A letter I wrote...

...after one of "those" mornings

We have had sicknesses at our house on and off for months. One day at a time, one morning after another, I woke to find another one of us sick. Today was different. Today was the first morning everyone would go to school. No surprises. No fevers. And, I admit, I woke up early for it.

Everyone was ready to go, except for one of you, who’s emotions were laden with a heaviness I could do nothing to solve. Going to school, after not for almost a week, left you full of trepidation; the kind that flows through tears, which, consequently, aggravated your asthma - a vicious cycle to say the least.

During the night, the snow had fallen as downy as a comforter. We drove slowly to the bus stop, careful not to slip. Soon after, I started to get texts from your sister.

Festival

It’s today

It starts 1st hour

She needs to wear black

Please help her!

I am getting stressed for her!

Wait . . . I thought she was on the bus . . .

I had hoped you would run to the bus just in time. This was to be the morning with no surprises, remember? But the bus came and you turned to me. Your eyes broke through my pride and I let my hope change.

We drove in silence. Even your little brother sensed the need for peace. The attendant loaded our groceries in the back of the car and we quietly headed home. I did not tell you about your sister’s texts. We did not say much of anything, only hushed tones here and there.

Your tears dried. Your coughing spasms settled.

“I think I’ll go to school,” you said, “But I need to get different clothes.”

Apparently, your sister had texted you, too.

I unloaded groceries while you changed.

We drove slowly to school. The snow covered the ground, our car, and our line of sight.

I could hear your whispers of self encouragement. Of your hope. I added mine, hoping my confident tone aided belief in yourself. “You rock!” I said through the window and you disappeared up the steps into school.

My tires spun on the road through the hills. I slowed down again.

At the entrance to our neighborhood, a car leaned to its side off of the road. A young woman stood next to it.

“Do you need help?” I called through the snow.

“I don’t think so.” I had heard a similar voice just a few minutes ago, trying to be strong while uncertainty punched at it.

I pulled over and turned to your little brother, “Stay in the car, I’ll be right back.”

I walked over to her. “Can I do anything for you?”

“I don’t know. I called my dad.” Her feet were in lacy slip-on shoes, her hand held her phone, her knuckles were red. “I was coming down and then my car fish tailed and…” her voice shook and she gestured toward the car, the back wheel bent, the barbed wire she had crashed through swirling above the ground. There was no way this car was getting back on the road without help.

My heart went out to her. “I know I don’t know you, but would you like a hug?”

“Yes,” she cried and ran to me. I hugged her so tight and yet her arms hugged me tighter.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re okay. We’ll get this figured out.” I said, making sure confidence again sounded in my words, “It’s so scary. These things are so scary.” And I held her fast.

Another car pulled up and my neighbor hopped out, “I saw you and thought I’d make sure everything was okay,” Then turning to the young woman, “I’m Wendy.”

The young woman was from a town an hour and a half away, visiting for a meet at ISU.

“Let’s sit in my car and call your insurance. I’m going to cancel my class this morning anyway. I’m worried about this exact thing happening to my students,” said Wendy, “And you don’t even have a coat,” she said turning to me, both an accusation and a laugh in her words. She wrapped her arm around the young woman.

“Call me if I can do anything to help,” I said.

Wendy nodded and I came back into the car, covered in snow.

—————————————

The snow has stopped now and I can’t help but think — if this morning had had no surprises, you would have ended up at school without knowing it was Festival. You would not have had the right clothes for a performance. I would not have been passing by that young woman, who needed someone to see her, really see her right then. If I had not been there, Wendy wouldn’t have stopped to check on her neighbor, and now she’s there, right now, helping this young woman who is so shaken and scared and away from the people she knows.

I’m reminded of God this morning, of His orchestration, a plan so much bigger than my own.

Thank you for giving me a morning with surprises. Surprises are simply chances to meet God.

And as it turns out, I have been praying to meet Him.