Free Sacrifices of Joy by Leslie J. Sherrod Page B

period with no response from him to make the divorce final.
    That’s if I even went forward with it.
    Why wouldn’t I? Laz was right. I could not fully answer my own question. Aside from the energy it would require, and my efforts to stay focused on my son and my job, a part of me, I realized, had secretly wondered if it was okay to pursue a divorce. Though I had every reason to do so, would I be breaking some moral or spiritual law or code to end a marriage made before God, even though by any reasonable estimation it never really existed?
    I felt so far from God, and had been feeling a growing distance for years now. It hurt to think in the spiritual and I did not know why.
    â€œMs. St. James? I can help you with your bags.” A man with gelled black hair and a three-piece black suit met me at the entrance and helped me with my luggage. Laz had booked a white stretch limo for the forty-five minute or so drive to the Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport where my car waited.
    â€œThanks.” I nodded as the chauffeur opened the door. I stepped inside nonchalantly, as if driving around in a limo was my usual routine. The interior was dark and cool with a flat-screen television, light refreshments, and more flowers and chocolate. On one of the seats lay a sheet of paper with the words, “This is how your life will be with me—LT,” and next to the note were my cell phone and my “joy bag.”
    I picked up the bag, traced the letters, and wondered why I felt so empty of the very thing the bag purported.
    It was time to rejoin my life and the world around me, I thought as I put down the bag and reached for my phone. As I turned it on, I thought of how much of my day, interactions, and schedule hinged on my smart phone.
    We were fully en route to BWI as my phone came to life with its usual buzzes, dings, and other notifications. Laz had not been kidding about all the action on my phone. Just in the past few hours, Roman had called and texted me several times to make sure that I had returned home safely. I’d missed several other phone calls as well, mostly family and friends who hadn’t known that I’d been traveling that weekend, but who had learned of my plans from Roman and were checking on me too. I recognized all of the phone numbers and waiting voice mail messages except for one, and the one I didn’t recognize was a Baltimore-based phone number.
    Good. I exhaled, remembering the phone number with the Ohio-based area code.
    Maybe I would never hear from that man again.
    Since all of my voice mail messages were local and mostly familiar, I decided I would check them later after I got home.
    A quick scan of my e-mails gave me further relief. Nothing unusual or unexpected. A couple of clients had e-mailed to schedule appointments as the terrorist attack had unleashed new anxieties, fears, sadness, and worry. Ava had forwarded information about a seminar she thought would interest me; and then there were the normal e-mails of store circulars, sales, and specials from mailing lists I’d forgotten I’d signed up for. My junk mail folder was filled with just that—junk. I was now certain that the bizarre e-mail I’d gotten in the wee hours of the morning was a random spam message that didn’t get filtered out by my server.
    All of this silly worrying. I wanted to laugh at and kick myself. The therapist needs a therapist.
    I was thinking about my conversation with Laz and how I failed the very lessons I taught my clients about relationships, communication, and self-assessment, when the limo reached the main road that led to BWI.
    The road was blocked and all manner of official vehicles and uniformed personnel milled around. The flashing lights of countless emergency vehicles lit up the night sky, cast shadows, and revealed the intense investigation going on at the scene. One of the officers approached the limo with a flashlight and stopped