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As a reporter for the Herald over here in Tennessee, I attend a lot of events. Almost every day, whether it’s 7 am, 11 am, 4 pm, or 6 pm (always one of those times), I sling my camera over my shoulder, strap on my press pass, and head out the door. 

The events are sometimes large, and I cover at least two a month that cater to about 200 people. And every time I cover these catered events, I see the people dressed in all black who work for the catering company, trying to sneak around quietly and unnoticed (I guess I am too, always in the back with my camera), but I tell them the food looks nice. They did a wonderful job setting it up. Hey, sometimes, I even help carry their stuff back to the kitchen with them at the end of the event. 

Last November, if you don’t recall, I was out of a job and needed something temporary to hold me over until I moved to Tennessee in April. So I linked up with a catering company in Greenville. I wore all black. I was to move around quietly so I wouldn’t disturb the people eating the food I put out. I was not to talk too loudly, not speak to guests, and not have a conversation with a co-worker where guests could see me. Dare I mention that they didn’t let us eat food during our shifts? (Dare I also mention that I worked 10 hours once without a meal?) 

Sorry, this is quickly turning into the same text I sent the lady who hired me. 

Let’s fast forward past waitressing last winter and marriage in the spring, and let’s land right here when I’m standing at the back of these events, camera in hand, dressed now mostly in tans and whites and browns. 

And I know just how much work has gone into that beautiful spread laid out beside me. The people dressed in black woke up before the sun to make this perfect––and who knows if they’re eating?

I’m reminded every day of how the Lord has provided for me. I left my waitressing job and was provided a job immediately at a newspaper. I come home with a deadline that’s not-so-pressing, I’m able to make dinner, go on a run (yes, I do that now, and I’m sure one of these days, you’ll get a column about it), I can read a book (27 so far this year!), and I can spend precious time with my husband. 

My husband, who is the most amazing person in the world. My apartment, which is spacious, cozy, and absolutely perfect. My neighborhood, which is surrounded with trees and children and dogs. 

I don’t know whether you believe in God, dearest reader. But somebody wrote your story before you were born, and let me tell you: it wasn’t you. 

Characters must be created. Plots must be pre-written. There is always an ending in mind. (Take it from an author.) But my story? It’s very obvious that The Author wrote this one. Otherwise, things don’t just fall into place like they do in the movies. 

So when I’m standing in the back of the room with the caterers in all black, I stand WITH them. Make sure they know they can speak to me, and make sure they know their work is appreciated. And at the end of it all? I’m grateful God places me in this position often, reminding me that His work was done to get me to where I am.