There are people who leave a lasting mark upon our hearts. My
husband’s mother was such a person. Joyce’s faith was
unshakable. It saddened us when we found out she had cancer.
Certainly the God she loved wouldn’t let this happen. But Joyce
didn’t share our concern. “God is good,” she said, quoting from
her favorite prayer.
After Joyce’s death I took home the Bible
she’d left me. Taped inside was a yellowed paper with that
favorite prayer she’d typed so long ago. “God is good,” it
began. I tucked the Bible safely into my bookcase where I
reached for it often.
Ten years later, while we were away on vacation, our house
burned down. As bad as we expected things to be, we were shocked
when we returned. Nothing was left. Not a stick of wood. Nothing
had survived. I reached for my husband’s hand. “How could God
let this happen to us?”
Something fluttered in the breeze—a faded piece of paper. An
old grocery list? Notes I’d made while packing for our vacation?
The paper settled by my feet. Whatever it was, to me it felt
precious—the one thing that had survived the fiery destruction.
I picked it up. “God is good,” I read. Joyce’s faith calmed
my heart. I knew God would surely bring us a brighter tomorrow.
