(please come home to me)

It's one am and I am sitting curled on my couch with my laptop saying things to myself like

You will keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee

and

this is it! it's too scary!  do some other job!

and

clicking refresh on the different facebook statuses of my friends whose husbands are also out tonight

fighting fire and

making their wives crazy with worry.


A long, long time ago, I visited Daniel at the FD and they got called out while I was there.  The address was on my way home, so I drove by the fire.  There was a gray haze and the lights flashing made everything look ominous and eerie and even though at that time I was well accustomed to the fire service, I drove home f.r.e.a.k.ing out.  There's something about seeing the stuff your man is walking into and your mind wickedly replaying those awful scenes from Ladder 49 (that I never should have watched). . . and after that night I told myself that I would never do that ever again.


Tonight. . . broke my promise to myself and oh I am getting sorrier by the minute.  We returned our Christmas movies and Cambria begged to see Daddy.  I called him and he said to stop by; we did and he came out to the van to chat with me and the kids.   The alarm went off while we were there and I was like, oh, whatever, it's probably totally nothing and they get to see their cool dad be the engine driver and what kid doesn't dig that.

So we followed,  at a subdued distance, Cambria informing me that when she grew up, her daddy {read: husband} would be a fighterfire and she would live right here in this area.

I started getting a bad feeling when they all just kept going.  So often alarms get cancelled, everyone turns around and goes home, and it's just cool lights and wasted fuel.  I like wasted fuel.

When I saw an orange glow coming out of one of the industrial buildings and the cops blocking the road I regretted my decision to follow.  Lights flashing and gray haze and the weird odor of burning destruction and we turned around and came home.  Stupid me.

And my guy goes in there.  Oh please, be smart, be safe, don't let anyone be in there, just let the building burn, please be okay. . .

I put my babies to bed and hope to hear that everything is okay.  I wait for a response to my texts.  One of our friends is now in the hospital from burns.  I am going c.r.a.z.y.  After two hours, I get a garbled text from Daniel saying that he is ok and it's a  BigveryBad fire.  

Um, I knew that. . . please, please, come home to me.

I think that I'm so thankful I kissed him goodbye and I think that why on earth was he talking about life insurance and I think that I wish he'd get just a little bit hurt so he wouldn't be out there anymore and I'd know that he's okay and then I berate myself for thinking that.  I think that I couldn't be a military wife and I think that I couldn't handle my husband being a cop and I think that he'll be so tired and crabby when he comes home and I eat four magic cookie bars and berate myself for that, too.

This will all be funny in the morning, right?  He will have his big story to tell and I will be limp and groggy with relief and we will make some strong coffee for me and some cappuccino for him and we will just chill out and continue our Christmas vacation.

Please come home to me.