My Writing Style

"Write an essay of 1,500-2,000 words containing the following: •Your favorite Scripture verse and why. •An instance in your life when this verse helped through a situation.

Ugh. I don't like essays.

I reach over and grab my coffee, taking a large gulp of the warm, comforting drink.

I love this place. Coffee House. That's the name of it. It's one of those small buildings squished between slightly bigger buildings in downtown. Not the most noticeable, but definitely the most welcoming.

Ever since I started college last year, I've come to this coffee shop at least twice a week. Whenever I have homework or some kind of essay due, this is where I'll be. There's something about the atmosphere

What's my favorite verse... Oh yeah!

I pull my Bible out of my bag and flip to Romans. Where is it..? Ah-ha! Romans 5: 3-5. That'll do.

Part two: an instance in your life when this verse helped you through a situation.

That's a tough one.

A shriek pierces through the silence. I turn around and find a woman sitting on a black sofa with her head in her hands and a mess of coffee all over her laptop.

Awe, that poor thing. I've seen her here before. In fact, she's here as often as I am, if not more. She's quite lovely, at least I think so. Her shiny, black hair and coffee colored skin complement each other beautifully.

An employee rushes over with a few towels and offers to help clean. The woman takes the towels and cleans the mess herself .

Yikes. I wonder what's gotten into her. I've never seen her like this. She's always so upright and proper, but today she's a total mess. I hope she's alright..

I should focus on my essay. This thing is due tomorrow and I haven't written anything.

Go talk to her.

"What?" I say as I twist around in my seat. There's no one there.

I really don't wanna do this. Is it too late to back out?

"Hi." I say as I approach. She looks up at me, her face red and puffy, her eyes flooding with distraught. "My name is Ally."

"I'm Carla." She says, her voice low.

"May I sit?"

"Uh- sure." She scoots over to one end of the couch, and I sit on the other. She stares at me with utter confusion.

Alright Lord, help me out. "I couldn't help but notice that you seem upset. Is everything alright?"

"Yes, everything's fine." She turns away, not wanting to meet my eyes.

"Are you sure?"

She thinks for a moment, then takes a deep breath. "No, I'm not alright. Far from it."

"Would you like to tell me about it?"

She glares at me with disturbed eyes.

"I promise I won't blab about it to anyone. I just want to help you."

She bites her lip, and tears form in her eyes. "I've made some poor choices." She says at length. "And because of those choices, my children were taken from me. I have two boys: Nathan and Noah, ages nine and seven, and my little girl: Naomi, age four. Those children are my life." A tear streaks down her face. "My husband left me when Naomi was born. I've had to raise them on my own. It's been