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Mysterious Ways: The Old Lamplighter

She worried about starting over at her age. Florida might be a vacation paradise, but would it feel like home?

Lamplight Lane by Thomas Kinkade

I’m not ready to leave, I thought, pacing around our living room. This house had been our home for 10 wonderful years. I didn’t know how my husband, Gary, could sit there on the couch, casually watching a sitcom. My mind skittered from all the things we had to pack to the things we had to sell to everything we’d be leaving behind.

I stopped in front of my favorite painting. A framed Thomas Kinkade scene of old-fashioned thatch-roofed cottages, light and warmth emanating from every window. It always gave me a sense of calm. It had to come with us. I needed to double-bubble- wrap it. Would it survive our 3,000-mile move? Would I?

Early in our marriage, Gary and I moved often, from Missouri to California, before finally settling down in Eugene, Oregon. All our friends were here now. We loved the mountains, the forests, the rambling Willamette River, even the wet winters. But we were getting older. Gary had fibromyalgia, I had arthritis, and we needed to be somewhere with a more forgiving climate.

A real-estate agent had sent us a listing for the Lamplighter, a retirement community in Port Orange, Florida. “You’ll feel like you are on vacation in paradise!” the ads promised. It did look idyllic. We put a deposit on a property there and put our house on the market. I figured I’d have time to get used to the idea. But our place sold almost immediately. We had to be out in less than a month.

I worried about starting over, making new friends at our age. Florida might be a vacation paradise—but would it ever feel like home?

“You okay?” Gary asked, seeing me staring at the painting.

“I just wish I could be sure moving to Florida is the right decision,” I said.

“I know, honey,” he said. “But I don’t think that that painting is going to tell you.” He went back to his show.

I shook my head. That’s when I noticed the words engraved in gold at the bottom of the frame. I leaned in closer to read it.

“Actually, Gary, it has,” I said. “You know what this painting’s called? Lamplight Lane!

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