I remember at the very worst of my divorce stopping for a red light.

Now, when I say the worst. I mean the War of the Roses, worst celebrity divorce, beleaguered, I don’t know how I will get out of bed this morning – DIVORCE.

As I sat at that light, I thought “What a beautiful day!”

I stunned even myself.

“Where did that come from?” I thought. How could I possibly have a positive and grateful thought amidst such struggle and destruction?

It was grace, aka, spirituality. It was a gift from God to see the beautiful despite the ugly.

It is a gift which my mother passed along to me. What truly amazes me? Is that it surfaced at a time when I believe it should have escaped me.

I was tired. I was defeated. I was hopeless.

During this divorce, I have struggled. I have spent many sleepless nights begging my mother’s counsel.

I no longer have the luxury of dialing a phone to hear my mother’s voice on the other end. Instead, our conversations are those of late night prayers, asking her to remind me that she remains with me. They are the whispers while I find myself afraid asking her to show me a sign. They are the moments when I know that I have no recourse, but to walk through life the way she taught me – knowing that ultimately this will take me to my proper destination.

It is the silent mother-daughter conversation.

You know the one you wanted as a teenager? The one where you wished your mother would shut up and stop talking? That is the only one I am able to have now.

But I am no longer a frustrated teenager. I want to grab her hand and run towards her comforting voice and not escape it.

I can’t.

I can only remember what that felt like. The relief of her soothing words and the hand that fit perfectly within mine. The one with the nails that curve slightly upward distinguishing her as only my mom.

I still find myself crying at 2:00 a.m. I still find myself having the silent mother-daughter conversation. Isn’t that what all children do (no matter the age) when they are too scared to talk to anyone else?

I miss her hand.

The one that held my little hand when I was initially uncertain of the world, then let go when I was brave enough to conquer it and took it back once I was old enough to fear it once again.

I was a child when I had the luxury of still holding it. An ungrateful child at times. I had no true comprehension of the degree of its spirituality and grace nor how it would continue to sustain me long after I had to let it go.

I talk to a friend recently. She is in the throws of an excruciatingly painful divorce. We chat about how difficult it is for her. Then she says something which amazes me.

“But it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

I knew in that moment that we had been held by the same hand.

What a gift.

(Photo courtesy of Pexels)

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