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.
