It was listed as a cozy cottage, just what I’d need during my visit to Louisiana, a lovely setting tucked across the freeway after many left and right turns. I’d read the notes the hosts had left for me about how to enter the property with an easy way to remember the entry code—the last four digits of my phone number. I followed the lit pathway to my abode which appeared through the trees. But suddenly, my own motion sensors started to blink. It looked like a storage container, the type people buy for their backyards, the kind Home Depot sells and stores outside the nursery department. Something about Tuff & Ready. I entered. The unit was clean and with an assortment of Keurig coffees to start my mornings. But that was about it—a bed, a chair, and a tiny bathroom. The shower was big enough for a child to squeeze into—and I’m not that tall. If I happened to drop the soap, my butt would touch the other side of the stall. I hoped to find at least one outlet for my cellphone (I did). Weary traveler as I was, in my mind I began drafting a nasty review of the rental property. For sure, a cozy cottage required bluebirds singing in the trees, pots of begonias, and at least one plate of ginger bread cookies. However, in the afternoon, the owner who lived 200 feet from where I was staying, came to greet me; he shook my hand and smiled, told me about his family and how they’d come to live in the area, where his children went to school. He asked me if I believed in miracles and we talked for a bit longer. When I returned, somehow the cottage had been transformed, and I heard birds singing.