Well Loved

Breakfast was in the oven. I turned on the burner and put bacon in the frying pan. We were snowed in,  the sky was blue - that clear blue we only seen after a storm has blown through. I poured syrup into a small pitcher and walked back to the stove.

I growled a bit - quietly of course - when I noticed that the burner under the bacon was not heating up. Again. Crazy old stove. I picked up the pan to jiggle the burner, then felt the heat. I'd turned on the wrong burner. Sitting on the red hot, back right burner was the end of a four quart, heavy glass pyrex casserole dish. I touched it to slide it forward. OUCH. Burnt the end of my finger. I turned off the wrong burner, turned on the right one and turned away from the stove.

Sitting here five days later I still have no idea why I turned away from the stove. Why was I walking away from the bacon I needed to cook? I heard a small crackle, but didn't turn back around.

The next thing I knew there was a very loud crack of an explosion and glass was flying everywhere. I screamed and took the next few steps into the dining room. Before I could even turn around there was a husband by my side and a son bounding through the other kitchen door.

Without missing a beat, they handled it. One held me. The other got the broom. They cleaned. I left the room...I noticed some blood on my thumb and realized a teeny tiny shard of glass had nicked my clavicle. They cleaned glass off the stove, the floor, the sink...the counter. It had flown in, under and onto just about everything. There was even a hot piece of glass that singed the dining room rug.

Somehow,
while in the same room,
right in the middle of all that flying glass -
I had only been ever so slightly nicked.

If I had lingered even two more seconds in front of the stove that glass would have exploded right at my face.

If.

It's so odd to play and replay the events of those few short seconds in my mind and not be able to come up with any reason why I turned and walked away from the stove. All that's left is to be so very grateful that I did.

And grateful for the men in my life ~ for my guy. Who became the husband and who raised the son. Grateful for the son who's grown into a man so much like his father. They swooped in. As any damsel in distress would have hoped her heroes would. To comfort and reassure. To fix it all up, clean it up and take really good care of her.

So I don't need any roses or fancy chocolates for Valentines Day.
There has been swooping...
...and I know that I'm loved.

Linking up Here today