Read an Excerpt:

When it’s 9:00 p.m. and all you want is a bowl of ice cream while you watch Chicago Fire, and you discover that, the night before, you accidentally put the ice cream in the refrigerator instead of the freezer, who do you call? Your mother? Your sister? I call Sandra.

My name is Maggie, and when Sandra and I met, a muffin top was part of something from a bakery and a hard drive involved getting from the Houston suburbs to downtown at 8:00 a.m. on a Monday.

Our friendship has survived heartbreak, grief, and betrayal, but the real mystery is “why?” Sandra is graceful. I am clumsy. She is naturally thin. I’m not. She has a husband and kids and grandkids. I don’t even have a dog. I often wonder what’s in it for her, you know?

Not that she’s entirely perfect. When she’s writing her letters to God, I worry just a teensy bit about her sanity. You’re thinking so what, right? What if I told you she writes His answers?

Don’t worry. I’m not judging. She is my best friend—the only person in the whole world who really knows me. Probably because I tell her every thought in my head (except the one time I was too ashamed). But can you tell me how she knows things about me that I don’t even know?

For example, last year Sandra talked me into taking ballroom lessons—something I did not want to do.  Great idea for her; she can balance a baby on one hip, the phone on her shoulder, and make chocolate chip cookies all at the same time. I can’t walk barefoot across an empty room without tripping. So how did she know that a few innocent dance lessons would lead me to an unbelievable situation that would turn my life around?