Pork Chops and Prayers

Thursday nights.

Gymnastics.

Soccer.

Both at the same time.

This means boys off the bus, homework and dinner done all by 5:15.

This past Thursday was no exception.  Pork chops were on the menu, and Gibson was over the moon because it was his favorite meal.

Nearing the ripe ole' age of eight, Gibson loves pork chop night because it means he can yield a steak knife with the big dogs and eat pork chops, slathered with cream of mushroom soup, until he is filled to the brim.

One pork chop in and starting his second, Gibson stopped suddenly, with big eyes and a panicked look a mother can spot a mile away.

He was choking.

Real.

No breathing.

No coughing.

Choking.

The rest was a blur. Somewhere between here and there, I had him standing up in a position no mother wants to be in.

After three attempts of the Heimlich Maneuver, just when I was ready to carry him to the front yard and scream for help, his eyes blinked a different blink, and he had cleared the bone.

In an instant he was sobbing, I was sobbing, holding my seven year old in my lap like he was two again.

When the dust had settled, I told him I was going to change the music but walked away to decompress.

After a quick consult with my sister mom, a deep breath, and prayer of gratitude, I headed back into the kitchen.

What I saw will forever stay with me.

Gibson's hands were folded and his head was bowed down in prayer.

When he was done I asked him what he had said,

I was just thanking God for protecting me.