Hope comes in all forms. A few years ago I had a couple of women help me find comfort in my skin, in my home, in my clothes. I’m not fancy or froo froo, but I have learned to matter to me and take comfort in my surroundings and choose for myself.
This morning I reached for a tank top. Then I cried. My tank tops were all gone. They weren’t expensive. Yes, they are replaceable, but they hung smelling like me and downy and my kids and sunshine. It’s not the stuff. It’s the comforts. It’s not the stuff. It’s the anxiety of standing in a store and choosing and the people and sizes and lines. Some choices were taken in the fire, like when and how to buy a pair of shorts or jeans or underwear because I left without them.
Tonight one woman who knows my closet and heart and anxieties and work sent comfort from her space, her hands, the smell of her cars, and closets. She knows what I’m comfortable in because she stood with me as I cried my way through trying on every piece of clothing a few years ago and said, “But how do you feel?” and “You are ok.” She sent tank tops and jersey knit skirts and momma jeans and fleece jackets. She sent fall pullovers. She sent the lifting of anxieties and some choices in my time that had been stolen 8 days ago. She gave me beauty for literal ashes. It may just look like stuff, but it’s knowing that He sees and He has provided ahead of me the needs and the comforts and jersey knit peace.
Next Best Thing Next 