Affirmation in Hand, Finale

So what have these fuzzy eyes pondered these past three weeks of blog silence, silence so cavernous you can hear the coyote howl echo?

Well these fuzzy eyes pondered a job that fit My Beloved Hubby to a tee. Every phrase of the job description sketched MBH down to the munificent gray hairs of his experience. Which is why the recruiter called him. And called him. And had a fellow engineer contact him as well. The position would send us back to a spot we just vacationed at Labor Day week. Up there we galloped our blazing red, rented Dodge Charger from family to friends.

It was my niche of shopping zones, green pastures, wavy cornfields, tasty potlucks, and hug gatherings. Oh to be resettled nearer to the God space that restored our souls for four years! But this location, our sweet location, this perfect locale offered a new job with no guarantee of work beyond its given contracted time.

Excuse me. My Maria just handed me a wad of white tissues.  If we had not sold our perfect location home, if he had still been jobless there, if this Deep South climate were not so sunny in January and February and March, April, May, . . . And if only tandem riders Dad and Bud had NOT found streets to ride along and sing TV theme songs to, then maybe, maybe, I’d be staging a Deep South home for sale right now.

“Maybe” is just a nonsense wish. The affirmation at hand was clear that day over two years ago when MBH received the Fed Ex contract and benefits packet. At the start of the nation’s dip into recession, we actually sold our house. The company paid to relocate us Deep South. We moved into a home that fits our family's needs. Like cattle on a thousand hills, in each action God provided us golden grace.

Two years later on this second Fall day-- though the recession is not over -- MBH continues to have a ton of analysis work. He’s busy at his charitable niches in church and the local community. And busy, of late, are the rest of the family here.

Here we will stay. Cotton fields puff snow white under vast blue skies. Pecan and long needled pine groves shelter us from the sun that now hurries to the horizon. Shorter days mean shorter evening rides. But if Dad gets home early, I know what streets he and Bud will ride, their black helmets slung on their heads like cowboy felt . . . streets named Cartwright, Bonanza, and Little Joe.