Well, I just won't buy you nice clothes, if you get stuff on them like that.
My words circle back to me. Jane, there on the hearth, she tries to rub jelly off her shirt. It embeds, a purple blot on peony pink. I huff.
Across the room, Craig's eyes ensnare me, a snag run down the middle of my anger. I look away and sigh.
At night we pray, again. We circle up and encircle each other with our prayers.
"Please forgive me." I say, "for letting my temper get away from me. I know that's wrong. I don't want to be that way. Jesus, please forgive me." I sag, eyes closed, stoop in confession.
As quiet rests between us, Jane prays. "Please help us to love people," she says, "because I know when we love people really we're loving you." It's a salve. "Even though it's hard, help us to love people."
As the others pray, I'm still. I breathe in her words. They loop and repeat. I marvel: beyond me, she sees him, Jesus.
835. Queso burrito slathered in beans and corn salsa, and how husband bought one for each of us, a date at home.
836. Sugar cookies made with almond extract and how husband and I finish the whole frozen bag of them.
837. How the children let me sleep until 8:19 today.
838. How they whirled away at homemade cards and shared the colored pencils, the ones still sharp enough to color.
839. Honeydew mellon chopped in chunks.
840. It's cool sweet juice.
841. How husband bought me all that spinach, fresh pineapple, and limes after I tried the frothy green smoothie sample at Costco.
842. How my mom and I exchanged Mother's Day cards.
843. Her etching card and words of love and gift all tucked inside.
844. Each of our children now gradually back to their same pre-sick selves.
845. How all six of us pick up and volunteer at church tonight together as a family -- a new way of being together.
846. Jack's quiet, "What else can I do to help, Momma?" And how he picks up all the leggos, stows away the play dishes, and scoops all the girls' hair bow up and into bathroom drawers.
847. Mother/Daughter Tea for all the girls in husband's hometown, and how my girls and I join the ranks to complete four generations (four!), and the distinct weight of that honor.
848. Wild stripey pants knit three quarters the way to completion.
849. Little Rosie Posie now officially one year old.
850. How Lulie lugs the her baby cradle across the room from Rosie. "I don't want her to choke on this," she reports and chunks the big cradle down with a thud.
851. Zinnias, marigolds and basil sprouted.
852. A utility sink at a smashing deal -- only a couple of cracks to glue and clamp down to perfection.
853. A nugget of wisdom: It's not that hard to figure out what you want to do; it's hard to figure out what you will quit doing so you can do what you want to do.
854. The gradual realization that I have of a small, narrow window of time to pour myself into our children, and the obvious, that it will close completely, chink shut like a gate, never be opened with such ease again.
855. The thrill of this assignment. The high stakes. The pressure. The complete demand of my intellect and endurance. A grand endeavor. Wow. How many grand endeavors do we really get offered? I embrace it. May my faith grow to fill these shoes. Thank-you Jesus.