Waiting for a loved-one's return

Dawn Cribbs

The last house I lived in with my parents while growing up was in the suburban community of Arvada, Colo., on the north side of Denver. The house, with picture windows to the south and to the west, sat on a corner lot halfway up a steep hill. From the south window, you could see Pikes Peak on a clear day and the entire metropolitan Denver area spread out on the plains. It didn't matter what season it was, nor the time of day, the view was breathtaking.

At daybreak, the sun would tinge any snow on the mountainside a pastel pink, and glint off of the windows facing east. The sun set with a pallet of purple, blue and varied shades of red, depending on how many clouds were situated over the foothills. And at night, strings of lights defined the main thoroughfares through the city.

The west windows faced the houses across the street, and the window in the kitchen gave a perfect view of the house on the opposite corner. As cars would travel westbound on West 68th Avenue, their reflection could be seen in the windows of that house, and at night, the headlights would appear, drawing larger as the car drew nearer. This was in the late '60s and early '70s and the make and even the model of many cars could be determined by a careful study of the headlights and running lights, so I would always know when Mom and Dad were almost home.

This proved helpful if we were up to no good and needed the extra warning time to cover our adolescent tracks. Nothing would bring everyone to attention faster than the phrase, "Here comes Mom and Dad."

That window also proved to be my worry place if Mom and Dad were delayed. They both worked in the city, and Mom also worked several nights each week at a local Chinese restaurant and lounge. Rather than drive home and return later to get Mom, Dad would often stay through Mom's shift, tip a few in the bar, and then bring them home. Mom never drove and relied on Dad as chauffeur.

I am a great worrier. I became a great worrier the same way you obtain greatness in anything else. I practiced.

I learned to imagine the most horrific scenarios happening to those I love, and then, rather than collapsing in premature grief, I would spend my energy trying to figure out how to handle it. Many nights Mom and Dad would be later than I thought they ought to be, and I would imagine fiery car crashes and Arvada police officers coming to the door with the heartbreaking news of tragedy come to call and set awhile.

So, as I carefully watched the window for the telltale headlights of Dad's 1970 Cutlass Supreme, I would plan my response. What would I do first, who should I call first, how would the family be able to stay together without Mom and Dad?

And I would plan, finding comfort in my ability to come up with a practical response to each situation as this stream of consciousness took me from one situation to the next. Each time this would happen, I would repeat each step, and I was always the hero, the strong one, the one with the answers.

Of course, eventually, I would begin to realize how far beyond any of my abilities this tragedy really would be, and about the time I had worked myself into tears, the headlights would be reflected in the window, and I would thank God that all of my future fears were for naught. By the time Mom and Dad got the car in the garage and came into the house, I was completely recovered from my jaunt into heroic histrionics, and they never had a clue how I spent those hours watching, watching, watching.

I'm considerably older now, and somewhat wiser, and, of course, the house in Arvada is no longer home.

I can no longer see familiar headlights appear in the window glass, bringing an end to the journey into future fear. I watch for someone else now, not in a reflection in a window, not in the glare of headlights, but in the eastern sky, on a snow white horse. I watch for the forever King, come to take home those who love him.

There were a lot of false alarms at that window so long ago, headlights that fooled me into thinking Mom and Dad were home, only to watch the car drive on by, not making the required left turn onto Estes and then into the driveway.

The terrorist attacks of Sept. 11 have brought into the forefront, again, speculations about the second coming of Christ. I do not pretend to be a student of prophecy, I have neither the time nor the mental capabilities necessary to delve into that realm. For me, it is enough to know the promise is there and to know that God keeps his promises. And so I watch. For me it is enough to know that no matter where you stand today, on that day...

"It is written 'As surely as I live,' says the Lord, 'every knee shall bow before me; every tongue will confess to God.'" Romans 14:11