Almost two years ago my husband and I found out that his immigrant visa interview had been scheduled at the U.S. Consulate in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, just across the border with El Paso, Texas. We had been waiting for the interview for more than a year, so we were excited, but also terrified. My husband had lived and worked in the U.S. for eight years at that point, and we were more than ready for him to have his green card. But we also understood that he would have to stay in Mexico for some time after the interview. We had been told that could be anywhere from 2-6 months. We were young and childless; I planned to come visit, so 2-6 months really didn't sound too terrible.

During the weeks leading up to his departure I learned a lot of new information, including that the wait was more like 8-12 months, and that some people were denied, and that I had a lot of work to do. Without delving into too much immigration law, I had to present a packet of information to the Department of Homeland Security that would prove I would suffer extreme hardship were my husband barred from the U.S. for ten years. Yes, I learned a month before he left, it was actually possible he would be barred from the country for ten years. My husband had no criminal record, no diseases and I made enough money to prove I could support him. But living in the U.S. illegally for more than a year, followed by departing the U.S., triggers this ten-year bar. Because he was ineligible to adjust status within the U.S., he had no choice but to leave, and therefore trigger the bar.

I set to work on proving the hardships I would suffer if I were forced to move to Mexico or had to live apart from my husband. Things went smoothly in Ciudad Juarez, I mailed in my hardship packet and held my breath. Nine long months (including two wonderful trips to Mexico) later, I received a letter noting his approval and the date of his visa pick-up. Actually, I received that letter just about one year ago today.

We wouldn't reunite until the appointment July, when I decided to meet him in Ciudad Juarez. I decided to drive from Wisconsin to El Paso on my own, planning a mini road trip through New Mexico and Colorado on the way back. I headed out in early July, just me, my trusty red Hyundai Elantra, a cooler of snacks prepared by my buddies Sara and Matt and an iPod full of music and podcasts. I have never stayed in a hotel by myself before, much less in southern Illinois or Northern Texas.

I drove roughly from Milwaukee through St. Louis, across Missouri, through Oklahoma City, and then south to I-20 which cuts across Texas to El Paso and Ciudad Juarez. Clearly, I did not pick this route for its excitement. But at this time in my life, all I wanted was to get away from Wisconsin, spend some quiet time with my thoughts and favorite music, and bring my husband back.

I saw enough oilrigs to last a lifetime in Texas, and drove through countless small towns, wondering what it would be like to live in such a dry, dusty place surrounded by the endless view of flat fields. During the last hours of the trip, driving through the stunning, mountainous areas of western Texas, I rolled the windows down, letting the cooler air in, enjoying by far the most scenic stretch of the trip.

The way the road wound through valleys, between plateaus, raised in some areas, lower in others, I could see lightning and downpour ahead. It's a little miracle (for me) to be in the sunshine and see the ominous dark clouds of severe weather in the distance. Although I’m not afraid of storms in normal conditions, 1,500 miles from home, in the middle of nowhere, driving alone, I felt exceptionally vulnerable. I couldn’t stop wondering if a person would vaporize if their car were struck by lightning, then wondering how this had never occurred to me in my 28 years, trying to think if I had ever heard of a tragic lighting-strikes-motorist story on the local news.

I drove into the storm and saw lightning striking the ground a hundred yards off the highway. I was feeling rather terrifed at this point. It was pouring, but the road was mostly open and it wasn’t slick. I called my best friend – the friend who knows everything about me, the one who I can share any crazy thought with and who will never confirm that it is indeed crazy. She didn’t think lightning could kill the driver of a car – something about the tires. My husband agreed. He was already in a hotel room in Ciudad Juarez, waiting for me.

Despite the itch I had had to drive across the U.S., at this point, I just wanted to be home. I wanted my best friend to be 15 minutes away, not a bad-connection cell call and two days drive away. I wanted to sleep in my house with my husband and put our personal immigration troubles behind us.

I drove on, reaching the edge of the storm. The highway straightened, heading up a hill. It looked clearer ahead, the rage of the storm still active behind me. I reached the top of the hill, amazed that it was not clearer, but completely clear. There was a bright, sunny day on this side of the hill, just two miles from the lightning and downpour. I pulled over, took out my camera and got out of the car. I went to the back of the car, leaning on the hatchback, and snapped a shot of the dark storm I had just come through. Then I turned around – looking ahead at the sun, drenching the hills and clouds with light, enjoying the hot, dry air – and took another photo.