Phil always goes to bed before I do and we have family prayer just before he does. By that time of night he's a walking zombie and sometimes he's almost too tired to stand up straight. Tonight was one of those nights. It was his turn to pray. (He was born on an even numbered day—24—reminiscent of the TV show he LOVES and that is not going to start on time in January--and I was born on an odd day—lucky 7--and so that's how we keep track.) Sometimes we pretend it's the other person's night as we are too tired to say meaningful things and want to just say "Mumble, mumble, blah, blah, blah." Poor Heavenly Father. He must hold his head in his hands. I'm sure we need a dose of repentance--or we could pray earlier.
Anyway, tonight it was Phil's turn to pray but he's falling down tired and he said, "It's your turn."
I looked at the calendar. "It's the fourteenth. Your turn.”
"The fourteenth," he said. "Valentine's Day?"
"You forgot to buy me a present." (I try not to miss an opportunity to get presents.)
"I took out the garbage," he said.
And that, my friends, is romance at our house. Even hot romance.