As we walk through our front gate, the kids on the street swarm around us. We have been visiting the place where we got married, a dusty Middle Eastern town where the children stay up late and play football on the vacant plot next to our house. We pause to chat with them; “Messi or Ronaldo?”, they ask, knowing full well that my husband is Argentine. They tease him and several loudly claim that Ronaldo is the better player. We laugh with them but beg to disagree. “For sure, it is Messi!”. The World Cup is underway, and these kids are rallying around their football heroes, excited to watch each match unfold. 

I have been thinking about what it means to have a hero.  At the beginning of the year, I decided to do a deep dive into a hero of the faith. Perhaps I could do this every year, I thought. Pick a hero and do my research; read their books, learn from their convictions and watch how they lived them out in weakness and in crisis. 

Last month, I had the opportunity to attend an art retreat in northeast Tasmania with my sister. She is an artist, and a very good one at that. My own artistic experience, however, was limited to high school art class, a paint-by-numbers kit, and a paint-and-sip evening with colleagues.

The retreat had been pitched to me as a relaxed and flexible do-what-you-want kind of gig. So rather than feel daunted by trying something completely new, I devised a simple plan: I would discover a hidden natural talent and amaze everyone, or failing that, I’d use the time to get some writing done.

There they were on our front doorstep, just like her text message said they would be. A box of donuts. There were six of them. Krispy Kremes in different flavours—and it was lunchtime. At that moment I thanked the Lord for my mother-in-law, that she loves others through gift giving, and that this particular gift arrived when it did: Husband away for the week, house in a state, kids fighting.