There is no television. The radio is off, the birds congregating near the shoreline the only chatter we hear. Civilization seems distant from our cabin in the woods as my husband and I break from technology, escape becomes synonymous with peace.
Habits die-hard, so on the drive back to reality four days later, my husband Jeff shares the news of Robin Williams’ death that he receives via Twitter. I read the text messages on my phone. My friend’s friend died while we were gone, her second struggle with cancer ends, leaving a husband and her two young adopted children.
Jeff returns to work, texting me that while we were gone, his co-worker’s husband died after a lung transplant, unable to be weaned from the heart-lung machine.
Reconnecting with technology and friends after our arrival back home, there is good news too. There are weddings being planned, and reunions taking place. Healthy babies are being born to loving parents, and everyone in my family has been given
ONE MORE DAY!
Twenty-four hours has given me a yet another reminder about why I do this work, why I help people to move through “the valley of dark places.” It is because I know how painful the dark is, but I also remember that the sun still shines behind the clouds.
I can attest to the fact that despair dissipates, ebbing and flowing like the waves of the lake outside our cabin. And I can help people find joy however small so that they can recognize it when it resurfaces in due time.