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I was standing in the pet store when my phone finally decided to tell me that someone had left me a message. Yesterday. “This is Becca. I can’t read your hand writing on the prayer request card. Can you call me with your friend’s name?”

Our church secretary was working on the bulletin and prayer list. I’d just pop down the road and talk to her as soon as I checked out.

The problem was that by the time I made it down the road, she had already printed 100 copies of the prayer list. With the wrong name. Truth be told, the version that she included isn’t a name at all unless it belongs to some wacky video game character.

“I hope you’ll tell the pastor I called you.”

I hadn’t planned to discuss it with him at all. He’d gotten the name wrong during the Sunday service. If I bring it up, it will just embarrass him. What’s the point? I’m fairly certain that when the congregation prays for my friend, God isn’t going to sit in the clouds scratching his metaphorical head. “I don’t know anyone by that name.” Clearly, I need to work on my cursive.

I finally realized she was expecting me to be mad. In spite of the fact that my phone is a slow poke and my handwriting questionable. She probably gets griped at quite a lot.

Outrage over an elaborately goofed up name? Thanks, but no thanks. I’m going to save my outrage for things that deserve it – obscenely
priced medications, homelessness and hunger. The goofed up name I’m going to turn it into a funny anecdote. She hates nicknames and gets annoyed when nurses call her honey. This is going to crack her up. Thank you, God, for another chance to help her and her sons smile.



Have a Mary Little Christmas

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