I was scrunched into that position I find when I can no longer keep my lids open. When I’ve read enough words and my muscles jerk belligerently at me that it’s time to just call it a night already. 
That’s when I heard the shredding screams from somewhere close. The street maybe, or a neighbor’s house. Neither Chase nor I could be sure. Over and over, a small someone’s voice pierced through our window screens and I thought, Even if I have to use these pillows as nunchucks, I will defend this child.  

But then came other young voices, ones like siblings fighting or sleepover friends annoyed that they invited the one kid who can’t keep it down. “Stop it!” 
Without filter I started speaking octaves lower than my normal voice. “Punk kids. It’s 12:45 a.m., where in heaven’s name are their parents? I’m going to karate chop their twerpy little heads.”

I sank back into my spot with clenched teeth, my own internal screaming of the last few days beginning again. The thoughts seemed to come faster in the suddenly hushed darkness of our bedroom.

God, you don’t make sense right now. I am weary of this story and frankly, I don’t want to do it anymore because, well, I don’t know if I can. It’s all just so…hard.

Grooves in the plastic guard on my lower molars grew deeper as I wrestled with my list of injustices. Shut up, you wind. Still yourself, rattling door. Eventually, I fell asleep grateful for the escape.

Now in the brightness of 7 a.m., with the fog of my daughter’s morning breath clouding me, I am frantic for coffee. Sugar hits ceramic, half and half makes all things creamy, and I know where I will go when cartoons and cereal bowls ease demands.

I go to the front porch where the breeze muffles fake laughter on the screen and real laughter from my three. Where I can imagine His knuckle under my chin so that my only choice is to hold my head a little higher into the safety of His face. Where my temper tantrum calms and all the pain I’ve ever known shows up in His own eyes. I heal as He gently asks,

“Have you ever in your life commanded the morning,
And caused the dawn to know its place,
that it might take hold of the end of the earth…?”

Have you entered into the springs of the sea
Or walked in the recesses of the deep?
Have the gates of death been revealed to you,
Or have you seen the gates of deep darkness?
Have you understood the expanse of the earth?”   -Job 38:12-13a; 16-17

It is with the man covered in sores and constant pain, whose voice echoes in the voids of lost children and empty bank accounts, that I declare a repentance deep enough to find a well of trust.
If the I AM of the galaxies can tell waves as they reach for beaches,

“Thus far you shall come, but no farther;”  -Job 38:11

put His Own in front of betrayal and loneliness and unparalleled suffering so I don’t have to, and promise to never leave me, then all right. I can do another day.

“And He will wipe away every tear from their eyes;
and there will no longer be any death;
there will no longer be any mourning, or crying or pain…”  -Revelation 21:4

And our screaming will cease.

He was as eager as I was tired. After turbulence (all and every severity of which I despise), circling above our airport, being rerouted because of a tornado only to hop a second plane hours later, and landing at midnight had left me ragged.

“You need a taxi?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Where to?”

I told him.

“Seventy-five. We’re union, clean, and very safe,” he said.

“Just hold on a minute with your union, ” said the burly woman who was obviously in charge. And if she wasn’t, I was still going to pay attention because she didn’t look like someone you’d want to cross. “Let’s check the rates before you quote her a price.”

She must not have known I was exhausted enough to offer up one of my kidneys to get to my own bed. Anyway, fine. Check your sheet. My husband will appreciate it.

“Yes, seventy-five dollars,” she said.

“Hired,” I said.

In the soft yellow hue of the parking lot lights he loaded our bags while I slid to the far seat of the van. Taxi interiors are nothing to be desired, really. The seats are cracked, the buckles are gummed. It’s a germaphobic nightmare, but in my stupor I let my freak flag rest.

I noticed a piece of paper taped to the glove box. Mohammed, it read, and he changed the station from hip hop to soft rock. 
Interesting, I thought. We must look like some fuddy duddies who enjoy that sort of music. Well, wrong. It’s much worse. We like oldies.

Chase and I spoke in hushed voices about our flight, how late it was, how we couldn’t wait to see our kids. But soon we were watching traffic, not saying much.

“Night shift, huh?” I said. (Writing that feels like it should be a lame pick-up line in an off-colored comedy.)

“Yes, I work until 6 am.,” he said. “But then I have the days so it’s OK.”

“Ugh, that’s hard. You have a family?” Sheesh, might as well as his blood type too, Nosy.

“Yes, I have two children. My daughter is three and my little boy just turned one. My wife, she is pregnant.”

“Aw, congratulations.”

“Thank you. They are so much fun. It’s hard when I get off and they are waking up and want to play. Do you have children?”

“We do. We have three. Two girls and boy. They are with Grandma.”

“Ah, so you could have a break.”

“Exactly.”

“Yes, that’s so important. Are you going to have any more?”

“We don’t know, but three feels like a lot right now.”

“We want a lot of children. I have a big family, 10 brothers and sisters.”

Come again? “Oh really? That’s amazing,” I said.

Chase wondered what I was wondering too. “Can I ask where you’re from originally?”

“Somalia,” he said. (At least I think. Again, in my catatonic state these details may not be completely accurate. Mohammed, if you’re out there, I apologize.)

“Well you speak excellent English,” I told him.

“Thank you. I was a boy when we moved here, when my father decided he wanted better for his family. That’s when we came to America.”

“What a bold decision.”

“Yes, it was a difficult life. People are always coming in here and saying, you know, ‘Oh, I don’t have any money, my life is so bad.’ But where I come from you are so rich here. You have so much.”

He told us how he tried to date girls here but they didn’t hold the same values and traditions he did. How he had an arranged marriage with a young woman from his home. The differences in our cultures. About Buddhism. And Christianity. 

Two weeks later their faces glow, the way ours did from the dashboard of the taxi. I watch my three watching fireworks spreading in a crackle across the sky. Every explosion reverberates deep in my chest and I think of Mohammed’s words.

“You have so much.”

Because men killed, and men died.
Because women sacrificed, and women lost. 
Because a few said there had to be more than shackles; there had to be freedom.  
Because One poured out everything.

So that we may speak.
So that we may worship.
So that we may be germaphobes.
So that we may have 11 kids and drive vans and start over.

To some, July 4th isn’t just a holiday, it’s a chance at a better way of life.