I daresay this is why the children spend their afternoons with faces glued to windowpanes, watching for Dad. :D Even on our especially pleasant days, they do this. I can’t blame them; I do the same. My kitchen window looks across a blank parking lot at his office door. I save my dish washing for the hour in which he finishes work so I can watch that door—so that I might enjoy the thrill of seeing it open, of seeing our hero emerge from his long day’s journey to make that short, remarkable trip home.
Where is that guy, anyway?
And when he comes in what joy he brings with him, what order, what peace! Thanks, Dad, for being so great we can’t any of us stand to be away from you.