Blessed Insurance

 

We scuff through scattered leaves as we turn the corner toward home. Rowan’s backpack is slung over my shoulder; Noah trails behind. I’m half-humming, half-singing the hymn Blessed Assurance, my voice rising and falling over the crunch of sneakers on crisp leaves.

 

“Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine…Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine…” I repeat these two lines again and again, unsure of the rest of the lyrics. The tune is stuck in my head.

 

“Why are you singing about car insurance over and over?” Noah calls out from behind, his voice clipped.

I pause for a second, confused, and then I laugh. “No, no, not car insurance,” I say, “It’s assurance…as in being assured of something, being confident in Jesus.”

 

Rowan’s listening, two steps ahead of us. “So do you think Jesus has car insurance, like in Heaven?” he asks, turning to face us, still walking backwards. Noah and I laugh. The three of us stop on the street corner, next to the browning yucca, while Buddy the neighbor dog strains at his chain.

 

“No, honey,” I say, running my fingers through his red curls. “Jesus doesn’t need car insurance in Heaven. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even need a car.”

“Plus,” Noah interrupts, “Jesus wouldn’t need car insurance because Jesus is the insurance. He’s like life insurance, don’t you think?”

The boys stroll toward home, Star Wars lunch boxes bumping against their jeans. I follow behind, watching their feet shuffle through piles of honey locust pods, the seeds rattling like maracas.

I’m still singing, a bit louder now, as I watch the boys turn from the sidewalk onto our driveway, their striped shirts disappearing behind the shrub.

Blessed insurance, Jesus is mine. 

{This post ran at Her View from Home this past weekend. Have you stopped by there yet? Community, Kitchen, Faith, Family, Home -- there is SO much going on over there! I've personally been spending some time in the Her Sanity section!}

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