“get out of my house!”

my husband grabbed his gun from behind the bookshelf as he bellowed this phrase down the hall. i knew his heart was beating heavily. mine was.

i snuggled my six-month old daughter closer into my chest and listened to her breath softly. as far as she knew, she was safe. and it would stay that way as long as i could help it.

i heard his steps thump down the hall, and i thought about how he was holding our entire lives in his hands. my heart was his heart. my soul was his soul. my daughter was my heart, and my husband was my heart. if i lost one of them, i lost both of them. i said a quick prayer to Jesus and whoever else would listen and clutched my baby girl closer.

whoever had shattered the glass door was about to be shot. i heard my husband cock the gun as he closed the door to the bedroom. i knew he had complete control over what happened next. all i could do was trust and breathe.

we had been sleeping soundly, until the sound of glass shattering woke us both simultaneously. he was gone in a flash, only saying “stay here. i love you.” and scooting Sloane towards me. my heard was pounding inside my skull, my whole body rigid, terrified.

i waited for what seemed like hours, but probably only minutes. i heard nothing. i was terrified. my baby was safe in my arms, and i was safe in bed.

i heard footsteps.

the door handle twisted.

a crack of light came in.

“dale?” i tentatively whispered, PRAYING it was him.

“love? it’s okay. it was just a tree branch, you’re okay. we’re okay.”

i breathed a sigh of relief.

thank you Jesus.

good thing it was summer, the screen door was still in tact and was the only thing preventing anything else from getting in.

he crawled back into bed after setting the gun away, kissing me and our daughter, who grunted softly in response. his arm was around me, his hand in mine.

we were safe. we were safe. we were safe.

i eventually fell back asleep thanking Jesus for a loving husband and a safe bedroom.

we

were

safe.