I drop the keys through the mail slot. I will not be returning to this place. There is no turning back now. The cases have been loaded into the car. All of the i's have been dotted, the t's crossed. There is nobody to wave farewell to. I said all my goodbye's yesterday. No looking back. I am leaving my past behind for a very uncertain future.
Me, who hates flying, am going to fly halfway around the world, in the middle of a pandemic, to a place, I hope, of safety. I haven't left my house for over half a year with the exception of needed medical appointments. I am going to traverse not one, not two, but three airports. Me, who can barely walk a city block without being in pain. Me, who has been sanitizing every box and can that has come into the house. Me, who has never done much of anything in my life on my own.
But was I really on my own? Where did my strength come from? How did I know I was doing the right thing? Would I ever be happy again? Why was this happening to me? So many questions . . .
But on that day . . . I did not have time to be afraid. I did not have time to cry. I had to keep going.
The wheels had been set in motion and I needed to move with them. Forward. Forward. Forward. A simple prayer in my heart. God get me through this safely. God be with me. God help me. And He did. I got there safely. I felt His presence every step of the way. From the minute I dropped my keys through the letterbox to the moment my key turned in the motel room door on the other side.
Too tired, too exhausted, too shell-shocked to even cry. The tears would come later. I was home. The first hurdle had been jumped. Now all I had to do was to get through two weeks, fourteen days and fourteen nights, on my own in isolation. I hoped and prayed that I had not picked up anything on the way. I took my temperature a bazillion times a day. I hoped and I prayed and I got through it.
There were tender mercies all along the way. Small kindnesses that might have gone un-noted. I did the hard things because others cared, were kind, helped in whatever way that they could, prayed (I felt them), supported me when I felt so tender, so raw that I might burst at the slightest touch. A sister who left me flowers to greet me and a welcome home message in my motel room . . . called me twice a day and made sure I had everything I needed, who loved and who cared. Who worked through her own fears and brought me pizza in a small plastic container, who took my laundry and washed it. A daughter who stopped by my window twice a day to wave and to smile and to tell me she loved me. A father who stopped for a few minutes in his car on his way home each day to do likewise. A friend I had never met who brought me apples and muffins and love. A Relief Society President who brought me flowers. A world of contacts who messaged, and cared and prayed and loved.
The two weeks went far quicker than I ever thought they would. I cried and I prayed and I somehow got through the numbness that was my life at that time. Some moments I felt very angry and I railed at a God who could let this happen to me, and then other moments I gloried at a God who had gotten me through it. I slowly began to piece my brokenness back together. The glue was love. The glue was faith. The glue was trust. The glue was hope. But mostly love.
And I had many moments where I questioned why this was happening to me. Me, who had been faithful and true. Who had given all I thought I could give. Who had served. Who had done anything that had ever been asked of me and then some. It didn't seem fair. It was not fair. And yet it had happened . . .
Did I deserve this, no of course not . . . but I was not the first good person to have bad things happen to her. I could let things destroy me and wallow in self pity, or I could lift myself out of the mud and the mire of the why's and what-for's, the blame and the pain, rise again, draw some strength from what had happened, and use it to propel me forward.
I started to turn the why me's into why not me's. To turn the negatives into positives or at least to try. To count my blessings, to see the glimmer of light that was flickering at the end of my tunnel and to keep moving forward in hope.
I kept hoping. I kept trusting. I kept praying. I kept moving.
And slowly, but surely the light got brighter, the end of the tunnel closer. And sometimes it seemed that for every step forward I took, there were two steps backward. Despite that I kept stepping forward. One day I would be up and the next I would be down. People said mean things. Did mean things . . . but the kindnesses were much greater. The down moments got fewer and farther between. Tender mercies abounded.
I learned to forgive the unforgiveable. I found the light again. I did hard things. I am in the light. All is well.
This I recall to my mind, therefore, have I hope.
It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed,
because his compassions fail not.
They are new every morning; great is thy faithfulness.
The Lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore
will I hope in him.
The Lord is good unto them that wait for him, to
the soul that seeketh him.
It is good that a man should both hope and
quietly wait for the salvation of the Lord.
Lamentations 3:21-26
Have a wonderful Wednesday. Be not afraid. Have faith, and a beautiful day, and never forget . . .
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