My eyes open this morning, and I am already late. I stood God up for our quiet time together. My feeble excuse is a 20-month old who has taken to crying all night long.
I'll have to reschedule. There are 3 mouths to feed; Paul is home for Labor Day. I drag myself down the stairs and give up before the day even starts.
Paul invites me to go along on the morning walk, even though he knows he will have to wait for me to get dressed. I go.
When we get home, I pull out a processed convenient box of pancake mix; a new addition to our breakfast repertoire thanks to the budget cuts and Mommy's suddenly stretched time. Paul unloads the dishwasher without a word, and I stir the water into the mix with an attitude.
He makes the pancakes, the eggs, the sausage; and he insists on doing the dishes afterwards. I grumble a thanks.
I am looking for something to complain about today. I can't find it yet.
After too much prodding on his part, Paul packs us all up to go to a random flower garden he found tucked away in the neighborhoods behind NC State back when he was in school.
We find it.
I am quiet and take the pictures.
It's what I do now.
God reschedules, too.
He meets me in the garden.
The girls want to pick the flowers.
Daddy says:
"We can't pick these flowers. Just smell."
The girls have favorites.
I break my silence to tell Paul that the
red roses are my favorite.
We head home.
The flowers are not for picking.
Daddy picked one, anyway.
Thank you for picking me,
even when I am less than delightful.
Thank you for knowing me so well.
I love you!
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