"Here, just a minute," I say, "I have to throw this away." Suburban door yawned open, there in the driveway, I scoop two candy wrappers out of the door trough. "You get in," I call. I flutter the wrappers into the trash can.
"Ok," Jane says.
I slip in behind the wheel, she in the passenger seat. Belts snapped, the cottony quiet of no other children clambering for attention, I draw an extra long breath and sigh long and trailing.
"Ya know," Jane says, "when you read your Bible in the morning it makes the in-between moments in the day feel peaceful, like when you're just sitting and waiting."
"Yes," I say. And she smiles, a gentle rolling-hill of a smile. "That's so true," I say.
"It's just peaceful," she says, "not like from a drug, but peaceful." She spreads her hands as if to trace that peace horizon. "It's not like the hard things are smaller," she says, "but it's like you are bigger."
"Huh," I say, nudged up against that peace.
Bigger. And bigger too, that quiet rest there between us, between the words, between each breath. Nourishment, a communion of quiet, we breathe, just breathe, there in the warm afternoon sun.
6335. Craig roughs in greenhouse walls and plans the kitchen remodel all in his free time.
6336. Dan and Cerissa come over in the middle of date night to help.
6337. Jack continues to cook delicious pastries in the roaster over. It will be strange (and wonderful!) to have a working oven, one day, not too far off.
6338. Two friends loan me wraps, the beautiful luxurious kind, to play with with wrapping George.
6339. We meet up with old friends for afternoon dessert.
6340. Joe turns five.
6340. Monday afternoon, resplendent sun, we play with friends in the backyard, chickens out, swings up, mamas visiting amidst chatter and chirps.
6342. Peanut butter, walnuts, seaweed, treats and staples.
6343. The children while away out hours and hours in the fort out front playing with cousins.
6344. A new basketball finds its way to the kids.
6345. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I realize I am distracted, busy, and unseeing. I pray to stop and see, really see each child, my husband, and the arresting miracle of each day.