The man sat at his desk lost in thought as his finger traced outlines on the black material.

How many people drove down his street every day? Eight? Nine? A Dozen? He counted on his fingers as he mentally traversed the road.

Old Mr. McGuillicudy at the end of the street didn’t drive anymore but a nurse came to see him every day…the young couple who were some kind of Chinese (or was it Korean?) had moved in next door but who knew if they spoke English…then there were the kids who rode their bikes during the summertime…

Every one was a mission field. He needed a message that would touch each of them. There had to be words that would stir their souls and show them what really matters…

When the thought came in a flash of inspiration he smiled at how obvious it had been as his fingers began to place the letters. There could only be one message that would do: