I am living in my Promised Land.

That thought occurred to me last night. When the Children of Israel arrived after 40 years, their labors were not over. When the Mormon pioneers got to the Salt Lake valley, they had to make it habitable. When I came to Texas with the children's father, a five month old Firstborn, a '66 Dodge, a 6'x12' U-Haul trailer, four gas credit cards, and $15 in cash, we were still lacking four children and some major life skills.

The past 35 years have been most instructive. I have learned how to say No. And mean it. I have seen how small, correct choices can reap big blessings. (I have a 401K. It holds more than $29.95. I am out of debt. Three times.)

Before I married Beloved, the only element of my life that was lacking, was the love of a good man. I was peacefully and blessedly single. I was a functional adult. My life had beauty, meaning, and dignity.

And now? My life is expanding and increasing. Opening my heart to Beloved has blessed me in so many ways. The sheer bliss of being equally yoked. Pillow talk. The joy of serving him during the last months of his mortal existence. (Yes, it was exhausting and demanding. But he was not.) The privilege of loving a man so good, and missing him so much, and experiencing a grief wildly different from that for my father and my mother.

I do not know the shape of my life to come. But I do know that Heaven is shaping me. That by grace I am uncovering more of who I am, discovering the next steps of my journey along the Iron Rod.

This house is not my eternal home. Texas is not the end of the trail, any more than Canaan or Utah. This body will die and be resurrected. Again in the flesh I will see God, and all the people I have loved and lost. There are no burning bushes in my yard (at least not since Beloved used a flamethrower to weed the back fence).

But I have no doubt that I'm where I'm supposed to be.