The professor blew in from France on Saturday evening in the middle of wind and rain. I let the boys stay up late with me as we waited for the familiar sound of his car pulling into the driveway. And then we heard a car door slam. And he was home. And we smiled big, goofy smiles. We missed him while he was away.
The tastes and sights and smells and touches and sounds of home all seem a little sweeter now that we're together again. I savored the flavors of our Sunday morning coffee cake, the box of enticing French macaroons that we opened after lunch, and the homemade pizza we leisurely ate for dinner. I delighted in watching the children play while we pulled a few weeds, seeing his big suitcase empty on the floor, and noticing the warm evening sun slant through the front windows. The smell of fresh air, onions caramelizing on the stove, the scent of him, all comforting and delightful. The touch of his hand, the sound of his voice, the talking, the laughter, the cuddles, the rest, a lovely accompaniment in our song of home and life, of mercy and love. Yes, home is a sweeter place when we're together.
I notice these blessings and suddenly I am the French girl holding a big, beautiful bouquet of balloons. My balloons are grace-gifts. A few may try to float away before I notice them, but I smile and look up with thanksgiving to the Giver. My heart is full.