I’d love to tell you I had some wise word ready for her this time. The way I never had one ready the day she took our kitchen.
I didn’t. Not yet.
What I had was a roaster of hotdish that needed to come out of the oven in four minutes. And a young widower upstairs who needed to eat something warm before he fell down.
So what I said was, “Tamra, grab that stack of plates and start carrying them out to the tables. We’re short on hands and long on minutes.”
And she did it.
She did it without one word of argument. She took an apron off the same hook we had. She pushed her sleeves up just like ours.
And for the next forty minutes, the pastor’s wife who’d taken our kitchen away stood right beside us, ladling hotdish onto paper plates for a boy who’d lost everything.
