We would sit for hours, Doris and I.  Hands wrapped around coffee cups.  I could be anywhere at this moment, but here is where I WANT to be.

A high school girl who longed to be accepted, to be invited in to any group, I felt most at home at Doris’s kitchen table.  I was only there initially to ride to school with her son.  They lived two doors down.  He wasn’t quite ready sometimes when I arrived, which meant I got to know his mother.  A tiny little lady with the energy of a roadrunner, I would watch her bounce back and forth between the table and the kitchen sink and then out to the patio to nurture the beautiful greenery she had planted in pots, and then back to the table again.

She shared stories that fascinated me.  I was always anxious to hear more.  Doris had grown up working the tobacco fields of North Carolina.  She loved her roots.  She valued family deeply because of her roots.  I could listen to her stories for hours.  Stories of her love for her Daddy.  Her lessons learned from hours in the kitchen with Mama.  But the school rang a late bell we needed to beat, so it meant I had to come back for more.  Some nights I would go back over and sit late into the night just asking questions and listening to more stories.

I’m not sure when it happened or if it was woven into every conversation and I didn’t consciously make note of it, but as I look back I can plainly see that her stories always came back to Jesus.

I wonder if I had ever heard His name before she spoke it?

I wasn’t aware that Jesus in her was what drew me.  It took me many years before I would uncover such a precious secret.

But today, thirty some years later, her relationship, her very personal relationship with Christ is among the few of the women who by the way they lived, first made Christ attractive to me.  The first few years of my marriage I would go back to visit her just to learn more about how to apply the Word and my relationship with Christ to my marriage relationship.

I treasure these memories as seeds sown into my life by the hand of God.

The Lord saw my unformed substance; each of my days were written before one of them came to be.  (Psalm 149:16).  He was the One who formed me.  It was no surprise to God that my path would cross this path of this woman of God.  I am thankful today for the ability to trace the hand of God over my life.

Dear Heart to Heart Reader,

Have you ever taken the time to consider who God wrote into the story of Your life to draw you to Himself?

I would love to hear.

To read the first story of Impact for the Journey click here.

This post originally posted on february 27, 2012

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