We had just returned from living overseas. We were staying with my parents and waiting until I gave birth to our fifth child before officially making our next move.

I would walk their neighborhood often – with a baby in the stroller and a baby in my belly – and I would sometimes see a certain neighbor walking, too.

I smiled each time I saw her because it reminded me of one of the first scenes of Disney’s 101 Dalmatians – the one where the various owners pass along the sidewalk with their pets. She was a petite little lady that held the leash of a petite little dog.

I never minded when our walking routes crossed. I’ll be honest . . . as an introvert, I have been guilty of a quick “reroute” when spotting someone even a long distance away. (Yes, I confess.)

But I would always welcome the times she and I met. We would exchange pleasantries, commenting about the weather or her dog or my expanding waistline.

Once, we even had an at length conversation about the many years she had lived overseas, too – she and her husband – and the deep love she had for the people in that particular country. No doubt she had left part of her heart across the ocean.

Well, that was about 4 years ago.

Recently, we are visiting my parents again. As we pull into their neighborhood, we pass an elderly man outside his house, sitting on a short cement wall that separates his driveway from a bed of azaleas, and he is conversing with his dog.

I remember the little dog, though I do not recall the look of the man. It is the little dog the petite lady would walk, and this man is her husband. Sadly, my parents inform me that she recently passed away.

Well, we arrive at my parents’ house, settle in, and our children all disperse. I take advantage of the extra help and set out for a walk with our youngest on my back.

As I buckle the baby carrier, my train of thought runs back to Africa – how women wear their babies with a colorful cloth and a couple strong knots. I could never tie knots like that, so I resort to my carrier with buckles and straps.

My mind also travels back to conversations with that sweet lady. I walk the familiar road and replay some of our interactions.

My little girl and I have almost made a full circle around the neighborhood when we pass the house where just the elderly man and the little dog live now . . .

And I feel a tug to go knock on the door.

I resist at first – knowing good and well how I feel about impromptu visitors at my door, and this whole coronavirus thing, and he’s an elderly man . . . I list the excuses to keep on walking.

But the tug to go to the door is strong, and I hesitantly submit.

At the first knock, I hear the little dog faintly barking from the back of the house. My levels of discomfort rise, but my little girl is patient, so I feel I should follow her example.

No one came to the door, so I uncharacteristically knock again. This time, I can hear pitter-patters of doggy toenails on the must-be wooden floors inside, and the bark is now next to the window by the door.

My heart-rate rises, but I feel the Lord say, “Just wait.”

Finally, I hear footsteps. The bolt unlocks, the knobs turns, and the elderly man I had seen sitting on the wall earlier opens the door. It feels strange, especially since I have never officially met him nor seen his face up close.

Just his head pokes from around the door. He says he had been in the bath tub – maybe he was just in a towel, I don’t know. I was, no doubt, blushing and now even more uncomfortable than before.

But I resort to what does feel comfortable – an apology. I apologize for disturbing him, and I quickly introduce myself. I am happy that he knows my parents, and I dive right into my reason for stopping.

“I heard your wife passed away. I am really sorry.”

He gratefully receives the sympathy. And then gentle words begin to flow regarding his admiration of his wife, accompanied by tears of his love.

I feel as though I have a front row seat at her memorial service.

He talks about the years they had lived overseas and his time as a pastor and how his wife was the best missionary.

He talks in detail about the day she passed away there at home and how he never thought he could sleep in their bedroom again.

And then he testifies to the peace that God has poured out on him and the comfort he has received as a child of a loving Heavenly Father.

And then he looks me straight in the eyes and says something I will never forget. I have replayed it often since.

“Do you know what I have learned through all of this?

He let his words hang out there. I didn’t respond with words of my own but with eager eyes.

“It’s all true.

Everything I’ve ever taught others about God and life with Him is true. During my wife’s dying days, I am living proof.”

Oh, his words are weighty – falling from the air like a heavy box – but then just as quickly rising like weightless balloons of celebration to which I responded,

“Yes! Yes, sir. AMEN.”

He nods his head, and I mimic him.

“That’s so beautiful,” I say, not knowing how else to respond.

We lock eyes and stand there silently for another moment, as if everything that needed saying had been said.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll go now. Have a good rest of your day.”

As I turn on the path through his front yard leading back to the road, I ask the Lord to turn up the volume of His Spirit’s voice in my heart – I don’t ever want to miss an opportunity like that. And then I ask that He give me grace to spend my life well, to pour out my life for His glory, just like this precious lady did.

Quiet, steady, day in/day out, often tucked-away faithfulness – like this man testified about his wife – equals a life well spent, and I pray for grace to not waste mine.

Because it’s all true.