I have had a restful week.  Since my Georgia dental license does not go into effect before July 1, I am condemned in the meanwhile to an existence of sleeping in, reading, sitting by the pool, working out, playing tennis with the preggers Sis, going to Target for no reason other than the pure joy of it, hanging with JC, and spinning around with my arms outstretched.  Not bad for a New Yorker.  Each morning, the BF kisses my sleep-hazed face goodbye, I burrow under the covers for another hour, and he heads out so that he can bring home the bacon (after which, I will fry it in the pan…because let’s be honest, when the only time you leave the apartment on a Wednesday is to use your car’s odometer to map your running route, all feminist arguments against housework become officially moot). The most stressful part of yesterday was returning to my apartment complex and grinding to a halt at the entrance to allow a family of swans to waddle past.  Looking back, I should have kept going (swans are mean, y’all) but I sat still and thought about how utterly foreign and apocalyptic this scene would have been two weeks ago.

This morning, after transferring myself from the bed to the couch (a much further distance these days), I had one prayer that came to mind: Thank you for getting us here.  An acknowledgment of the us that my life is, now more than ever, and the path that led to my better half, this new city, this apartment, this life.  All of the “not yets” endured, first with clenched fists, gritted teeth, frustrated tears, and LOTS of whining; then with the peace and acceptance of a child who knows she is being protected and loved right through–and past–some bad decisions and that the enemy is not the one with the scarred hands.

Unfortunately, our move occurred during Season Finale Week, which is usually a holiday-like extravaganza.  This year, the only finale I watched live was Lost.  Oh, what a journey.  For a six-season television show that created a worldwide following to ultimately be about faith was (despite my initial “WHA?” confusion) wildly satisfying for a girl whose life is about the same.  The thread of meaning that ties the whole story together, in that narrative and mine, is made up of everything beyond me.  Even, especially, all I don’t understand.  And guess who, it turns out, doesn’t owe me an explanation whenever I demand one?  Damon Lindelof, Carlton Cuse, and God.  “Well, there’s no now…here,” Jack’s father Christian (!) tells him.  And I think about all the Nows I experience each day, how each of them used to be a Yet, and within seconds becomes a Was.  How I use each Now as a barometer of reality, when what is real is actually only known by the one who is exempt from the trappings of time, yet plunged himself into it so that there is something more…something beyond Now.

The picture above was taken when Now was Saturday night, after the movers drove away and left me and the BF surrounded by organized chaos.  Days later, I look at our beautiful home, devoid of paper clumps and ripping boxes, and that is my Now.  But for who knows how long?  Because there will be chaos; life in this broken world guarantees that.  I have people, though–and more importantly, Someone–who will walk through the chaos with me.  My own Sawyers and Kates and Sayids and Hurleys (which of you wants to be Hurley?).  Thank God that Us lasts longer than Now.

P.S.  I lied.  I watched another finale live…LEE DEWYZE 4EVA!!!