We officially moved out of our house Sunday. It was grueling; we were exhausted. My husband was pale and weary. We went down the road a piece, complete with boxes of supplies, duffel bags of clothes, the dog, the cat and a caravan of three neighbors who so kindly helped us unload and setup. It was one of the spontaneous acts of human kindness that seems to come when you most need it. It was already 8 p.m. and Hubby (a diabetic) had not eaten since breakfast. One of our friends went and got us dinner and brought it to the motel. Within 15 minutes of arriving, Hubby and the other animals were fed and safely resting. Bless them all, our neighbors, our friends; God is good to us.
So here we sit in a motel room. It can’t be bigger than 12 X 12. We have a microwave, coffeepot, tiny refrigerator and a giant wheelchair accessible bathroom that is quit impressive, in spite of the fact its 1/3 of the room! Hubby is safe.
The arguments and bickering that I have mentioned were not us. They are gone. The stress of where to move the house, where will we stay? Gone. In this tiny, little space we are reconnecting to the “us” I’ve always loved. We talk, we giggle, we go outside for “walks.” We go to therapy and begin again.
Hubby wants to go to a local souvenir store to get coffee mugs to commemorate our adventure. The cloud is gone, the sun is out. Now we can concentrate on getting him well.