“She’s military,” the principal told my new teacher. It was December and I’d just been enrolled in my new school in Maryland. The teacher looked from the principal to me with sympathetic eyes.
            If only my new classmates were as compassionate. But when I approached a table in the lunchroom, one of the girls, who’d obviously overheard the principal, told the others, “She’s military,” in a way that could have been, “She has leprosy.” The girls scooted their trays to the far end, leaving me alone.
            I hated being the New Kid, although I’d had plenty of practice at it. This was my fifth school, and I was only in the fourth grade.
            To say it was hard was an understatement. I was incredibly shy, never raising my hand in class, hardly saying a word. Now I ate my lunch alone and watched the other girls, who’d known each other their whole lives, link their heads together, smiling and giggling while I wished I was back in Virginia with my friends from church.
            I rarely made friends at school. But at church, it was a different story. Church was home. When we’d moved to Alexandria, Virginia, there were seven other little girls in my Sunday School class who’d become my best friends. Their moms and my mom were friends, so we often played together after school. Mrs. Pearson was our teacher and although childless, she loved kids, especially us little girls. She, too, became a part of my mom’s circle.
            Third grade passed, and I began fourth grade still attending the same school. I made a couple of friends and loved my fourth-grade teacher. I thought we’d be in Alexandria forever.
            But I was wrong.
            It was 1962, and after JFK became President, my dad’s unit was transferred across the Potomac to Andrews AFB. We moved to Maryland in December, two weeks before my ninth birthday. Once again, I’d entered a new school in the middle of the year.
            But even worse than another school, we’d have to choose a new church. It was simply too far to drive back to Alexandria every Sunday.
            My world collapsed. And nobody cared about what I wanted.
“You’ll make new friends,” my mother assured me. I’d heard that before.
“You’ll get to ride the bus to school,” my father told me. Who would I sit with?
 I felt like a plant about to bloom but yanked up and thrown into unfamiliar soil, expected to thrive.
            I didn’t want to thrive. I wanted my old church. I wanted to go back to Virginia.
So I became an angry little girl. I was angry at the Air Force. I was angry at my father. Most of all, I was angry with God.
            In Sunday School, we learned about God’s love. We learned how He loved us so much He’d sent his only Son to die for us. My favorite hymn was “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” Jesus was my Friend. Often, my only Friend.  
            But where was that so-called “Friend” now? A friend helped you. This friend wasn’t helping me. Why wasn’t He helping?
Take it to the Lord in prayer was the final line of that old hymn, and I’d done just that, pouring my heart out to Him, begging Him to let us stay in Alexandria.
It hadn’t worked.
             My mother knew I was unhappy. How could she not? I sulked and wallowed in endless self-pity. Hoping to cheer me up, she suggested I have a birthday party and invite my entire former Sunday School class.
               As I skidded into the kitchen that cold Saturday morning, my mother said, “Whoa! Where’s the fire? For heaven's sake, where are your slippers?”
            Ignoring her, I gave a ballerina twirl. “Today’s the party!”
            “Party? What party?”
            I froze. “My party. My birthday party. You know, for the daughter you had nine years ago.”
            “Ohhh. . .I remember. I was there, you know.” My mom started to turn back to the stove, whirled around, and caught me in a bear hug. “You think I’d forget? Silly goose, don’t you smell the cake in the oven?”
            Now that she’d mentioned it, the entire kitchen smelled heavenly.
            She turned back to stirring the oatmeal.
            As I sat down to eat my breakfast, I noticed snowflakes lightly drifting past the window. “Look!” I jumped up, pressing my nose to the window. “It’s snowing! It’s snowing for my birthday! We can have snowball fights and make snowmen at my party!” I jumped up and down, unable to contain my excitement.
            “Well. . .it may not snow enough for that. Besides, your friends may not want to play in the snow dressed up in their party dresses and church shoes.”
            “Oh, they won’t mind.” I blew off my mom’s objections.
            “Hmmm…they might not, but I’m sure their mothers will,” Mom muttered.
            I quickly finished my breakfast and then asked, “Can I go out and play now?”
            “May you? I think not. The party starts in,” she glanced at the clock, “oh my, less than four hours, and we’ve got a lot to do. It’s too bad your father has to work. We could use his help with the balloons. Go get your brother to help.”
            Together we blew up balloons. Then Mom bundled up my little brother to send him next door to play with his friends since this was an all-girl party. As she sent Johnny out the door, a gust of cold air and snow blew into the kitchen.
            “Oh no!” Mom said. “This is turning into a blizzard.”
            I was delighted. “Yay! We’ll have lots of snow to play in!”
            “Caren,” Mom was looking strangely at me. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then opened it again and said, “Come help me ice the cake.”
            “Okay!” I was thrilled that she considered me old enough now to help. I picked up a knife.
            “We’ll do the bottom layer first.” She showed me how to put a dollop of icing on the cake and smear it around. I copied her.
            “Excellent!” she praised. Then, “Umm…Caren, this snowstorm is looking really bad.”
            “No,” I corrected her. “Snowstorms are good! We can make snow angels!”
            “But they’re not good to drive in.” Mom eyed me intently. “The snow can make cars slide and cause a wreck.”
            “That’s okay,” I said cheerfully. “We’re not going anywhere.”
            “But, Caren.” She paused and for a moment it almost looked like she was praying. Then she put down her knife, took my arms, and turned me to face her. “Caren, it’s a long way from Virginia to here. I know I wouldn’t drive in this snow.” Then she spat it out. “Your friends might not make it to your party.”
            I stared at her as comprehension finally dawned on me. I ran to the window. The snow was coming so hard, I could barely see the house next door.
            I turned from the window and looked at my mom. “NOOOO!!!” I wailed. Then I ran from the room.
            I went to the living room and sat down in my father’s chair, facing the big picture window. I watched the vicious storm swirl around in the front yard, covering our sidewalk, the street, and our car.
            Pray, something inside me said.
            No! I argued. That won’t work.
            Pray. This time it wasn’t a suggestion, but a command.
            No! I stubbornly replied. It doesn’t help.
            Pray. Pray. Pray. I couldn’t seem to shut it up.
            Okay! I acquiesced. But it’s not gonna work.
            For a moment I sat there, trying to come up with a prayer that would be so wonderful, God would make it stop snowing.
            My mind was blank.
            Finally, I settled on, Jesus, if you are my friend, you’ll make the snow stop.
            And wonder of wonders, it did!
            I ran as fast as I could back into the kitchen, “It stopped! It stopped! I prayed and it stopped!” I screamed gleefully at my astonished mother.
            Her head whirled around to look out the window, confirming my declaration.
            I was dancing around the kitchen singing, “Prayer works, prayer works, prayer works!” when I noticed Mom wasn’t celebrating with me. I stopped. “What’s wrong?”
            Mom gently guided me to the table and sat me down. Taking both my hands in hers, she said, “Caren, prayer always works because it brings us closer to God. But,” she gently stroked my cheek, “sometimes God says ‘No.’”
            “But he didn’t. The snow stopped.”
            “Yes, it stopped. But there’s over a foot of snow out there. And, just because it’s stopped snowing here, doesn’t mean it’s stopped in Virginia. The roads are still very dangerous. I certainly wouldn’t risk life and limb to go to a birthday party.”
            I stared at her, stonily. “I don’t care! God answered my prayer. I’m going to put on my party dress.” I stomped off to my room.
            As I put on my dress and my patent-leather shoes, a new prayer formed in my mind. Let them come. Let them come. Let them come.
            I went back upstairs to my father’s chair where I could look out the window and watch for my guests to arrive, the prayer chanting on a loop in my mind.
            Two o’clock came and went. Two-fifteen. The snow glistened on the street, white, pristine, and untouched by tires.
            My faith began to waver. I guess God had better things to do. Why should He worry about a little girl’s birthday party?
            I remembered a prayer time in Sunday School. We were all in a circle, holding hands. We were to each say a short prayer, then squeeze the hand of the next person, signifying it was that person’s turn. I had my prayer all ready. I was going to say, “Please help the missionaries.” Missionaries were a great prayer request. They were in faraway countries being persecuted. They needed all the prayers they could get. I was very proud of my missionary prayer request.
            But one of the first girls said, “Please God, bring my dog home. He ran away this morning.”
            I couldn’t help it, I busted out laughing. God didn’t care about dogs! Dogs weren’t important. Certainly not as important as missionaries. Then I caught the stern eye of Mrs. Pearson. I tried to cover up by turning my laugh into a fake cough. The girl with the dog request looked mortified.
            I suppose I gave my missionary prayer request when my turn came; I don’t remember. What I do remember is that afterward, Mrs. Shilling said, “Never think that your prayer isn’t important to God. God is our father. He wants what is best for us. Remember, what’s important to you is important to God.”
            So now my prayer changed. Okay, God, I know You’re very busy and there’s a lot of bad stuff in the world that You need to take care of. But this party is important to me. If You know what’s best for me, I hope it’s to have this party. If not, I guess that’s okay, too, since You’re busy and all. Amen.”
            Then I began singing What a Friend We Have in Jesus.  I had just gotten to Can we find a friend so faithful, who will all our sorrows share when a big old Buick turned the corner. It puffed its way slowly down our street, stopping in front of our house.
            “Mom! Mom!” I screamed. “They’re here!”
            I ran to the door and flung it open as all four doors of the car opened, and seven little girls in party dresses emerged, each carrying a colorfully wrapped present.
            From behind me, Mom yelled, “Be careful on the sidewalk!” The little girls gingerly picked their way up to our door.
            Behind them, Mrs. Pearson, that wonderful piano-playing little-girl-loving woman brought up the rear. “Happy birthday, Caren!” she beamed. She explained to my mother that she had gone around to each of the girls’ homes and picked them up because she couldn't bear to see Caren disappointed.
            I don’t remember anything else about the party. I’m sure we played Pin the Tail on the Donkey and other games (all indoors,) and I certainly don’t remember any of the gifts I received.
            Except for the gift of one woman’s bravery to drive her giant car through the snow to save a little girl’s birthday party.
            And another gift, a gift that has stayed with me for sixty years since. The gift of my Friend.
            For there were many more schools-eleven in twelve years, including each year of high school in a different country. But I knew wherever I went my Friend Jesus was with me, and what a privilege it’s been to carry everything to Him in prayer.