Perhaps it is because I was brought into this world on the prayers of my father, and God honored his petitions, giving me the breath of life.

Maybe it’s from looking up into the stars on a clear Montana night, my soul filled to overflowing with the brilliance of their majesty, and wondering how they could be. Where did they come from? How far did they go? It’s a question no one can answer, and now I think we are not supposed to. It is a mystery, like so many others of God, who only lets us see in tiny bits the impossibles and inscrutables that confound the mind of man.

But when I grew old enough to read and listen, whenever I heard of that heavenly realm, I reached out to grab it and hold on. So that I could come closer to the Spirit of God. Stories of miracles. Signs and wonders. Unimaginable healings. Things which could not happen, and yet did. Like Mary, I squirreled them down in my heart to remember.

After I married and had our family, I began to write. A column of life on our farm, little articles for magazines and newspapers. Nothing too great or big, until the day I caught a sliver of light from behind the veil and God gave me an order I could not refuse.