One summer, our family spent two glorious weeks resting and refreshing on the beaches of the South Carolina coast. On the last day, while sitting peacefully in my green lounger, umbrella overhead and intriguing book in hand, a little girl stole my attention. Her squeals of delight filled the ocean air, captivating my heart. She could not have been more than five years old. I watched as this blonde-haired girl attempted to tackle the waves licking the shore. Placing her fingers securely around her pint-sized board, she ventured into the ocean, a few more feet each time, armed only with the hope of riding in on a wave.

Rahab brushed her long, chestnut-brown hair and pulled it taut at the nape of her neck. She tied it firmly with a crimson ribbon of fabric and felt her shoulders twinge from holding so much tension. Her hands dropped heavy into her lap as her frame exhaled deeply. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to be somewhere else…any place where she mattered. 

I’ve lost it. Dropped it. Left it on top of my car. Drenched it in the incoming tide. And, horror of horrors, heated it up in the microwave in place of my coffee.

I chuckled when I noticed them lying on my kitchen counter. The lost luggage tags shouted “RUSH” in bright red letters, but the garment bag had other plans.

I’ll never forget the moment.

I was driving down a busy road when a church sign caught my attention. In bold, red, all-capital letters, it asked:

“IS PRAYER A WASTE OF TIME?”

As a little girl, I remember sitting on the floor while my mom worked through the tangles in my long blonde hair. Eyes squeezed shut and fists clenched, I fought the urge to grab the comb and take over. Detangling was not optional—but it was painful.

Years later, when I found myself holding the comb for my own daughter, I had a newfound appreciation for one simple thing: conditioner.