French toast tastes like love and safety. A few weeks ago, my husband and I made a trip to our hometown for a funeral. We talked all the way down there and all the way home. On the way home I had the best French toast I have ever had. We had the kind of conversation that heals deep wounds.
And then we hit traffic. Traffic was backed up for an hour, so we stopped to get a drink. Someone explained what happened. I had thought it was a bad wreck, but it was a suicide. Suddenly I felt like I was in a snow globe and everyone sounded like the lady on Charlie Brown. I knew what was happening, because it had happened before on the day that we found my oldest son Anthony dead by suicide in the garage.
