Gray stone surrounded the window pane I peeked through, as I noticed their breath that December night. 

At nine years old, I was a greeter; welcoming the homeless into our old church.

The line was long and I knew the inevitable was upon us; the moment we had to shut the door, ending the promise of a warm meal and pew.  

It broke my heart. 

I was introduced to a life of service at a very young age. 

My grandparents always brought me along to help serve “Meals on Wheels”, delivering hot meals to the elderly all over town.

I felt proud, knocking on the door and helping place the tray, all while noting my surroundings. 

We didn’t have a lot, I thought, but we had more than this. 

My parents always provided to those in need, even when it meant they went months without paychecks to provide for their small-business employees.

It was instilled in me that there were always those who had a greater need than our own.

At 17, I served in two orphanages for a month in Ghana.  

I’ve never forgotten it. 

The moment we shut the door. The moment I left and they stayed.

As we enter this season of giving,

I remember. 

I open my heart.

And I give.