Yesterday I made cinnamon buns for the first time. I made cinnamon buns and other things good to eat, and I cleaned the bathroom. And a little laundry, and math with Carter and some grammar review with Colton and I went to a baby shower in the evening and I yawned impolitely the whole night.
Yesterday I read on the internet of another teen who has committed suicide because of bullying and I read the this has to stop and the what is wrong with the world and I wondered too how to make any kind of real difference. And I talked to a friend who just came home from the funeral of her fifteen-year-old cousin who also took her life, and I thought, I have a fifteen-year-old.
This morning I spent the time helping my husband and my fifteen-year-old pack and load the old Dodge. They took the left-over cinnamon buns and cans of beans and a half-full jar of Cheeze Whiz and among the rest of the food, my husband tucked in four Snickers bars that I bought for my son. A treat from his mom for when he is up in the bush with the men and the guns, looking for a moose.
I wonder, as the morning passes, why I among women am so blessed. I pray for safety for my family and I pray thanks for the home that will be here to welcome the tired hunters home, with her hot shower and clean sheets and her love. And I pray for the homes of sorrow, where young women are missing.
Yesterday I cooked and cleaned. This morning, I said goodbye. I made lunch from a can, and then, this afternoon, I paused. I stopped for a bit and rested and was quiet.
Soon, the house will require my attention. Two boys and I will find some supper, and there are things that must be done for the potluck at the church tomorrow. And I’m not sure about the clean sock situation.
Mostly, I think of my home as this thing that requires much of me. The cleaning and the cooking and the work that it all is. Today, though, she was my soft place. She was comfort and support and a familiar face.
The rest was good. A small pause in the music of the day.
Music without pause is just noise.