Last Monday

On Monday we sat gathered around the breakfast table, sunlight gently streaming in through the kitchen window. The iPod is playing a few worship tunes from the Miami Worship Choir CD and the boys are singing out loud. I am going through the motions of serving up breakfast. My belly is low and heavy. The dog is in his cage letting out huge sighs of despair that J is nowhere in sight.

Cracking eggs, slathering bread with butter, pouring the steaming hot tea and going through the comforting motions of ritual. My mind is sluggish, thinking about the day-ins and day-outs of the past eleven years. All the breakfasts made and cups of tea consumed, while fighting and death and evil and politics hovered over our heads.

I don’t keep this day a secret from my sons. We pray out loud for those boys and girls that have lost their Mommies and Daddies overseas. They know that men die defending them. They know that once upon a time airplanes hit towers and tears fell and people were lost in the ashes.

They are not too small to understand compassion for those who have lost something so precious. They are not too small to grasp that boys just like them sit at their own breakfast tables and gaze at an empty chair across from them every day.

They are not too small to desire honor, bravery, courage and compassion.