I looked up from the toys strewn all over my kids’ room and glanced at the clock. I calculated how long I would need to cook dinner. My husband would arrive home any minute, and my guest was still here.
Usually I have more control over the situation. I drive this friend of mine to the store about once a week. Speaking in my second language to my Indonesian friend, as we walk with our young kids around the stiflingly hot store wears me out. But at least I can say that it’s time to go and drive her home.
But this time I pulled up in front of her house, and she stayed in my car.
“I’m not ready to go home yet. Can I come to your house?”
A half hour into her visit, I wracked my tired brain for more questions, more topics of conversation to draw out my quiet friend. Then her 3-year-old son with the disability started banging his head on the floor. And as she normally does, I waited for her to scoop up her thrashing son into her arms and shout her goodbye as she struggled out my front door.
For the rest of this story, go to In{Courage}, where I'm guest posting today.
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