Sunday, December 2, 2012


"Wouldn't it be funny if the antichrist came to our house, " Lucy wrests the back door open, trots in from the henhouse, "and couldn't find anybody 'cause Jesus had snatched us up?" She grins, see-saws a buff egg in each hand.

She clomps a navy rain boot from each foot, lobs it onto a black tray masquerading as shoe mat. An egg cradled in each palm, her center of gravity recaptured, she presses one egg to her cheek. "Warm. Mom, it's still warm."

Myra bucks through the door. Lucy bobbles over the lip of the sunroom, "Myra, noooo. Watch out." 

Lucy sidles past the lawyer desk, then stops, snuffles the egg, sniffs it again, whiffs and snuffs. "If you smell eggs they smell like chickens," she chirps. Trifle-sniff-snuff. "This one smells like poopy," she adds. Then gentle between fingertips, she delivers it to Craig. 

All pluck and good cheer she trit-trots after Myra.

Trit-trot, trit-trot. Expectant, sanguine, the afternoon trails behind her in a wake.


3817. "Do you need one and a half cloves of butter for that?" Jack oversees the apple crisp recipe.

3818. I explain that women wear brassieres. "You wear unders on your ---," Lucy trails off, speechless. 

3819. The Tuesday-girls decide to all take personality tests and compare.

3820. "She cried a little bit, not very loud, so I sang Jesus Loves Me. And she said, MY LEG HURT. so I rubbed her leg." Jane says when I ask if Myra woke up in the night.

3821. "How-yoo-ya. How-yoo-ya. How-yoo-ya," Myra belts out in Christmas bliss.

3822. I get to go running with Cerissa and my Dad on vacation, always a pleasure.

3823. A dear friend calls and we spur each other on in the promise-land of motherhood.

3824. "I'm really trying to think of it as a high and holy calling, not just a mundane task," she says, and I tuck it away like a banner to pull out later.

3825. The girls and I paint our fingernails and toes, 80 in all.

3826. We celebrate Thanksgiving with Craig's side of the family. Buoyant cheer, merrymaking, and joy, peace, kindness, sweet potatoes and blackberry pie. Unmerited grace.

3827. Running shoes. I find my favorite running shoes on a special sale. Love!

3828. I skip-de-doo past the arms of more sale racks and head straight home.

3829. "Even when I give you bad news I'm still building trust," Lucy concludes on telling the truth.

3830. PENPAL letters.

3831. Crockpot chickpeas.

3832. Crockpot black beans.

3833. As the tides of morality ebb and flow in this country, our Savior ever remains the same. Constant. Sure. Purity himself.


  1. #3818 - laughing - so funny the conversations we have w/ the little bath and bathroom and bedroom interrupters. Hilarious, the things they say. My girls told me, this week, that they love my "fluffy belly." I have to admit: it (they) make me feel a little better about myself. :)

  2. Over here from Ann's and enjoying every word. :)

  3. Hi Bethany. Beautiful post. Visiting from Ann's today. Blessings to you,
    mercy ink

  4. Love that pic of you and Craig.

    Love the finer points of egg gathering and the purity and holiness of motherhood. You present it well--a knee goes down here too.