insight

As we flew through the darkness, a stranger delivered a powerful, hopeful message I needed to hear about finding love after divorce.

The man buckling his seatbelt beside me looked comfortable in worn jeans, a plaid shirt, glasses, and a grey wool cap. He was an artist flying home to Minneapolis. Self-employed like me. He seemed nice. His name was Rodney.

On this April evening, our three-hour flight from Phoenix would take us back to the cold Midwest. Soon it would be dark outside. We would land around midnight after a long, but really good day.

My interview near Sacramento for a magazine profile had gone well. The California warmth and sunshine had felt so good. All my logistics and first flight were smooth. My Minneapolis interview wasn’t until the next afternoon, so I could rest in the morning. It was good to be out traveling again.

For awhile, Rodney and I chatted about the ups and downs of a freelance life. We agreed it was a kind of crazy way to make a living and yet, we couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

Then the conversation turned personal.

A risky turn

That was risky. I was getting divorced, and prone to long bouts of sobbing best done in private.

Even though I knew this split was for the best, I was learning that my only way out of divorce’s jagged grief and deep sense of failure was to just cry my way through it.

Every day that winter there were tears and more tears. I’d been numb and teary through Thanksgiving, then sailed so smoothly through the holidays and the New Year with all its promise of new beginnings that I thought I was past it.

Wrong.

In mid-February, I crashed, paralyzed by anxiety and tears and felt no choice but to back out of important commitments and hunker down at home for awhile. Thankfully, I had good, caring friends, parents only four hours away, and my petite folk Victorian house that felt like a fortress.

I would rally to meet a deadline or handle a piece of divorce business, then retreat back to my house. Simple things were taxing. I’d be out and about, get a headache, head home, step into a hot bath in the middle of the afternoon and put myself to bed in the early evening.

I’d learned to confide in only a few trusted souls who had been through divorce and understood and to steer clear of some married people who apparently got it right the first time and seemed kind of mystified by the whole notion.

Painful questions

They were curious? Perhaps concerned divorce was contagious?

Surely, they had not meant any harm. And yet, they’d said stupid, hurtful things.

“What happened to the love?” asked the accountant’s wife and secretary, handing over the finished tax return that February as tears streamed down my cheeks. I never went back.

One curious acquaintance stopped me on the sidewalk, in front of the post office of our small town. “What happened?” she said. “Did he cheat, or … ?” She trailed off, hoping I’d fill in the details but I refused. Not today, I told her. I retreated to my house.

See, what those folks didn’t get is that for me What went wrong????? was the most haunting, painful question. And my answer at that moment from the eye of my personal storm would have been no clearer than theirs.

So I kept my guard up.

A little leap of faith

And now some guy on an airplane was asking about my life.

I found a little faith, probably took a deep breath and told him. Gratefully, he immediately shared that he’d been through a divorce, too.

He knew that deep sense of failure, and had shed his own tears. He had remarried — something I could not imagine then.

Hang in there, he said, being married to the right person is really good. He talked about his second wife, his right person, and how she had an awful illness. It was hard, he said, but yet wonderful and manageable because they faced it as a team.

Being with the wrong person was maddening, he said. Total insanity. I agreed. For the next hour we covered everything our ex-spouses did that drove us crazy.

I don’t recall precisely which of those painful things I shared, but I probably tried to make it something funny—or at least that sounded funny until you really thought about it. My ex was fond of critiquing my hair, my clothes, my body. He once told me: I’d like to see you with long, black straight hair.

To which I replied: I have short, reddish-brown curly hair. Did you happen to notice that before you married me?

To be fair, I had said unkind things to him, too. That we could say so many unkind things to each other was one of those big red flags that whatever we had was not the true, forever, lasting love.

I asked Rodney how he and his new wife knew they were right for each other.

Before they had met, at her therapist’s suggestion she listed all the traits she wanted in a partner. She told me I was everything on her list, he said.

The wish list

Holy crap!

I rarely go into a grocery store or start my day without a list. How is it that I neglected to thoughtfully and carefully consider all the qualities I wanted and needed in a husband and lifelong commitment? Inking such qualities onto paper seemed so basic and obvious — and yet I’d totally missed it.

For awhile, we joked about that. I was hardly the first person to overlook that I could choose, that there were better options worth the wait.

We spoke softly inside our tiny, private world as the jet propelled us through the darkness. For those few hours we were the best of friends. Soon, we landed and each focused on what we had to do next. We wrapped up the conversation, wished each other well and pledged to keep in touch, then disappeared separately into the cold, dark city.

Before I turned the key in the ignition of my rental car, I knew our encounter had been special.

Only later did I see what an incredible, powerful gift Rodney gave me that night.

Powerful gifts

He helped me realize what I’d known in my bones all along: I’d grown impatient and settled for the wrong person. My intuition had tried to get my attention with those nagging feelings, but I’d misread it as anxiety.

I would have to face that. Yet, our talk had lifted me. I wasn’t hopeless at marriage, or men or love. All was not lost. I had not wrecked my life beyond repair after all.

The talk released me from the whole question of whether my ex was a good guy or a bad guy. It wasn’t for me to say. And it didn’t matter anyway. He just wasn’t the right guy for me.

My mother will read this and mumble to herself: ‘I tried to tell her. But she can’t believe me until she hears it from some guy on an airplane … ’

I know mom. You did. Close friends saw it, too, and you all stood and clapped at the wedding because I asked you to and I appreciate it.

I remember. And I remember telling you, mom, that if it was a mistake you couldn’t spare me from it. I’d have to make it and figure it out on my own.

So I did. And now I would have to forgive myself.

Time to rise and shine

That dark spring night, Rodney said the right thing at the right time in the right way so that I got it — and could move forward.

To finish my mourning, get on with my healing and the rest of my life in earnest. To not get stuck. To rise.

And appreciate that there are little pearls of wisdom and insight surrounding us, often found in odd places when our guard is down.

The warmth of spring came, as it always does. Most days were better than the one before. I tore out the old carpet, brushed a gorgeous rusted orange onto my living room walls and took lots of long walks and hot bubble baths.

Awhile back, I searched for Rodney’s business card and our initial e-mail messages, and could not find them.

He was right about everything

If I could, I’d thank him for his stellar pep talk, his encouraging wisdom and the generosity of his spirit he gave to a stranger.

I’d tell him how it all turned out, how six months later I made my wish list and somehow, some way got so freaking lucky and received every bit of goodness I asked for and more than I imagined.

I’d tell him I know exactly what he meant about the sweetness of being married to the right person.

And I’d tell him how very much I still cherish our conversation.

I’d apologize for losing touch when life got so big and full, for not becoming a good friend available with a pep talk on his toughest days.

I trust God put someone just as wonderful in his path for those times, the way he had appeared in mine to say what I most needed to hear: I know it hurts. We all make mistakes. You got this. You’re going to be OK.