Ah, when the house finally gets peaceful at 7:32 each morning...
Why precisely 7:32? That's when the last three children leave, and the bus driver, I don't know how she manages it, picks them up at 7:32, on the dot. And I close the door, alone in the house at last.
Some days I skip into the kitchen, make a little something for myself, and rush to the next thing. Other days, like today, I sigh, a big sigh, pause, and wonder, "Why do I feel Mr. Sadness tugging at my heart, nagging me like a child who wants a drink of water, refusing to go away until his need is met?"
It doesn't take long for my heart to answer. It knows precisely why Mr. Sadness has shown up at 7:32--the house is empty. Very empty.
You see, this weekend the house was full. Very full. Bursting at the seams full. And there were moments that I longed for a little piece of the quiet I have today, a moment to take a breath, and think a thought, uninterrupted.
A mother's life it like that. It jumps from daytime to bedtime, from noisy to quiet, and ultimately, from full to empty. I know this; I have seen the school bus drive away and the dawn of the empty nest.
So I'll great Mr. Sadness. Yes, I'll welcome him in. And together we'll sit at the feet of Jesus. I will tell them of all the crazy chaos of the weekend, as I tuck those memories in my heart, one by one. And I will praise God for the each and every moment. And Mr. Sadness will transform into Mr. Joy... at precisely the right time.