Two minutes before this photo was taken, I was fuming. Let’s just say, my oldest was pushing my buttons and I was mad. So mad, I may have slammed my microwave door like that Frigidaire was responsible for every problem I’ve ever had. I’d just heated up baby noodles and set them (ungently) on the table, close to me, where I still hoped to feed them to my 1-year-old in a calm and tidy manner. My oldest sat across from me and ate her pizza with hard chomps and harder glares, so I would know she wasn’t happy either.
It was not one of our best family moments.
“I need to pray,” I said. And I did. Out loud.
I told God that I was mad. I told God that I was thankful to be forgiven. I told God that my girls and I needed Him. And with my eyes squeezed tight, and my anger still hot, I asked Him to replace our anger with joy and laughter.
The very last word in my prayer was “laughter.”
When I opened my eyes, I saw this.
Which turned to this.
My oldest and I burst out laughing and cleaned up the naked baby/pasta plate.
In that moment, I felt strangely loved, because sometimes, it seems, grace is a microwaved-marinera mess at just the right moment.