By Sylvia Melvin
Not too long ago, fate introduced my husband and me to a woman I never expected to meet. Our church youth pastor called and asked if we had time to drive a client to a shelter (he didn’t say what kind) in Loxley, Alabama—about an hour’s drive from our home outside Pensacola, Florida.
My husband had answered the call and asked him to hang on while he checked with me to see if we had any appointments that would keep us from going. After a momentary discussion, we agreed we were free to help, and we set off to pick her up.
For some reason, I expected to find a young, unwed, teenage girl in advanced months of a surprise pregnancy. Sara was none of that. Instead, we were introduced to a well-groomed, attractive woman who, in my opinion, looked closer to thirty. The three bags of luggage we carried to our truck indicated she intended to stay at the shelter for an extended period.
In an attempt to be friendly, I tried to converse with her as we drove through Pensacola.
“Do you live in Loxley?”
“I’ve never been there.”
“Where is home?”
She offered no further information.
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