I was unpacking groceries that fall day when my husband, Tony, told me the devastating news: His sister, who hadn’t been well, was in intensive care. As I tried to make sense of the situation, I mechanically put away the things I’d bought—the milk in the fridge, the chips in the top cabinet. Tony said he needed a long walk and headed out. I kept right on organizing and cleaning. The kitchen might have been spotless, but I was a mess of confusion and despair.
I took a deep breath and went to the dining room, where I dusted the framed photos of my grandparents and their parents and my husband’s parents. I picked up each portrait, studying our family’s faces.
In 1911, my great-grandmother came to America by herself from Hungary. She was only 14. For a long time, I thought this story was embellished family lore. Then I did some research and found the ship’s manifest. It confirmed that my great-grandmother truly had traveled alone, a four-foot-ten-inch girl with exactly nine dollars in her pocket and a scrap of paper that had the name and address of a distant relative who would house her. I tried to imagine what that voyage must have been like: Faith was the only companion to guide my great-grandmother toward an uncertain horizon.
So often I forget how strong we are. The incredible hardships and courageous journeys we all have in our histories, like sailing across a sea of unknowns or coping with the anguish of a loved one’s failing health.
I went outside and sat on the porch steps in the sun. I took in the striking hues of fall—the beauty of our autumn blaze maple in all its glory, the trill of a sparrow’s song in the distance—and I felt better. No matter the outcome, we would find our way through this rough time. Organizing the house couldn’t cure the restless worry in my spirit. Only the blessing of a beautiful day and the anchor of my faith could do that.
Excerpted from Guideposts magazine.
