The first hint that something wasn't right was the sound of my daughter's door opening when she woke up yesterday morning. And me realizing that I was in bed alone. Himself still not home.
He kissed us all good bye the night before and went to work. Typically on these nights he's home by 3 or 4 in the morning. As I laid in bed, listening to the sound of my children playing upstairs, I didn't worry. I mentally went through our Plan. The Plan of what to do if he doesn't come home.
Given the life I've lived and the life we live now, it's pointless to waste energy worrying. But it would be naive to not plan.
Going about the morning routine with the kiddos...drinks (coffee for me, warm chocolate milk for them), feeding the animals...I sent him a quick text...
Hey...you okay? Love you!
Yep. Finishing up paperwork. Be home soon. Love you too!
Twelve hours after he left home, he walked in the door. Exhausted, worn out from dealing with difficult drunks, but very much alive and home. And bearing hot-fresh-now doughnuts.
There's an old hymn that runs a constant stream through my brain..."But I know Whom I have believed and am persuaded that He is able..."