4

Sunlight filtered through the bedroom window above my head, an amenity I’d once taken for granted. Despite the mix of emotions assaulting me about being shot at and a disagreeable police officer, I’d slept in my own bed. In my own home. And wearing soft pale-green pajamas—a gift from Edie. Did she know the color green often signified healing?

Last night after she’d shown me the cabin and bidden me good night, I walked through each of the five rooms, exploring and praying for my fresh start. No spiders caught my attention. Sometime after midnight, the rain stopped. My mind ceased to deliberate the myriad problems ahead and those who stalked me, and I yielded to sleep.

This morning through fog-laden eyes, I admired my rustic bedroom. I stared up from a chunky, four-poster bed to a light pine-beamed ceiling and inhaled the sweet peace that cradled me. Perhaps my joy came from the homey wood, varying textures, and endearing fabrics woven together to create a homespun feel. I drew my fingers over the quilt covering me and touched the threads of the perfectly crafted pieces of a star pattern symbolizing the Lone Star State. Back in high school, my interior design dreams included living in an apartment in New York City with sleek lines and huge windows overlooking Fifth Avenue. Another lifetime. Another me.

The cabin seemed to whisper that I could make it, the same thing I’d told myself since giving my life to Jesus. My fingers gripped my Bible on the nightstand—the only way to start the day. The reading came from Psalm 139: “O Lord, you have examined my heart and know everything about me!” Trusting in Him superseded everything else. I finished the passage with more optimism than the depression attacking me the previous night.

After swinging my legs over the bed, I lingered on the scent of freedom and lavender potpourri, a strange but incredible mix that seemed to shake off my trepidation about the future. In the kitchen, I rummaged through the fridge and small pantry. Edie had stocked me with enough to feed a family of four for a week. My favorite luxury sat on a tan-and-cream marbled counter—coffee beans, a grinder, and an upscale coffee maker. Soon the smell of freshly roasted coffee tickled my taste buds.

Before prison, I’d dabbled in the taste of coffee with no preference either way. In prison, I found it disgusting but the caffeine necessary to survive. The smooth, bold flavor of my sip this gorgeous morning sent me soaring into paradise.

Edie’s kindness blessed me. How could one woman shine love all around her? She’d lived through tragedy too, not of her own making. For that, we were sister-survivors.

Barefoot, I took my mug outside, and the coffee tasted even better with the sounds of birds and fresh smell of clean air. A robin perched in a tree, singing a crisp tune. Stepping gingerly over the driveway’s gravel, I made my way to the grass. Oh, the feel of the soft blades between my toes and tickling my feet. I leaned my head back and let the sun bathe me in delicious warmth. Never again would I take the taste, smell, sound, touch, and sights of nature for granted. Bright. Beautiful. Full of vitality.