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| photo by Jean Ann Williams |
“Restore to me
the joy of your salvation, and uphold me with a willing spirit.”
—Psalm 51:12
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.
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