Mortified

Bret, Grant and I headed down to southern Indiana today for Bret's grandfather's viewing. It was held at their church, a church he served at faithfully for years, and it was touching to see so many people come out in support of the family.

Grant and I hung out in the nursery most of the day with an occasional trip to the sanctuary to spread some cheer. Half way through the evening, we were sitting in the back pew when I decided Grant was in need of some food, at which time I excused myself to go feed him. I was stopped in the aisle and introduced to a long time family friend, a very nice woman named Peggy.

Then it happened. It happened in slow motion. And it's been happening in my head over and over and over again since.

Projectile vomit. All over the nice lady's shoes. ALL OVER... no joke.

My face drained of color as I started stammering apologies and mopping up her shoes with a burp cloth. She was beyond gracious, telling me that she was "wash and wear," but I cannot tell you how terrible I felt. Nothing is worse than squishy wet shoes. Well, except squishy, wet vomit shoes.

Tomorrow we will return back to Bedford, sans Grant, for the memorial service. It's a heavy time for everyone as Bret's grandfather was deeply loved and sorely missed. He would have laughed pretty hard at the vomit, and that makes me smile.