I am up to make the coffee and pack his lunch, and I’m already running late. It’s pressing on me already, this day, and I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall. The old chicken clock hanging on the wall above the stove, and it scolds me. I fill the coffee machine with the beans and pour water into the reservoir, the reservoir that my husband, unknown to me, had filled the night before.

Water tidal-waves all over the kitchen counter as I fill what was already full, and I’m startled into paralysis for a minute, until my brain tells me to grab a towel and mop up the mess. Water under appliances and all over the floor and dripping down into the drawers. And my first thoughts of my husband this morning are, what was he thinking?

I try the coffee again, fresh water and beans, and I push the button that begins the coffee magic. I step on another annoying maple bug that has found its way into my kitchen and is attempting the dangerous trek across my kitchen floor. I slip the bread into the toaster and push down the lever and – the kitchen goes silent. The power is off. The breaker is blown, so I make my way down into the creepy part of the basement, find the panel, and flip the switch.

Back up the stairs to the coffee and the toast and I fry an egg and a slice of bacon and the breakfast is ready just as he comes in the door, cold air with him, from doing the chores.

We sit, warm coffee and a few minutes to talk, and he tells of his friend’s daughter, the one in the hospital, and he says it will just be a few days until she is gone. They’ve turned off the machines and it’s just a matter of time. My heart aches for the young mother, and for the dad and the son left behind, and for the pain of it all.

And the spilled water and the creepy basement and the messes of the morning all fade into thankfulness, again, for the blessings of this home and this family and this day.

He leaves for the day and while the family still sleeps I pour another cup of coffee and I sip grace slowly. Prayerfully. Gratefully.