Monday, July 31, 2017


"I'm actually LIKING learning to read," Myra says. From my pillowed beachhead, sprawled horizontal, right foot propped on a pillow tower, I nod, my neck corralled in a quarter of it's normal movement.

"Hmmm," I say.

"It gradually gets funner and funner and FUNNER." She grins as if seeing a sunset, her shoulders risen as to push, push, push the corners of her smile up the white acres of her face.

"Hm," I say.

"Joe is going to reeeeeally like it when he learns to read," she chirps, red hair in curlicue staccatos around arching eyebrows and blue eyes.

Beached in leg surgery's long recovery, I smile the slow long drawling smile that unrolls quietly like afternoon sun, like all the warm comfort of laying in these slow moments.

"You just have to decides to like it, then it gets really fun," she says.

"Yup," I say. She flops on the bed, book in hand, and narrates my recovery in slow and savory sentences.


6223. The children make me breakfast each day after surgery -- fried potatoes, fried garden beans, fresh peas and tomatoes, pour-over coffee and my usual granola on the side.

6224. Four of the children get the flu. They rest far enough away that I stay well.

6225. Craig leaves for camp one day post-op and we fare just fine what with all the delicious food and hours and hours of beloved audio books, the children scattered on or around the bed, sunlight rolling through the window like the river at flood stage.

6226. Just as the kids begin to fatigue in the kitchen, a friend brings us a meal. Another friend offers another meal if we need. Such comfort and kind care in the body of Christ.

6227 Joe plays me countless games of Uno.

6228. Dear friends barbecue burgers and make an old fashioned picnic for our family. We talk all things literature and politics, history and the repeating of history. We nod. Yup. So many things to memorize and take note, bear witness.
6229. Jack receives a new cookbook. Illustrations bloom across the pages, vibrant art.

6230. A new salad bowl finds its way to our home. I christen it with chocolate chip cookies, a new recipe. Blissful results.

6231. We round the two thirds mark in an extensive biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer.

6232. I turn 39. The perfect day to turn 39, the children give me bouquets of handmade gifts. Craig, and I take an afternoon date. He barbecues two chickens for us. We glide into the evening slow and easy.

6233. I get a polkadot skirt.

6234. I practice the discipline of patience. An antidote. I hold it like an unruly child in my arms until when I least expect it, I find peace resting quietly on my shoulder.

6235. I look deeply into the eyes of my children, pause my reckless work to memorize their faces, and hold still, just stop. So many good moments, they run through my fingers like water.

6236. The kitchen remodel begun, disorder and broken routines, I set myself to be the inventor of good memories in this new set.

1 comment:

  1. Dear Inventor of Good Memories: This, these three sentences are pure gold: "I practice the discipline of patience. An antidote. I hold it like an unruly child in my arms until when I least expect it, I find peace resting quietly on my shoulder."

    I want to mark them indelibly in my mind.