Everyone loves a good story. I prefer the real ones because anything else is merely the creation of one’s imagination.
Landing in California yesterday was terrifying – picked up from the airport by a woman I’ve only met once. But the drive home made the other feel like a walking the park. My ex texted me and then my son answered the phone screaming words I’d hoped I’d never hear in this lifetime. I did my best to remain calm and compose my tears and terror but with Tamra in my hair whispering, “he needs your help,” I felt a level of fear, embarrassment and confusion that overwhelms the chaos that has become my norm.
But last night I went for a walk and prayed like I used to do when I was living in a hospital. I looked up at the sky and felt small – a feeling that brought me peace as I cried out to God for help. I knew my son would be ok. Or maybe he wouldn’t but either way all would work out according to God’s will.
Then this morning I felt paralyzed as I laid in the fetal position on the floor with my head against the carpet begging God from the depths of my heart to work a miracle and release me from these years of worry that seem to be peaking in the moments of now.
When Tamra came in to tell me about her meeting with her ex-fiance I asked her if I could pray with her. We held hands and I spoke a plea for peace and God’s will over her situation. She then shocked me by responding with, “Now it’s my turn.” She prayed over me and my situation with my son. I cried.
This afternoon she sits in her office writing a script and editing words by the commands of the producers, directors and gods of the film world who pay her to use her gifts for this work. And I sit alone in my new temporary home called her guest room, writing my script here to the God I call the author over my life.
I find it interesting that the producer who ghosted me is named Bruce. That’s also the name of a key person in Tamra’s life right now. All things have purpose and work in divine order I believe.