Gloria

Every other Wednesday, my brother's housekeeper and her team come to corral the chaos. I've met Gloria and have known her for several years, and greet her with my best, “Hola!” whenever our paths cross.

This Wednesday, having quickly exhausted my Spanish, Gloria asked me what was new. I smiled and pointed to a pile of books on the dining room table. Her eyes popped when she saw Collision, and she gasped, “You wrote this?”

I nodded yes and handed her a copy. She clutched it to her chest and spilled her guts while the vacuum cleaner roared behind us. Her ex-husband had had a car accident. Alcoholism and drug addiction followed. I nodded and her eyes pulled away from the memories to me—"You know this?”

Yes. . .

“Yes, not alcoholism, but addiction to pain killers,” I replied.

In financial ruin and with suicidal thoughts, Gloria’s husband was laid up for seventeen years while she struggled to support them. She checked me again—"You know this too?”

“Yes. Not suicidal thoughts but depression, yes.”

When the settlement came, her husband bought a new house, two cars, and divorced Gloria. I winced.

Language Limits

We were at about the end of Gloria’s English, and her team was glancing our way nervously.

“My life. . . it’s over. I’ll retire next year and return to Columbia,” Gloria sighed.

“No,” I contradicted. “It’s not over till you’re dead. God has a plan for you. Don’t let go. Keep on asking.”

I wanted to give her the book; she insisted on paying and sending a copy to her sister. And then she was off with her scrub brushes and rags, and I returned to my work, and the team whirred around the house. One woman left darling momentos of flowers on all our paper dispensers. And then they whirled onto the next house.

But Gloria has not left my mind.

I hope to see her once more this summer, before she retires and returns to her country. Maybe Collision will go with her, maybe not, but my prayers will. And God’s word will not return void. He has plans for Gloria, and I hope to hear about them one day.