Peace through service.

"I don't think I'll be able to lift these bags into my trunk" she said to the store employee at the door. "Could someone help me?" I was pushing my cart right next to hers. "Sure," I interjected, "I can help you." A profusely thankful woman was sure I had dropped out of the sky in a bad world. She softly wondered to us both where her car was, and how we hear so many bad things about the world, and that there are some nice people left. I loaded the three salt bags in her trunk. "Should I give you a dollar?" she wondered aloud. "Of course not." She paused. "Have a nice life," she told me bravely, uncertain they were the right words for the little time we shared. "You're welcome, I'm happy to help."

There was nothing stereotypical or cliched about this encounter; its telling makes it a cheek-pincher.  I wasn't a Boy Scout, she wasn't a frail old woman, we weren't solving world problems. Wouldn't anyone in the same place have done the same thing? 9 of 10, I'll wager. The prize in this Cracker-Jack box-story is that God grants gifts continuously in the face of whatever color we are currently painting life. For her certainly. But also for someone not particularly good at searching out ways to help others. I was glad that God had dropped this small gift on me. The gift of being able to serve.