Really?

She walked forward a couple of rows at the end of sacrament meeting to offer her condolences.  She had been watching the side show that is our family for the past 80 minutes.  "You have it so much harder than we do," she offered.  She has two children of her own.  Both of them autistic, one of them nonverbal.  

"Thanks?"

I'm sitting in the  front of my primary class 30 minutes later, testifying to my 8 and 9 year olds.  One has her hand on  the door knob while another is vying for the coveted spot to be first out of my class.  An especially spirited boy is balancing his chair on two legs while writing his name on the chalkboard.  I must admire his talent of multitasking. 

I walk to the bishop's office to gather my children, knowing they have surely swarmed in to find sustenance on a Fast Sunday.  Nick proudly sports his find of three cherry tootsie pops and Allie has trouble carrying out her mass of tootsie rolls.

I walk out of the church doors into the bane of my existence.  There had been no sign of it when I entered the building three hours ago.  It falls down my back as I open the door to the minivan sending an angry shiver through the whole of me.  "Murphy must be a pupsicle by now," I think out loud.  But no.  I find him cross legged in his kennel that we've forgotten him in since 8:00 last night. 

I'm not feeling very spiritual today.