My Mother - the FBI Agent -- Pam Mytroen

My quiet mother has never made headlines, but I believe that if God really opened our eyes, we would see barred doors opening before her, and hear chains rattling and snapping as they fall to the ground. What does my mom do? She's the CEO of FBI - the Food and Baking Illuminator.

So how does she knock down doors and release prisoners? She bakes. She bakes fresh buns, warm from the oven, and takes them to her neighbors. Sometimes she’ll change things up a bit, and take a pan of cinnamon buns – those tender, gooey, irresistible gems. Or maybe a slice of pie, a plate of cereal slice with brown sugar frosting, or even a full turkey meal.

But first, she prays. She and my dad, together on their knees, will pray for their neighbors, their friends and family, and their community every day. They’ve lived in several different communities with my dad having been transferred all over Saskatchewan with the CPR and even into Alberta and finally settling in Washington State. They’ve had an array of neighbors through the years.

The reactions were mixed, of course. Some were so excited and grateful and became life-long friends. Others were hesitant, only opening the door a crack, but just enough to allow a sliver of light to shine into their fear. Sometimes years later, those people would come back to Mom and thank her for her love.

There’s always an opportunity to reach out and help. There’s the neighbors whose little girl died after a tonsillectomy; the lady with MS across the street; the widow whose drunken son took a hammer to the car one night. Mom would pray, and bake, and go.

There was the lady who rode the rails with her husband every summer. In the blistering heat on the open tracks she made her little home in a caboose. What an opportunity right outside our door! The buns were steaming and hot when Mom sent me over with them and I still remember the box of smarties the lady gave me in return. We never saw her again, but I often wonder what effect those little acts of love have on people.

There was the little 2 year old boy, whose mom was too drunk to play with him. He lived several doors down, but somehow the little tike knew where to go for a helping of love. “Can you come out to play?” he’d ask my mom. Of course. Mom always took time to play, right after she stuffed him full of chocolate chip cookies and milk.

My mom’s fresh rolls are opening doors and allowing the light and love of God to warm countless homes. Mom and Dad have had the opportunity to pray with neighbors, and to bring healing and hope to many hearts.

A pan of warm rolls in Jesus’ name – who needs the FBI?

Pamela Mytroen