Hope in Thirteen

Today is Friday the thirteenth.

The number thirteen is often considered unlucky. Some high-rise buildings do not even have a 13th floor but have a floor 12, and skip to floor 14. Friday the thirteenth is even more unlucky. Or so they say.

In elementary school, my third grade teacher was one of my favorites. Miss Peterson. On the first day of school, all dressed up in my spanking new first-day-of-school outfit with with sturdy brown shoes, I walked into—yes—Room 13.

“Students, just because our room number is 13, doesn’t mean it will be an unlucky room. We’re going to call it ‘Lucky Thirteen.’” Miss Peterson announced in her high pitched, but authoritative voice.

It was a “lucky 13” room. I loved my classmates and developed one lifelong friendship—that continues even today with a friend named Susan. Even though my family moved when I was twelve, we still can pick right up where we left off—even though it might be many years—without a beat. That is friendship.

Let me share with you another “Lucky Thirteen” day. It’s a Friday-the-13th story.

It was late August. I’d invited several of my single friends over for a game night. There, while playing dominoes, snacking on goodies, we talked about marriage. We wondered if any of us would marry again. Two said they were too set in their ways and probably would not. The other two—myself included—said we’d like to get married again.

I had visited several matching sites and even for a short time, became engaged to the wrong person. For about a year after that disaster, I worked through my grief. I wrote a book. I volunteered and made new friends. I traveled abroad alone, something I’d never done before. I began speaking, sharing my story of hope after loss. the Bible was my constant companion. While studying it, I came across a verse that gave me hope. It has now become my life verse:

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit (Romans 15:13).

The verse promised me that I would be filled with joy and peace when I place my trust in Christ. And I would overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.

He would be all that I would need. Maybe I would marry again. Perhaps I would not.

I decided I would try a matching site one last time and I joined eHarmony. I paid for six months and told myself it needed to happen in those six months and if not, I would not do any more searching.

Two weeks went by and one day, a match popped up who seemed almost too good to be true. From his comments and photos, it looked as though he was widowed. He loved his family. He was a lover of Jesus. And he lived fairly close to me.

We exchanged emails and he asked “Would you like to meet face to face for coffee? I agreed to a date. We decided on a Wednesday at noon. The coffee date lasted for more than two hours.

When he walked me to my car after our date that sunny September day, Jim asked if we could go to church together the following week. My tummy fluttered with delight. We went on one date. And then another. And another.

“Have you ever been to the Grotto?” Jim asked me one Friday morning. Friday, September 13, 2013.

We strolled through the beautiful Catholic sanctuary built in a former rock quarry. The sanctuary was in the middle of the city, but was quietly restful. A perfect place to pray and think.

We came to the middle of the garden when a larger-than-life statue of Jesus carrying a cross loomed in front of us. “Turn this way,” Jim said, “I want to look at Jesus’ face while I ask you something.” He knelt, and in his hand was a small box. “Shirley Quiring Rudberg Graybill, (he remembered all of my names!), will you marry me?”

With calm assurance, I knew this was right and I said “Yes!”

That was more than eight years ago now. That day was Friday, the 13th. A good day. Not unlucky at all.

I don’t know what the future might bring for me. I don’t really believe in luck. I believe God directs our steps and the outcome in our lives. Just as the verse says,