The Lord God goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you (Deuteronomy 31:8)

With the good weather, my mother enjoys sitting in front of her building watching the comings and goings of the day. A couple was unloading over-flowing boxes of blankets and linens stacked on dresser drawers full of clothes. A rolled up pair of white athletic socks wobbled away, landing in the parking lot. "Someone's moving in," my mother observed, as an elderly man, steel braces surrounding his calves, fought for balance on his teetering crutches as he solemnly oversaw the operation. My mom was quiet for a minute and then added, with a sigh, "At least it's easier in the summer."                                                                                             Standing in the reception area later, preparing to leave, I noticed one of Mom's shoelaces had come unraveled. Kneeling, I quickly tied it. "Don't back up," she warned me and, glancing behind me, I realized that the man had approached us. I hugged and kissed my mother good-bye and turned to go, shifting to go around him. "Is that your mother?" he asked gruffly. I quelled my natural-born instinct to be sarcastic. It doesn't go over well in this environment. I nodded. Frowning, he squinted at me. "How can you just leave her here?"                                                                                                                                                                                                Wow. I finally had the voice narration for the agonizing drama that kept me up every night, wracked with guilt. Funny, I had imagined it would sound more like Samuel L. Jackson. I have that same exact sentence on stereo-sound repeat in my head every night and every time I drive away from her new "home." Are you familiar with the word Samuel L. Jackson is famous for uttering? That is the adjective that I would, in my remorse, regret, and shame, would ascribe (unfairly) to the word "home."

The only explanation for my not immediately snapping defensively at this individual was God...pure and simple. I am not a "pause and consider" type of person. I am not reflective, empathetic, or instinctively compassionate. Those things kick in later sometimes but, in the moment, I am a quick-to-anger, snap-judgement, trigger-happy impulsive idiot. But God quieted me. 

"It's hard," I admitted, glancing back to where my mother had disappeared into the dining room. "I live about an hour away but I try to visit as often as I can." (Not enough, Guilt whispered to my heart.)

He nodded. "We're moving my wife in," he told me, swaying a bit on his crutches as I realized he was more in danger of an emotional free-fall. "She's in the hospital. They say I can't care for her at home anymore." It was his turn to glance over his shoulder and I wondered who was whispering to his hurting heart. I nodded sadly. "She can be violent sometimes." I inched closer to him as he softly said, "Sometimes she doesn't know me."

He went on to tell me that he lived right up the road which was a good thing. That they'd been married 56 years. I refrained, heroically, from telling him that my parents had been married 68 years...This was his story. Not mine.

"She doesn't know she's coming here," he said, glaring at the building that served as both sentence and sanctuary. "How can I do this to her?" 

We stared, helplessly at one another.

"What is your wife's name?" I asked.

"Ruth."

Oh dear Lord. You ARE here.

I am loathe to share too deeply of my faith because I fear not representing Jesus well with my tongue-tied words as well as my lack of knowledge and recall of scripture. But, oh, Ruth.

Ruth. Who left the comfort of a familiar place...left her people...to go live among strangers.

I may not be well-versed in religious theology but I had taken a crash course in the hard lessons this man was currently drowning in.

"I had to make a choice," I told him, "between my mother's interpretation of happiness which was rooted in her independence and her safety." He and I stared at one another. I gripped his arm as he stood there, shaking. "Sometimes you can't have both."His tears broke my heart as I recognized a kindred soul. "Ruth will be safe here."

From there, I drove to my friend Sarah's house for a book club meeting. She had adamantly refused to tell me the name of the book. I'd burned her once, under similar circumstances, and I think she was seeking revenge.  The nearly twenty women sat together to begin the discussion about adult friendships and I laughed when I finally discovered the book's title:  Find Your People. 

Thank you, Lord for your still, small voice. Please be with Ruth.

Ruth 1:16

I will live where you live; Your people will be my people; Your God will be my God.