Recently, I was looking for a journal to take to a training session and came across an old one. I had kept it while my husband was in the middle east with the air force during the Enduring Freedom campaign. I knew Tony would miss some important days while he was away from home since our son was only 8 years old at the time.

I remember the war was scary to Colt and, while his dad was away, he didn’t want to hear about war or fighting. If something came on the news about it, he would grab the remote control and change the channel.

He often woke up at night and, though he said he didn’t have nightmares, he would act frightened and get in bed with me.

My journal described one of those nights. I heard him come into my bedroom and woke up enough to ask him if he was OK. He had an old blanket with him.

“Yes, I’m OK,” he said. “It’s just cold in my room.”

I was facing the wall but I felt him get into bed and start the process of settling in with the pillow and his blanket.

“Oh, mama,” he said. “Turn around. I want the hot side of the pancake.”

I laughed and laughed about that statement. The next morning, when I was writing about it, I asked him if he remembered it. He said no. He didn’t seem to be embarrassed. He just didn’t remember his half-asleep journey the night before.

So, what’s the hot side of the pancake? The warm side where the butter melts, the heart side, the side that can hold and comfort you.

It was an irony that he used a food metaphor. How often do we substitute food for comfort and look for pancakes when we really want the metaphorical hot side of the pancake?