I love to hear my wife say “whoever.” Sometimes I detect my favorite fragrance wafting from the kitchen: strawberry cake. I follow the smell like a bird dog follows a trail until I’m standing over the just-baked, just-iced pan of pure pleasure. Yet I’ve learned to still my fork until Denalyn gives clearance. “Who is it for?” I ask. She might break my heart. “It’s for a birthday party, Max. Don’t touch it!” Or, “For a friend. Stay away.” Or she might throw open the door of delight. “Whoever.” And since I qualify as a “whoever,” I say “yes.”
I so hope you will too. Not to the cake, but to God.