Since the alarm failed to sound, I had 30 minutes to find an outfit that passed code and didn't need ironing. Recycling an outfit from a previous outing, which I found folded at the foot of my bed, I scooted down the stairs, yelling to the kids, "Hurry up. It's time to go. We're running late!"
I tripped on the bottom step, but caught myself just before slamming into the wall.
God is trying to tell me something , I mused.
No time to dwell on it, I sped to the kitchen, grabbed a bagel and poured coffee into my travel mug, before shouting at my children about forgotten lunches, shoes not on feet and homework left on the table. My brew went down day-old cold.
God is sending me a message , I thought again, and then called, "Everyone in the car! We've got to leave. We're really, really late."
Three youngsters went bustling and shoving into the living room. Where was the fourth?
I ran a bed check. There he snoozed, under his covers, in the dark, oblivious to the fact that now WE WERE RUNNING REALLY, REALLY, REALLY LATE! I took unusual pleasure in alerting him to the situation.
I hustled back downstairs, where I found the three pipsqueaks, whom I ordered to the car only moments prior, standing in front of the closed front door. They had their lunches gripped in their palms. They had their backpacks on. And they stood at the threshold of life, waiting like dull sheep for someone to herd them across it.
They do that every morning, so I knew it wasn't a sign.
That relief didn't last long, however. As I approached the interstate on-ramp, my gas light lit up.
"God is definitely trying to reach me," I whispered into my shoulder as I turned into the gas station.
When the nozzle clicked, the voice of the child who had treated himself to extra shut-eye said, "I've got to go to the bathroom."
"I know this all means something," I said to God. "But I need you to be clearer."
That's when my daughter looked over at her brother and rolled her eyes. In a voice she thought I couldn't hear, she said, sarcastically, "It's Monday."
Ah, yes, Monday. It takes a lot to get through to me on Mondays.
(Lucy Adams is a syndicated columnist, freelance writer, and author of If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny. She lives in Thomson, GA. Contact Lucy at firstname.lastname@example.org and visit her Web site, www.IfMama.com.)