We went on a date, the eldest and I. He's been curious about coffee for some time, and I can only assume this is a result of the frequent "Dad's Meeting Someone For Coffee"-and-"Mommy's Working From the Coffeeshop"-convos we have with the little people. He wasn't so sure on actually trying any of the black stuff, but was curious about this White Coffee his sister talks so much about (she who was known to finish our homemade lattes at the ripe old age of 2).
So we set a time: Sunday, dusk. Cold snap and rain clouds. Tall steamed milk with peppermint (him) and tall nonfat pumpkin spiced chai (me). In mugs, for maximum foaminess, please. We chat over the Sunday paper.
"So, how was your week?" he asks in his very best Man Tone.
"Oh, it was ok. Some good days and some not to good days," I reply.
"Yeah, I know... because of the little ones..." he says out of the side of his mouth, whispering behind his hand.
This is our secret: how crazy they are and how mature he is.
He wants to know about church and Operation Christmas Child and if my coffee is good and how I feel about moving.
"Are you excited to go back to Ireland?" he asks.
We are close now, so close. Really just days away from buying plane tickets, though I've been saying that for a month now. But the end is near, the lease is unsigned, the date to vacate is set...
"Yeah, I am... but I wish we had tickets. Once we buy plane tickets, then I know it's really happening." We can talk like this, I think. He's seen it all. This is his life, this waiting and going and coming back.
He looks me in the eyes, smiles, nods his head,
"It IS happening, Mom. It is."
Dead serious, that lad. He knows a thing or two about patience, about calling, about God.
"I know," I say, sighing at the gentle reproof. Faith staring me in the eye.