Marianne.

I don’t know much about her, but I know her humble spirit is contagious.

She lives in a storybook house, on a ranch, at the end of a private road. I know the road; I lost control on it once when the pavement was icy.

She has dogs. She has kids. She has an uncanny amount of fruit sitting on her kitchen counter. I know the fruit; I grabbed a pear, two oranges, and a banana as I left this morning.

The giant panoramic windowpanes in the dining room expose the poised and placid beauty of the Three Sisters.  I know the windows; I bumped my head on one as I tried to stick my face closer to the snowcapped mountains.

The carpet is plush, so plush you’ll lose your toes in it if you’re not careful. I know the carpet; I had to pry my pinky toes out of the comfort to plunge them into their socks.

The espresso machine perched next to the sink is alive and active. I know the espresso; two shots of it splashed into the bottom of my blue ceramic mug, swirled with skinny milk and sugar free vanilla syrup.

The beds are fresh and clean and plentiful. I know the beds; I slept between the crisp sheets, and floundered amidst the down comforter and pillows.

She is gracious. She is inspiring. She loves unconditionally.

Her faith will knock you down with it’s length and breadth.

She opens her home to young and old alike, to strangers and the dearest of friends. Her conversation is intentional and meaningful.

She is witty. She is fun.

She deserves an award of the utmost acclaim.

Her name is Marianne Walker and her presence is staggering.