* Originally written on Thanksgiving Day ...*
Today is Thanksgiving.
I was a little dumbfounded when the thought occurred to me that I completely forgot the third anniversary of our having left Portugal, November 2nd. Our exodus from that tiny island, from the military, from a large and close-knit group of dear friends, from security (as secure as one can be in the military) – six months pregnant, a bit of money in savings, and hope in our hearts. This was my last view of Terceira …
We were nervous and the sense of trepidation was palpable. But mostly, we were excited to go home, wherever “home” might be. We just knew Bo would find a good job with all his experience and education, and were prepared for the three or four weeks it might take to discover it, visiting with our families while we waited to settle in to our new someplace and prepare for Leila Grace’s arrival. Coming right at the start of the holiday season also seemed a fortuitous and celebratory way to be welcomed back this side of the pond.
We set up camp in a bedroom in Bo’s mother’s basement. Three or four weeks went by and nothing happened. Bo pounded the pavement, went on countless interviews, making it to final rounds in most, only to be passed over. I would meticulously press his shirt and suit (the only job I had at the time, besides being an incubator), each puff of steam from the iron a prayer sent up that maybe this time would be the time. That they would see the strong, capable, eager man I saw and hire him on the spot. He’d leave, handsome, polished, prepared; and come back, just as handsome, but a little worn around the edges and disappointed. As the weeks went by, the baby bump grew and grew, and the numbers in the bank account shrank and shrank (funny how those two things seem to coincide), as did our confidence. I often wonder what that time was like for him. As much as we talked, I know there were things he didn’t – wouldn’t – tell me, so he wouldn’t worry me any more than I worried already. As frightening as things became, this was a time of being knit together – to one another and to the Lord. After all, what else did we have? (Truthfully, what else do we ever really have?)
Three months later, just shy of 9 months pregnant, something came through. Even though it seemed like an eternity to wait, looking back I now see we could have waited a whole lot longer, especially in this economy. There but for the grace of God go I (I think that’s how the saying goes) … A job, a home and a baby all in the course of a month. Then more months ticked by, more life …
The first anniversary of our leaving the island, as we looked back at it with such rose-tinted spectacles, was undeniably melancholy. I think we were still mired in our growing pains, fighting against the life we had chosen – had prayed for. (How ungrateful and faithless!) The second anniversary, then pregnant with our sweet Luke, was a fond remembrance that occupied a few moments of thought. This year, the third anniversary came and went silently. Remembering how we forgot, I have a vision of a figure – one to which I desperately clung with such longing two years ago, hoping it could somehow bring back what used to be. One year ago, I welcomed the figure as we briefly reminisced about what once was, and I introduced it to my new life. And this year, it arrived, saw my obliviousness to its presence, and graciously moved on. As have I, finally. Now having fully embraced what is before me, and left what is behind me; grateful for all of it, but mostly so overwhelmed with the blessings of today. And for these things, I give thanks.
