Finding Providence
JENNIFER CURRIER
Long ago I made an agreement with God, that if he
wanted me to do something, he would have to give me
obvious signs. Of course, I’d prefer burning bushes
that are not consumed, and doves that descend while
a James Earl Jones-like voice narrates, but I’ll settle for
road signs and online magic eight balls. Now, to be clear,
I don’t ask for signs because I’m “testing” the Lord, and
I don’t actually make demands of Him; I only ask for
signs because I don’t trust the decisions I make—are
they of God’s will or my own desires? When something
outside of my control agrees with my inclination, it’s
just one of the ways I affirm the still, small voice inside.
I think God understands this and meets me where I am,
and the fact that I am here, in Providence, working at
Brown, is a testament to God’s answer to my request.
Two-and-a-half years ago, I quit my job, packed up my
Prius, and drove across the country to live in Rhode Island.
The most pressing question I receive when people find
out I did this is “Why would you want to move here?”
as though I’ve chosen to live on the surface of the sun
(which, for the record, sounds quite nice with winter
approaching). They assume I came for work or for school,
and because I did neither, and because I am not married
to someone who came here for work or for school or is
a native Rhode Islander, I am an enigma. But it’s hard to
explain in one sentence why I came to Rhode Island. I
did not create an Excel sheet with color-coded columns
and square little boxes to rationalize my move. I used gut
feelings and inner voices; I spent time praying and fretting
and, of course, looked for signs. But in the end, I admit
that it was Providence who brought me to Providence.
**
I am originally from Roswell, New Mexico, a city known
for UFO incidents and little else. It’s located within a state
that’s often confused with a foreign country, so regularly,
in fact, that I’ve stopped correcting people when they
compliment me on my English. I discovered New England
because of graduate school, where I attended Dartmouth
College, but I discovered Rhode Island because of a
boy. I fell in love immediately with his writing and with
his accent: he sounded like he was orchestrating a mafia
takedown whenever he’d talk to his parents on the phone.
It was a mixture of Rhode Island and Boston and Long
Island—something so foreign to my ears that listening
to him felt like watching a movie. His dark curly hair was
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kept back with a headband, and he had the palest of blue
eyes, the color of morning sky through a layer of mist.
He had a scar near his right eye that would disappear in
the wrinkles of his smile, and features so chiseled they
could have been cut from stone and brought to life. The
students in our program likened him to a Greek god and
nicknamed him “Hot Dan from the MALS department,” which
I shortened to HD. He was mortified when he found out.
I learned that going where there is
peace is the same as going with God.
In the summer of 2011, he brought me home for the first time.
We watched fireworks on the 4th of July from a mansion in
Jamestown; we dug sand-couches in Charlestown beach
and drank craft beer out of red plastic cups; we played
paddleball by the ocean and soccer in his parents’ backyard.
We kayaked and visited tourist destinations, walking the Cliff
Walks in Newport, and he introduced me to true Rhode Island
cuisine: Del’s lemonade, stuffies, clamcakes, grinders, and
coffee milk. He even drove me through College Hill, around
Brown’s campus, a place I’d never been but I knew I’d
return to someday. I’ll never forget the way I first saw Brown
as a secret garden, green and gated, with magic hidden
behind its walls, but at the time the observation melted into
the rest of summer. It was the type of summer that love
stories are written about, where dreams and reality blend
until you aren’t sure which is which. And perhaps for that
reason, our story had to end. I knew the end was inevitable
because I knew him, but it broke my heart just the same.
**
I was living in Roswell again when I first considered
moving to Rhode Island. I don’t remember how or when
it happened, but the image of Rhode Island popped into
my head like an advertisement flashing on the television
screen. Did I really just see what I thought I saw?
At that time, HD and I were no longer speaking, and the
idea of relocating to a state in which the only person
I knew was my ex-boyfriend seemed absurd. I had a
great job; my apartment was perfect; my parents lived
nearby and I had a routine. I had no reason to leave.
But on New Year’s Day of 2013, I woke up as if from a
nightmare, unable to fathom another year in Roswell. A
paradigm shift occurred overnight—suddenly I dreaded