It was the Monday after Easter. With the kitchen finally cleaned up and the lunch dishes stowed away, the girls and I snuggle into the recliner for pre-nap stories. Midway through a little Curious George, the doorbell rings.
I sigh myself up from the chair as the little girls beat me to the door. They peer through the window shutter before I can object.
Two men, one young and one older, stand at our front door.
Stinking solicitors, I think.
As a rule, we don’t give to or buy anything from the people all too frequently ringing our doorbell.
Confident in the safety of our new locked wrought iron security door, I swing the interior door wide.
We’re warmly greeted. Big surprise. The younger man starts talking, introducing himself and the older man. I wait for him to take a breath so I can politely turn them away.
And then I see the familiar logo on their clipboards and binders. I smile and open the security door to be able to make eye contact. The young man continues haltingly to tell me about the program he is in. I listen to him describe this focused program that I know is unlike any other in its intention and duration. This program that actually works.
Speaking more confidently now, he tells me in one glorious sentence how he is new and how he is becoming free.
Excusing myself, I call out to my little monkeys to quit throwing rocks in the front yard, then turn back to him and grin and try to nod encouragingly.
He continues and tells me, noticeably humbled at the notion, how other people’s gifts have paid his way and that now he asks for this help for others.
I know it is worthy. A whisper. Give.
Moments later, as I write out a check, I ask them both about where they are in the program. They are mere months in, but miles away from where they were. I press for more details. They share humbly and openly about broken families back home and paths of wreckage becoming prayerfully restored. Somehow in the afternoon sun they seem glow just a little. They exude graceful rescue.
Tell them. Encourage them.
And as I hand over the check I look down a bit and gulp.
I tell them that I too am a life so very changed. That I’m constantly amazed and so unworthy of the way He keeps making something beautiful. They grin and breathe out praise. We’re all family now; talking about a treacherous path made solid and new. Of fresh hope and days brimming with wonder.
We talk a bit more about the goodness and their program and their up-coming transitions.
I marvel briefly at the sometimes surreal nature of the suburban dream that I’m now living: a house, a job, a marriage, two little ones, and one more on the way. It’s bizarre in its normalcy and enormous in good after the muddy darkness from which I was rescued.
They have a future.
As I call in the little girls, we wish each other well. There are blessings and thanks and warm confidence in each others’ prayers.
I close the door and I know that this is Easter. Two walking miracles knocking on my very door.
I give because so many give to me.
Because He gave. Because He came. Because He died. Because He rose.
Because He lives even now.
It’s Easter every single day as He changes lives. As His resurrection makes them brand sparkling new.