|photo by Jean Ann Williams|
“Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and uphold me with a willing spirit.”
I pushed away the full plate the waitress had set before me and scowled. “Who in the world wants processed cheese on their nachos?”
The young waitress’s smile faded. “I’m sorry. But this is the only kind of cheese we have.”
I cocked one brow and glared at her in disbelief. “You’re telling me you don’t have cheddar cheese in this restaurant? Because I know you do. I’ve eaten it right here in your restaurant.”
The waitress’s lips trembled. “Well, yes, ma’am, but I mean, this is the kind of cheese we use for nachos.”
“This is junk-food cheese. Please take this back and make my nachos with cheddar cheese.”
She took back my nachos to make a new batch to my specifications. My husband wore an odd expression. “Don’t you think you were a bit hard on her?”
“No. I don’t.” But later I said I was sorry to him for acting that way.
The anger stage clawed its way into my soul, making itself at home. I became one growly, grieving mama.
My questions choked me. Why did Joshua do this to us? Did he not know this would ruin our lives? How could he be so selfish?
My second bout of anger exploded with a solid kick to our closet door. And yes, I made a slight dent. And I didn’t care one bit. My husband witnessed the whole thing and stared at me wide-eyed.
I glared at him. “I feel like I’ve been convicted and sent to prison for a crime I did not commit. I hate this—my life.”
His face sagged. I went to him and hugged him around his chest. “I’m so angry at Joshua, and I feel guilty for being angry. I miss him. I’m sick of crying. I’m tired.”
My husband swayed me in a gentle dance, locking us in our embrace. He sighed. “I know, babe.”
Thank you, Father, for my husband. I’m grateful. He understands my feelings. In Jesus’s holy name I pray. Amen.