This was the second Christmas since my husband passed away. I couldn’t bear to stay alone in the familiar rooms of our home, where every corner felt heavy with sorrow during this special holiday season. God blessed me with the chance to take a short trip with a dear friend—to step away, even if only briefly.
I barely slept last night. I woke early, long before the alarm went off. I wasn’t nervous, yet something inside me was stirring, restless and alert.
I had plenty of time to catch the 10 am flight. I made coffee and opened the Uber app, selecting the “wait and cheap” option, expecting a pickup in half an hour (around 7 am). The moment I confirmed, an alert flashed across the screen: Driver arriving in two minutes.
Startled, I poured the coffee into the sink, slipped on my shoes, and hurried into the darkness. By the dim glow of my phone, I locked the door just as the car pulled into the driveway.
Inside the car, I learned the driver lived less than a mile away, in the same neighborhood.
His name? James. The same name as my late husband’s.
And his car—red, Japanese-made—just like mine.
What were the odds?
I arrived at the airport far too early. That had always been my late husband’s habit—arriving early, sitting patiently, waiting.
Sitting at the gate with time to spare, luggage at my feet, and a heavy head from lack of sleep, I felt as though my late husband had driven me himself, making sure I arrived safely before letting me go.
Wishing you a gentle Christmas, wherever your journey may take you.