Saturday night I went with my daughter to Tifton to have supper with her best friend since forever. I was pretty tired, but it was a nice time. I always love to see them and pretend I am *Marmie* to Emily, her beautiful little girl.
We got us a nice Venti coffee from Starbucks and headed back home. It was a peaceful drive and we chatted as we always do.
It was late when we made it back in and I finally managed to doze off sometime after 1:00am.
I am an extremely light sleeper. I can't help it. Believe me, I would LOVE to be one of those that falls into bed and can sleep through a hurricane. Not me.
We only have one phone in the house and it is downstairs in the kitchen. No one ever calls it except telemarketers, but we keep it on anyway.
Around 3:00am something woke me up.
I realized it was the phone ringing.
I shot up in stark terror and raced downstairs yelling, "Who is CALLING?"
By the time I made it around the corner the phone was quiet, but the caller ID was still up listing the name of our local hospital.
My husband had made it downstairs by now (he sleeps a little heavier than me) and found me in our laundry room yanking on clothes.
"What are you doing?"
"I am going to the hospital to find out why they were calling me!"
"It was probably a wrong number."
"It was NOT a wrong number. Ethan is not home!"
I cannot count the number of phone calls I have received that have thrown me into a panic. I guess that doesn't sound normal, but you have to understand that my parents had tremendous health issues. I have answered the phone so many times to the anxious voice of my mother.
And, then there was the time that we received the call about Ethan's accident.
No one ever calls you at 3:00am with good news.
I had a knee-jerk reaction based on all of the other phone calls I had received over the years.
While I was searching for clothes my husband grabbed his cell phone and called my son who promptly answered.
He was staying with a friend whose parents were out of town. He had sent me a text to let me know.
"Then, it's my Grandmother."
About that time my cellphone rang.
It was the hospital.
My Grandmother had a heart attack. She was being placed in ICU.
As I was yanking on clothes, not knowing who was hurt or sick, and I was doing the only thing I felt capable of doing at that moment.
"Jesus. Jesus. Jesus."
Over and over I called.
"Please, Lord. Jesus."
He was not startled awake by my dilemma.
He was just waiting on my call.