Indulge me for a second, because I had one of those moments that stops you in your tracks.
We were driving home from running errands and the boys were asking (for the gazillionth time) about buying something or playing something or doing something that required permission. I was over it.
So from the front seat I yelled, “Do you guys understand that ALL OF OUR CONVERSATIONS involve YOU asking ME for SOMETHING? Seriously. Give it a rest.”
They didn’t answer me, and even if they did, I didn’t hear them because instead I heard an audible vibration from the depths of my soul that whispered, “Well that sounds familiar.”
I sat there at the red light in a stupor, hands on the wheel, embarrassed and replaying my last hundred prayers. When we adopted Jeremy nearly nine years ago, I remember feeling that by becoming a parent it took me to another level with God, that understanding this parent-child relationship gave me the tiniest idea about what He must feel for me. It was one of those “A-ha!” moments, and now I’d just had another one.
The boys and I didn’t speak to each other until we got home, when I asked them to help me bring in the groceries. In the silence of the short drive, I asked for forgiveness and thanked Him for all of this, for these people He gave me, for this life He created, and for waking me up in a place where I’d obviously fallen asleep.