Sitting in the pew at church alone, while Hubster gives speeding tickets across the county, makes me feel like a tiny speck. A dot on a map. A flea on an elephant. I look at the families sitting together. A husband and wife, across the aisle, with children draped across their knees, listening to the sermon. A new couple that joined in December, sits a few rows in front of me. They recently announced that they will have a baby in October. Hundreds of people fill the sanctuary. There are a few women, like me, sitting alone. I know their stories, and they know mine. I wonder if sitting next to them would make me feel better.
The sermon tugs at my heart strings. I want to elbow Hubs. I want to write him a note. I want to whisper my thoughts in his ear. I want to know what he thinks about this subject of suffering for Christ. But he’s not here.
We stand to sing another song. I sway in my high heeled shoes. Normally, he would steady me. The song feels hollow. My heart feels heavy. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a widow. To know that when you go home, there will be piles of dishes, stacks of laundry, and no one to help you finish them. The song ends. We are dismissed.
I run to check on Bri before Sunday School. She spies me through the window before I even see her. She starts crying. I duck my head and turn away. She wants her Mommy.
I walk up the stairs to our couples class with a heavy heart. The room is warm with smiles and homemade breakfast. My friends are so understanding. We laugh and joke. I don’t want to leave. Last year, I would have gotten a group together to go out for lunch. But Bri has to nap after church. It would be awfully wild if we tried to skip her nap.
Sighing, I head down to the nursery, where Bri has been fussy for the last hour. The sweet lady holding her, looks visibly relieved when I walk in the room. There’s no question that she’s ready for her nap. I apologize profusely. She’s been fussy all week. Another tooth must be coming. We head for home.