Tucked in between the happy chaos and loud gatherings of the 22nd and the 24th was a quiet reading evening.
It was reminiscent of my childhood: siblings sprawled in various positions between horizontal and vertical, the quiet occasionally punctuated by a chuckle, hum, or gasp. Curt was working late, Carson had taken Noah out to look for who-knows-what. Those of us at home were at home with a book.
Taryn, my daughter-in-law, was reading Kristin Lavransdatter. Collin was chuckling his way through P. G. Wodehouse’s The Heart of a Goof. I was dipping into Michael Ruhlman’s The Soul of a Chef: The Journey Toward Perfection. The tree twinkled, the fire crackled; the only other sounds were barely audible breathing.
When the missing men arrived back home we popped a bottle of champagne to celebrate. Son #2 toasted to God’s goodness in his life: three years of marriage and an inquisitive one year old boy. While Carson was toasting I had a flashback to a day seven years ago when he experienced a rare bout of angst. He knew what he wanted (a family of his own…I believe his words were “a wife, a house and a kid”) but it all seemed so very far off and unimaginable.
His dream was out of my sight too, but I encouraged him to wait and hope…and to work while he waited. Seven years ago I couldn’t give him a snapshot of his life today. But it is glorious to look back and see the gifts, stacked to the ceiling and spilling over, he has been given. Praise God from Whom all blessings flow.