Home > Yellow w/ White Trim > 20 Does Not = 7

20 Does Not = 7

I get home on time to see Alex get off the bus.  The bus, #7, stops way at the end of our road, and I can see it when it does so.  It gives me about 5 minutes lag time between when it stops and when the boy actually comes in the door.  He likes to dally, which is totally cool with me.  So, when he didn’t show up 5 minutes later, I wasn’t too concerned.  When he didn’t show up 10 minutes later…

I hooked the dog up to the leash and we decided to go looking for him.  I figured he had stopped at a friends house along the way without asking permission (a reasonably small offense), but I needed to know he was OK, so Jack and I headed out to find the little prodigal.

As we got to the end of our driveway a school bus headed straight for our driveway.  This is odd because it doesn’t come that way.  In it: one driver and one boy.  “I don’t know how he thought 20 was 7, but here he is,” the driver said like it happens every day that a kid gets on the wrong bus…probably does.

One scared little boy (usually full of power and sure of himself) ran down the steps of the bus and into my arms, crying.  It wasn’t the place he wanted to be, though.  He headed straight for his mother and there he cuddled crying and scared.  Poor little guy.

I feel that way, too, sometimes.  I get on the wrong bus and when I finally get it figured out I just want to crawl up into my Father’s arms and be consoled…the only arms that are able to bring me into the wholeness and safety, the only arms that, when they’re done holding me, set me off in the right direction – never wanting to get on the wrong bus again.

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