’Twas the day before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring—except for me and my cat, Mittens. It was just the two of us this year. I wasn’t sure what was worse—having a broken heart or becoming a lonely old cat lady.
My soon-to-be ex-husband had just picked up our 9 and 12-year-old sons, Patrick and Michael, to spend Christmas Eve at his new condo, as we had agreed.
“Mom, seriously, what’re you gonna do?” Michael asked as his father beeped the car horn from the driveway. “You gonna be okay?”
“Who, me?” I asked, forcing a grin. “I have the whole day planned, kiddo!”
A big fat lie. My plan was to eat a pint of rocky road and stay in bed all day.
I flopped onto the couch, poring over last year’s Christmas photos. I was so blissfully unaware back then. How could I have predicted what was coming?
The past six months felt like a tabloid news story. My husband of 14 years casually asking for a divorce one morning at breakfast. Me begging him to stay. Trying to understand how a 48-year-old homemaker from Minnesota, who thought she’d built a white-picket-fence life, could end up in such a mess.
A cry from Mittens interrupted my pity party. I found her rolled up on the kitchen floor, trying to get at something stuck to the back of her paw. A small card that’d fallen from its spot on the basement door, where I’d taped all the Christmas cards.
I pulled it loose and turned it over.
Merry Christmas, Margaret. My gift to you is Luke 1:37. Love, Ruth.
I rolled my eyes at my pastor’s latest attempt to get me to crack open the Bible. She’d snuck a copy into my mailbox that summer, with a sticky note that said, “Read me 15 minutes a day.”
I’d started attending her church, not because I was much of a believer, but because it seemed like a good idea when your world was falling apart.
Ruth was persistent, I had to give her that. But I didn’t know what Luke 1:37 was, and no way was I making this day even worse by puzzling over an ancient book that couldn’t possibly apply to me.
I put the card back up, right next to a photo of my married neighbors looking gorgeously happy in their matching sweaters. I peered down at my own outfit. Two p.m. and I was still in flannel pj’s.
Michael’s sweet question from earlier brought tears to my eyes. What was I going to do?
It was too much. I wanted to run away from that empty house and all the unknowns ahead of me. I threw on some clothes and escaped into the bracing cold outside.
Fifteen minutes into my walk, I was freezing. Finding myself on a boutique-lined street, I ducked inside the only store that seemed to be open.
It looked like a Christmas explosion inside. No corner had been spared. Tinsel, mistletoe, ornaments. A saleslady emerged from a labyrinth of porcelain vases and ornate end tables.
She wore a white wool pantsuit, red pumps and matching lipstick. A young, hip Mrs. Claus, I thought. She handed me a glass of cider. “Welcome to my shop,” she said. “What kinds of antiques do you like?”
“I guess anything with a good story,” I said.
“Oh, then, you’ll love this.” She reached down behind the register and pulled out a framed painting. “Just got it in this morning. Considered keeping it for myself!”
She went on about the artist. I wasn’t listening. Not a word. I was totally lost in the scene the painting depicted. Three boats dead in the water. No wind to carry them to shore. Stuck, just like me. Hopeless.
But six words emblazoned in four-inch Gothic-style letters across the top of the painting made my heart skip a beat: With God Nothing Shall Be Impossible.
“It’s from the Bible,” the saleslady said. “Do you know it? From Luke. Chapter one, verse 37.”
The painting came home with me. I dug out Ruth’s Bible, which I’d stashed in my closet months earlier, and Mittens curled up next to me on the couch as I opened it up to Luke 1:37.
I began to read, letting the message sink in. I remembered my son’s question: Mom, are you going to be okay? Yes. Yes, I was.
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