Even Though
by Jan Ackerson
My body had nearly recovered from the accident that changed everything; no one had yet found the right therapy for my injured heart. So when my husband suggested a trip to Mackinac Island, a place we had enjoyed several times in the past, I stammered in protest. �I just don�t see�what�s the point?�
He draped an arm around my shoulders. �The point, my love, is that you need to get out of the house, and enjoy a place of beauty and peace.�
Too weary to fight, I let him win. He packed our bags, helped me to the van, and chattered for the entire four-hour drive. I simply closed my eyes and let his words flit about the interior of the car and fade away.
When we arrived, I clutched my husband�s arm tightly and we boarded the ferry to the island. The waters of two great lakes splashed and sprayed our faces. Seagulls squawked overhead. For a moment I lifted my face to the sunshine, a feeling I had nearly forgotten. No, I mustn�t let any happiness in�I tucked my chin into my chest.
At the end of the ferry dock, a dozen little shops advertised bicycles for rent. My husband grasped my elbow. �What about a tandem? I know you�d be able to ride one of those! I�ll do all the hard work up front. C�mon, let�s get one!�
�I don�t think�I just can�t.� But his enthusiasm was stronger than my fear, and soon we were pedaling down the busy main street of the island, past souvenir stores, a street performer playing the hammered dulcimer, and confectionaries where the smell of newly-made fudge drifted into the noisy avenue. I heard myself say �Mmmmm�, a sound that came from a place inside me that I hadn�t visited in a long time.
Within minutes we had left the town behind. We stopped at a rocky spot on the shoreline, and my husband held my hand as we carefully made our way to the water. �Honey�let�s wade. Please?� he pleaded. Fresh air seemed to have weakened my resistance; we took off our sandals. The lake was numbingly cold�in just seconds, we were stepping out, laughing and shivering. �What�s that sound?� asked my husband.
�I don�t hear anything�just the lake.� I said. �What are you talking about?�
�I think it was�you laughing? Could that be it?�
Immediately I slammed shut the door to my spirit. �Let�s get back on the bike.�
I said little for the next several minutes, as I studied the feeling now forming somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. I rested my head briefly on my husband�s strong back, and gave the feeling a name: hope.
After a time we approached the part of the island containing historic buildings and a centuries-old fort. In the distance, we heard the make-believe soldiers firing their muskets. Unaccustomed to exercise, my legs ached. We alit and sat on a stone bench. �I�m tired. Can we get something to eat?�
�Just wait here,� said my husband, and before I could protest, he sprinted off in search of food.
�Don�t leave me!� I cried. Utterly alone, I hugged my knees and bowed my head. Don�t let anyone talk to me�It wasn�t a prayer, really�I hadn�t talked to God since the accident. But the posture and the petition felt familiar, like times of prayer I�d known in the past. I relaxed and waited for my lunch, gradually becoming aware of a voice I�d been ignoring for weeks.
Isn�t this beautiful? He whispered. Do you hear the water, and the birds, and the horses� hooves? Can�t you feel the breeze, and the grass at your feet? And take a deep breath�can you smell the flowers, and even the dirt? Can you be thankful for these things?
�But Lord,� I whimpered. �I can�t see them. I�ll never see them again. You just don�t understand what it�s like to be blind!�
My child, I understand all things. I have wept with you, and now I long to rejoice with you. I give and I take away, and my ways are not your ways�but I want you to trust me, and praise me. Even though. Even though. I am enough. Beloved, I am enough.
When my husband returned with the ice cream, I turned my head toward his voice. A smile lit my face, not entirely due to the waffle cone of mint chocolate chip that he pressed into my hand.
�Jan Ackerson - 2006
Jan is a Christian who has traveled through sorrow and depression, and has found victory and grace. She dedicates all writings to her Heavenly Father.