This Easter morning, I am more hopeful than I’ve been since the day before the storm, the morning of my first 5K. After 17 years of doubting whether I could trust my body, of waking up and wondering in that first split second whether it might cage my spirit on some monumental day, I felt released.
This morning, after five months of fear, doubt, control issues, anxiety, and intermittent hope, spring has sprung me into fully bloomed hope. I know it will rain in the afternoon. I know we have to go back to that dismal apartment for possibly five more months. But now, right now, we are outside with Lucy and the squirrels, mourning doves, and a lone woodpecker. It smells, sounds, and feels like spring, readiness, and rebirth. The doves release our losses, the woodpecker carves a new opening.
It is time to rebuild. This week will remain our own personal Lent. A few more tulips must open before we are fully blooming. I have faith that our situation will mirror the season.
Before Steve and I left on our small getaway, we stopped by the house to check the mail. And there it was. Our mortgage company released a check—not 1/3 of our insurance payout, as initially promised, but 2/3. Thanks to the persistence of homeowners who reached this stage before us, and Governor Cuomo, who demanded expediency, we have once again actually benefitted from our extensive delays. So with some relief settling in and around us, we set off on our short drive to West Islip, a world away from ants and air mattresses.
A friend and her husband gave us the gift of their house for the weekend. Our welcome included a beautiful message from her and Pooh left by the door, and fresh tulips in the kitchen and dining room. Coffee, wine, fresh towels laid out—all the luxuries of a bed and breakfast, only better because this is not a business but an act of love. I have not seen this friend, a former co-teacher, in fifteen years! How could I not have faith?
Kids in a candy shop, we are. Reclining chairs, countless windows, a bed we can share, cuddly mornings, a yard for Lucy, a full kitchen for Steve’s culinary acrobatics, and three bathrooms, all of which fit both elbows during ponytail-making. And no work. No letters of request, no applications, no number crunching. Only long walks, savored meals, dancing outbursts, and extended mornings in bed.
To all our friends who have been suffering: may Passover and Easter, each a holiday of hope and a chance at new life, live in you all year. May spring bring blooms that never fall beneath boots—and grow so strong by summer as to rival the sun.
Believe with me today! In spring, it is easier than I thought.