I've always wanted to write something that would last forever, so I signed a mortgage. We were told that building a house would not only sink our bank account, it would stifle our marriage. But one of the reasons both are still intact is that Ramona has never been one to ask for the moon. In fact, as it turned out, I was usually the one saying, "Honey, let's put a marble staircase here," and she would say, "Phil, have you looked at our chequing account lately? We can't even afford marbles."
One of the small victories she allowed me was the placing of a glass French door in the pantry. This, I reasoned, would not only look attractive when the bank manager showed up to repossess the house, it would give us the jump on children who like to hide in the pantry and scare us to death late at night.
I was glad for that French door.
Until last week. I got home from some chores, feeling good about myself. And then I saw Ramona, standing in the kitchen wearing a strained expression, as if a toothache were driving her to extraction.
"What happened?" I asked, kicking off my shiny black shoes.
"Why don't you sit down, Phil? I'll get some extra strength Tylenol."
"What happened?"
"It was an accident."
"What was an accident?"
"The pantry door."
There are times in life when I can still move quickly. The pantry door had a jagged hole in the glass about the size of a little boy's Reebok.
"What happened?" I asked, my face wide-eyed and wrinkled.
"Well…he was doing dishes with his brother and he got mad. I guess he tried out a karate move he'd seen on TV. Go easy on him, Phil. He couldn't believe he did it. He's been pacing around in a panic ever since. In fact, he just went to sleep a few minutes ago. You should have heard his prayer: 'Dear God, help Daddy not to kill me.'"
I sat at the kitchen table then, staring out the window and pondering the events of the last 24 hours. That morning I'd been sitting at my computer when the phone rang. A friend was calling to tell me that an acquaintance of ours had died in the night of a brain aneurism. He was my age. He left behind a beautiful wife and daughter.
"Dear God," I prayed. "I don't know what a day will bring. I don't know how long I'm here for. But thanks for this little reminder to keep things right with those I love."
I descended our plywood staircase, and prayed over our sleeping kids as I do almost every night. "The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you. The Lord turn His face toward you and give you peace. Amen."
