It was a quiet and lonely Friday night.
They went to Indy,
my man and my boy,
overnight to a conference with friends.
Here’s the thing…
I’m glad they go places
and do things together
and have great adventures.
It’s just that my heart feels all out of sorts
until they come home again.
Lately, I’ve been struck with the fact
that my man always comes home.
To the best of my calculations
(which is probably not so accurate)
there have been over 7,000 nights
in our married life.
Aside from the occasional trip
and the times he worked 24 hour shifts as a paramedic,
my man has always come home.
I used to take this for granted.
I’ve lived long enough now to recognize it as the gift that it is.
For you see, I know far too many women
whose man hasn’t always come home to her
even though he once promised he would.
And, I haven’t always recognized the fact
that I’m not always easy to come home to…
nor is our home always welcoming.
Yet, he still comes home.
So, I’m learning to say
thanks for coming home…
after days at work,
and trips to Indianapolis with the boy,
and great adventures.
Because it matters.