I set out cinnamon vanilla cupcakes and bowls of spiced nuts as he follows me around the house, waiting for a word from my frazzled heart.
The clock is ticking and we don’t have time to chat about the state of my heart.
I gather mugs for coffee and pour caramel corn in a bowl and an early knock on the door saves me.
The men trickle in and the kids and I sneak out the back door. I’ve promised hot chocolate and Taylor Swift and 2 hours in the car, just driving and singing.
The kids have missed long car rides and loud music and truth be told, I have, too.
We drive to the closest real Starbucks and I splurge on kid-sized hot chocolate and we sing all the way there and back. I feel brave when the music is so loud my chest rattles and the windows vibrate. The kids sing and Isaac draws hearts around Taylor Swift’s initials all over my car windows.
We laugh and this laughter is such a gift.
I think on Thad’s quiet words and I feel like a grumbling Israelite blaming Moses for bringing me here to kill me. Most days I feel like Thad brought us here to ruin us. And some days, the kids agree with me.
I secretly love it when the little crazies join my team of grumbling. I feel justified.
We drive all over Nash County and my latte gets cold before I finish the last drop. And somewhere on hwy 95, I hear God’s whisper a little louder than Taylor’s voice:
Your grumbling is just your fear spoken in words and I’m bigger than all your words. I’m bigger than your fears. And, no, I didn’t bring you here to kill you. I brought you here to ruin you and all that you think you are.
We pull onto our street, the lights from our house blazing against the dark sky, and my grumbling heart quiets its incessant complaining.
The driveway is full of cars that belong to the men in my house and I pray for those men who gather at my table and for the man whose heart is knit together with mine.
And I whisper a plea….ruin me…