Editor’s Note:
Originally written over a decade ago, this reflection captures a pivotal moment in my journey—closing one chapter and stepping boldly into the next. As you read, I invite you to walk with me through the halls of memory, faith, and healing.
— Lela J. Fagan
Last week marked my one-year anniversary of relocating from New York to Texas. Honestly, I almost missed it—caught up in the whirlwind of President’s Day and still riding high from a weekend of love, laughter, and ministry (yes, I was singing my heart out at church again).
But the moment caught me off guard, sweeping me back to that vivid day I left New York behind.
It was a whole scene—me and my roommate racing against the clock, clearing out the last bits of my old bedroom. My bed? Broken down and stashed away in the home office alongside boxes I’d have to ship later. I’d already sent a portion of my library (because a girl’s gotta have her books), my computer, and the essentials I couldn’t bear to leave behind. That very morning, we made a Staples run, shipping off some last-minute boxes before I boarded my flight—with just my wardrobe as luggage and my heart full of bittersweet expectation.
I remember standing in that empty room.
No furniture. Just space.
It looked larger than life.
The same room I’d moved into over a decade before, fresh-faced at 22, buzzing with excitement to finally leave my mother’s home. The apartment had popped up at the perfect time—divine timing, really. As the secretary of our building’s board, I’d gotten the green light to move in.
Did I wish I had saved up a little more before taking that leap? Sure. But the opportunity felt too good to pass up.
And truthfully?
I didn’t want to move too far from my mother. She was legally blind in both eyes, and I was her go-to for everything. But God… God worked it out. My new apartment? It was right across the hall from hers. I could literally see her front door through my peephole.
I was on my own, but close enough to care for her.
We were no longer two hens fighting for the same nest. I had my own little henhouse now.
At first, it was just me and my dog, Happy, in that big ol’ two-bedroom apartment. No furniture. Just faith and fresh starts.
And then—two weeks after I moved in—my father passed away suddenly.
I was just beginning a new chapter, and already I was closing his. His furniture became mine. His legacy, now part of my home. Even his two pet turtles moved in. One of them stayed with me until I released him—and five others I collected along the way—back into the wild.
In that apartment, I mourned the loss of both my parents, three beloved pets, and a bad relationship that needed to end.
But in that apartment, I also laughed loud, danced wild, and filled the space with nieces, nephews, and friends for sleepovers and heart-to-hearts.
That apartment became my sanctuary.
It’s where I learned how to live again.
It’s where I grew into being a sister-friend, reconnected with an old high school acquaintance (who later became my husband—look at God!), and trusted Him to keep food on my table and the lights on, even when I faced unemployment—twice.
It’s where I stared eviction in the face and stood firm in faith.
It’s where I wrote my first book, self-published it, and watched my words take flight—touching lives I never imagined.
It’s where I dared to dream again.
And when it was finally time to close that chapter?
I walked away without regret.
I walked away free.
Scripture Takeaway:
Isaiah 43:19 (NLT)
“For I am about to do something new. See, I have already begun! Do you not see it? I will make a pathway through the wilderness. I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.”
© 2025, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
