I'd like to share something with you that happened Sunday. I'm titling this one, "A Human Island in the Sea of Humanity."

We were driving home from our working weekend at the cabin. "Almost there," PW said with a weary, interstate-battled voice. As we took the exit that leads to our home, traffic on the off-ramp seemed a little heavier than normal for a Sunday afternoon. Then we realized that no one was moving forward each time the light changed.

Usually homosapiens' first impulse is to blow the horn. "What the..."?!--that ugly, knee-jerk reaction we humans put out there when we're just physically spent or frustrated and all we want is our favorite chair and the remote control. But no one blew the horn.

Quickly the scenario came into focus: police cars with blue lights blazing and more arriving, until there were at least a half dozen uniformed officers trying to talk a young man out of throwing himself off the overpass into interstate traffic below.

Each time an officer would approach, the young man recklessly threw a leg over the concrete wall. And each time, my palms perspired and I gasped and held my breath. I could not stop the tears. And I could not stop petitioning God for mercy.

What was he doing there, I wondered. And by that I really mean, HOW did he get there, to the emotional place where this seemed like his best--or only--option? Where were his friends? Where was his family? Surely someone loves this young man enough to keep him in this world? What could be SO BAD that taking his own life seemed better?

I had an overwhelming urge to run to him. And I mean I really almost got out of the car. I felt if I could just tell him some pretty little piece of rhetoric that would make it all better--something like "This too shall pass"--he might not do it. If I could just throw my arms around him and tell him he is loved, and cared for, by me--a perfect stranger--perhaps it would make him reconsider. I wanted to tell him I could not bear to see him in such pain that he would consider taking his own life. And if I can care for you without knowing anything about you except that you have come to this overpass as your best option, then how many others who DO know you would be willing to help you down from the ledge?

But I knew I could not do that. God forbid, I step out of the car and approach the young man, and he jumped. Let the police handle it, I told myself. They are trained for this.

So I prayed through my tears. Traffic continued to back up. The police continued to approach him, withdrawing again each time he threatened to jump. The officers continued to talk to the young man--a conversation which I could not hear--assumedly offering words that would convince him to step down. The police kept attempting to approach him; each time the young man would stand up on the ledge, or throw a leg over the side, or lay down on it, as if to just roll off into traffic below. Each time the officers receded, and the young man sat down. But the moment they made any move toward him, that leg was over the side again.

After some length of time another police SUV drove onto the overpass and blocked our view. I could no longer see the young man. I cried and petitioned God all the more, as if my lack of visual verification meant God was on His own. As if God needed MY help.

Several minutes passed. Traffic began to move, and my mind did the quick math: either he had been wrestled to the ground, or he had jumped. I was out of control by this time, balling my eyes out and praying very, very hard.

Almost afraid to look, I glanced in the direction I had last seen him on the ledge. He wasn't there.

He was in handcuffs in the middle of the street, surrounded by law enforcement. Somehow those professional, trained officers turned a potentially tragic situation into a glimmer of hope for the future.

Traffic resumed. Cars that had been backed up onto the interstate began to creep forward again. Everyone had been "inconvenienced" by this young man's crisis. And yet, I heard not a single horn  honk the entire time. I have no idea how other motorists had spent the time when the plans they had were upended, waiting for the police to resolve the situation without harm. For my part, I spent the time bending God's ear. Because that was all I could do. And I believe sometimes that is enough.

I have no clue what brought that young man to the overpass Sunday, or what can keep him off it in the future, but I do know God knows. God knows the plans He has for all of us--plans to prosper us and not to harm us, plans to give us hope and a future. That Sea of Humanity is fraught with things that can drag us under. But there are also islands. Swim toward them, swim toward each other, swim toward our heavenly Father, and pray hard without ceasing.

Months have somehow slipped past me. I set out to chronicle the work on our cabin, but because of the work on the cabin, I haven't had time to chronicle.

Is that irony?

If this process has taught me anything, it is that builders EARN. THEIR. SALARY. We've been up and down the highway most weekends--being our own contractors--and let me tell you, it's a good thing we're not getting paid to build our own cabin because, frankly, I'm not worth the money.

We've also been packing up the house we've called home for 18 years because we thought someone had finally bought it. Turns out, they wanted some ridiculously expensive and unnecessary improvements which we were not willing to pay for, so they backed out.

And we couldn't even keep their earnest money. What's the importance of being earnest if you can't at least make them bleed a little green?

So, needless to say, keeping this place show-ready for the last 9 months has been exhausting, mentally and physically. There were many days when we'd get advance notification of half an hour that a realtor wanted to show the house and I'd think to myself, "Oh no. I have to put those damn shams on the bed again." Because the house has to look picture-perfect. No mail on the counter (because, really, who gets mail at their home?) No dirty clothes in the hamper. No vividly-colored towels. In fact, everything that makes it a home has to be changed out and/or hidden away. Our realtor, The House Whisperer, told us it needs to say, "I can see myself living here."

And by "here," he really meant "in a magazine." My dining room table has been set with the china and sterling for the last 9 months, as if we are always ready to hose a banquet. I just dust around the plates.

Needless to say, working on the cabin has played second fiddle to selling the house. But I am happy to report that, since my last post, we have installed egg crate panels (don't ask) in the cabin ceiling. On top of that, (because it is NEVER one and done, I'm finding)  R-31 insulation. We now have a flushing toilet, with the help of a water hose at the meter. We also have a functional shower with glorious steamy hot water, courtesy of an instant on water heater.

This. Is. Huge. An indoor outhouse and a hot shower? Can I get an amen??

We have installed part of the kitchen counter and sheet rocked the bathroom and master bedroom completely. This is my first experience with sh*t rock, as I have now dubbed it, and I am happy to report that I detest everything about it. It's heavy. It's cumbersome. It's messy and awkward and a purity pain in the fanny, especially on the ceiling. And when you do get it up there and screw it down, THEN you have to tape over all the seams and mud it and tape it and mud it again. In between, you have to sand off everything you put on the first time (if you're me) and then mud and tape again. It's a process that has been very educational though. We've learned that we're hiring sheet rockers to do the basement.

The wildlife has returned since the last post as well. Over the winter we noticed the chipmonks went underground and the few birds that visited were all gray: tufted titmice, dark-eyed juncos, nuthatches, chickadees. But this past weekend our phoebe returned, with her sweet little song of promise that the cold days which encased our little cabin in cloudy mist are behind us.  Soon the fireflies will return, and the colorful birds, and the track hoe driver, who will bring a few loads of gravel for our muddy driveway and take all the fallen trees and limbs littering the property. Soon we'll have a door on the bathroom, and also on the bedroom. Soon we will begin laying oak flooring. And soon, we pray the right family will buy our beautiful home. Perhaps they will have a 5-year-old, as we did when we built it. Perhaps they will look at the spectacular view and be so smitten that they will want it in their lives every single day, just like us 18 years ago. Perhaps they will take our place among neighbors and friends, not to replace us, but to develop their own special relationships, making their own memories. I truly hope we are riding this emotional rollercoaster to arrive at the Happy Ending eventually, where we have financial freedom and our dream cabin in the mountains. I hope the folks who buy our home get their fondest desires fulfilled as well. Because this house--this HOME--has certainly been that for us.