Every once and a while, I’ll get a note that strikes me as different. Something about it sets it apart. I got one yesterday. Maybe it had something to do with my third book, ‘When Crickets Cry.’ I’m not sure. Anyway, twice today I have found myself clicking on this blog—written by a lady I don’t know and have never met—and reading about a boy that’s a week old. Each time, I have heard myself saying, “Lord, can you please help this one. Please…” I realize there are countless stories like this. We each have been touched. It’s just that this one has touched me. Maybe you’re reading this because you want to know what I’m up to. Currently, I’m editing my 9th novel, but, in truth, I’m distracted. I’m thinking about Bennett. Maybe it’s the picture. If you’d like to read Bennett’s story, I don’t think his folks would mind. And, I think they’d welcome your prayers.
As for me, I’ve been here most of the afternoon, and my backside has had all it can take—as has my brain—so I’m putting this thing to sleep and going for a run, where my forty-something year old body will creak and pop and try to burn off the desert I ate at lunch. But that’s not the reason I’m running. I’m going for a run so the Lord can remind me that he’s known Bennett a very long time and that he’s intimately acquainted with his heart and that while I see a picture of a swollen boy lying helpless on white sheets with tubes running from his body, He sees his precious child, resting in the palm of his hand.