Or when I started a petition to get junk food out of the vending machines, and Kat and Ellie rigged my locker with an avalanche of fruit pies and potato chips.

But when I asked Hannah Riggs to work with us on a social studies project—rivalry and its impact on society—they didn’t see the humor.

Kat glared. “Ah, Toni, she’ll probably try to convert us.”

“It’ll be fine,” I promised. “She said so herself. Got it straight from God.”

I didn’t worry about being converted. I’d been friendly but not friends with Hannah since we first met in ninth grade. She was open about her faith but not in your face. She wore her hair in a tidy French braid. She wore knee-length skirts and collared blouses, loose sweaters and jeans (no patches, not faded), and a cross with everything. She said grace before eating lunch—even the cream of mushroom soup.

We went to her church’s “harvest fest” that Halloween. Everyone was so glad to meet me; the next day my face ached from all that smiling. Never again, I vowed to myself.

So her response to my invitation to join our college social studies project was typical. “Let me pray about it,” she said when I asked that morning.

By afternoon, she had the answer: “I’d like to join your group, and I think God’s OK with it.”

We decided to meet in the afternoon, with God’s go-ahead, to brainstorm ideas. It was one of the few things on which we agreed.

“Let’s do a celebrity feud,” Kat said. “I saw it on FanScene.com that—”

“Oh, please,” I countered. “No one cares who Britney Spears is fighting with.”

“It might be hard to find the social impact,” Hannah rephrased, smiling at Kat.

“I was thinking of political rivals,” I said. “Political fights are meaty stuff.”

Kat rolled her eyes. “To you, maybe.”

“Rivalry makes me think of sports,” Ellie chimed. “We could do something like the impact of the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry on baseball.”

Kat and I exchanged a look. I sighed. “Any ideas, Hannah?”

“Well, I would say Christianity and secularism . . . ”

Now Kat and Ellie exchanged looks.

Hannah smiled again. “But why don’t we pick a topic we all know a little about? That way we’ll all contribute something, and we’ll all learn something.”

That approach was unusual for us. “I like it,” I said.

“I guess it’s fair,” Kat conceded.

Brainstorming Blowout
We started throwing out ideas but still stuck with our favorites: Kat with the celebrity of the moment, me with social issues, Ellie with sports. Except for Hannah. “What about inventors?” she prodded. “Or businesspeople? They’re always competing.”

“Bill Gates and Steve Jobs!” I exclaimed. “The guys who founded Microsoft and Apple.”

Ellie faked a yawn.

“Maybe something more people can relate to?” Hannah suggested.

“Fast-food places,” Ellie offered. “The big thing now is tie-ins with sporting events.”

“And with movies,” Kat added.

“And anything to push their stuff with the kids,” I muttered.

“It could be a good topic.” Hannah looked at me. “If we can be fair.”

We decided to do some research and meet at the Java Joint on Monday to work out the details. We got up to leave. Hannah settled in with a paperback.

“Uh, you need a ride, Hannah?” I asked.

“My dad is picking me up after work. Meanwhile, I have plenty of reading and homework to keep me busy.”

I couldn’t just leave her there. “I’ll give you a lift, if you want. This can be a lousy place to get anything done.”

She laughed. “Thanks, Toni. I think better sitting on my bed with my iPod. Do you have a phone so I can call him?”

“Use mine,” Kat said.

Hannah’s Family
“That was a great idea you had,” I said as Hannah navigated the way to her house. “Kat and Ellie are my best friends, but you saw how we work together. We’re like three sled dogs pulling in different directions.”

“Thanks. My mom taught me that. When my little brothers argue over what DVD to watch, she’ll say, ‘Can someone help me sort these tiles?’ She makes mosaics. They stop fighting and start cooperating. I use it a lot at the church nursery.”

I glanced her way. “You wouldn’t be implying we act like 5-year-olds?”

Hannah just sort of stared out her window.

I let it drop. “So you have brothers?”

She nodded. “Paul and Silas. They’re twins. They’re 10. I think my parents gave them those names so they’d be friends, but it didn’t work.”

I laughed. “Don’t knock it. I grew up with two older brothers. I had more fun mixing it up with them . . . not physical fights, more of a battle of wits. It taught me to stand up for myself, too. I gave as good as I got.”

Hannah grinned. “You still do, Toni.”

We came to Hannah’s house, a small, bright-yellow rectangle with white shutters. A tent made from blue plastic sheeting and a wading pool, tilted upside down to drain, almost filled a postage stamp-sized lawn. Knee-high orange marigolds ran riot in the garden around the porch.

“Do you want to come in?”

I didn’t but couldn’t refuse. “Sure.”

At the back door, her mood grew sober. “I should tell you, Toni. Mom was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis last year. Most days are pretty good. But some things can look scary if you’re not expecting it.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t—if she doesn’t feel like company . . .”

“Then she’ll excuse herself,” Hannah said. “She made it clear: She won’t let her illness make anyone feel unwelcome in our home.”

An Inside Peek
The Riggs’ kitchen resembled their yard: cluttered. A microwave, toaster, breadbox and set of canisters lined the counter. The walls were hung with coats, oven mitts, keys and a calendar. Even the refrigerator was hidden behind drawings, notes, lists and a church newsletter.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Hannah offered. “Apple juice? Iced tea?”

“Tea sounds good.” Brainstorming had left me thirsty.

“Hannah?” A voice called from the next room.

Hannah peered through the doorway. Her face lit up. “She’s working. It’s a good day.”

We took our tea into the living room. A woman sat in a wheeled walker before a drafting table in the bright sun pouring through the picture window. She wore a gold sweatshirt and flowing patchwork skirt. Brown hairs escaped from a long, loose ponytail.

Hannah made the introductions.

“Forgive my appearance,” Mrs. Riggs affected a fashionably bored tone. “Vogue cancelled the photo shoot, so I figured, ‘Why bother?’ ”

The work on the table caught my attention. It was an image still taking shape, like a jigsaw puzzle in white tile: a lamb on a green field, lying with knees tucked. “Impressive.”

“Just a little something I’ve been playing at—forever.” Mrs. Riggs grinned.

Hannah beamed. “You should see her other things—except she gives them all away. This one’s for our pastor. She did a descending dove for our church baptistery. You’ve probably seen the street address on city hall.

I recalled the 6-inch black numbers and letters, bordered by paisley, earth-tone waves. “You did that?”

“Many moons ago. When the flesh was more willing. It doesn’t take much skill. Just patience. And perseverance.” Mrs. Riggs nodded at a nearby loveseat. “Sit. I’ll prove it.”

An Unforgettable Lesson
I sank into a sagging cushion, after moving a cardboard knight’s shield painted silver with a gold cross.

She sighed. “This doubles as the boys’ playroom. So their toys double as decor.”

She resumed her work, explaining, “The pattern is one of the boys’ Sunday school take-homes. They cut it out and traced it on the plywood. Hannah cuts the tiles.”

She smeared a section of the mesh with glue and plucked a triangle of tile with tweezers, then positioned it on the curve of the lamb’s ear. She described the techniques and materials of the craft in fascinating detail, more taken with the art than with her own skills.

“How long will a piece like this take?” I asked.

“As long as God wants,” she said. “When the body cooperates, I work. When my nervous system goes on vacation, I give Him glory just by reflecting on His other blessings. Either way, I can’t hurry. All in God’s perfect time.”

I wondered, in the silence that followed, if I could face her life with such serenity, such assurance—the disease, the uncertainty, the never knowing from day to day. The thought chilled me.

Hannah coughed lightly. “Proverbs 31 talks about a noble wife. One verse says, ‘Let her works bring her praise at the city gate.’ When I was little, I used to imagine Mom’s mosaics hung on that welcome sign the city put up where Route 64 comes into town. Those were her ‘works,’ right? Now I see it means actions, not things. Good deeds and kindness bring her praise. And give God glory.”

A cuckoo clock chirping 5 o’clock startled me. “Speaking of work, I need to be at the bookstore by 6.”

“Now that you know the way, don’t be a stranger,” Mrs. Riggs said. “Hannah, wrap some of those cookies you made. No one leaves here empty-handed.”

In the kitchen, Hannah put a few cookies in a used produce bag. “I don’t know about these,” she admitted. “I had to bring something to youth group, but I’m not a baker. I even used a mix, but I don’t think they came out right.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

She grinned. “I’m sure you will. And you’ll tell me what you think.”

I twisted the plastic bag between my fingers. “Your mom . . . she . . . copes very well.”

Hannah nodded slowly. “God gives her strength.”

“And you, too? You never let on—I never would have guessed . . .”

“Mom won’t have it,” Hannah declared. “She says we have to be strong for her, but that’s to give us courage. She’s the strong one. We just follow her example. She worries that I spend too much time helping her. But I want to be with her even when she doesn’t need help, just to be touched by her witness, to soak in that grace.”

Later, while speeding to work, I ate Hannah’s cookies—dense, doughy kidney shapes with chocolate chips clumped in an undercooked center. Waiting at the light, I thought about a girl who shared her faith and failed cookies with equal confidence and took three yapping sled dogs in hand and got them to pull together; and about a woman strengthened by a crippling disease; and about a house cluttered with love-worn toys and furniture that created room to welcome strangers. A warmth and a glow spread inside, and it wasn’t the sun beating through the windows.

I wondered: Is it possible to bake grace into a cookie?