Journal the Journey

To those who noticed my daughters and me at the Cracker Barrel in Princeton, West Virginia on Monday, July 10, 2017:

We almost didn’t eat there. We tried to eat at Sbarro at the travel plaza 30 miles prior, but they only had pizza ready and I wasn’t going to have them make pasta for us when it was 30 minutes prior to closing. My 9 year old daughter had begged earlier in the trip that we go to Cracker Barrel, out of her desire to continue our road trip tradition of eating there. I cringed at the thought; this would be our first time to do so without her Dad, and I didn’t feel ready to do that just yet. When I saw the sign for Sbarro, I suggested spaghetti instead, explaining that it would take less time than Cracker Barrel and we were already running so far behind because of so many diaper changing stops. But as I stared at the slim pickings at Sbarro, I surprised even myself by turning to her and asking, “Do you still want to go to Cracker Barrel?” She was delighted.

When we arrived at Cracker Barrel, we were 7 ½ hours into a trip that should’ve taken that long to get to our destination, yet we were still 2 hours away. Road tripping as the only adult with 9 month old twin girls in tow is tough work. Shortly after we had begun the trip, I glanced to the seat to my right where my husband would normally be sitting when it was my turn to drive on long trips like this. My heart stung at the thought of his absence, like lemon juice on a fresh paper cut. Before I could think too long about it and spiral into sorrow, God reminded me that I am not alone; He is with me. The sting faded, and I diverted my thoughts away from my husband.

We arrived to Cracker Barrel at 8:00. I left the twins in their car seats and hoisted the seats off their bases, conscientious to tighten my core as I carried them, one in each hand. I learned early on in their short, precious lives that I can easily throw my back out when lifting them at the same time. “In a couple months, they will be able to walk and we can hold their hands in instead,” I thought. I thought about getting one out of her car seat and carrying her on my left hip while carrying the other in the car seat with my right arm to lighten my total load like I did into the gas station a couple hours earlier when I needed to use the restroom, but I couldn’t decide which baby would stay in the car seat… and the reality is, neither is good at behaving in a high chair yet… so I decided to keep them both in their car seats and hope they would fall asleep during dinner. It was, after all, their normal bed time by this point.

My oldest went ahead of me to open the doors. I clumsily hobbled through the displays and made it to the hostess stand. We were greeted with a smile, and she quickly went to work getting our table ready as I set the car seats down to give my arms a break.

We stuck out like a sore thumb in the restaurant, as the hostess had thoughtfully pulled two tables together to provide me with enough room to have the babies in car seat slings on either side of my seat. As awkward as it was, I was thankful for the space because I didn’t have to worry about car seats blocking the aisles. I got the twins situated into the car seat slings and took my center seat at a table setup that could’ve comfortably held a party of 8 adults. My oldest took the seat directly across from me.

“Waiting on others?” a nice server asked as she approached the table. “No, it’s just us,” I said, my heart picking up speed a bit. She took our drink order and let us know our server would be by soon. I appreciated this team work, as someone who spent years in the restaurant industry in my teens and twenties.

She brought our waters to us and our server came by to take our order. Grilled chicken for me, two pancakes for my oldest. Our food quickly arrived and I began alternating bites of my mac and cheese between the babies. A few minutes into feeding them, an elderly couple over my right shoulder spoke up. “I understand now why you’re so skinny – the babies don’t give you a chance to take a bite!” he said with a smile. His wife chimed in with the fact that we moms are accustomed to eating last. This opened up a conversation between them and us that lasted through the rest of dinner. Sweet couple, if you ever see this: Thank you for providing me with adult conversation, something almost all moms can appreciate after caring for children all day long.

Early on in the conversation, I asked where they were heading… A city in North Carolina, not far from where I lived with my husband as a newlywed. Out of habit, I responded that I lived in Jacksonville for a few years when he was a Marine. The words that started out as a sweet memory of the early years in my marriage quickly turned bitter as they slipped out of my mouth under the immediate realization that “ex-husband” will be the more appropriate term soon. He’s been my husband for 14 years next month; how long will it take to remember to call him my ex when the divorce is final? While I sorted out these thoughts, this elderly man with the nonstop smile asked me what my husband does now. I paused, quickly stated what his job is, and hoped that would be the end of questions about him.

Then I looked across the table at my oldest. The smiles and bright eyes that just moments prior graced her sweet face as she thought of words that have the “butt” sound in them had disappeared and her demeanor was somber. I’ve seen this look overtake her more times in the past 6 weeks than in her whole life combined prior to the news of the separation. It’s the look she gets when something causes her broken-but-mending heart to sting. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “I don’t like when people ask about Daddy,” she said. I comforted her the best I could in the moment, fighting to stay strong as I continued to feed the twins the mac and cheese. She wanted me to tell them what we are going through. I decided against that. Our server stopped by to ask if there was something wrong with my chicken since I hadn’t eaten any of it yet.

The friendly couple’s food arrived as the twins finished the last bites of the mac and cheese. Our server offered us dessert and dropped off our check. Then, she came back a few minutes later and slipped it off the edge of the table. “I’m going to take this back, because someone just paid for your meal.” I felt my cheeks flush. “Are you serious?” I asked. She cheerfully confirmed, but didn’t give me even a hint as to who had decided to show us such kindness. My mind raced… was it this sweet couple over my shoulder? If so, how did they pull that off between our constant conversation and without me overhearing? “I’m going to ask them,” I thought; “No, don’t ask… if they didn’t, how awkward will that be for them?!” I immediately thought next.

I looked down at my cold chicken and tried to hold back the tears. Despite my best effort, I couldn’t do it. My 9 year old came over and crawled into my lap, wiping a hot tear off my cheek. She knew these were happy tears, a stark contrast from the last time she saw me cry. The last time that soft, petite hand brushed a tear off my cheek was the night her Dad told her the news that we were separating. We all cried, and through her own tears she looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Mom, please don’t cry.” It is a moment permanently seared into my memory, from the night I had to watch her hero break her heart.

Whoever paid for our meal: I don’t know if you noticed me unloading the babies from the minivan in the parking lot, or watched with compassion as I fed my babies, struggling to spoon the food to their mouths fast enough. You may have picked up on the fact I’m doing this alone if you saw the sadness on my oldest daughter’s face as she told me that she doesn’t like when people ask about her Dad. Maybe you noticed my head drop as I stared down at my barely touched meal, feeling defeated and outnumbered as one of the babies cried, wanting out of the car seat. Regardless of whenever it was you felt that nudge to pay for our meal, I wish I had known who you were so that I could’ve given you a big hug and thanked you. I will not ever forget your act of kindness towards us.

As I began compiling all the trash and dishes on the table in preparation to leave (if you’ve ever been a server, you know exactly why I do this), the couple behind me struck up a conversation. They have grown twin boys, I learned as we talked a few minutes. After they left, my server came back by. “You’re a popular lady tonight! Someone else just wanted to pay for your meal and I had to tell them it’s already been taken care of!” My heart, the same one that stung earlier in the trip as I looked over at the empty front passenger seat, was comforted as I felt a warmth blanket it. I felt so loved, by people that know almost nothing about me and even less about the trials I’m going through.

I grabbed the car seats, a smile still on my face, and headed to the bathroom with my three princesses. I changed twin #1’s diaper – more poop. We went to the car and I changed twin #2’s diaper in the front seat. I tried to recall how many poopy diapers these girls had made in just that day… a combined total of about 9 or 10. As I was finishing up twin #2’s diaper change, I heard twin #1 grunting some more. Frustration was a million miles away; I’ve never been so happy as I changed poopy diapers. I put twin #2 away, then unbuckled twin #1 and took her to the front seat. A man who noticed I was juggling two babies passed by and commented on how lucky I am. “I feel very blessed!” I responded with all sincerity. “Yes, yes you are. Beautiful family,” he replied. I finished twin #1’s diaper change and took her with me to throw the dirty diaper away in a nearby trash can. At a time when I otherwise might have been tempted to have bitter thoughts about how much easier all this would be if my husband hadn’t left us, I instead was full of nothing but thoughts about kind strangers and my 3 precious daughters. I twirled twin #1 around a couple times as we headed back to the car, eyes locked on her sweet chunky face. I soaked in her smiles, something I’d missed from the driver’s seat all day.

I’m going through hell on earth in the sudden and tragic ending of my marriage, yet I’ve never felt so light, so alive, and so loved and cared for by my good Father in Heaven. The friendliness and kindness of everyone we encountered during our Cracker Barrel stop – the dinner that almost didn’t happen – had refreshed my soul on a day when my usual soul refreshers – my friends and family members that do know about my situation – could not be with me.

So to you that paid for our meal, and to you that offered but it had already been paid, and to you that took the time and energy to strike up conversations with me: From the bottom of my heart, I am thankful for the generosity and kindness you showed my daughters and me. As I sat in the car and thought about you before pulling out of the parking lot, I asked God to bless you a hundred times over for the love you showed me, a total stranger. And, if my story makes its way to you, I also want you to know that we’re going to be ok. I imagine you could not tell much about us from watching us over one meal… but something caused you to decide to bless us with your acts of kindness, and in doing so, you helped remind me that we really are going to be ok. My gratitude cannot be expressed with words. Thank you.