Our Piano Tuner is a Prophet

Martin is cooking bacon and the smell is making me feel like disgracing myself. Truth is, I don't even really like eating bacon all that much--I have a piece once in a blue moon, especially if it's our friend, Mike's, thick-cut, peppered bacon from one of his happy pigs--but the smell! It makes me want to bite into everything, hoping for satisfaction.

The snow is piled a good foot outside in our window box. Today the kids were off school due to the snow, so we all lolled around in bed, happy and satisfied until Martin realized he must pay the piper. So we all rolled out, he rushed through breakfast, and went out to shovel the front walk. Two minutes and he's back in, yelling, "The piano tuner is here!"

Wha?
I was in my big red robe, had just poured milk into my cereal bowl and mixed cream into my coffee. Ah. I have no pride left, not even a little. Stripped the piano of its philodendron, music, lamps, and throw, welcomed the fellow at the door with a big grin that showed the world I love being all mussed up in a robe and opening the door to company.

And tune the piano he did, and showed the girls a DVD of his impressive show dog, and prayed for my uncle, and took my hand a gave me a word from God. The piano tuner, who three years ago on his first visit, seemed taciturn and silent, turns out to be this sometimes very talkative man who is also a prophet. He gave Martin a word from God last year at our annual tune-up but not me. So I was kind of happy he was giving me one this time, and curious--would he make some fabulous prophecy about fame and fortune?

Instead he said, "God says you're doing a really good job with the kids. Keep on doing that good work, and take a break when you need it."

Well! Not a bad word, all in all, kind of nice and encouraging, actually, since he'd been in our house all morning and listened to me interact with our three girls, plus two more, and one boy. I'd only raised my voice once when Elspeth went tromping through the house with snowy boots. Was that the break God was referring to through the piano tuner? That is, I should have taken one right then?

And the news for the evening is, we have run out of diapers. We are absolutely bereft of diapers until some good Samaritan stops by and drops off a little pack of Huggies. Bea's been peeing, in her clothes and in the potty, and thankfully, mostly in the latter.

The piano tuner forgot his galoshes, huge rubber affairs that sat in our hallway like two slouching men until he picked them up just before dinner. "You tried the piano yet?" he asked Martin.

Nope, not yet. My man is cooking us a pot of chili. Time for mama to have a little, God-ordained break. Yes, siree. It was prophesied, after all.