On Sunday, the kids and I went to church. Jim also went to church, but a different one where he's been working for months as their sound technician.
The kids spend their time in Character School while the adults are in the sanctuary. I was grateful to have an hour without Henry all over me. He's been sick and clingy for about 2 weeks now.
Our minister was very moving and powerful, and at the end of his sermon literally told us all to get out of there and get to work. I was excited.
I picked the kids up. They were happy to be back at church after a few weeks away (for illness and family visits), they had good talks in their rooms, AND there was a fire drill.
We walked to the parking structure, and next to my car was a red pick up truck with it's lights on. The door was unlocked. I looked around, and got the kids into their seats. I asked an approaching family if it was their truck, and when they said it wasn't, they joked about being my witnesses as I opened the door.
I wasn't saving the world, like our minister dared us to do, but this was a good first step.
I opened the truck's door, which was a little heavier than I expected. I couldn't stop the door in time, and well... now my black car (which is way past shiny and new) has a small bit of red paint on it.
My witnesses gasped for me, I turned off the lights, and shut the door.
Good deed done, and now I have the red paint that I'm choosing to act as a reminder of the stirring sermon.