I’m sitting at my desk at home, and just to my right, tacked to the wall with a finishing nail is a little paper strip with four photos of my daughter Ellie and me. You know what I’m talking about – they’re from one of those timed, carnival photo-booths, where you have to change positions, props and faces super-quick, or you’ll miss one of them. Or all of them.
As a girl, I believed in everything. Santa would come at Christmas, the Easter Bunny at Easter, my teeth would be silently taken by the Tooth Fairy, the Devil had horns and a pitchfork, and God was some man in a white robe who wore sandals and was constantly judging every decision I made. That’s what my imagination saw based on what I heard around me.
When I was eight years old, I found out Santa wasn’t real. Guess what that meant for me?
This experience made me want to hold everything I own more loosely and trust God more genuinely than ever before. I mean, I can obviously see Him in the physical blessings of my life, so why can’t I trust Him with my heart?
On the last day, I watched as the father of the house, who had been helping the team build in every way, received