My grandparents are retired and have a winter home in northern Arizona. Sitting on the porch swing a slight breeze brushes through my hair. A sweet flowery smell fills there property… no flowers to be found. In the middle of the desert, an hour from the nearest town… we’ve named it the healing place. Mending broken hearts, foot surgeries, cancer and many other ailments. It’s also the place where my grandfather met God… Probably not for the first time, but this time he let Him in.
Thanking the Lord before dinner last night, I tried to remember if I’d ever heard my grandfather pray before. Arthritis keeps him away from his beloved workshop but not from books – he read through the Bible in just a few months. My grandma, who has been a God-fearing women longer than their 42-year marriage, smiles politely while dancing for joy in her head as he blesses our meal. God is at work in this healing place.
My gmaw (grandma) talks about Faria like a member of the family and gets frustrated when I look at her puzzled. Faria stares back at me from a photo on the fridge. Hoping someday I will go visit Faria in Kenya, grandma writes her sponsor child another letter. Faria’s story is sadly not all that uncommon. Her and her sister are orphaned and living with family members. I like to think that having her photo here will some how send her love from this healing place to her whenever she needs it.