Whenever the shackles of resident’s life, loosen enough that Jeremiah can slide into his place at our dinner table, we then begin the process of absorbing each other’s day. There’s comfort in that. Comfort in the effort of recreating all the insignificant incidences that tied new knots in my neck, or strengthened the ones that were already there. I can try to huff, even more than I necessarily felt, over the “smart talk” I received from Pace. I can use all my dramatic faculties to paint the picture of the chaos that ensued after Mary Aplin discovered she could remove her poopy diaper herself. I can monotonously list all the chores I performed again this day, which I watched unravel as soon as they were completed…just gearing up for me to do them again tomorrow. I can talk about all these things, and he can nod his head and even open his eyes widely as though he understands…but he doesn’t, not really. Just as I don’t really understand all the pressures that call him in early and hold him there late. We try, for each other, but God has granted us two differing roles and asked that we sympathize with, but not necessarily understand, the other. Partly, I believe, because the need for understanding stems from the root of pride. And He’s always trying to dig that up, isn’t He.