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It had been a mild, if slightly cloudy day, when I headed out to drive my Mobile Meals route.

This organization has always held a special place of affection within my heart because I know what terribly important work is done each and every morning within our particular chapter—not including the efforts to raise the funds to cover the $175,000 it costs each month to feed the people in our county alone. From the administrative offices that oversee the logistics to the volunteers within the kitchen each morning, cooking, boxing and delivering to specific drop-off places for another team of volunteers to drive them to those in need.

My own role as a monthly driver is such a small one and sometimes I have to remind myself that it is indeed a privilege, and not an inconvenience, when my turn to drive stumbles into other plans that I have to schedule. I don’t like to rush during my route. If someone, particularly those who are housebound with few visitors, would like to chat, I enjoy that opportunity.

But on this day I knew I’d be chasing my tail to try to get everything done that needed doing. There were other things at the farm that needed immediate attention as well as appointments with the vet—the sort of day that finds you standing over the kitchen sink eating your breakfast before grabbing your jacket and dashing out the door.

It didn’t help that there were a couple of new additions to my route that I, having no sense of direction, became lost in trying to find. Or that the parking lot to another resident was blocked by a road crew doing street repair obliging me to park a distance away and sprint to their door, only to wait an age and find they weren’t at home.

Frustration was percolating within me as I made a dash back to my truck and checked the time. “You’d think they’d call the office and let them know they’re going out,” I muttered to myself, thinking all sorts of judgmental, unChristian thoughts as I realized now that I was really running late.

Turning onto next to the last street on my route I wound my way along deep woods on each side that suddenly opened onto the clearing where a modest little house stood—the home of an elderly, frail lady who always appeared behind her front door with a sweet smile of gratitude.

However, on this morning she was outside and on the arm of a family member, perhaps an adult granddaughter. The gift of this vision was flooded with light as the sun broke through the clouds and illuminated both the curls of her white hair and the azaleas that had exploded within her pocket-handkerchief garden.

“We’re taking a little walk this morning to enjoy the flowers,” said the younger woman as she steadied her kindly charge.

“I can see why.” I smiled.

From behind them with the exuberance of a puppy burst a small child, maybe 5 or 6, running straight towards me. In the grasp of her left fist she held a jar of liquid and in her right, carried aloft, she held a circular wand from which released a stream of enormous bubbles, each filled with rainbows of color, behind her.

The entire scene was what I refer to as a ‘snapshot moment:’ those sights that once witnessed leave an indelible print on our brain for life. Evergreen, crystal clear and easily recalled, whether it be the look of adoration from a loved one, the unbridled joy of a dog bounding across the lawn, or the moment that was an immediate balm for my soul: the wreath of sunlit bubbles that encircled us all by a laughing child under an impossibly blue spring sky.