High above the Atlantic, my husband of 17 years and my 12-year-old son, a blonde, lanky soccer-bound boy with a cool haircut, are bound for the U.K. I’m in Nashville flying solo for the next two weeks with our three other kids. Stew and Noah had a fast-and-furious, skin-of-the-teeth departure narrowly making the flight, so we really didn’t get to have the loving goodbye I wanted to have. Feeling kind of mopey, we all went to my office for a while and then I christened my new four-member family unit with an afternoon showing of Wall•e complete with popcorn, soda and candy. I was salving my sense of missing my other two. We loved Wall•e and drove home chatting together about the beautiful sky, clouds and sun breaking through. Only a few days ago, my husband said in a quick, hushed passing, “What do I do if the Arabs get me?” Irritated that he’d even raised the subject, and irritated that there were so many odds and ends to complete before I could send them off, I retorted, “Well, I’d say you’d be cooked!”
It’s too bad that kind of thought is embedded in me today. In all of us. And it will continue to be. Even with faith there’s an asterik when it comes to flying today.
