1800s Actor costumed as the Mad Hatter
I slept well and sleep always helps. The dreams are tolerable.
I woke and listened to General Conference on the iMac while I copied and pasted my Ethics Journal from its original home on the class website to a permanent file on my desktop. Thirty-six pages.
I re-read all of it, my rambling summation of the last four months carried along by philosophical awareness and an ethical catalyst for metabolizing the stresses I faced.
I'm going to say again, I do not believe in coincidence.
When I first applied to school in September, my husband threw a tantrum that I hadn't consulted him first. Because, my dears, I guess in his world a woman who does nothing but sit at home cleaning the same carpets repeatedly is too valuable a commodity to allow her to acquire an education without getting a man's permission. So I dropped the whole idea. We all know how those fights turned out; the argument wasn't worth it.
And then November came, and I finally left. Blessing after priesthood blessing said the same thing: Take care of your children and get your education. And in the mad dash to register I had what I felt were very limited options to fill my schedule. I was happy with the courses I chose, pleased that I could fit them together as I did, but in the process of making those selections I didn't feel I had much say. I ended up at the mercy of class availability and times.
I contemplate enrollment now and I can only shake my head at the beautifully interlaced concepts and supporting curricula. These professors have no idea how they've worked together to save me these four months, but these courses have done nothing less. And I choose to believe as well that the professors who are teaching them are just as instrumental in that saving as was their course material.
Granted, secular education isn't the gospel of Christ, but it does support it. Especially when you've lived beneath controlling forces that threaten the integrity of your spiritual belief to the point that that control begins to damage your belief of the world around you. Sometimes, before God can repair your heart, He must start by providing you with improved sight.
I have no way of conveying this gratitude to those to whom its reception is deserved. Not anywhere near adequately enough. But I am so grateful. To see. To feel. To choose to believe. To live.
We have our will. When we choose to be lead, or even just live humbly enough that life begins to present us with the notion of "coincidence," mercy peaks through. Today the blinds are completely drawn.