A Gift to Remember

Her eyes sparkled with the unfiltered exuberance of a child. She stepped forward, cheeks flushed, and said in a small, excited voice, “I have something for you. But I want you to open it with your husband.”

I was standing in our camp’s large, sunlit dining room. People were moving around, talking, and savoring the final meal of the summer camp season—the last meal on the very last day of the year. I was bone-tired; the word “exhausted” barely captured it.

I thanked her and asked if she really meant for us to open it right then. “Oh, sure,” she replied, the kind of eager reply that makes you smile even when you’re worn out. She handed me a carefully rolled piece of paper tied with string and stood watching, her eyes dancing with anticipation.

My husband was somewhere in the crowd of diners. I found him and brought him back to the little girl, who waited shyly, thrilled to be part of something special. We uncurled the neatly wrapped package together and discovered a check tucked inside. Alongside it was a beautifully written note signed by thirteen families. The note read, in part, “This money is for you… to use… in Hawaii.”

I gasped. Then I cried—right there, in front of God and everyone. It was a simple, quiet moment made enormous by generosity and grace. We had long dreamed, quietly, of someday going to Hawaii. It was a heartfelt wish we had tucked away, not a necessity but a hope: a place we imagined visiting together someday. Now, because of these families and that bright-eyed child, the dream was suddenly within reach.

The gift was more than money. It felt like a miracle: a tangible answer to a small, private longing. We were humbled and overwhelmed with joy. In the middle of noise and laughter and the ordinary bustle of the dining room, we received something that stopped time for us—an “abundantly above” moment that we would carry with us forever.

food to eat,

          a house to shelter us from pelting rain and howling winds,

                  peace, joy, and hope during sad, painful times,

God has always provided for us in practical and gentle ways. He has given us daily provisions, shelter, and comfort in seasons of sorrow. And that day in the dining room, with the sparkly-eyed girl watching us unwrap a note wrapped in string, was an example of provision that felt lavish—a blessing beyond what we expected.

We do not need Hawaii to survive. It is a gift—an excess of kindness that came from many hands and hearts. We accept it with gratitude, knowing it came from the Giver of all good things, and from a community that felt like family in that moment. The graciousness of those families and the joy of the little girl created a memory that will live with us long after the tan fades and the luggage is put away.

We are now joyfully anticipating seven days of warm breezes and white sand. The thought of walking along a beach, listening to waves, and sharing laughter together fills us with grateful excitement. What began as a long-held wish has become a planned trip—made possible by love shown in a simple envelope and a hand-scrawled note.

This is one of those moments I want to tuck into my heart and treasure always. It reminds me that generosity often arrives in humble packages and that small acts of kindness can create lifelong memories. We will carry that dining room scene with us—the chatter of the camp, the sunlight on tables, the little girl’s expectant face—as we board a plane and travel toward a place we dreamed about for so long.

Many of you may have noticed hints of this surprise in an earlier interview; for those who pieced it together, well done. For everyone else, we offer this: gratitude overflowing, a renewed sense of wonder, and a deep appreciation for the people who helped make our dream real.

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