Landing Zone

A box landed on my porch today.

Okay it wasn't just a box - it was a very large, very green 'tough box' - and it didn't "land" nor was it on the porch. The very nice mailman carried it into my foyer and carefully placed it on my floor.

I have no idea why I asked him to put it there. I don't know why I didn't open the garage and put it in there instead. I wasn't thinking about it or maybe I was just rushed. Friends were over and I would have to leave them a moment to open the garage - not to mention that the garage is currently still full of some moving items (mainly gear) and I would have to find a place for it. So anyway, it is sitting in my foyer. I haven't opened it. I really need to to check the contents but I'm not ready.

I'm not ready for the sand.

I don't want sand in this house until his worn boots bring it in. And then I will be grateful for it because his boots will, for the first time, step into this house - our home - that he has never lived in. His boots that will have carried him home to safety will bring sand from a war-zone. The boots that carry flesh and blood and life with each and every step will have brought him home to me. The sand that covers his uniforms, fills all of the little pockets, and shakes from the ties of his boots will be a constant reminder that he is home, he is alive, he is safe.

Oh, I will take that sand.

I will keep on waiting, keep on moving, keep on praying, because I hang on to that dusty day.

That day when his sandy boots, again, sit just inside our door.