BOLD MOMENTS

One morning many years ago when I was a new believer, I was at my desk, surrounded by theology books and notebooks, deep into writing about God. The house was quiet. I felt so focused.

I turned on the light switch and nothing happened. It was 5 a.m., perfectly dark outside, and I was in the garage, getting ready to run on my treadmill before going to work.

When I was younger, I prayed for something that seemed so good that I knew God would hear and answer my prayer. I prayed fervently. I asked others to pray fervently. I made sure to end each prayer with “in Jesus’ name” to give it all the power I could. I didn’t want to forget the “password” that would unlock heaven’s “yes.”

My father didn’t have a name until he was several weeks old. He was the youngest of 10 children, and everyone just called him Izzie. “Izzie wet? Izzie hungry?” Finally, he was named Joe, not even Joseph.

Joe’s parents, my grandparents, were farmers and sugarmakers from Ohio. I can still see and smell the maple syrup bubbling in large vats in their sugarhouse, but let me not meander as that’s not what this story is about.

Abigail had to make a quick decision. Angry men with swords would soon be on their way to her home. And if goes against her husband’s wishes, she would have to act in secret. Oh, there was also the chance that she would die doing what was right.

Some moments in life call for big, dramatic courage—a giant to face, a mountain to climb, a hard truth to speak out loud.

But most days aren’t like that.

Most days are quieter: