foretaste

Okay, so the warm fuzzy blur snapped into clear focus when the doorbell rang yesterday. It was that time... My younger son and his family had arrived. I peered out my window to the street below and there they were... in a white stretch limo no less, (so much for the link I sent for the cheap van service) and I could see the tops of their heads as each one emerged... Helen, little John, Mom holding three-year-old Gabriel. I watched my son help the driver unload the suitcases, watched him go back to hand him a tip, watched them all disappear beneath the overhang so I could only imagine them standing on the doorstep. No one had answered the door. Where was everybody anyway? My family was here! The doorbell rang again and this time I saw the phone light indicating there was communication over the intercom, heard my sister walking down the stairs from the fourth floor. Hurry up! let them in! It's cold out there and they've just come from Florida! Later as she showed them their room on the third floor, I was hanging over my fifth floor railing, listening... no audible conversation but the distinct piping voice of Gabriel. I longed to run down the stairs and hug them all.

I thought all these things, but could say nothing, do nothing. I am in silence. I am at the mercy of other people's kindness, other people's efficiency. One more friend arrived last night; two more will come this afternoon, and my older son will arrive this evening. Each time the doorbell rings I want to scream. When it rings twice in a row I want to bash in the wall.

All this from the woman who is supposed to be bliss-filled, at peace, ready to turn her life over to Jesus. The irony is not lost on me. As my mother used to say: I am a nervous wreck. I could barely sing in chapel last night or this morning. My voice just wouldn't push out the sound. Will it be like this tomorrow? When I will be the only one singing? I need to get a grip. Soon.