Pieces Falling

Around 10:00 p.m. I decided we should all get some sleep, so Emily, Meghan and our 130–pound Rottweiler, Buster Brown, piled into my bed. I had a feeling someone might be coming to the house and didn’t want to be in my pajamas, so I stayed dressed.

I lay with my girls until they were asleep.

Then I got up.

I paced, prayed, and made a cup of tea. Growing up, a “cup of tea” had always been the quick fix for whatever was  happening. A cup of tea could calm you down or cheer you up. My mom is British so making tea was a ritual.

I followed that ritual as I boiled water, heated the pot, steeped the tea, and placed the tea cozy over the pot. I poured the milk in the cup first, added one sugar, and poured the brewed tea.

I sat on the couch cradling my warm cup of tea in my hands and waited. For what I didn’t know.

But I waited.

A little before midnight, I heard a car pull up. A car door closed and then another.

Even though the streetlight would have allowed me a glimpse of who was heading to my house if I had chosen to get up and peek through one of the three small windows in my front door, I decided I didn’t want to know.

I held my breath and sat perfectly still. Maybe they aren’t coming here. Please don’t be coming here.

There was a light knock on the side door. It dawned on me that whoever it was, they knew us well enough to use the side kitchen instead of the front door.

I walked slowly to the door and opened it.

Standing outside were two men. Charlie was Bruce’s lieutenant, hiking partner, and friend. Standing next to Charlie was another firefighter whose name escaped me.

I waved them inside.

While they stood in the kitchen, I backed up and leaned my shoulder against the door frame between the kitchen and  living room. The doorway felt solid, strong enough to hold me up if need be.

We exchanged polite greetings.

And then silence.

I couldn’t stand the suspense. “Just say it.”

Charlie whispered, “They are unaccounted for.”

In an almost out–of–body experience I heard myself say, “I have no doubt God can get me through this, but I don’t want to go through this.”

I don’t want to. How many times through the years had my kids and my students said those exact same words? How many times had I patiently explained that “most of life has nothing to do with what you want to do; I don’t want to pay taxes or do laundry, but I do it anyway.”

I don’t remember feeling a sense of dread, just an awareness that this was really happening.

The three of us sat at the kitchen table as Charlie filled me in on what they knew, which wasn’t much. Charlie offered assistance, a prayer, a hug, and they left.

I locked the door and tiptoed down the hallway toward my bedroom. I hoped and prayed that the girls were asleep and hadn’t heard the exchange with Charlie. When I cracked the door and peeked into the room, they seemed to be asleep, so I went back into the kitchen to make a few calls.

I called Debbie, one of my best friends and also a pastor. I asked her to contact Pastor Steve and other friends in the morning.

As we spoke, I glanced out the window and noticed a man walking down the street. It reminded me of a scene from a movie—the late hour, the single streetlight glowing. It felt eerie. I mentioned it to Debbie. Years later, she reminded me of the guy walking down the street and added, “Maybe it was Bruce checking on things.”

After I hung up the phone from talking with Debbie, I called my parents and shared what I knew.

“We’ll drive up,” my mom said.

“No, it’s too late. Come tomorrow. I’m okay. Love you.”

I checked on my daughters again and realized Emily was awake. I put my finger to my lips, then gestured for her to follow me. We sat on the living room floor. Within moments Meghan and the dog appeared in the doorway. They joined us on the floor.

“Charlie was here,” I told them. “Daddy is unaccounted for.”

We cried.

We hugged.

We prayed.

We got back in bed.

Once the girls were asleep, I got up again. I made another pot of tea.

A fragment of a verse kept running through my head: “Sorrow lasts for a night but joy cometh in the morning.” I needed to see the sun rise. I waited for the new day. I waited for the darkness to be replaced by the light. I waited until the sun rose, and then I lay down to sleep.