Divine Timing Part 2: The Letter

Read Divine Timing — Part 1: The Visitation

Eighteen years ago, our family found ourselves needing a place to live.

The home we had been renting was being sold, and suddenly we needed somewhere for our family to go. My mother was renting a house in Riverside at the time, and in her backyard, underneath a large eucalyptus tree, sat a small borrowed trailer.

It certainly wasn't meant for two adults and four children, but somehow we made it work.

George and I shared a twin bed that sat right next to the stove. I used to joke that if I stood up, I was in the kitchen, and if I sat down, in the exact same space, I was in the bedroom.

There wasn't room for a kitchen table because our bed took up that space. We had a stove, a sink, a small closet, some overhead storage for food and dishes, running water and electricity. The tiny bathroom at the end of the trailer had a curtain.

The kids had their own unusual sleeping arrangements. The boys slept head-to-toe on a narrow cot-like area above the storage cabinets on one side of the trailer, while the girls slept head-to-toe on the other. Looking back, I'm surprised they didn't kick each other more often.

It was crowded, to say the least.

But I don't want to give the impression that we were miserable, because we weren't. We laughed. We had fun. There was a closeness that came with all of us being squeezed into that little space together.

Much of the time it was just the kids and me. George worked as a marine electrician, and work could be unpredictable. When he was working in Los Angeles, he would often stay with his mother during the week or on the ship rather than spend the money on gas driving back and forth.

Meanwhile, I was taking care of my mother—driving her to doctor's appointments, church, bingo and whatever errands she needed—and raising the kids, sometimes driving them to three different schools.

I was also doing my work as a medium. I wasn't really advertising then, and clients mostly found me through word of mouth. Sessions would trickle in, and the money I earned helped with the bills.

We weren't building some grand life. We were raising a family and doing what we needed to do to get by.

And somehow, we were happy.

After a couple of years in the trailer, my brother remarried and moved away, which finally gave us the opportunity to move into the house.

I remember the relief.

It felt as though we could all breathe.

Suddenly there was space for the everyday things we hadn't had room for before—a kitchen where I could cook without our bed sitting beside the stove and a living room where we could all gather. We watched television and played games together. We decorated our Christmas tree and opened the door to trick-or-treaters on Halloween.

They were ordinary things, but after living in that little trailer, ordinary felt pretty wonderful.

We still didn't have a lot of space. As the kids grew, bedrooms and sleeping arrangements shifted depending on who was living at home.

Somehow, we always made room.

That house became the backdrop to our lives.

The kids grew up there. They graduated from school. Two eventually moved to other states to begin lives of their own. My mother passed away. There were Christmases and birthdays, laughter and arguments, good memories and difficult ones. Life changed little by little, almost without my noticing it.

And somehow, eighteen years passed.

By then, I had wanted a change for quite some time.

I had always loved Apple Valley. I had friends who had lived there for many years, and I used to dream about what it would be like to live there myself someday.

And somewhere inside me, I also knew we weren't going to stay in that Riverside house forever.

In fact, about five years before we moved, I told the kids that our landlord was going to sell the house and we would have to leave.

This wasn't the first time I'd had that kind of knowing.

When we lived on 164th Street in Gardena, I told George that I believed the owner would sell that house in two years and we would have to move.

She did.

Of course, no one ever listens to me.

Seriously.

The funny thing is, I didn't listen to me either.

I didn't prepare for either move. I saw it coming, tucked the knowing somewhere in the back of my mind, and went on with my life.

Until the end of March of this year, when a letter arrived from our landlord.

He wrote that he was thinking about selling the house and hoped to do so sometime this year. He asked George and me to call him so we could talk.

There it was.

The thing I had felt was going to happen was suddenly sitting in front of me on a piece of paper.

And I was terrified.

Part of me had wanted to leave that house. I had even dreamed of living in Apple Valley. But wanting a change when it's somewhere off in the future is very different from suddenly being told that change may be coming whether you're ready for it or not.

And we weren't ready.

Where were we going to go?

Rent had become so expensive, and I had said many times that I would rather put that money toward a home of our own than continue paying someone else's mortgage. George felt the same way. Neither of us wanted to rent another house, settle into it, and someday have another owner tell us we had to leave.

But wanting to buy a home and being able to buy one are two very different things.

We didn't have money saved for a down payment.

I couldn't see how we were going to do it.

George told his mother what was happening.

Not long afterward, she called me.

She told me she hadn't talked to George about it yet. She wanted to come to me first.

She and George's father had helped their two daughters with the down payments on their homes.

George Sr. had since passed away, but she told me she wanted to do the same for us.

She said it was only fair.

I couldn't speak.

I was fighting back tears, trying desperately not to let her hear me cry.

She was so sweet, as she always is. She told me not to worry. Everything was going to be okay.

And that's when something happened that I still don't quite know how to explain.

I knew exactly who I was talking to. It was my mother-in-law, a woman I love dearly.

But her words were my mother's words.

I don't mean that her voice suddenly sounded like my mother's. It didn't. It was what she was saying to me. The reassurance. The way she was trying to take my worry away. They were the exact kind of words my mother would have said.

For a moment, I almost couldn't believe what I was hearing.

It was strange and wonderful at the same time. I knew I was talking to my mother-in-law, yet something about that moment made me feel as though my own mother wasn't very far away.

I tried not to cry, but when I finally answered, the quiver in my voice gave me away.

"It's okay, Kelly," she said. "Everything will turn out all right."

There it was again.

My mother's words.

I don't care what anyone else might call that moment.

I knew it was a gift.

We still didn't know where we were going.

We didn't know whether we could even qualify to buy a house.

And we certainly didn't know that a home in Apple Valley was waiting at the end of all of this.

But for the first time since that letter arrived, there was a possibility where only days before I had seen none.

And I had no idea what was coming next.

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Have you ever had someone say exactly what you needed to hear at exactly the right moment? Maybe their words reminded you of someone you love, brought you comfort, or simply made you feel a little less alone.

If you have, you probably understand why that phone call has stayed with me.