Sometimes

I feel like I'm going to wake up and realize it was all a dream.
One very, very, very good dream.
My life, from childhood to present, was all a dream,
and the bad parts were redeemed, and the good parts live on
in my children.

I will wake up and realize how good it was to be silly
with my children,
to listen to my husband tell me about work, even though I scarcely understand his professional jargon,
how much I loved the rhythm of our days and evenings,
and how I adored the warmth and softness of one loving dog
beneath my feet at the computer in winter,
and how I loved God more each time I realized His love for me
in the kitchen, though it seemed thankless and mundane too often...
in the car...when He protected me from things I never even saw coming...
in church...when I took the preaching and the people for granted...
in the bathroom...when I realized the difference between health and illness...
in the ER...when I begged God to bring my baby's fever down and give me peace when the doctors had no diagnosis...or when I wondered if this child might lose his eyesight or walk with a permanent limp...
in the basement...when I folded laundry and thanked God for my mom's example of being grateful to have people alive to dirty the clothes she just folded...
in bed...cuddling with a husband whose grey hair is soft and silky, just the way I like hair to feel...or snuggling with a toddler who tells me I am "Comfy Princess" and he wishes he could marry me...


and in a thousand little grace notes of light, I live this life
as if in a dream
and wonder if it's too good
to be true.

But then, the dog poops on the rug, the alarm clock rings, the raw chicken spills all over the inside of the fridge, and I realize it's not a one-hundred-percent perfect dream, but I'd rather redream it with a chance of poop and salmonella than to wake up.