I spent the weekend at a church women's retreat. It was everything a retreat should be, but rarely is. By Sunday morning I was tired and happy, with much to take away to think and pray about.
I was also ready to see Clay and my babies.
They met me in the lobby of the hotel. One minute I was watching the door, tapping my foot, and looking around in bored anticipation. And then the next minute they were there, boys rushing to envelope me with noise and hugs and exclamations, Clay trailing behind them to reach for me over their heads and kiss me. We all circled each other, reaching out to touch and exclaim and grin and be entwined.
And then, somehow, within five minutes I heard myself saying in a distinctly steely tone, "I said Get. In. The. Van."
And also, "What did I say? Do you THINK I am going to change my mind?"
The hour was not over before I found myself closing my eyes and taking a deep, calming breath before I answered.
The truth is that although peace and contemplation and renewal is nice, here, in the middle of the noise and chaos and brotherly contention, is where I live. It's good to be home.