Man plans his journey by his own wit,
But it is the LORD who guides his steps.
—Proverbs 16:9
Leon, Mexico
The bus rolled along a cobblestone road toward the outskirts of the city, its motion stirring the summer dust and heat through the open windows. Distant dry hills shimmered under intense sunshine.
Two women sat side by side. Though not of the same generation, they mirrored one another. Their eyes were wide set and the color of deep caramel that foretold of brilliant flecks on a different day. But not today. Today an identical vertical crease separated the brows of each.
Both women were small, though the older one was rounder. She wore her silver-streaked black hair in a single thick braid down her back. Her blouse and skirt were bright floral prints, a rainbow of colors. The lines in her face spoke of hard work, her hunched shoulders of strength. The relaxed pose of her mouth exuded a contrary peace. A large mesh shopping bag engulfed her lap.
The younger woman was also of Mexican heritage, but there was an air of otherworldliness about her. Perhaps it was in the angle of the jeans-covered leg and the sandaled foot that stretched across the aisle, blocking it. Or in the jaunty hang of the backpack slung over a slouched shoulder. Or in the cut of her layered shoulder-length hair with its copper highlights.
Her face, however, was different. The Americanism was fading from her face.
“Abuela,” the younger woman said, addressing the mature one as grandmother and continuing in Spanish, “I’m not going back. May I live with you?”
The older woman silently studied her granddaughter for several moments. The only indication that she heard the question was a slight tilting of her head. “Of course. But what about your studies?”
The young woman didn’t reply.
“How long will you stay?”
“Until…” She pulled in her foot and shrugged the backpack onto her lap. “Until I want to breathe again.”
Evanston, Illinois
“What about college?” The tall man slouched over the table in the updated suburban kitchen. A weariness was etched in his eyes.
At the counter a young woman spooned tea into a silver infuser, set it in a pot, and then poured steaming water over the leaves. Each motion was efficiently executed, wasting no energy. “I’ve changed majors.”
“Past tense?”
Her black ponytail swished at her waist as she carried the teapot over to the table and set it beside two porcelain cups. “Past tense. It’s done.” She kissed the top of the man’s head and sat down across from him, tucking her long skirt beneath her. “Dad, don’t worry.”
He opened his mouth as if to offer a customary retort and then closed it. Retorts were for another day. But not today. Today his navy blue cardigan hung haphazardly, his blond hair hung unbrushed down the nape of his neck, a book lay beside him unopened. Everything about him represented all that was not customary on this day.
His daughter reached over and squeezed his hand. Like him, she had a determined chin, a small nose, and high cheekbones. Also like him, she was taller than average, though not lanky. Unlike him, her eyes were black and slightly almond in shape with long black lashes, a reflection of her mother’s heritage. “Dad, the path is clear, and it’s full of good works already prepared for me to do.”
“You’re too young to know any better. How will you live? How will you make ends meet? For goodness’ sake, how will you survive the emotional work of two?”
She chuckled and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater. The distinctively unconstrained response diminished the hints of Asian femininity. “You of all people know that I’m not in this alone.”
“But how—how can you give up your dreams?”
She squinted momentarily, as if a bandage were being ripped from a wound. Then her features fell again into their tranquil lines, though now there was a hint of resolve in the set of her jaw. “I didn’t. They were just replaced, changed by Someone who knows better. It will work, Dad. It will work.”