It’s so beautiful outside.
I’m at a corner table in my neighborhood library.
From the second floor I can see the lush green lawn and the edge of the giant oak tree. There are bursting-at-the-blossom purple flower baskets hanging from the lamp posts and people walking by in their summer’s best.
And I’m crying.
Not crying crying, but lump in my throat, misty-eyed, can-definitely-hold-this-together crying.
And I stare out the window and see my glorious neighborhood.
And I’m crying because I’m grateful.
I now have a home that is mine, and I love it.
And I’m crying because I’m a bit sad, too.
There is still so much unknown about my future.
I was looking at my father’s airplane ministry and found an article honoring BJ that I had never seen.
(Click here and scroll down until you see B’s handsome headshot.)
But reading about BJ and his talent and our life made me so grateful. Still sad, but so very grateful.
(Though it didn’t help the throat lump at all.)
A woman sits across from me. She’s here at the library with all her possessions on the cart next to her.
She’s reading the newspaper and drinking prune juice from a can.
I feel deeply connected to her.
I feel deeply connected to this new home of mine.
I walk its streets and I feel safe and happy and hopeful and free.
It’s hard to make friends and yet after one week of praying, I met a couple from my building and the owner of the local coffee shop and we have plans to spend time together. I made some friends.
(It felt like magic.)
I sense that someday I’ll see my life so clearly. I’ll see each bump, each rough edge, each rejection, each first date, each job application, each sinus headache, each library book, each desperate prayer, each long lost friendship, each song sung, each bruised knee, each great parking spot…
And see how it all added up to create the life I was born to live.
I don’t know.
But I hope so.
So here I am, in the middle of my story. Or the beginning.
(Or the end? Who knows? Everyone dies, after all.)
But whatever life has for me, I’m ready.