They say smell is the best trigger for memories.

I don’t know what it looked like or felt like or smelled like the first time you were introduced to Jesus, but for me it was in a dimly lit hallway, in the basement of my grandparent’s church with a woman who’s name I can’t recall today. But I do remember the smell. Mothballs. She was an older woman. At least 65. Short hair that was mostly silver, but scattered throughout the curls, some of the silver strands had long since lost their shine and were now a pale white.

In the years that followed my relationship with God was…well shallow at best. Truth was, I had become stagnant in my faith and content in my sin. No. Content isn’t the right word. Lavished in my sin is more like it. I flaunted it. I adorned myself with it as if it were a badge of honor that should be shared proudly with the world. Unapologetically me.

He was alive. PRAISE GOD! He was alive. He actually managed to walk away from the whole accident with nothing more than some serious scrapes and bruises.Well, some serious scrapes and bruises and a whole new outlook on life. Though we didn’t talk about it much, we were both very aware of how close we