I was elbow-deep in potato salad on a soft spring Sunday when life quietly unstitched itself. Marcus was on the porch, coaxing smoke and sizzle out of the grill. The air smelled like lemon and charcoal and easy plans. Then came the knock. Darlene stood there in a pastel church suit with matching shoes and a smile stretched tight enough to squeak. She pressed a Tupperware of lemon bars into my hands like an offering and clasped my fingers like we were about to pray. “Sweetheart,” she said, eyes bright. “I’ve prayed on this for months. The Lord told me...
Continues…