By Noelle Sterne, Ph.D.
On a sunny Sunday afternoon, my husband and I headed for the busy fashionable mall outside of town. I dressed up—trendy earrings, understated sexy blouse, tailored slacks, matching bag and shoes. We visited a few shops together, then agreed to browse separately and meet at the front entrance in two hours.
I’d been to every shop but the European baby boutique and had spent a lot of money without guilt. In both hands, I gripped multiple entwined handles of shiny, smart-logoed, overflowing shopping bags.
I should have felt wonderful. But my purchases barely veiled my heaviness.
At the imported pen shop, my husband and I had had yet another fight. I didn’t want to admit it, but they were becoming too frequent. Each time, they’d been passionate and unbridled, the anger on both sides surprisingly intense. The cliché about marital arguments is true: I couldn’t even remember the subjects of the last few.
Re-living my outbursts, I felt ashamed and helpless. Now, despite the new acquisitions and plush surroundings, I fell deeper into depression.
As I walked to our meeting place, noticing each flawlessly coifed woman passing by, I imagined she had a perfect life, even though rationally I knew better.
I thought of asking one to sit down with me on an inviting wooden bench in the mall center strip, surrounded by luxuriant greenery and overlooking the koi pond. Encouraged by my slightest sympathetic smile, I saw her twisting the diamond and emerald rings on her left hand and pouring out a saga of troubles.
I also knew that whatever she might confess would make me feel no better. My mind kept returning to the furious shouting and endless litany in my head of my husband’s faults.
As we had icily agreed before parting outside the pen shop, exactly on time I waited for him at the mall entrance near the taxi stand so we could get a cab home. We’d supposedly “made up,” each saying what we thought we should, as if this would make us feel differently. But our empty declarations couldn’t erase the lingering anger and hurt. And worse, I already knew from past repetitions that what we’d thought was resolved would only reappear a few days later, sparked by the next most trivial thing.
I dreaded the stony ride home, then unpacking everything that was supposed to have brought joy, and serving an uninviting cold supper of leftovers. We’d eat without speaking, except for requests to pass the salt, and then disappear into separate rooms, each blaring a TV to cover resentful thoughts.
I shifted from one foot to the other, looking both ways from the entrance. Where was he? He’d promised to meet me promptly. Now it was much later. My bags heavy, I set them down and propped them against each other. I grew angrier by the minute.
Pacing back and forth, I wondered irritably whether any cabs would be left, and to check I glanced to my left toward the area where they usually parked. Suddenly a man appeared on my right side.
Startled, I looked full at him. He was tall and stout, towering over me. He wore black slacks and a black shirt open at the collar. In his mid-fifties, he had a large head, somewhat sagging jowls, and lank dark brown hair. Around his neck, standing out dramatically against the black shirt, on a thin gold chain hung a huge gold cross.
He was already peering hard at me. I thought he was going to fight me for a cab or make a pass. Instead, with a small smile, he reached into a little black pouch in his hand and held out an object. “This is for you.”
Automatically, I extended my hand, unafraid. Something small dropped into my palm, and without looking I closed my fist. Then he bent closer, his eyes piercing.
“God loves you and so do I.” He leaned down and kissed my cheek.
I stood wide-eyed, and no words came. Then, regaining a little composure, I said, “And God loves you. What denomination are you?”
He smiled broader. “I’m a Christian.” Without waiting for acknowledgment, he turned and strode to the parking lot. He unlocked the door of a black car, got in, and started the engine.
I opened my hand. On a tie tack back, a tiny angel shone up at me. Its gold halo sparkled, and its diamond-cut glass skirt billowed with promise.
I stared after the car pulling away, and my eyes teared.
How did he know to choose me, a stylish woman looking like she had it all?
How did he know that beneath the façade, I felt so lonely and depressed I hardly knew what to do?
The man had sounded so sure in his declaration of God’s love for me. Could I believe him? I cradled the delicate angel. Was it really possible? Her wings, like welcoming arms, opened in unlimited love.
How did He know that this was exactly the reminder I needed? All heaviness lifted and anger dissolved. I couldn’t wait to invite my husband to dinner at our favorite restaurant and knew we’d really be able to talk.
He appeared from around the corner. I waved and smiled. “Hi, sweetheart. You’re just in time for the next cab.”
Noelle Sterne is an author, editor, ghostwriter, writing coach, and spiritual counselor. She has published over 250 nonfiction and fiction pieces in print and online venues. Noelle’s major interests are spiritual and writing craft subjects. She has a Ph.D. from Columbia University and for over 28 years has helped doctoral candidates complete their dissertations (finally). Stemming from her experience, Noelle is working on a book of guidance that incorporates spiritual principles to ease the long trek toward completion of the dissertation process. In her new book, Trust Your Life: Forgive Yourself and Go After Your Dreams (Unity Books), she draws examples from her practice and other aspects of life to help readers let go of regrets, re-label their past, and reach their lifelong yearnings. For more information visit www.trustyourlifenow.com or email ywilldone@yahoo.com.