I might have adult ADD. What began as one simple task quickly unraveled into several others, none of them finished. Pantry items covered the counter. Donation boxes sat open on the floor. And yet, there was no frustration—only grace. I don’t have to answer to anyone or adjust myself for someone else’s expectations. This is my space, and this moment is mine.
My intention was simple: take inventory of the pantry so I could better steward what I already have. I went to the closet where I keep notebooks and reached for one. I almost grabbed a plain legal pad, but a shiny blue notebook caught my eye. I’ve always been drawn to shiny things. Something told me to pick that one. I opened the book.
Oh my!
The first page held plans for the property I once owned—dreams of a beautiful home and flourishing gardens. Those plans never came to life, and for the first time, that realization didn’t bring sorrow. The woman who now owns Spooky Hollow loves the land deeply. She told me it gives her peace. She finished my she shed just as I had imagined and welcomed another woman into that space—someone content with a small home and a quiet life. God moved me away so the land could breathe again, restored through someone else’s hands and heart.
I turned the page.
Oh my!
What I found next was my grief journal from six and a half years ago. Page after page revealed the depth of pain I carried then. At the time, I believed I was handling my grief well. Maybe I was on the outside—but inside, I was shattered. Reading those words reminded me how raw and consuming that season truly was.
And then the realization came, clear and unmistakable: God led me to this notebook at this precise moment.
That shiny blue notebook had a purpose—two of them, actually.
First, a dear friend of mine has recently become a widow. As I reread my therapy notes, I found words and truths I could share with her—small lights to help her place one foot in front of the other as she begins her own journey through grief.
Second, God showed me how far I have come. I still carry wounds, but they are no longer open. They have healed into scars—strong, protective, and holy reminders of survival. The pain did not defeat me. God carried me through it, and I am stronger because of it. That realization filled me with joy.
So much joy that I returned to my pantry task with a lighter heart. I turned on some music and Play That Funky Music began to play. Before I knew it, I was dancing in my beautiful kitchen—alone, yet not alone at all. One song turned into six. When YMCA came on, I carried my joyful noise out onto my new deck—the deck I worked hard for, the one God provided.
As I danced, a memory surfaced. Years ago, at a company Christmas party, no one wanted to be the first to dance. Then YMCA played, and my husband—bold, joyful, and completely unselfconscious—walked onto the dance floor alone. Someone asked me, “Is that your husband?” “Yes,” I said, smiling. “And he’s stone-cold sober.”
His courage broke the tension, and joy followed. Remembering that moment felt like a gift—a reminder that love leaves behind joy, not just grief.
I finished the evening at my daughter’s eating jambalaya with her husband and their four wonderfully loud blessings. I returned home to my sanctuary.
Living alone is not a punishment. It is a season. A sacred one. I had a moment of struggle with it recently, but I recognize now that it was likely stirred by the holidays. Today, I embrace the quiet. I trust God with my future. While I may still imagine a fairy-tale romance, I know that my life is full and complete exactly as it is.
God has blessed me with a home, with peace, with healing, and with joy.
I am deeply blessed.
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