Read Online Invisible by Ginny L. Yttrup - Free Book Online Page A

tight. Do nothing. Wait on Him.
    I sigh and lift my head. When I do, I see the family picture that sits on my desk—Sarah and me with the boys. It was taken the Christmas after we moved into the house and the kids were home for the holiday. I feel the familiar stab of grief. For myself. And for my sons.
    I can’t go through that again, Lord.
    I stand, walk back to the corner of the room, and retrieve my mug. Then I walk out of the study, turning off the light as I go.
    Trust Me.
    I stop in the hallway outside my study, and an image of Ellyn, the way she looked in the kitchen tonight, comes back to me. There, in the dark hallway, in my quiet house, the answer to my earlier question comes to me. How do I handle Ellyn’s weight and potential health issues?
    Simple.
    I don’t.
    Some would disagree. Friends speak truth in love, they’d say. I believe that too.
    But, as a medical professional, I know that just because someone is overweight it doesn’t always mean they’re unhealthy.
    Anyway, Ellyn belongs to God. She’s not mine to fix. That was a hard-won lesson I had to learn with Sarah.
    But I did learn it.
    I trust You, Lord. Strengthen me for whatever You hold in store. I want to follow You with an undivided heart.
    Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Pride imitates what is lofty . . .
    Saint Augustine
    Chapter Nine
    Sabina

    I wake on Sunday morning after my evening out with pale sunlight streaming through the shutters I forgot to close last night. The room, bathed in gray, is cold. I reach for the robe draped across the foot of the bed, climb out from the warm swathe I’ve slept in, and step into the robe.
    I close the shutters against the dull November sky and then debate: back to bed or to the kitchen for coffee? I look at the digital clock on the nightstand—9:33? Already? I’m sleeping my life away. Not that it matters. I have nothing pressing me to get out of bed. But I am accustomed to rising with the sun.
    Coffee it is. I push my feet into my slippers and walk the few steps from the bedroom to the kitchen. I like the size and floor plan of the rental. The master bedroom, just off the kitchen, is separated from the other two bedrooms, and has a private entrance from the front deck. I could see living here and converting the bedroom into an office, where I could see clients.
    But then my memory wakes and slaps me across the face. I no longer see clients. I work to push the memory back into its state of slumber as I watch a pot of coffee brew. Instead, I let thoughts of last night take over.
    Getting out, I discovered, was a great distraction. Good food, listening to the conversations of others, and even entering conversations myself—with the hostess, whose name I learned is Rosa, and the owner of the café, Ellyn.
    It gave me space to breathe in an environment where daunting memories had no place. The café, the people, were not connected to my former life.
    My former life?
    Is letting go really so simple?
    No. But the escape was good. I will own it and call it what it was, because I’m too smart to fool myself. But sometimes there is a place for escapism—when it can be used as a tool to help transition one’s thinking from an area of hyper-focus to something else. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
    One thing I know for certain is that isolation doesn’t help depression. I need people, yet I’ve moved to a place where I know no one. Why? Because I want anonymity. I don’t want to have to explain myself or answer questions. Why aren’t you practicing anymore? What are you doing with your time? Or worse, Rumor has it . . .
    I reach for one of the pottery mugs in the cabinet above the coffeemaker and then fill it. Back in the living room, I turn the iPod speakers on and click my iPod to play Yo-Yo Ma’s Bach: The Cello Suites . I turn the volume low, so the strains of music are an accompaniment to my thoughts rather