I woke up to the smell of smoke this morning. Well, that’s a bit of an understatement. My bedroom was engulfed in smoke, and the smell was sickening and overpowering.
“What’s on fire?!” I yelled to Eva.
“I was making pretzels!” she said.
Eva has permission to prepare her own milk each morning; however, she does not have permission to use the microwave to “cook” anything.
I made my way down a hallway filled with choking black smoke and entered the kitchen, scared to death of what I was going to find. The kitchen abounded in smoke. The family room, the living room, the staircase, everything was engulfed. I choked and tried not to throw up.
“Go back to your rooms!” I yelled to my children as I hustled them in a panic back to their bedrooms where the smoke hadn’t yet reached. Why didn’t I put them outside? I don’t know. I was in a panic.
I ordered them to stay there while I assessed the situation. I remembered from a true crime show that fire cannot spread without oxygen, so I kept the microwave shut as I turned on every fan around and opened every window and wondered if and when I should call the fire department.
The fire in the microwave miraculously went out, but the smell and the smoke it left behind was horrendous. I tried not to throw up as I ran back to Eva’s room and found my son and daughter snuggled together in her little bed, tears streaming down their faces, her comforter pulled up over their mouths and noses.
We held hands and prayed, and thanked Jesus that he protected us as he promised to do, and that he watched over our household during what could have been an all-out disaster.
I do believe that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. By the time G finally comes home, my strength will be immeasurable.
Thank you, Jesus.