"When will she be here?"
"What time is she coming??"
Yesterday I absorbed the whine. It didn't hurt the way frustratingly obnoxious whine does. I couldn't help but feel it a little bit, too.
I picked up Annie from school, "Has she left yet???"
"Yes, she made it to the airport and through security."
A little later the phone rang as Christian was leaving a study group headed for a work shift. "Hey Mom, I've got to work .... Is Celia there yet?"
"No .... not yet."
The children ran about finishing homework assignments, trudging through snow to complete chores, and assisting with dinner preparations.
Annie made a cake.
Grant lit a fire.
Eliza folded napkins for a tenderly laid dining room setting.
Newel infectiously shuffled through the kitchen to music being played.
Charlotte artsy-ed up a welcome home card ... then cut it into unidentifiable "snowflakes".
Janie practiced a monologue for play tryouts, proclaiming repeatedly that when Celia arrived, she would help her get it just right.
The air was so thick, it would cut with a knife.
The front door opened.
The tide was a rush nearly pushing her over, drawing her in. There were voices at once. Laughter. Overwhelm. I'm not sure she felt heard. I'm not sure she could hear. Too many questions. Too much competition. All of it, love.
Every mother has those moments full of worry, full of fear, some frustration.
Will they be friends? Will they like each other? When they are no longer forced to be under my care, made to apologize, sent to rooms for discourteous behavior, punished for offenses, enticed to serve one another ... will they even want to be together?
Then it happens like a thing of beauty.
The heart skips a beat for the return of one.
And a glimpse into eternity.