"Whelp," I say, "I think we are on at least step seven of organizing the hand-me-downs." The words leave my mouth pearled together in a long looping sigh.
The living room a castle of bins, clothes bundled and ordered by age and gender, I sink into the couch. We save meticulously, sometimes too much. A tower of donation items holds down the entryway. Bins on one side, bins on the other, it feels like parting the sea.
"Hmm," Jack says, "step seven of seven hundred." He grins. I shake my head, then nod.
"So true," I say. We laugh and laugh. So many hours wrangling organization out of so much blessing. It's harder than it sounds. I wonder what step eight will be.
6522. Jack adds humor to our days, leafed in, gentle and without expectation of the hilarity that ensues.
6523. Jack and Lucy bake ginger snaps.
6524. A dear friend sends me a wrap to try with chunky fringe.
6524. The kids continue to work hard practicing art lessons.
6523. I learn again the good fruits of forcing myself to do dreaded tasks. Strength, peace, and tidiness appear, guests adored.
6524. The children continue to watch me flounder and then step into strength. So humbling. And yet so good.
6525. I sigh another tired sigh, contentment close on its heels. Sleep, the reward of the weary, I measure its goodness.