Following the painful dissolution of my 20-year marriage, I traveled to the suburbs of Houston, put my belongings in storage and moved in with my sister until I could find a job and get a place of my own.
Adjusting to life in a 12 x 13 bedroom was difficult at best. Clutter and chaos reigned. However, I refused to let it get me down. I was convinced that I would be gainfully employed, living independently in no time at all. God knew my needs, and he had promised to provide.
Thirty days later, however, I had no job prospects, and my faith took a downward plunge.
Where was God?
Didn’t he see me living like a hobo—clothes hung everywhere, shoes dangling from drawers, boxes stacked to the moon? Didn’t he know I was claustrophobic, for crying out loud! How much more of this mess did he expect me to take?
Another two months elapsed, and not a single interview.
Desperately needing more space—physically, mentally and emotionally—I told my sister good-bye, loaded up my things, and headed to my parents’ house in a small town about two hours away. It was a risky move—and the last thing I wanted to do—but I was frantic, and something had to give.
My parents welcomed me with open arms. The extra space and privacy were a much-needed change, and Mother’s cooking was just as good as I remembered. However, despite my improved living conditions, finding a job was a battle I couldn’t seem to win.
Faithfully, I applied for work. I signed up with agencies. I scoured the classifieds daily. I told acquaintances. I told strangers. I told friends. But nothing happened, and nobody called.
I should have known it wouldn’t be easy.
For starters, my resume stunk. I had devoted my life to being a mother and a housewife. I wasn’t a career woman. I had no college degree. I was a freelance contributor to The Dallas Morning News, but I hadn’t held a full-time job in over a decade. Yes, my office skills were excellent, but my work history was a concoction of this job, that job and the other job. To make matters worse, in a few years, I would be 50. Who in their right mind would want to hire me?
Obviously, nobody.
With every tick of the clock, my self-worth plummeted, and I felt like a useless antique.
After dinner one evening, I excused myself and went outside to the yard swing. It was a favorite place of solitude, and I needed to think.
I hated feeling helpless and afraid, but that is exactly how I felt.
It had been over nine months since my divorce. Would I ever find a job? Would I ever be able to make a good life for myself and my teenage daughter?
As a scattering of small birds made their final swoops before nightfall, I felt warm tears trickle down my cheeks. Quite frankly, I didn’t know there were any tears left to cry. But, alas, there were.
At first, I brushed them aside, almost annoyed by their unexpected appearance. However, the more I brushed, the more they fell. Eventually, I gave in to my emotions and let them fall unchecked.
Suddenly, a flicker of light behind the tall pines caught my attention. Wiping my eyes, I looked closer and saw a full moon, rising in the east—big, buttery and bright. Inch by inch, it climbed into the velvety night sky, bathing the landscape with magical hues of heavenly spun gold.
As I studied its impeccable magnificence, the swing creaked, and I felt a holy presence beside me. To my surprise, I bristled.
God? Had God finally shown up?
Where was he nine months ago, when I was living with my sister, maniacally pounding the sidewalk, looking for work? I needed a job, but I didn’t find one. Where were you then, God? You promised to provide my needs, but you didn’t. Now I'm stuck out here in the boonies. Nobody hiring. Nobody calling. Nothing but rainy days and Mondays as far as the eye can see.
Clearly, my frustration and anger had taken over.
Without warning, it felt as if a soft blanket fell around my shoulders and arms seemed to hold me close. It was an awkward moment I wasn't prepared for. Loosening my grip on my anger was the right thing to do, for sure, but I wasn't ready. As the moon climbed higher in the night sky, I just sat there staring at nothing, rigid and unmoving.
In ways only a believer can understand, God began whispering these words in my ear: I love you, Gayle. Nothing you can say or do will ever make me stop loving you. Yes, I saw you months ago, when you were looking for a job. I loved you then, too. But you didn’t need a job months ago. You thought you did, but you didn’t. It was too soon, and you were too fragile.
What you needed was quiet time among the pines—to rest, to mend, to be loved unconditionally, to grow and get your footing.
You needed morning talks with your mother and evening strolls with your dad.
You needed ice-cream with your daughter and coffee with your friends. You needed times of doing nothing but sitting on the couch, eating lemon pie, watching logs burn in the fireplace.
When you need a job, I’ll give you a job, Gayle. Your stinky resume doesn’t scare me. I hold the moon in the sky. Nothing is impossible for me to do. Tonight, however, you’re exactly where you need to be: Out in the boonies, sitting in the yard swing, with the one who loves you most.
I can’t explain how I felt in those sacred, moonlit moments with my Maker, but it was a defining point in my journey, and one I’ll never forget. Laying my head back against the swing, I covered my eyes and wept.
Silly me. God had been with me all along, ordering my steps, providing my needs, just as he promised he would. He was my Father, after all, and I was his child. For the first time in a long, long time, I knew that everything was going to be OK.
Bidding the moon good-night, I went inside and slept like a baby.
The next morning, I received an e-mail from a radio station where I had applied for a job, doing something I had never done in my whole life. They wanted to schedule an interview with me as soon as possible.
A few days later, the general manager called and offered me the job. According to his assistant, over 300 applicants had applied for the position, but my resume—the stinky one—had stood out above the rest.
My resume! My stinky, stinky resume!
Ah, yes. He was my Father. I was his child. Everything was going to be OK. ⧫
A version of this essay was named an Honorable Mention in the Inspirational / Spiritual category for the 88th Writer's Digest Writing Competition.
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