You know feeling when you're heart hangs suspended in your chest, your breath catches and the bubbling sensation of panic erupts in your stomach? That feeling came over me like a tidal wave on Saturday.
In the midst of a glorious autumn day while potting my new mums, my husband calls me (early) from his test taking experience of the GMAT. I see his number and name on my phone and wonder why he is calling three hours too soon. The test cannot be finished by now.
Answering the phone, I hear him say, "Oh, hey babe... ah, my test isn't done. It is frozen because we're all out here in the parking lot."
"What?! Why?", I feebly ask.
"Oh, the SWAT team arrived and have the place surrounded because some armed crazy man has been cornered in the building and they want us out here."
My breathing stops, as my mind whirls from praying about Eric's concentration on this vital test to determine his path into graduate school to his physical safety. Lord, just bring him home alive, I pray.
Eric says, "Oh, gotta go, the team is going in." ACK! is all I think as we hang up muttering quick "I love you's".
I attempt to go about my long list of home chores which includes washing the beast of a dog (because he is itching and scratching like crazy and he stinks. He smells foul.) With my arms loaded with old towels and doggie shampoo I make my way into the backyard where the dog should be. Emphasis on the should.
Somebody left the gate open. And it wasn't me and it wasn't Eric. And now my dog (without his collar and ID tag because he was about to get a bath) is rooming the streets! Having not yet shifted out of my panic for my husband's safety, I am now in deep throttle mode of all out freak out.
I do not handle freak out well. I tend to cuss like a sailor or at least his/her preacher/chaplain. Sad to admit to my reading audience of two or three, but my poise isn't pretty at this moment. The balance has been tipped and I have reached my maximum load. My husband is with SWAT team and armed crazy man. our dog is loose on the street possibly hit by a car, lost, or picked up by someone who thinks he would be a great pet. I am in full and utter freak out mode.
I run around the house hollering for the dog and down the street calling for him.
My daughter runs out of the house barefoot with a box of doggie treats with the idea to 'leave a trail for him to follow'. Then, it dawns on her why her parents make a point of emphasizing that she needs to do what we as her to do. Like closing the gate to the backyard. As that thought illuminates in her mind, tears form and she is a repentant mess.
We climb in the car... prepared to search the neighborhood. And then fan out block by block. No sight of him. In between my cussing and panic moments, I do utter a few prayers, "Jesus, help me find my dog." My kiddo says, "Momma, we gotta think positive." And she prays while her mother cusses from the front seat.
When we swing back into the neighborhood, we stop a guest at our neighbor's house and inquire about the dog. Our neighbor has found Duke and returned him to our backyard. Hallelujah!
The dog gets washed. My cussing stops. The kid repents of her error. All is forgiven.
And we wait on my husband to return home two hours after his test should have finished. We have no idea if the armed crazy man was caught and arrested, but we do know that Eric's test score was miserably low.
Typical Saturday in September for the Knight family?! I think not.
Our bedtime prayers that night were filled with thanksgiving... and some repentance on my part for my lack of faith and my wallowing in panic. All signs that God is not finished shaping me.
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