They say God has a plan for everyone, but sometimes I wondered.
Like when my husband died 11 years ago. Or when my mother and brother passed away a few years later. If it hadn’t been for my second husband, Jon, I don’t think I could have gone on. He came into my life just when I needed him, helping me get past my grief.
But even he had trouble lifting my spirits the day in March when I waved goodbye to my oldest daughter and her children—my grandchildren—who were moving to Phoenix. Arizona was a long way from Oklahoma. Was I destined to have the people I love leave me?
To take my mind off things, I decided to clean out my hall closet. It had been ages since I’d done that. I pulled out an old blue suitcase my father had given me. I eagerly snapped it open. It was filled with tapes and CDs of Christian country music—songs I’d sung for 15 years while performing with my family’s cowboy ministry. Mom and Dad had sold copies of my albums out of it.
I knelt on the floor and went through the tapes and CDs, one by one. Oh, the memories they triggered! When the suitcase was empty, I ran my fingers nostalgically over its smooth finish. Only then did I notice a worn Continental Airlines baggage tag attached to the handle. I turned it over, expecting to see my parents’ names in my mother’s familiar handwriting.
Someone else’s name and address was on the tag. Familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. “Jon,” I called, “Do you know anyone who lived at 1001 East Maple Street?”
Jon came bounding in from the living room. “Sure,” he said. “My grandmother. She died before we met, though. How did you know her address?”
I showed him the tag. Immediately, he phoned his mother. “Yes, I remember a blue suitcase,” she said. “In fact, I still have the matching one that made up the set.”
Twenty years earlier, Jon’s mother had sold the suitcase at a garage sale to two strangers. My parents. Long before my first husband died, God had already chosen the man who would heal my lonely heart. It was all part of his loving plan.
