In the past couple of years I have had two friends come home from dinner to find that one of their children had left a faucet running upstairs while they were gone and caused serious damage.
This morning, while at VBS, Walker called to inform me that we have passed the requirements to obtain membership to their exclusive little club.
I am not positive who the perp is.
But I have my suspicions.
And, um, our house is on the market.
Flustered and anxious to come home to survey the damage, I loaded the children in the car. As I started the ignition, the hymn on the CD the children had been listening to came on: It is Well With My Soul.
Which was a great reminder to me that all my children had not just drowned in a shipwreck, as Horatio Spafford's had when he amazingly wrote this hymn.
My troubles are not so big.
It is well.
When peace like a toddler destructeth my way,
When bathroom sinks overflow;
Though sheetrock hath rot,
Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my hole.