Deep into the wee hours one night, spring came ferociously roaring through our small town.

It took our trampoline with it.

Once the major threat of tornadoes had passed and the agonizing should we or shouldn’t we wake the kids up to hide in the almost-just-as-scary-as-a-tornado storm shelter decision had been made, there was only one thing I really prayed about: that silly trampoline.

Lord, please spare it.

He didn’t.

We found it tangled in the woods near our house the next morning. Having cleared a fence and several trees, the thing was still in surprisingly good condition. But for this big pregnant momma with four young kids already nipping at her heels, having that trampoline (ahem: free babysitter) out of commission for any amount of time was close to devastating.

It would take some unbending and finagling and adjusting, my husband said. But it could be fixed. There was hope for it, he said. Just don’t count on it ever being perfect.

Yep, I thought. Same here, buddy.

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