Truth Stranger than Fiction

On my son's last night at home, I entertained mixed feelings. Fatigue being among the top contenders, I headed to bed early. Also, I had nothing left to prepare and wanted a good night's sleep in order to be at my best for the next day's events.

He had been going in and out of the house, cleaning his car and attending to last-minute details before his wedding the next morning.

As I went through my bedroom door, I glanced at the digital clock on the dresser. Eight-thirteen. At the same time, I heard the front door of the house close behind my son.

Wow.

I could hardly believe it. Eight-thirteen p.m. is the time my son was born.

So, exactly 8770 days from the moment he was born, the last day of my life with him in my home ended and I heard the door shut behind him.

I couldn't write fiction this good if I tried.

I have noticed this at other times in my life, like when my daughter, through a series of strange small events, was born on my parents' anniversary, as I'd wanted her to be because my mother had recently joined my dad in the hereafter and her due date had been close to their wedding date. My doctor had said it was impossible for her to be born that day unless it happened on its own (and I only once in seven children went into labor on my own), because she was going to be on her way to China that day. But, the universe smiled on me and gave me exactly what I wanted--a daughter I could name after my mother on the day my mom and dad had been married.

And the time I was writing about my life and saw how certain events had fit together just as smoothly as a jig-saw puzzle to make things work out. And when I struggled for the exact words I needed to express something very important that had happened and they came into my mind and I knelt with tears streaming down my face to thank God not only that I had the ability to write what had happened, but because I could finally see that the misery I had passed through fit with the writing talent and other blessings I had been given to allow me a way to do some good in the world.

Sometimes, I think the entire history of the world is a very good, long novel of the most intricate detail imaginable--like zooming in on the pattern of a flower far enough down to see the pattern of its cellular structure, and then the patterns of the molecules, and then the patterns of the atoms themselves. A novel with characters of every sort, a meaningful plot line, important themes, life lessons, and a glorious ending we're still waiting to get to. God knows every detail and has the thread to every plot line in His hands.

As my own section of this novel whizzes past, I have to marvel as I see its plot line fall into place. With my son getting married, I am scared to realize how far through this story I am, and I feel the same sort of longing I feel when I realize a good book I can't put down is going to end sooner than I want it to.

Here I was, the mother of the groom, giving him the wedding luncheon I wanted to have for myself--at the Lion House. Here I was, going to bed like an old person, while he shut the door without a care on my significant moment and moved on--as he should. Here I was, not the young person any longer, but the wiser, more worried one, watching and hoping with all my might to see how it turns out. Glad that he is in a better situation than I was in. Glad he has made better choices, is better set up, better equipped. Glad that the wedding luncheon I can offer him is not at an all-you-can eat buffet, as mine was, by his father's choice (due to his own sense of taste and not financial concerns). That should have been one clue to me of the life I was taking on, but I guess I couldn't see the red flag for the orange centerpieces.

When this son was serving his mission 6184 miles away--farther away than almost all of Europe, his twentieth birthday fell on a Monday. I thought that would mean that I would get an email from him that day, but the day waned on with no word from him. It turns out to have been the best reason possible. The people he knew there were taking good care of him.

I had become interested in seeing how light or dark it had been when each of my children had been born. For middle-of-the night births, of course it had been pitch black, but five of my children had been born in the morning or evening. Light in the morning or evening varies according to the time of the year, of course. So, on his birthday, I went outside at 8:13 to look at the light.

I found out the next day--when I was able to read the email message that did come late--that he had been looking out at the sky at the exact same time (only it was 11:13 where he was), wondering how light the sky was in Salt Lake City.

When life can give us moments like that--moments that connect us with each other and time and space and the universe and what's meaningful--I'll devour it like any great novel and hope against hope that I can catch on to what it's all about.