It was a week of bad news and tough breaks. One of those weeks where I kept repeating to myself through gritted teeth, “At least I have my health, at least I have my health, at least I have my health.”

It steadies me, but it doesn’t comfort me.

Yesterday, I grabbed the mail before heading into the house to make a quick dinner for my family. I shuffled through the junk mail and flyers, scanning for checks (hopefully) or bills (hopefully not), when I found a small envelope. There was my name written in a lovely hand. Too small for a birthday card, I figured it was a thank you note. My cousin’s wedding was a few weeks ago. Maybe this note was from her. I dumped everything on the table and opened it.

photo 2It was a note from a very dear friend. Well, she is more than a dear friend. She has been my editor for the last ten years. She wanted to tell me how much she enjoyed working on the book, especially during December when she was grieving the death of her mother. She called it “wonderful”. I felt myself smile, one of those smiles that pushes out tears.

She could have told me during our Monday editing sessions. She could have emailed or texted. Instead, she wrote me a note and licked an envelope and bought a stamp. Holding it in my hand, reading it over again, was powerful comfort. It reminded me I have a great deal more than my health.