There I sat, my nine-year old wrapped around one leg, my five-year old tucked under my wing.  We were poised to witness history.  The pyrotechnics club of somewhere-or-other was seeking to enter a place in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the most weeping willow rockets in the air at one time.

Loving my children abundantly that particular night meant tossing the routine out the window.  We jumped into the car, stopping only to get snackies, and raced to claim our part of the lawn in front of the eye surgical associates.

We were a block away from the staging grounds.  This meant the fireworks exploded directly overhead.  My youngest felt like a frog beneath my arm, jumping at the loudest reports.  My oldest, a veteran of fireworks displays, coolly crossed his ankles and gazed overhead.

Me?  I wept.

My mother-in-law loved fireworks.  She would have been ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’ right along with us, insisting we all eat more snacks.  I wept because she is gone and my children will never see fireworks with her again.

It is written that all of Heaven rejoices when one makes a decision to believe God and be transformed from death to life.  I wept because fireworks are my idea of how Heaven rejoices.

I don’t want to live where we live.  Haven’t for years.  I wept because we were still here and there still was no open exit door.

The air was cool that night.  Wearing a sweatshirt and huddled beneath an afghan brought to mind a chilling reminder.  I wept because school was starting and the fun summer was ending.

Here is the video, of the world record attempt.  I don’t know if they made it.  If they do, we can cry about it together.