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issues, but there were still needs that weren’t being met, and the goal of the Webbers’ organization was to fill in some of the gaps.
    Back when Bryan was just a child, the migrants who came to their area lived in fairly deplorable conditions—usually in tents or in their cars along the creek near one of the bigger orchards. A huge migrant camp sprang up there every year, and even as a kid riding past in the family car, Bryan had been appalled at their living conditions. With no running water, no sewage disposal, and no real shelter, it seemed to him to be the worst kind of existence. When he was much older and studying architecture at college, his senior thesis had involved designing low-cost, functional housing for migrant workers.
    When Bryan passed away, his parents chose to honor his memory by establishing a memorial fund. Keeping in mind the concern their son had always had for the migrants, Dean and Natalie had decided to take a closer look at the different migrant-related charities in the area and choose one where they could make a donation in Bryan’s honor. The more they saw and learned, however, the more they felt compelled to go beyond a simple donation. Dean, in particular, was a “big picture” person, and he could see that there was a need there for one overriding agency to facilitate the operations of the other, smaller agencies. Natalie possessed her own unique set of talents that related to the cause, since she had worked in facilities management for the local community college and knew a thing or two about coordinating different entities under one larger heading. At the same time, I was just starting out with the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation, and it was almost as though the Lord were putting together pieces of a big puzzle. As I was learning the ropes in my new job with the foundation, Dean and Natalie both retired from their jobs and began their second, much less highly paid careers as executive director and volunteer coordinator of this new agency.
    When I approved the first grant, all they had was their nonprofit status, some solid ideas of where they wanted to go, and an excellent business plan to get them there. Now I was excited to see how their ideas had translated into reality. Knowing them, I had a feeling the place was going to be everything they had hoped it would be, and more.
    Tonight’s party had originally been planned as a way for me to meet the directors of some of the local migrant-related charities that MORE helped to support. Now, Natalie took my arm and began to introduce them to me.
    First was Karen Weatherby, a soft-spoken woman about my age, perhaps a few years older, dressed in a simple, faded cotton dress and slipon flats, her hair pulled back from her face by a beaded headband. Karen was the director of a local education program for migrant children called Go the Distance Learning Center. Though Karen seemed shy, her face lit up and her voice grew stronger as she spoke about her program and the children it served. Karen gave me her card so that we could arrange to meet later this week. She said she was eager for me to see her program in action.
    With her was a fellow in jeans and a flannel shirt, cute in a boyish way, though he had to be at least 35, with brown curly hair and dimples. He introduced himself as Danny Stanford.
    “Danny works for Go the Distance as a volunteer,” Karen explained. “He’s our orchard liaison.”
    “Really? What is that?”
    “Oh, it sounds more important than it is,” Danny said. “I just keep the lines of communication open between the school, the parents, and all the orchards in the area. If somebody has a problem or a question, make connections and smooth things over. I guess you’d say I’m a facilitator.”
    “You must have a lot of connections,” I said, “to do a job like that.”
    “Well, actually, it’s kind of the opposite. I just moved here two months ago. The fact that I don’t have any connections at all probably helps,