all.. “I can do it myself. It’s MY pie!”

I borrowed a little silver pie pan from my set of play dishes, and nodded when Mama asked if I’d washed it in soapy water. The day before, it had held the remains of a grasshopper from a backyard adventure. She helped me fill the shell with warm peach filling and slid it into the oven next to her bigger pies.

By the time Daddy came home, our pies were cooling on a rack. A sweet scent wafted out the door, down the sidewalk to greet him. “Mmmm! I smell a surprise!” he called to me up on the porch.

I watched him sample a bite of my pie, and declare it delicious-with-a-capital-D. That’s all this little girl needed to know.

A couple of decades later, I confessed that I really hadn’t washed my grasshopper holder. My dad laughed, and confessed that he hadn’t really swallowed that bite of pie, either, because he knew about my decomposing grasshopper.

Father’s Day brings a myriad of memories, some hilarious, some bittersweet. Mostly, it takes me back to those early formulative years when I learned what it meant to feel secure in my father’s love. Those are the years when I learned how to pray, too, with Daddy on his knees next to me at bedtime. Because God mattered to my dad, I learned from a very young age to love and trust my heavenly Father with every detail of life.

My earthly dad passed away in 2006, but my heavenly Father still speaks in precious whispers and gentle nudges that encourage and guide me in the right direction. Sometimes while singing in church, I remember my tall daddy sharing his hymnal with me and singing “Amazing Grace” or “When We All Get to Heaven.” When I gaze at the Big Dipper on a clear night, I remember the night he first showed me how to locate that sparkly lineup.

And whenever I bake a pie, I can’t help but smile-with-a-capital-S.

©2008, Bonnie Bruno

For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie’s Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com

Mother’s Day is a sweet pause in the life of a family. As a child, it was one of my favorite events. My siblings and I would often pool our collective dollars to buy our mom a piece of pretty glassware for her display shelf. Sometimes, though, Mother’s Day would sneak up on us and we’d improvise.

The year I turned seven, I’d forgotten to save for a present. I remember writing a syrupy poem and presenting it to Mama, along with a Mason jar filled with white trumpet-shaped flowers I’d picked in a field behind our orange orchard. (How was I to know the flowers were stinkweed?) She didn’t seem to notice the noxious odor, and treated that bouquet like lovely roses.

Another year, I made an egg-carton jewelry box for Mother’s Day. I painted it hot pink, then squeezed blobs of Elmer’s glue around each compartment, followed by generous shakes of multicolored glitter. She’s gonna love it, I kept telling myself.

Mama went through grandiose gestures of gratitude, oohing and ahhing my creation. Secretly, I wondered whether she planned to really use it, or if it would just take up space on her dresser as a dust collector.

So I did what any private investigator would do. The next day I tiptoed into her bedroom to see for myself. Easing the lid open, I discovered that she’d filled each egg compartment with her favorite earrings, bracelets, and necklaces.

My snooping came to a halt when I felt my mom plant a kiss on my cheek. “It’s the prettiest jewelry box ever,” she said. “Thank you, honey.”

Under all that paint and glue and glitter sat an ordinary egg carton. The carton had traveled from henhouse to grocery store, and eventually to my teacher’s house. It had ended up in my school classroom, where I’d transformed it into something else; yet, my mother didn’t view it as an ordinary egg carton at all. Mothers are just like that, I figured.

A couple of decades later, Mother’s Day morning found my own young children tiptoeing around our house, preparing to surprise me. I knew better than to climb out of bed early. A surprise takes time, so that’s what I gave them.

Soon they’d tap me on the shoulder and I’d pretend that they’d awakened me from a deep sleep. I’d close my eyes while they led me by the hand to the living room, where crepe paper streamers and a poster-sized Mother’s Day card would transform the room into a celebration. And their daddy would pretend he knew nothing about their plans.

True to form, they pulled off yet another Mother’s Day surprise. The dining room table was set with our blue and white china, and down the middle of the table was a row of vases, each filled with flowers gathered from our flowerbeds. Breakfast consisted of peanut-buttered-and-jellied English muffins, banana slices, and orange juice sipped from crystal goblets.

My Mother’s Day surprises knitted beautiful memories that I treasure to this day. They took planning. Time. A joyful anticipation by those who loved me. In my eyes, each celebration was worth the wait.

God’s surprises are well-timed, too. When I allow Him the freedom to work in my life, I’m never disappointed. His ways are higher and deeper than mine, and He has proven time and again that He loves turning the ordinary into something extraordinary.

Life in Christ is an ongoing adventure well worth the wait.

“You open Your hand and satisfy the desire of every living thing. The Lord is righteous in all His ways, gracious in all His works.” – Psalm 145:16-17 (KJV)

©2008, Bonnie Bruno

For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie’s Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com

How many flowers are you able to name? I recognize common flowers like roses, tulips, mums, violets, lilies, and daffodils, but if you propped me behind the microphone on a game show and drilled me with floral flashcards, my brain would short-circuit.

Botanists claim that they’ve documented more than 270,000 different species of flowers. That’s quite a bouquet! Paleobotanists (those who have dedicated their lives to the study of fossilized plants and animals) have discovered fossilized flowers that resemble magnolias. Imagine the moment a sweet-scented magnolia broke free from its stem and fluttered to the ground. Through a time-consuming process—perhaps from being buried in volcanic ash or sand—that flower’s shape and structural details were later embedded in a rock, which eventually found its way into a museum for visitors to enjoy. The journey is said to have taken thousands of years from tree to display case. God only knows the exact amount of time.

Take a few minutes to read up on the history of your favorite flowers and you might be surprised by how far they’ve come. Did you know, for example, the lowly peony arrived in America with the early settlers? It survived long, cruel winters and scorching summers, poor soil and relentless rain. Yet it flourished, and it has been called the flower that “makes artists of us all.” It will thrive just about anywhere.

Here are a couple more flowery factoids: In 1929, a document about herbal remedies was discovered. Written in Latin, this sixteenth-century record described how the Aztecs in Mexico used dahlias as a prime treatment for epilepsy. Because insulin had not yet been discovered, diabetics were often given a special sugar tonic made from the tubers of dahlias.

Napoleon’s wife, Josephine, always wore violets, so on each anniversary, he would give her a bouquet of the pretty purple blossoms. Before his 1814 exile to the Island of St. Helena, Napoleon had one wish: to visit Josephine’s tomb. After his death, they discovered he was wearing a locket containing violets he’d picked at Josephine’s gravesite.

Like far-reaching flowers, each of us is on a journey. No doubt your life’s journey includes a few proverbial cliffs and canyons, slippery slopes and potholes. But tough times shape us. Trials and tribulations are nothing new; Jesus experienced them, too. I Corinthians 1:3-5 assures us of God’s abiding presence no matter what we encounter: “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also abounds through Christ. (NKJV)

Take time to review your unique life’s journey. Do you see evidence of His faithful provision? shelter from the storm? timely promises from his Word? precious friendships He intentionally planted across your path? Do you recall compassionate smiles He delivered via strangers at the exact moment you needed an encouraging touch?

The journey of life grows sweeter each year, as we pause to acknowledge God’s hand on our shoulder and His light spilling across our path. He’s the fragrant flowers from a loved one, and the arm around your shoulder when you think you can’t go on. He’s the Beginning and the End.

What could be sweeter than that?

©2008, Bonnie Bruno

For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie’s Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com

“Behold, I am the LORD, the God of all flesh.
Is there anything too hard for Me?”
- Jeremiah 32:27

One Easter weekend when I was a teen, someone slipped into our backyard while my family was sleeping. They didn’t count on meeting up with Gretchen, our friendly Keeshond, who probably grabbed the nearest squeaky toy and begged the intruder for a little midnight play. Keeshonds aren’t normally an aggressive breed, and Gretchen’s wide-eyed doggy charm could melt the most hard-shelled dog hater around. Underneath layers of fur beat a heart that would follow you anywhere. And that’s exactly what she must have done.

The next morning, we discovered the gate wide open. The latch was intentionally tricky, and it had taken a long arm, some fancy finger work, and patience to open it in the dark. We searched for over an hour, thinking that Gretchen might have slipped out after the intruder left, to explore our neighborhood. She rarely left the spacious yard. We checked the edges of a nearby highway, in case she’d been hit by a car, but didn’t find her. I imagined her romping from gate to gate, greeting other dogs and having herself a ball.

“There’s a chance she may have been stolen,” my dad decided. “We’ll just keep our eyes out for her and hope she comes home soon.”

My thoughts turned to the day my mom had sneaked that furry pup home from a pet store to surprise my dad. He’d rolled his eyes, pretended to be upset, and asked if she’d lost her mind. We already had a cat, and what-in-the-world-was-she-thinking? But she handed the pup to him for closer inspection, knowing he’d fall instantly in love with her the minute she nuzzled his neck. He did, and she spoiled the whole family as the years went by. I already missed her sweet personality, perky expression, and backward-curling tail that reminded me of a tightly coiled spring. How would I stand never knowing what had happened to her?

After our Easter church service, we headed out to look for Gretchen again, calling her name every few steps. I half expected to find her waiting by her food dish out back. My dad jammed his hands in his pockets and rattled his change-something he did unconsciously when he was deep in thought. “Dogs have good radar. Maybe she’ll find her way home,” he tried to assure me.

Silently I asked God to direct her steps toward home. I didn’t promise to become a missionary in a snake-infested jungle or give up M&Ms for a year. I simply asked the God of the universe to undo what had been done. He’d hung the moon and was an expert at rotating seasons and providing our planet with light and heat; surely He could turn her four paws in the right direction. She’d find her way back-if she wasn’t chained or confined indoors.

A week passed. Two. Three. In my frustration, I eventually stopped praying, and decided that it wasn’t meant to be. I hoped Gretchen was with people who were treating her well, and if they weren’t, I secretly hoped that she’d rebel and bite them so they’d turn her loose.

On a hot July afternoon, my dad and I were talking in the front yard. I started across the street to check our mailbox, when I heard a familiar bark. The bark turned to a high-pitched yap-yap-yap, and I turned to see Gretchen, racing up the middle of the street, her tail curled high over her back. A short length of frayed rope hung from her collar and her once-beautiful gray coat was now tangled around hundreds of cockleburs.

She leapt and danced around me like a prodigal dog, then raced for the backyard gate as if she’d been gone for just an hour instead of months. We filled her dish to the brim with food and water, and hardly took our eyes off her for the rest of the day.

Her footpads were cracked and bloody, her body worn out. She’d lost weight, but hadn’t lost her playfulness. Dad shook his head in amazement. “She’s come a long way. I wish she could tell us what she’s been through.”

Decades later, I’m still floored by the memory of Gretchen’s journey home. With the passing of time, it has become a picture of God’s faithfulness at work. Long after I’d given up searching for our dog, He honored my plea for help. Long after the shock of her disappearance faded from my mind, He was busy working out the details, planning to point her toward home. Through the experience, I came to believe that God takes pure delight in the details of ordinary, everyday life.

I also learned that there’s a priceless beauty in the act of relinquishing my own timeline when I pray–to trust the Lord to work at his own pace, in his own way, for a bigger picture and a higher purpose. That lesson didn’t come naturally; it took an intruder and a dog to drive the message home.

©2008, Bonnie Bruno

For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie’s Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com

I noticed them long before they reached the greeting card aisle. She’d pause every few steps for a deep breath, gripping the brakes of her walker so it wouldn’t fly out from under her. He seemed well acquainted with the routine–a familiar dance that allowed them to hit the mall at their own comfortable pace.

I’d been poring over rows of Valentine’s Day cards. Card shopping requires plenty of time, partly because I’ve spent nearly a decade writing greeting cards for Hallmark and other card publishers, so I’m a little on the picky side; and partly because it’s often hard to find a card that matches what I truly feel.

My least favorite cards begin with, “I know I don’t say it often enough, but…” and end with sugarcoated declarations of undying love. (I figure if you love someone, you won’t need to spring it on him or her thanks to someone else’s words. You’ll show it and say it often. Period.) My favorite cards are simple and succinct. Some are even blank inside.

So as I’m sifting through the sentiments, this elderly couple maneuvers past me. He’s using a cane, and she’s driving a hot-pink walker that must surely glow in the dark. Along one rail of her rig are vinyl stick-on letters that spell, “Shop ‘Til You Drop”. We exchange friendly hellos and they busy themselves with what she calls the “mushy-gushy” Valentine’s Day cards.

I savor a sudden flashback of my parents, who are both in Heaven now. This couple has the same white hair, same sturdy walking shoes, and the same carefully gauged stride, set as a safeguard against taking a tumble. But what really grabbed my attention was the back of his navy blue t-shirt, which reads simply, Psalm 89:1.

She gives a little squeal and points to something on the upper row. “Oh John, look at that,” she says, nodding toward a giant heart-shaped card with a fluted pink border. “It looks like satin. Touch it and see. Is it?”

He adjusts the tilt of his sporty tweed beret. “Is it WHAT?” he asks.

“Is it SATIN,” she says louder. “Look up there next to the ‘For Her’ sign; a big red heart card. See it?”

Mr. Beret squints and leans in for an inspection. “Yes, Sweetie, I do believe it’s satin. If it isn’t, it’s as pretty as satin. Why? You want it?”

She couldn’t take her eyes off the card. “I don’t NEED it; I’ve got boxes of cards, John. Why would I need another? I just think it’s pretty enough to frame, that’s all.” She went on about how she needed to de-clutter the closets, starting with that “silly” card collection. “I think I’ve kept every card I’ve ever received.”

“Well then, how ’bout we just pretend you didn’t see this one?” he says, tossing me a mischievous wink. When she glances away, he reaches for the matching envelope and holds the card behind him, like a kid set on springing a surprise.

I watch them meander up the center aisle, him with the big red heart card behind his back, and her stopping every so often to rest. She taps his shoulder and motions for him to lean down, then whispers something in his ear. He recoils as if he’s been stung, and lets loose with a loud, raspy laugh that draws the stares of a young hand-holding couple in Electronics.

The old couple disappears into a crowded checkout line. I think, What a blessing, to create a loving legacy that outshines the most beautiful Valentine’s card; to share lifelong experiences that leave a history of God’s faithfulness for generations that follow.

Perhaps the referenced verse on John’s t-shirt says it best:

“I will sing of the mercies of the LORD forever. With my mouth will I make known Your faithfulness to all generations.” – Psalm 89:1 (NKJV)

©2008, Bonnie Bruno

For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie’s Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com