Once upon a time, long, long ago, I was
happy. Or at least, I thought I was happy. Everything in my life was bright and magical,
just how I imagined it should be. My
days were well-ordered. My home was
well-kept. My children were
well-behaved. Life wasn’t perfect, of
course, but every day brimmed with possibility and there was almost always a
reason to smile. What could be better? What more could I possibly want?
I barely noticed the dark, ominous clouds
looming on the distant horizon. Clouds
that threatened dangerous and violent storms.
The first hint of worry trembled in my heart, but I ignored it,
convinced that my family and I could weather anything just fine. After all, I was confident and capable. It would take more than a summer shower to quench
my happiness.
It began with tiny droplets of water, a fine
mist of disappointments that really were not all that significant if I compared
them to all of the blessings in my life.
But then the splattering rain began to come faster and stronger, quickly
forming deep puddles and rushing streams of runoff. Broken dreams with no possibility of ever
being realized. A precious, beloved
relationship that became strained, and I asked myself over and over again what
went wrong. A dreaded medical diagnosis
that caused fear to stampede through my veins.
A searing, devastating loss that shattered my heart into millions of
pieces. It wasn’t long before the light
sprinkling rain became a downpour, a deluge of wind and driving rain, and I
could no longer pretend that I was happy.
My well-ordered, well-planned life was gone. There would never be a happily ever after.
