tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41710001250142784362024-02-07T15:45:38.311-08:00Us Plus FiveCraig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.comBlogger676125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-56664954249842419622019-04-07T19:39:00.000-07:002019-04-07T19:39:58.835-07:00Ask<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm9xnjw_jLK0OeCpMuZh8BwHCom_VcLEssoY5mwA41s-798j4NufUXH5-ShR20dFNouaDwyqaYwSJ68q1guNJCkow_lzwrqR_9KBsNfF1FNdnZp8xaQx8nP3_QPE3c1rOh569UpRQthqwU/s1600/Schafers2018-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm9xnjw_jLK0OeCpMuZh8BwHCom_VcLEssoY5mwA41s-798j4NufUXH5-ShR20dFNouaDwyqaYwSJ68q1guNJCkow_lzwrqR_9KBsNfF1FNdnZp8xaQx8nP3_QPE3c1rOh569UpRQthqwU/s400/Schafers2018-11.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Usually when I can't find something, I just automatically pray," Myra says. "I did that with my writing book." She flattens her lips. "Then I found it." Her eyebrows arc pulling the corners of her mouth up.<br />
<br />
"Hmm. Yep," I say. The kitchen a flurry, children popping popcorn, some gathering bowls and salt and melting butter, I pause. "God takes care of us," I say. She follows me like a kite tethered around my elbow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHITGaYYscjnzAljQYhpVPnRVvE9ZlDiMqUzGyjwGQrIbWDJKJwj7xDKeBVI1IbGOMZhsFK9lQt3hpVnyWtrMojLEClvBfcwYpEDkuAOIcyBbVxc5MA-yInGg6veqWcCFHb6ftW6-ZZxn9/s1600/Schafers2018-107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHITGaYYscjnzAljQYhpVPnRVvE9ZlDiMqUzGyjwGQrIbWDJKJwj7xDKeBVI1IbGOMZhsFK9lQt3hpVnyWtrMojLEClvBfcwYpEDkuAOIcyBbVxc5MA-yInGg6veqWcCFHb6ftW6-ZZxn9/s400/Schafers2018-107.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"God knows what we need," she says. "We just have to ask."<br />
<br />
"Yep," I say. "Where is the good salt?" I ask.<br />
<br />
The swirl and clatter of whriley-pop spluttering, iron skillet scraped across stovetop, butter bubbling, popcorn bowl clanging, white Corelle bowls jangling, the stack lean-leaning -- salt? No one notices. So I stop.<br />
<br />
"What was it you were looking for, again?" I say, Myra still bobbing at my elbow, memorizing me.<br />
<br />
"Oh," she says, "when I prayed I was looking for my writing book, and another time I was looking for my shoe, and lots of other things too, but I can't remember."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWor5-nOa9V17bX4D7cNmeMF8G0KBwAO_0zAOeDFbLOP513YTkFRX9_kPH-0jtMV0Hhv8-ishUudpfIHi_DNMJYPpSxhih8JLuzp76U68hP7Xoao93ULWpOxQ9upkkjiZKrEifsvrXpNZp/s1600/Schafers2018-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWor5-nOa9V17bX4D7cNmeMF8G0KBwAO_0zAOeDFbLOP513YTkFRX9_kPH-0jtMV0Hhv8-ishUudpfIHi_DNMJYPpSxhih8JLuzp76U68hP7Xoao93ULWpOxQ9upkkjiZKrEifsvrXpNZp/s400/Schafers2018-16.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Oh," I say and memorize the ease of her sentences laid down like rail track, perfectly strait transport, and her moon-face telling me the story of God, self-evident, perfect God. <i>We just have to ask</i>, framed by rapturous acceptance of the lost shoe and the lost book and the lost everything, every one a doorway where God may appear.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6597. "Mom," Myra says, "do you think I could stay outside a little bit longer? We are in the middle of a baseball game, and I got to second base on my first try. And, and, I was sooooo wishing..."<br />
<br />
6598. Spring arrives. Moist soil and winter-fermented leaves permeate the air.<br />
<br />
6599. The children play ball.<br />
<br />
6600. "Kindergarten, first, and second grade," Jane says, "are really just about learning a work ethic. Pretty much everything else can be learned at any time."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXD5emDzMMZkddZvuSZXa1Welm2MCbtYJJ3lfkAtldlcHcXAZoCWxGb7P9YI4iwWLVfFlhODk9GyGr3AkzENpf7yemQCyf7r-wSowkxj4sO9V4GKFjl0-7caQmkN3SmOod1P3kyV2p0eXn/s1600/Schafers2018-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXD5emDzMMZkddZvuSZXa1Welm2MCbtYJJ3lfkAtldlcHcXAZoCWxGb7P9YI4iwWLVfFlhODk9GyGr3AkzENpf7yemQCyf7r-wSowkxj4sO9V4GKFjl0-7caQmkN3SmOod1P3kyV2p0eXn/s400/Schafers2018-72.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6601. We plant and transplant. Craig completes the second greenhouse. It's double the size of our first, plus some. Everyone helps.<br />
<br />
6602. The children shovel 1050 gallons of horse manure for a friend.<br />
<br />
6603. I begin reading Dietrich Bonhoeffer's <i>The Cost Of Discipleship</i>.<br />
<br />
6604. "I think it's amazing that the creator wants to actually know us not just what we can do," Jack says.<br />
<br />
6605. We complete another year of wrestling.<br />
<br />
6606. The children go fishing with Craig.<br />
<br />
6607. Joe turns seven.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEHi2LcGoynXRALy8nlEcWfVt9Q3qFPbjLW3ocP39CtiMQDrDYbyuIS32OQZBa9ApAsrHF0KkEnhL67xKbq4PnmHg2a_ySVKVr_iT2U5Ybzd-N3a71Be5E78g_VFoMYn07GslTQXvzHsFE/s1600/Schafers2018-37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEHi2LcGoynXRALy8nlEcWfVt9Q3qFPbjLW3ocP39CtiMQDrDYbyuIS32OQZBa9ApAsrHF0KkEnhL67xKbq4PnmHg2a_ySVKVr_iT2U5Ybzd-N3a71Be5E78g_VFoMYn07GslTQXvzHsFE/s400/Schafers2018-37.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6608. "Sometimes in the morning," Betsy whispers to Myra, "Daddy takes his shirt off and he as FEATHERS in his armpits."<br />
<br />
6609. Spring settles in. We perch in it's branches.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsVlyLr3Asj1OGU6YqgbS1xN1FKOicEnxoxFbxq_DBaiUWM9ipFqwkZYozPI0PYmfjuAA1VzoZ2X_YweXgoH5UhffiScEzMO0LrFt1IiDypuOehBOCt9hRfjgmdrxSACxp3z92xvFZ8br/s1600/Schafers2018-163.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1537" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsVlyLr3Asj1OGU6YqgbS1xN1FKOicEnxoxFbxq_DBaiUWM9ipFqwkZYozPI0PYmfjuAA1VzoZ2X_YweXgoH5UhffiScEzMO0LrFt1IiDypuOehBOCt9hRfjgmdrxSACxp3z92xvFZ8br/s400/Schafers2018-163.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-20695079053450560482019-02-26T11:07:00.000-08:002019-02-26T11:07:10.823-08:00Lunch<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBxn8qAe8Cke-WfkSYxs6rP1UCiGGAtUSD9CNbY0f32V5I8XWJazEgkk3NLdjEqS6A-Cd8jlBcG-L6T1-T-oAg0TYALCaKem0JXBB2HgGxvNo3Fm3uRJCxxMNTEpwGVsZyjq9Rll1xkw6/s1600/Schafers2018-97.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBxn8qAe8Cke-WfkSYxs6rP1UCiGGAtUSD9CNbY0f32V5I8XWJazEgkk3NLdjEqS6A-Cd8jlBcG-L6T1-T-oAg0TYALCaKem0JXBB2HgGxvNo3Fm3uRJCxxMNTEpwGVsZyjq9Rll1xkw6/s400/Schafers2018-97.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"How'd you like sitting by Grammie in church?" I say.<br />
<br />
Sunday lunch stair-stepped across the table, Joe's button-down shirt checkered orange and azure, rumpled jeans, he licks jelly off his thumb.<br />
<br />
"I liked it," he says.<br />
<br />
"Hmm," I say. "There's one thing you have to do if you sit by Grammie."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXsVVyqZOK3d2mM6OfLW1_Kjg0BTXeGvDPNpxnMwKE4kx-382_39zs9QW0Zog6lCKBnLXSPU-KzPjUF3SvLPAdGiqu4BatIhGSrxnvlxcGaJcIxKup3iY4k-cTZHgI-2D-KU2wfSCzH_ju/s1600/Schafers2018-119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXsVVyqZOK3d2mM6OfLW1_Kjg0BTXeGvDPNpxnMwKE4kx-382_39zs9QW0Zog6lCKBnLXSPU-KzPjUF3SvLPAdGiqu4BatIhGSrxnvlxcGaJcIxKup3iY4k-cTZHgI-2D-KU2wfSCzH_ju/s400/Schafers2018-119.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
"Try to sing the words on the songs." He blinks, something like instinct holding his gaze. "Some of the words you don't know, but when you figure them out, <i>sing</i>."<br />
<br />
"Ooookay," he says. "What I think is boring is just standing there during worship." He flattens the corners of his mouth, nonchalance, a sideways glance, feigns expertise.<br />
<br />
"Well, that means you're <i>not</i> worshipping," I say.<br />
<br />
"Oh." A knit brown, he squints, wills logic to materialize.<br />
<br />
Jane frowns. Her apron, a splay of flouncing flowers and 1950, a kitchen aid mixer whirling atop the counter, she screws up the corner of her mouth.<br />
<br />
"Do you think it's boring going on a date with Mom?" she says. She peers around the whirl of bagel dough.<br />
<br />
"No."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDbvoVUe8uxKu8t7HiYYr7_kxq5N5ZVF2wLKz9h1jVu8ALV5PuEn0DWh193AJ-D4gkhqI4lzBktytejpIiycnbQlxTRY0nQ3OwEfgVm3_zjRy6RRJ99DH6DCO59lyY6UfcNEiBe-IuXtRZ/s1600/Schafers2018-44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDbvoVUe8uxKu8t7HiYYr7_kxq5N5ZVF2wLKz9h1jVu8ALV5PuEn0DWh193AJ-D4gkhqI4lzBktytejpIiycnbQlxTRY0nQ3OwEfgVm3_zjRy6RRJ99DH6DCO59lyY6UfcNEiBe-IuXtRZ/s400/Schafers2018-44.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Worship is like going on a date with God," she shrugs. Her braid, thick as a sunflower trunk, drapes over her shoulder.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," I blurt. Sense permeates. Logic burgeons.<br />
<br />
"Oh," Joe says. Another lick, he pops the whole thumb in his mouth, that last smudge of raspberry jelly punctuating a feather inkling that he should sing in church.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQ9VbFLoJbRDrbu0j3Aa9Mv2Rz8rvHiIuJ-OdzGrVTGZmqw_VE0cLfGKi8adVyRaTW3X-l7q6qUueqmqgYp19Cg8IONwaVhJtN4SlcoGPr5v5ftPlXZvmfLKnmXFSX9-LKJr9gYzhB81_/s1600/Schafers2018-17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQ9VbFLoJbRDrbu0j3Aa9Mv2Rz8rvHiIuJ-OdzGrVTGZmqw_VE0cLfGKi8adVyRaTW3X-l7q6qUueqmqgYp19Cg8IONwaVhJtN4SlcoGPr5v5ftPlXZvmfLKnmXFSX9-LKJr9gYzhB81_/s400/Schafers2018-17.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6594. "I can't believe you were trying to read a book while playing your scales," I laugh at Jane. "Well, I had actually read almost an entire Nancy Drew book before you noticed," she says.<br />
<br />
6595. "Thanks so much for telling Joe how worship is like a date with God," I say. "Truth be told, I was just trying so hard not to be annoyed that he was saying the most important time of the whole week was boring," Jane says.<br />
<br />
6596. Life settles into a lull finally, now mid February. Snow drifts more than knee deep, temperatures gridlocked beneath freezing, the sky riotous blue, we drink it in.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQn3c8IDh1Sx6cUjeK1znl9K1wH2Qb_3xjDB48qJFguA27Obdqors7ULep1s4sdKaXWhR5mUItemSCmzqepudGdsd6s7qXLzlvjAJed0ps6F257zu5C5Ebc_3NrLqSoEfWOaeGH0GtKYy/s1600/Schafers2018-45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQn3c8IDh1Sx6cUjeK1znl9K1wH2Qb_3xjDB48qJFguA27Obdqors7ULep1s4sdKaXWhR5mUItemSCmzqepudGdsd6s7qXLzlvjAJed0ps6F257zu5C5Ebc_3NrLqSoEfWOaeGH0GtKYy/s400/Schafers2018-45.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-73478916748602635182019-01-21T07:25:00.000-08:002019-01-21T07:25:08.875-08:00The Tree<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpBA5F3pbLWsCp_Hzb2VqKibyOn9wjhJ6d5aIc9P3f7hs2MGmaor44gI_dSHp7a0p00mGVd8iyrqZOrAsSYqlpt8QRHMUHbqcsCH2TgTNPk9nuYK9K1GeahkF55AG9nFBrztLO22XaZ-1/s1600/Schafers2018-20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpBA5F3pbLWsCp_Hzb2VqKibyOn9wjhJ6d5aIc9P3f7hs2MGmaor44gI_dSHp7a0p00mGVd8iyrqZOrAsSYqlpt8QRHMUHbqcsCH2TgTNPk9nuYK9K1GeahkF55AG9nFBrztLO22XaZ-1/s400/Schafers2018-20.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Adam and Eve could have sinned at <i>any</i> time," I say, "because they were <i>free</i>."<br />
<br />
"Ohhhh," the children nod, breakfast unfinished around morning Bible study, oatmeal lumped over bowl rims.<br />
<br />
"Free to do good <i>and</i> free to do evil." Freedom, that long radius swaths, swings wide, cuts deep, furrows, pulverizes, winnows down grains of thought to one thing: choice, raw and fibrous.<br />
<br />
"Huh." Squinting eyes, freedom's propeller blades take shape, that awful thrust, exhilarating power, sound barrier shattering.<br />
<br />
"The tree was just a warning," I say, "a way to spell danger." How else could God prove he wasn't controlling us? That awe-ful affidavit, proof before a notary public: We. Are. Free. Declaration under oath, freedom.<br />
<br />
A collective inhale, the air thin, pulling from adjacent rooms, we squint, peep through the mind's portal, magnificent, horrendous, air-tight, nourishing choice. The verification gavel sounds.<br />
<br />
"God actually does take care of us," Joe resounds, finality across his forehead, thumb strumming gold-rimmed pages of his Bible. I stare. Understanding pressed between his boyish grin run slack and the more-times-than-I-can-count he's been in trouble this week, he nods. I soften.<br />
<br />
"He really does," I say. Submission slips in as if tipping his hat. Respect settles between us, a lingering exhale, the beginning of a new breath.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBI9Mso6U53cBtVDUBKDEYaNPPhoHAynVISX8epEpb8aczGP0_m6wvKck-rFv-0i_t_6d9ZG2_dhGW8QrINyc1PrRjS0wMxbB71rJTywgOpKB4HmoSNTCOFjzBYwK04HvnaWhtx1a8licu/s1600/Schafers2018-19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBI9Mso6U53cBtVDUBKDEYaNPPhoHAynVISX8epEpb8aczGP0_m6wvKck-rFv-0i_t_6d9ZG2_dhGW8QrINyc1PrRjS0wMxbB71rJTywgOpKB4HmoSNTCOFjzBYwK04HvnaWhtx1a8licu/s400/Schafers2018-19.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6587. The handsome gray in Craig's hair.<br />
<br />
6588. The myriad of knitting projects constellating our home.<br />
<br />
6589. A giant pot of stew seasoned with herbs and spices akin to alchemy.<br />
<br />
6590. The gentle unfolding of winter days.<br />
<br />
6591. The family affair of a free alumni basketball game at my alma mater.<br />
<br />
6592. Delicious meals of green beans and quinoa, coffee and cookies, tortilla chips and baked parmesan.<br />
<br />
6593. Everyday filled with blessing. We let them ensconce us, recognition bringing them to life.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97okpU-CTqRCy5BGyrgX-MMbrmSBVjTMopGui7-nSBE4JyzEjsMKSD3SGuXj66Uq2yiM8ECwjUBfr-jR9Tlhzv9K8t_52FvnYHmH1sD0QYp3q6eneMSSMi_xwNbE2oSM5WT2nFEqNRMCO/s1600/Schafers2018-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97okpU-CTqRCy5BGyrgX-MMbrmSBVjTMopGui7-nSBE4JyzEjsMKSD3SGuXj66Uq2yiM8ECwjUBfr-jR9Tlhzv9K8t_52FvnYHmH1sD0QYp3q6eneMSSMi_xwNbE2oSM5WT2nFEqNRMCO/s400/Schafers2018-23.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<li style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; border: 0px; caret-color: rgb(102, 102, 102); color: #666666; display: table-row; font-family: DDG_ProximaNova, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_0, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_1, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_2, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_3, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_4, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_5, DDG_ProximaNova_UI_6, "Proxima Nova", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Segoe UI", "Nimbus Sans L", "Liberation Sans", "Open Sans", FreeSans, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.399999618530273px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><div class="zci__def__definition" style="border: 0px; display: table-cell; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14.399999618530273px; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
</div>
</li>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-30307628591408603772018-12-16T22:27:00.000-08:002018-12-16T22:27:14.845-08:00The Frog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKIXHpxDFRlmYfO5IMEURAZJIZXSj5kNZsPx-rZPPYz2mmK7IX94c1TeUsx6-XIj__6VIB4mwpPaMarO-IQ8xVK_rZw1etPYn8bP5iJ3_NyaBttbbbiLWK_HJ0mn8AmUcaiR2CZV2be7W/s1600/Schafers2018-27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKIXHpxDFRlmYfO5IMEURAZJIZXSj5kNZsPx-rZPPYz2mmK7IX94c1TeUsx6-XIj__6VIB4mwpPaMarO-IQ8xVK_rZw1etPYn8bP5iJ3_NyaBttbbbiLWK_HJ0mn8AmUcaiR2CZV2be7W/s400/Schafers2018-27.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"It can sometimes take a month for them to get used to their cage," Jack says, the new frog, neon green and shiny, an iridescent jewel, rests adjacent, nested in a giant 10 quart jar. Frogs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Moored on a kitchen stool, Jack leans an elbow on the white countertop. He flip-flips through one of a thousand animal magazines, pauses, looks up, squints, recites animal facts as I drink down my nightly water.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I guess that makes sense," I say, "if they come from a different part of the world."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Yeah," he nods. Snagged by a burgeoning paragraph, he doesn't look up. "Hmm," he says, pauses, "This time," he cocks his head, "I want to get one that looks like the other gender."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Yeah?" I say, "Since you don't know which gender you have now?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcBRT4rlBmVhSG9c2fkf-XOTW0OfziUEHCCisEqFpk-5eR8OM4bKTDYjSfFhHvehRczFAW8eM32kGZsz6-E7fc2O3tveS58iiekavx3DufpNqVpmGAcwoWvQyPb34pLbYrX4iIE8zHScRM/s1600/Schafers2018-26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcBRT4rlBmVhSG9c2fkf-XOTW0OfziUEHCCisEqFpk-5eR8OM4bKTDYjSfFhHvehRczFAW8eM32kGZsz6-E7fc2O3tveS58iiekavx3DufpNqVpmGAcwoWvQyPb34pLbYrX4iIE8zHScRM/s400/Schafers2018-26.jpg" width="266" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Um-hm." Surfing a sea of animal facts, he pauses again, cresting a wave, me blurred to scenery.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Hmm," I fill the space with the hum of listening to invisible details transferred from page to child. I drink my water, soft lamp light a circle around us.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"And," he suddenly says, his eyes orbs of intensity, "this time I want to pay for the frog myself."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Yeah?" I say.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I don't like feeling helpless 'cause everything is being provided for me," he says.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Huh. Makes sense," I say. Freedom, a fruit at the top of the tree, he reaches up to pluck it off.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg10u8nZaJk_0zGNXMfteA7A8rFhhHcKF2lbD6F4WuLVCqT0ao8QP1OIXencSgaEkPbrA8RmIL41NnvMf6rvVUOKlWQSkSh5H-kjGtQdIyb90JoDv7ffaQNq3lUZu6dodAT8YaL1f2Yus4/s1600/Schafers2018-31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg10u8nZaJk_0zGNXMfteA7A8rFhhHcKF2lbD6F4WuLVCqT0ao8QP1OIXencSgaEkPbrA8RmIL41NnvMf6rvVUOKlWQSkSh5H-kjGtQdIyb90JoDv7ffaQNq3lUZu6dodAT8YaL1f2Yus4/s400/Schafers2018-31.jpg" width="266" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Wedged in the fraction of seconds between memories, I recall him waiting to help me from the car at church, the whole study group gathered for a meal. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>I keep meaning to bring a little bit</i>, he had said. <i>Yeah?</i> I had frowned. <i>I saw they have a little basket for people to help pay for the meal,</i> he had said. I had nodded, blathered something unmemorable and felt a radiant circle of provision and safety encompass me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Provision, sacrifice. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Masculinity, he bears the mark.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGssR7BteA8tEPbv9JkBmjgSSar2KUvnGMqehkv64J3Qtst0QOo-q08C8QEmJEDYnOyDiJCt_4ODOf1GPpxVWRmjlUxjsp7BYChxPpU5cfoC2-L_-W_DVb4qLRwSI-zbjHHLprFfMTUEnQ/s1600/Schafers2018-30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGssR7BteA8tEPbv9JkBmjgSSar2KUvnGMqehkv64J3Qtst0QOo-q08C8QEmJEDYnOyDiJCt_4ODOf1GPpxVWRmjlUxjsp7BYChxPpU5cfoC2-L_-W_DVb4qLRwSI-zbjHHLprFfMTUEnQ/s400/Schafers2018-30.jpg" width="266" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue", arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue", arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue", arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue", arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue", arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue", arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue", arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Gratitude:</span></div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica neue, arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue", arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: left;">
6580. Jack barbecues burgers for Craig and me. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays this loyal courier from the swift completion of good cheer and kind service. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
6581. We share many consecutive nights hand sewing Christmas ornaments and enjoying the turning plot of an audiobook. The final count of ornaments breaks fifty. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
6582. The children plan a baking day complete with shopping list and baking itinerary.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
6583. We begin to stagger the children's bedtimes. The older tier enjoys new found freedom and friendship. Pleasant conversation makes bedtime illusive.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
6584. Jane reads an advent storybook to the littles. They pine for it each day.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
6585. Craig takes me on a date.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
6586. "I finally understand what people mean when they say <i>church family</i>," Jane says as we trundle in the house Sunday noon. "I always just thought that they didn't really have a very good family, but now I see it's different."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
6586. Our maturing family moves like the chords of a hymn resounding through the Christmastide.</div>
</span></div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-7480106487503116822018-10-28T20:38:00.000-07:002018-10-29T12:26:55.957-07:00Bunny<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKK9oNvFXNHVyec39Xh6joywAn3JFLRoK4_ai_ph-hTbHtY7Z4CKm3do9dodIjh8pSbWAQFW74QpUydhI4wpPu7ZDol5fI_LcLvq0poBHo9WJHGV8RwHfWphHShEHDLd15q40W6T2npai/s1600/Schafers2018-35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKK9oNvFXNHVyec39Xh6joywAn3JFLRoK4_ai_ph-hTbHtY7Z4CKm3do9dodIjh8pSbWAQFW74QpUydhI4wpPu7ZDol5fI_LcLvq0poBHo9WJHGV8RwHfWphHShEHDLd15q40W6T2npai/s400/Schafers2018-35.jpg" width="266" /></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I like your bunny," I say. Diagonal on the trundle bed, Betsy stretches, grins and squints her eyes, face blushed with sleep. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"This bunny eats people," she says, her stretch winding down, now sober eyes blink-blinking.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"No, it doesn't," I say, a perpetual fear of man-eating rodents arched in her eyebrows. She pets guard bunny's flopping ears.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"You can have this," she says. She pauses, lifts bun-bun to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Ohhh," I sigh. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Don't pull on the ears," she says. She lays bunny in her lap and strokes the ears, "or they will be broken."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Uh-huh," I stare, Betsy's pale green eyes round, earnest. She turns bunny and points.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Because they are tied on. Here. The ears."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTR1Ka-wxV1aTEY0YM0d5ABRPEItVNgfVV68aYl5PRuRiFLL3OYaaCaF3WeILpathcbQur_5hzQL-OlQGRBzq8GnQ-zo5s64Vd6S0NA2D3qGwNoIijI8dbbgT2rVBr-mkOAEuJMA1-LrOK/s1600/Schafers2018-39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTR1Ka-wxV1aTEY0YM0d5ABRPEItVNgfVV68aYl5PRuRiFLL3OYaaCaF3WeILpathcbQur_5hzQL-OlQGRBzq8GnQ-zo5s64Vd6S0NA2D3qGwNoIijI8dbbgT2rVBr-mkOAEuJMA1-LrOK/s400/Schafers2018-39.jpg" width="266" /></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Oh," I say, "yes."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Jack made it for me."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Her eyes there, and my hands just reach on their own. She places bunny in them. I smile at the stumpy body, round head, voluminous ears. I stroke the ears and gaze at bunny. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"<i>And then he rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth</i>," she says. "<i>I love you forever. I like you for always. As long as I'm living my. baby. you'll. be.</i>" The words loll into the room. I stare at bunny then at her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Yup," I say. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Emma said that to me last night," she says.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Yup," I say, and in the long moment I recall I've never read that book to Betsy. Not once. Just Emma. And there on the trundle bed, a universe blooms and spills between us, tender affection handed down from Emma, down from Jack, down, down, down to me. There I am holding bunny and the whole entire world in my hand.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzwElJEufOkoWJ1g1_t-hyqh9KeSgzTSHgHMwQhdOiEAluz1mSAAEkA5qw9CmJO3pzZcE1rR2tAAiwh-MeTVUM8HKwNdFq9EJNbdWhncN0AA6q5wNWJNfZcdIi9Ykr4MHB4hkGAMn8qbYj/s1600/Schafers2018-40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzwElJEufOkoWJ1g1_t-hyqh9KeSgzTSHgHMwQhdOiEAluz1mSAAEkA5qw9CmJO3pzZcE1rR2tAAiwh-MeTVUM8HKwNdFq9EJNbdWhncN0AA6q5wNWJNfZcdIi9Ykr4MHB4hkGAMn8qbYj/s400/Schafers2018-40.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: Urban Rose Photo</span></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-79479149773080468282018-07-16T16:18:00.001-07:002018-07-16T16:18:47.706-07:00A Chorus of Tulips<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIKhossPkBzGRyXfvOp5uvnELGS-5HxYgr7S8_swgD0FWoA-_ZVvpNm_ffccnOpky_FOsXxgMYotar_bOMKKTenxicV710FZZK5GfnmGeLIfBQaHWmJ3EYvwi0SzEew-FPijnuD8NODvm/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIKhossPkBzGRyXfvOp5uvnELGS-5HxYgr7S8_swgD0FWoA-_ZVvpNm_ffccnOpky_FOsXxgMYotar_bOMKKTenxicV710FZZK5GfnmGeLIfBQaHWmJ3EYvwi0SzEew-FPijnuD8NODvm/s400/unnamed.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Prayer unfolds over a black table, kitchen tabletop.<br />
Furrowed in prayer, we trace soul-thin places plowed long,<br />
harrowed wide. We cradle the sadnesses with prayer.<br />
<br />
In soft chorus, the palms of my children reach,<br />
reach over the table's expanse, and touch warmth<br />
to hands and forearms, fingers and elbows.<br />
<br />
Eyes squinched shut, we pray,<br />
the safety net of comfort catching us.<br />
<br />
<i>Please help Daddy to find a job</i>, Lucy prays. <i>We know</i><br />
<i>it all depends on you,</i><br />
<i>Jesus,</i><br />
<br />
the wide table of heaven there between us.</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-39372414545815289302018-05-14T01:24:00.001-07:002018-05-14T01:24:56.332-07:00Jack In The Garden<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiyM-XB38A_S24FTlDxCu9neJ8Ark7LkTl4PDCJUAEORSloqvDo529qxrxiiFa99qZ3v78uGmgh-5VcLCMR0tA2fiooEVxagH839Vf8cFnK4KDa3TCmdFm6e5yahP2ezL9KMPLKs-Wtoip/s1600/unnamed-28.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiyM-XB38A_S24FTlDxCu9neJ8Ark7LkTl4PDCJUAEORSloqvDo529qxrxiiFa99qZ3v78uGmgh-5VcLCMR0tA2fiooEVxagH839Vf8cFnK4KDa3TCmdFm6e5yahP2ezL9KMPLKs-Wtoip/s400/unnamed-28.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Jack is watering your plants," Myra says, a hamburger bun splayed in front of her, ranch and ketchup heaping and generous.<br />
<br />
"He takes such good care of me," I say. I picture the seventy holes he dug, post-hole-digger mastered and nimble in his hands, and how all I had to do was tuck my tomato plants into the ground and smooth the dirt over their roots and long stems.<br />
<br />
"He does?" she says.<br />
<br />
"Yep," I say, "taking care of all my plant needs." I layer bacon, onions, mushrooms, bbq, and mustard on my bun.<br />
<br />
"Sounds like he's going to be a good dad some day," she says.<br />
<br />
"Yep."<br />
<br />
"Taking care of his wife," she say.<br />
<br />
"Um hmm," we smile at the rightness of a man providing for his family. Even at eight, Myra understands.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiO7dVUYgo1FI8UDbed6tqpesb8a75WvjHwh90iCGQhvbd_S5gS9rnJxi9gzDyV_oC7dw2p-DDub2QTV1FHP631AMfcJDkpzJObu8ikFTIbQdwG9PfIBLqVDvZq6GTRgaEHEcXtOHGhxWD/s1600/unnamed-29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiO7dVUYgo1FI8UDbed6tqpesb8a75WvjHwh90iCGQhvbd_S5gS9rnJxi9gzDyV_oC7dw2p-DDub2QTV1FHP631AMfcJDkpzJObu8ikFTIbQdwG9PfIBLqVDvZq6GTRgaEHEcXtOHGhxWD/s400/unnamed-29.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6571. My cousin stops by, a rare visit punctuated by children playing tag through the yard, the two of us laughing, and pleasant treasures of honey, asparagus, and tomato plants.<br />
<br />
6572. A dearest friend visits and among more children chatter and play, we talk and pray, more riches untold.<br />
<br />
6573. My parents join us for dinner -- bbq burgers, salads, round-robin visiting, relaxing, and lingering -- nourishment in many forms.<br />
<br />
6574. A dear neighbor invites a couple of kids to work in her yard and sends them home with a meal for the whole family. Tetrazzini, delicious.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo7tf70J3npf1YFUk2znbNlyA5CP9ucnLF_4jOdGhWAR_RNx0qWDLYeJdvR_lQMaK71GpWpHRb76YQ8PeBSoN5XFaWByeXV6VeI76TSSl4aRWVp3FW1OMEtx1UzIuKdRbGx2mPyl8mYxpK/s1600/unnamed-34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo7tf70J3npf1YFUk2znbNlyA5CP9ucnLF_4jOdGhWAR_RNx0qWDLYeJdvR_lQMaK71GpWpHRb76YQ8PeBSoN5XFaWByeXV6VeI76TSSl4aRWVp3FW1OMEtx1UzIuKdRbGx2mPyl8mYxpK/s400/unnamed-34.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6575. Lucy turns ten, peace and contentment her continuing mark on this world.<br />
<br />
6576. Craig and the children continue to stitch our yard into a harmonious union of lawn and gardens. We predict we will grow 150 tomatoes this year.<br />
<br />
6577. So many friends, family, and new customers visit the greenhouse business. We enjoy every single one.<br />
<br />
6578. Lucy and I learn the principle algorithms to solve a rubix cube. We laugh and laugh when I tell a neighbor that I can now solve five sides of the cube, just have to figure out the sixth one.<br />
<br />
6579. A hot spring day punctuates Mother's Day and best of all we enjoy the summation of all the days we've grown love between us. For my children, my mother, and my mother-in-law, I am so very grateful.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD-oB-GuwJuYsXCswVme7YPM1bh4r5JareuP85GuBWDX7gzJPbitQUaQ3IUxuhcgOnyXEbk1nPIfiXw7H1s0cdl0XZj9OiyLuct50euq986G4O79Muxf7zPsW9qgSuHAldjtrs2Q_7uZjZ/s1600/unnamed-30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD-oB-GuwJuYsXCswVme7YPM1bh4r5JareuP85GuBWDX7gzJPbitQUaQ3IUxuhcgOnyXEbk1nPIfiXw7H1s0cdl0XZj9OiyLuct50euq986G4O79Muxf7zPsW9qgSuHAldjtrs2Q_7uZjZ/s400/unnamed-30.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-42005972976422460992018-05-06T22:12:00.001-07:002018-05-06T22:12:54.795-07:00Myra's Birthday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-xCrQ2YfJUqXqrN2TkDutTIbxbwsNZCq-yKsp9eB5R8MQ-jDW-KqF14cg4gGPONogIXELQcqa7aKlpXo12HmFyP1gznZ32eft79Sf6dWAnXKrt8UTeY-mEm3HOfLD6tFHow7pBuZ0RcV/s1600/unnamed-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-xCrQ2YfJUqXqrN2TkDutTIbxbwsNZCq-yKsp9eB5R8MQ-jDW-KqF14cg4gGPONogIXELQcqa7aKlpXo12HmFyP1gznZ32eft79Sf6dWAnXKrt8UTeY-mEm3HOfLD6tFHow7pBuZ0RcV/s400/unnamed-7.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Can you put whip cream on mine?" Joe nudges a steel bowl, almond whip cream stiff and fluffy, the Kitchen Aid still on the counter. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Hmm," I say. He pushes his pancake a little closer. "Whelp, I can." Long swivel spoon, I circle the bowl, foamy white gathering on the end. "I can put on LOTS," I say, "but just 'cause you asked. Don't YOU do that. Ok?" He nods. He's all nods.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Ohhhhh, that's LOTS," he says. I plop two blobs, shake the spoon a little and another drip slides off.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Yup," I say, pancake buried.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
"I'm gonna take my girl on a date today," Craig says.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Mmm, good idea," I say, Craig blinking at Myra, shy eight-year-old eyes blinking back. He balances syrup and cream and eats another bite, smile and mooning eyes full like that cream.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Ok!" Betsy chirps, joy garbled around pancake and a great herculean effort to swa-swallow that bite down. "I can go!" she chimes still swa-swallowing the tail end of that bite.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Craig shakes his head, smiles. Myra grins. And a smile slides across my face. Confidence blooming, twice and thrice, strikes gong reverberation. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg58OkBEHUFvqpsS-iifOXdDst5cG-NNNDiAabzWe2UoRiNRirvzNAraPYq2CTCspykk3aQdYojGH02hyphenhyphenBZgCIe_pZ_0WA3KBVg_TVjx-Q9JDmZmZkG6ansETjcImN8KLwAf7bIDfGbljYV/s1600/unnamed-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg58OkBEHUFvqpsS-iifOXdDst5cG-NNNDiAabzWe2UoRiNRirvzNAraPYq2CTCspykk3aQdYojGH02hyphenhyphenBZgCIe_pZ_0WA3KBVg_TVjx-Q9JDmZmZkG6ansETjcImN8KLwAf7bIDfGbljYV/s400/unnamed-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Gratitude:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
6561. The plant sale opens, a smashing success.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
6562. The children walk the neighborhood streets to deliver flyers. Confidence grows. Stress gives birth to ability. They speak for themselves and their business.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQybWwdUb7_yc-3-gBlNJKWGceKyoHoQJSbBYJDh-IcAk2LFqsJ6ZvEFImBcmRqjw-XbSHBHAvDPzadrB9iI3YIqgbD4yf0sYpxLc6vcvVxupWM-VBwqh8uBwvkJ7RB6JItbtQkkFOBoK/s1600/unnamed-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQybWwdUb7_yc-3-gBlNJKWGceKyoHoQJSbBYJDh-IcAk2LFqsJ6ZvEFImBcmRqjw-XbSHBHAvDPzadrB9iI3YIqgbD4yf0sYpxLc6vcvVxupWM-VBwqh8uBwvkJ7RB6JItbtQkkFOBoK/s400/unnamed-12.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
6563. Jane gives her first Toastmasters speech. Her confidence grows. The teacher encourages that the inevitable anxiety IS the goal. It's the only way to master public speaking.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
6564. We celebrate Myra, sweet, light-hearted, deep-hearted Myra. She is a gift too big to appraise.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
6565. I find the truth, that difficult conversations bring life, to be, well, true.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
6566. We continue to teach the children that the most mature person in the room will do the most unfair tasks and without recognition. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiqz2H7ZDQInQiElIyWPlZIRLJUz-rfyS5-DR7dPh86eLEi9nME8a5vnr5I2b-dY22H22GHVkWZXMdIRIGycyXkhP3NnlFhE01LBLIkc30dQADyq66Iz8OtHviF0phvE7pMC4hqX1O7SNC/s1600/unnamed-14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiqz2H7ZDQInQiElIyWPlZIRLJUz-rfyS5-DR7dPh86eLEi9nME8a5vnr5I2b-dY22H22GHVkWZXMdIRIGycyXkhP3NnlFhE01LBLIkc30dQADyq66Iz8OtHviF0phvE7pMC4hqX1O7SNC/s400/unnamed-14.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
6567. I lament that the house has not gotten tidier this week, but rejoice at all the yard and plant sale work that is complete. I set my mind to embrace the extra tasks that lace through the next week.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
6568. I think with anticipation about the children's next art lesson.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
6569. I find a few moments to play piano.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
6570. We land Sunday night with a promise to ourselves to get more sleep and find the weaving thread of contentment the hang the next week on.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsvmdw7w2xkU_CZxds41kBx6ueP2uem4IBmeIDbU4Jrr3vmOTVaLIsewd4nzheIGkwBilfsIMZsz8lkEGWA1KBexsb59CsvN-m9IJQexRVJWHX3-RNls6lHx8NA1fONmIDAD0ZBMG-v0mO/s1600/unnamed-20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1281" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsvmdw7w2xkU_CZxds41kBx6ueP2uem4IBmeIDbU4Jrr3vmOTVaLIsewd4nzheIGkwBilfsIMZsz8lkEGWA1KBexsb59CsvN-m9IJQexRVJWHX3-RNls6lHx8NA1fONmIDAD0ZBMG-v0mO/s400/unnamed-20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-59101730888905293882018-04-29T22:22:00.000-07:002018-04-29T22:22:10.370-07:00Birthday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ArfmNrd1z5JVqavHWI7iXzmrrHnEZ3iSfq2fG4NZWGKkbV7hstRaLjmFMZKhr_ODGmFYYGmUpCn7ZRKjmxaH1VHQi4ec34Y0dha080VtYIye_ijx8RBy7OS62RN1EVME4f57ZKkTfvbe/s1600/unnamed-51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ArfmNrd1z5JVqavHWI7iXzmrrHnEZ3iSfq2fG4NZWGKkbV7hstRaLjmFMZKhr_ODGmFYYGmUpCn7ZRKjmxaH1VHQi4ec34Y0dha080VtYIye_ijx8RBy7OS62RN1EVME4f57ZKkTfvbe/s400/unnamed-51.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"My birthday is in one week," Myra says. The two of us lilt through the kitchen groggy with sleep but breakfast at hand. "I was like, it's in seven days, wait, that's ONE week," she says.<br />
<br />
"Yep," I say. "You're at seven and then suddenly down to ONE."<br />
<br />
"Yeah," she nods. I gather the third cup and the eighth cup measures, head to the oatmeal cupboard, then circle back to pluck an oatmeal bowl from a waining stack.<br />
<br />
"Is there anything special you want or are interested in?" I say.<br />
<br />
"Hmmm," she looks to the left. Her eyes roam the ceiling. "Ummm," she says. "There is actually one thing."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimACHSCNgse_4g6pQbvZibzEUFkHREmUKLLD8QvuV5Qq1jI9b2vY8ioRyq3fvfGvkr3_RU7B78S3pZPcxk_g-16c_TbH2NCQGuk9_woAubsjX9aEh-bKeLDs2wXkUtqeIaeCvs053MPl-v/s1600/unnamed-50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimACHSCNgse_4g6pQbvZibzEUFkHREmUKLLD8QvuV5Qq1jI9b2vY8ioRyq3fvfGvkr3_RU7B78S3pZPcxk_g-16c_TbH2NCQGuk9_woAubsjX9aEh-bKeLDs2wXkUtqeIaeCvs053MPl-v/s400/unnamed-50.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
"I was wondering if you could read us one of those Bibles with the pictures in it," she says.<br />
<br />
"Oh," I say, "Yes, yes, I will."<br />
<br />
The ribbon leash of a birthday gift flutters away, and I'm left with a red-headed wisp.<br />
<br />
"You can read a story and then we can worship together," she says. Not cute or self-aggrandizing, it's like she's forgotten herself encircled in the satin liturgy of morning devotions gone by.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtdBENMz7oOundkzgXgyXDnCSju69RVghXFrX2Ej-BcK12Te47JGhM1Gks7sVkkGxVaIc7siMYVAPeLovH6e0ZFq1JEFtV0t8ceHn5pxxpOPjw2TKAt1fMKFTOriZsp6f9MC-5pjK_xxL2/s1600/unnamed-54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtdBENMz7oOundkzgXgyXDnCSju69RVghXFrX2Ej-BcK12Te47JGhM1Gks7sVkkGxVaIc7siMYVAPeLovH6e0ZFq1JEFtV0t8ceHn5pxxpOPjw2TKAt1fMKFTOriZsp6f9MC-5pjK_xxL2/s400/unnamed-54.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6546. Joe, Betsy, and I spend a morning lingering with friends. We iron Monday morning smooth with fellowship, deep, deep friendship.<br />
<br />
6547. Oxtails. Cooking with friends. A dear friend teaches me to cook oxtail. It's like a bell that cannot be unrung. The children rave it's their favorite soup.<br />
<br />
6548. A neighbor surprises us with a plate of gingersnaps.<br />
<br />
6549. Craig continues to slave away on the kitchen remodel.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKj3eFQRKnws7oWtv34glkGCfcU55PtocgnK09u6Aalu5WtIdc39hyxxZ_QuBJKE4mMqKcUTzVmvi20bdsVukXCHtiOs90UYYwRvvrYIuoAUyAW9BBp4014QbL3z6iVNCpYixK2cMoO8bv/s1600/unnamed-48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKj3eFQRKnws7oWtv34glkGCfcU55PtocgnK09u6Aalu5WtIdc39hyxxZ_QuBJKE4mMqKcUTzVmvi20bdsVukXCHtiOs90UYYwRvvrYIuoAUyAW9BBp4014QbL3z6iVNCpYixK2cMoO8bv/s400/unnamed-48.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6550. A new pair of pants in linen.<br />
<br />
6551. "I remember when Jack and Lucy and I used to work out," Myra says. "Yeah? What'd you do?" I say. "Oh, just sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups, and walk around the yard with bricks in our backpacks."<br />
<br />
6552. "Daddy can have five cookies if he wants 'cause he's a grown-up," Betsy says.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3mHM9ZtEdp32p-xoQBukwEhGxQ-ymbSoyqyyakKr4O9xBs-Ph-ujeIqNFe8FgcBAcz7bvAMJvAVg_pQ0BnApw4sA6K1b69K3Yv93kwSc-6ssfLcDLUTZmLr5aCgcgmOv0pPIIijwfCo0d/s1600/unnamed-49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3mHM9ZtEdp32p-xoQBukwEhGxQ-ymbSoyqyyakKr4O9xBs-Ph-ujeIqNFe8FgcBAcz7bvAMJvAVg_pQ0BnApw4sA6K1b69K3Yv93kwSc-6ssfLcDLUTZmLr5aCgcgmOv0pPIIijwfCo0d/s400/unnamed-49.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6553. Jane gets a chance to babysit.<br />
<br />
6554. The children excavate all manner of landscaping debris from the backyard to have a dinner picnic with my parents.<br />
<br />
6555. The plants in the greenhouse grow larger and lusher, a real garden paradise.<br />
<br />
6556. We while away an afternoon down on the farm.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtXSe9xJYLjslOBrNqijojzoseTdQd6io08EEYzRWh6DrSr1CNPW4DpdaS_LJNfgJrPSkoi8SdLS9IcoX748n-nJXABCOnDYRTLdHSczvy1vL_NGredfIk6LytWEQlAqbTlMaTbNeQ48Xu/s1600/unnamed-40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtXSe9xJYLjslOBrNqijojzoseTdQd6io08EEYzRWh6DrSr1CNPW4DpdaS_LJNfgJrPSkoi8SdLS9IcoX748n-nJXABCOnDYRTLdHSczvy1vL_NGredfIk6LytWEQlAqbTlMaTbNeQ48Xu/s400/unnamed-40.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6557. Jack and his buddy pour over a cooking subscription. He comes home and promptly bakes a loaf of artisan bread.<br />
<br />
6558. "I cut you choose," he says of the slices of fresh bread. When I linger long finishing chores he whisks by me, "I took a bite our of this one, so the other piece is bigger now," he says, impish grin splaying his face.<br />
<br />
6559. The week rounds out with an afternoon of rest. We drink in its deep waters. As evening turns to night, I remember my Saturday's prayer was for a sabbath.<br />
<br />
6560. We set our hearts to be glad at the work of the week.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkOg6bHThj7261taUtb80NUhc356F_gGYfIsxfsYzjOnHlRome9DfoVrciU33SDQ-cm1bcr_UgKBC7snlw_SV3wCLFI1aHH7ugEL2LDSmpvhguF_JqxFhHL0czW1Zoi7W188g_02Ea8j0c/s1600/unnamed-47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkOg6bHThj7261taUtb80NUhc356F_gGYfIsxfsYzjOnHlRome9DfoVrciU33SDQ-cm1bcr_UgKBC7snlw_SV3wCLFI1aHH7ugEL2LDSmpvhguF_JqxFhHL0czW1Zoi7W188g_02Ea8j0c/s400/unnamed-47.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-49427483216252465892018-04-22T21:54:00.001-07:002018-04-22T21:54:29.436-07:00These Times<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiRDi0m8Fe0TCdD-uNmQGahrQ7V9m_gJkd5X4e0GG3ZAHmQw-pSTESzV7usBGOylolGSe7p0nv295a9ZFmC6cfMlPo7kjgf9K0FwePHl1yFVJKvY8HgEjesbvZAYH0ocLh2hdsqLud-iU4/s1600/unnamed-35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1281" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiRDi0m8Fe0TCdD-uNmQGahrQ7V9m_gJkd5X4e0GG3ZAHmQw-pSTESzV7usBGOylolGSe7p0nv295a9ZFmC6cfMlPo7kjgf9K0FwePHl1yFVJKvY8HgEjesbvZAYH0ocLh2hdsqLud-iU4/s400/unnamed-35.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Wasn't that neat seeing a fast-forward video of a dandelion last night?" I say. Fresh up the front drive, morning run in our wake, Jane and I visit, sun soft on our cheeks.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," she says. It was." She pauses as if "was" were large and round. "Though I have to admit," she says, "to having a chronic dislike of dandelions."<br />
<br />
"Hah," I say. "I know what you mean." And like that we are through the front door, the house quiet for encircling nine, warm light skittering across the hardwood floors. The morning turned past noon, I herald everyone in.<br />
<br />
"We have to leave by 1:00," I say. Everyone pulls hard on the oars of time to row, row us all ready and set to leave.<br />
<br />
"Joe's hair needs a little bit of guidance," Jane calls, hand cupped around her mouth, eyebrows and cheeks drawn up in bow. I snicker, but swept in the twirl-wind of gathering seven children into the car and off to Toastmasters, I forget about Joe's masterful hair.<br />
<br />
"Oh," I say when the speech teacher pauses and admires the high-in-front doo. "That's self-made hair," I say.<br />
<br />
"Yep," he says. A masterpiece.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMIt1ChCoGO-XVhbuZLxPhV7ptbCHUj4a8wGFRlmFyzttwNwYnc65TufoNH8wPxW4HZja8UDIaBY5WJqQ2F_Nf87vr_iQZ-U7Ex5NnYYOxfpipUYIhkY7eM9VSPXpS81p6VfHWMu6txFKS/s1600/unnamed-33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMIt1ChCoGO-XVhbuZLxPhV7ptbCHUj4a8wGFRlmFyzttwNwYnc65TufoNH8wPxW4HZja8UDIaBY5WJqQ2F_Nf87vr_iQZ-U7Ex5NnYYOxfpipUYIhkY7eM9VSPXpS81p6VfHWMu6txFKS/s400/unnamed-33.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6543. We take a vacation to the ocean. So much family surrounding us, twenty-seven of us, we savor the relationships, roam the beach, and play and make worship together. Magnificent. We store up the memories like special treasures.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcuaxKs9aeFZIYlOojNN4cZucxzzvmLs7Cl3gokxoItTKIN2kVQhjgmckYpa1mA1k0NnoYhy0qImlj3L0qw0n0M0I055G4Z5Du09dwgeTqOoR9qpSqVpjFEwdwtcarwfceWaPubSB3vB3d/s1600/unnamed-32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcuaxKs9aeFZIYlOojNN4cZucxzzvmLs7Cl3gokxoItTKIN2kVQhjgmckYpa1mA1k0NnoYhy0qImlj3L0qw0n0M0I055G4Z5Du09dwgeTqOoR9qpSqVpjFEwdwtcarwfceWaPubSB3vB3d/s400/unnamed-32.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6544. Our greenhouse plants continue to grow-grow-grow into lush specimens.<br />
<br />
6545. We settle into the comfort and routines of home like the chorus a song sung a hundred times. We determine to enjoy it as much as the sea, each thing in its time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM235PY4gh3yHQWz4aDEWA6ZyAWJoLj9nOY8xMVVrcp333sBkbEUpctkc_iobNeJWJ88YAFZE-iH1ep9G8d3n8mrNzv_5opg22RmK7WbYg5c_21eOrSxBiVr61kWiM9_U9ZPU_V5AIqYT3/s1600/unnamed-31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM235PY4gh3yHQWz4aDEWA6ZyAWJoLj9nOY8xMVVrcp333sBkbEUpctkc_iobNeJWJ88YAFZE-iH1ep9G8d3n8mrNzv_5opg22RmK7WbYg5c_21eOrSxBiVr61kWiM9_U9ZPU_V5AIqYT3/s400/unnamed-31.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-60408732987293020162018-04-08T22:34:00.000-07:002018-04-08T22:34:04.733-07:00Chess<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgykxRK8I5o54g-Uop9rR2i0f421T2dPcSCr04p_EJhHv3MYTqNTJ-V2uUCqv2oJSpNSrRVLI1eXnF6EHISJMyYusEiFgUP4ahQCH23JfT24RzSQ3jJgilyw5eT4oSre1zPl04Eki7SmNz8/s1600/unnamed-17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgykxRK8I5o54g-Uop9rR2i0f421T2dPcSCr04p_EJhHv3MYTqNTJ-V2uUCqv2oJSpNSrRVLI1eXnF6EHISJMyYusEiFgUP4ahQCH23JfT24RzSQ3jJgilyw5eT4oSre1zPl04Eki7SmNz8/s400/unnamed-17.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Look, I can take two of your pieces," Joe says. A leisure Sunday afternoon, Joe and I play chess. The big brown table a fortress beneath us, I lean, lean an elbow out to the middle.<br />
<br />
"Huh," I say my bishop and rook now both kitty-corner to his pawn. "I guess your right," I say.<br />
<br />
"Only gonna be able to move one of them," he says.<br />
<br />
"Huh," I say. A little bit of knowledge and suddenly strategy arises from nothing. The awakening of the mind is such a grand affair. And in this case it cost me my bishop. Brilliant.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_cfsGj2DTT5Qh_s09-S8lFGWkMV6M5KRTFYfEk5oic8ST3vcx-A-o4Xt3lyzF2U0Qh85BGsFPuWppA97R6REWeWLPH-a84dYrvYerXZvtn6FliGnZ9g5iDWbHCgp3COBsJQ9p4Uw4-pA/s1600/unnamed-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_cfsGj2DTT5Qh_s09-S8lFGWkMV6M5KRTFYfEk5oic8ST3vcx-A-o4Xt3lyzF2U0Qh85BGsFPuWppA97R6REWeWLPH-a84dYrvYerXZvtn6FliGnZ9g5iDWbHCgp3COBsJQ9p4Uw4-pA/s400/unnamed-11.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6533. Resurrection Day came again with all the celebration and humility that it brings.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ewz9JiWEqFmS-_nbKuXRBNAXc9c2Q0g3ejkTZRQ7ED3m_-tjHeJzj5wg9Y7QZy70F4UJ6m_5knWl8qdHdVCY0-y27O3fFjowvq1RkVO_nPGKCwxjJxfScku798xYJHQW19U0mVf4OPuY/s1600/unnamed-22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ewz9JiWEqFmS-_nbKuXRBNAXc9c2Q0g3ejkTZRQ7ED3m_-tjHeJzj5wg9Y7QZy70F4UJ6m_5knWl8qdHdVCY0-y27O3fFjowvq1RkVO_nPGKCwxjJxfScku798xYJHQW19U0mVf4OPuY/s400/unnamed-22.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6534. Joe turned SIX. I relish his generous spirit.<br />
<br />
6535. Coleslaw, the best coleslaw, the world over -- red cabbage, sweet onion, fists of basil, and lemon avocado mayo dressing. We eat it with pulled pork. Then the pulled pork runs out so we start eating it on nachos. Then the nachos run out so it's just chips and still transcendent.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilgB3y89nmT_P_bH2Hmf5JLc98oP0QOvc3SN0lzkpzDxmDdKecEFU7H-JyK4J-vQKaGPIsHcAcG-rraIm6K5OZ0NsGHNm80_za7mQAR1mtU5Wqhf-mqByul1XFC7AVDFCUFrwBWckgV1og/s1600/unnamed-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilgB3y89nmT_P_bH2Hmf5JLc98oP0QOvc3SN0lzkpzDxmDdKecEFU7H-JyK4J-vQKaGPIsHcAcG-rraIm6K5OZ0NsGHNm80_za7mQAR1mtU5Wqhf-mqByul1XFC7AVDFCUFrwBWckgV1og/s400/unnamed-4.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6536. Fresh groceries, the kind that fill up a paper sack and they have to double bag it. Lemons and cabbage and basil and mustard and ginger ale and cheddar and oranges and a mechanical pencil and lead. Perfection.<br />
<br />
6537. The children have another art lesson and continue to progress in their artwork.<br />
<br />
6538. The older four kids join a Toastmasters club. The first meeting leaves them chattering with excitement.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigImxtCM-wGCz0DYPPlix-kOAwJDxV9VhSJDuEnP17qIJVEca51q9CtkeSITueE6C6NBqJgxJ4m8Ep0x0oV3UFuEsV1qLbO_OssDEcp4EN8fpNxdP_AaQqOjwLsreZqoNJPXvU9rsjoBFe/s1600/unnamed-30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigImxtCM-wGCz0DYPPlix-kOAwJDxV9VhSJDuEnP17qIJVEca51q9CtkeSITueE6C6NBqJgxJ4m8Ep0x0oV3UFuEsV1qLbO_OssDEcp4EN8fpNxdP_AaQqOjwLsreZqoNJPXvU9rsjoBFe/s400/unnamed-30.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6539. Two beautiful baby wraps come to live at our house.<br />
<br />
6540. I make elderberry syrup and turmeric golden milk from scratch.<br />
<br />
6541. Craig and I squeeze in a date. We arrive at the movie theatre to find the film started 30 minutes ago. We have a mid-afternoon lunch together instead.<br />
<br />
6542. The days gradually grow warmer if still wet. Signs of spring appear. Tiny green cotyledons poke through the ground and begin the new cycle of gardening. The yearly liturgy of seasons lulls us with it's familiar face.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUoljeti5byTf8Upuwz439Z44xAdfJmUvI0h7uhULzyGbywurtBuge0Sf7NVxo-Fnb4fSPhsF8l87LPU7w-LOkESCZ6DD7j-D6VRdFfGe4JLDWPJrPqOj8n7nntYXTNOgvwuWc0oTpZql/s1600/unnamed-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1203" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUoljeti5byTf8Upuwz439Z44xAdfJmUvI0h7uhULzyGbywurtBuge0Sf7NVxo-Fnb4fSPhsF8l87LPU7w-LOkESCZ6DD7j-D6VRdFfGe4JLDWPJrPqOj8n7nntYXTNOgvwuWc0oTpZql/s400/unnamed-3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-92046648954775390592018-03-25T21:54:00.001-07:002018-03-25T21:55:46.873-07:00Eraser<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQ2JzrHvDlUqRAM7nayEjfSKXMP18jh4vIufnSz9-GHeFMSu4aILwfrUz2NwRuZ9ZrgH_tW-dqATbmM8LdhVFQx5JrY68Qot4tamK1Txtv8j9eKaRZVMXp-yKtrAhB4Yxihq6icWse1af/s1600/unnamed-13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQ2JzrHvDlUqRAM7nayEjfSKXMP18jh4vIufnSz9-GHeFMSu4aILwfrUz2NwRuZ9ZrgH_tW-dqATbmM8LdhVFQx5JrY68Qot4tamK1Txtv8j9eKaRZVMXp-yKtrAhB4Yxihq6icWse1af/s400/unnamed-13.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Hey, what is this?" I say. I pluck a white cube-ish eraser, pea-sized from a pile in Lucy's pencil box.<br />
<br />
"Oh," Jack says, nose, for the moment, no longer in his math book.<br />
<br />
"What?" I say. "What is it?"<br />
<br />
"I think that's the eraser that Lucy put in the vice," he says.<br />
<br />
"What?" I say.<br />
<br />
"She thought it would just compact and then go back, but it broke into a million of pieces."<br />
<br />
"Ahhhhh," I say. "Huh." And so it is, another mystery solved. I nod, then shake my head. "Makes sense," I say. Sense, that pile of eraser pieces, saved in a pencil box, that's usually how it finds me too. And good Lord, who knew it would crush like that?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggrnixzZa7c-wPoEo3GSvpl5Cll4njMkQTmOM1EsjLl1xO8oYCo-05e83jDj1jaJNmjMJut4K53BcoxrK60Q0PdA6DJhsgRNMaKYGvDtpRAWWWXAvkLhuA9SEymbmC9nEINQV_0CLT5L73/s1600/unnamed-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggrnixzZa7c-wPoEo3GSvpl5Cll4njMkQTmOM1EsjLl1xO8oYCo-05e83jDj1jaJNmjMJut4K53BcoxrK60Q0PdA6DJhsgRNMaKYGvDtpRAWWWXAvkLhuA9SEymbmC9nEINQV_0CLT5L73/s400/unnamed-6.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6526. The children recover from a bout of croup.<br />
<br />
6527. Jack and Joe continue to learn endurance, preserving, and resilience through wrestling.<br />
<br />
6528. Chicken soup with rice made from scratch.<br />
<br />
6529. News of dear friends pregnant.<br />
<br />
6530. I pass notes with a dear friend from decades past.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQf-0EpU2cAxdYxLx67RAMlfou8fB2Du7gMjWIiYNqN989sKntekQjeLVrwSmyFnTMsrDgxds9gnrsBMms9sk-Cil1CLzffDZHn6BuuG4_ThGFNxWaEz1hWUSFtLGa5McHT4wntWG0zcHt/s1600/unnamed-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQf-0EpU2cAxdYxLx67RAMlfou8fB2Du7gMjWIiYNqN989sKntekQjeLVrwSmyFnTMsrDgxds9gnrsBMms9sk-Cil1CLzffDZHn6BuuG4_ThGFNxWaEz1hWUSFtLGa5McHT4wntWG0zcHt/s400/unnamed-5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6531. The greenhouse plants continue to get stronger and bigger.<br />
<br />
6532. We visit long over Sunday dinner and enjoy the voices of all the children.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp3krBCLJjQEMuOu8ozc_GLAu_DBMVfZMsZn6deu374wTW3RTu5rncY72CSLLELsTO2Dvw1Z5x37mB-z4MLnoGEvlKoYwHXiIbFIdq6v8sVEfVXrtBSxz5uLgMEkAeiTtyY8CcUKFvZ4Cf/s1600/unnamed-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp3krBCLJjQEMuOu8ozc_GLAu_DBMVfZMsZn6deu374wTW3RTu5rncY72CSLLELsTO2Dvw1Z5x37mB-z4MLnoGEvlKoYwHXiIbFIdq6v8sVEfVXrtBSxz5uLgMEkAeiTtyY8CcUKFvZ4Cf/s400/unnamed-7.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-85783728486238880412018-03-18T23:02:00.000-07:002018-03-18T23:02:15.820-07:00Hand-Me-Downs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMusuaYGAzdP7goh7BZfnh6jjO7DNOBmFnXAe6IvJ_wyVmFlxkqQykTH6TUowVk5rSlwK7wTAbcdC4F0hQQXpCyjlNyYtmkKVAvPPIz9iT3hPL7P34dEo6P1b6kQSY8FlRQK10SH_stXO9/s1600/unnamed-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMusuaYGAzdP7goh7BZfnh6jjO7DNOBmFnXAe6IvJ_wyVmFlxkqQykTH6TUowVk5rSlwK7wTAbcdC4F0hQQXpCyjlNyYtmkKVAvPPIz9iT3hPL7P34dEo6P1b6kQSY8FlRQK10SH_stXO9/s400/unnamed-2.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Hmm," Jack says, "step seven of seven hundred." He grins. I shake my head, then nod.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTutOCd8zd9Dx0xBmLgg5DmXapBeHhrl_PduUwui-RGZO7T0NKRqZh4NJGDxIBhCDSrZbfKqGokChtykt7cs8a0revzMi7Nr-Pa5un5u4ToIAx6Z5X2aG8xj0qioTzYUnG2ywguNce6Cs/s1600/unnamed-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1347" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTutOCd8zd9Dx0xBmLgg5DmXapBeHhrl_PduUwui-RGZO7T0NKRqZh4NJGDxIBhCDSrZbfKqGokChtykt7cs8a0revzMi7Nr-Pa5un5u4ToIAx6Z5X2aG8xj0qioTzYUnG2ywguNce6Cs/s400/unnamed-3.jpg" width="336" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6522. Jack adds humor to our days, leafed in, gentle and without expectation of the hilarity that ensues.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga9ffiwJUeVE7T1oBoB7kba29KD_bTIkTiBKO3Fam7npbzDD6rMHP4L5yIF05O5_csib1icPyYV-Lf3oMNqCe68MN2x-DToDHfWpury1uNg6yKlF9eV0ClPnsKJW5KgAkAkJzXs0xPdad3/s1600/unnamed-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga9ffiwJUeVE7T1oBoB7kba29KD_bTIkTiBKO3Fam7npbzDD6rMHP4L5yIF05O5_csib1icPyYV-Lf3oMNqCe68MN2x-DToDHfWpury1uNg6yKlF9eV0ClPnsKJW5KgAkAkJzXs0xPdad3/s400/unnamed-8.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6523. Jack and Lucy bake ginger snaps.<br />
<br />
6524. A dear friend sends me a wrap to try with chunky fringe.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKi807FAgiXOD9mWqCO7xdrdMp_Xi_DlYdyMMFJN1eR1qL1qyBLCyC8-Z4rvvtvR4Ivul2kQ7R-oArFm_GP63LkPaAVJtV1T8w0WsTQAQ8VAlA_s6zeN0rQV8UmgbFWZq_r3WK8axUr9L/s1600/unnamed-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKi807FAgiXOD9mWqCO7xdrdMp_Xi_DlYdyMMFJN1eR1qL1qyBLCyC8-Z4rvvtvR4Ivul2kQ7R-oArFm_GP63LkPaAVJtV1T8w0WsTQAQ8VAlA_s6zeN0rQV8UmgbFWZq_r3WK8axUr9L/s400/unnamed-10.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6524. The kids continue to work hard practicing art lessons.<br />
<br />
6523. I learn again the good fruits of forcing myself to do dreaded tasks. Strength, peace, and tidiness appear, guests adored.<br />
<br />
6524. The children continue to watch me flounder and then step into strength. So humbling. And yet so good.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsR2aOgoRLzDVbJCeHvl5SB93Yo77ClaNVjNlxjfkDgBjud3TLpTg0B7vySFYVCLLhx3BdXHr-EcniuIwQgxPlIbKMLP_eZWmjCwaKSRIEmggljQIqyIJXFEZa269NNHGiNjhxqofQ8ICK/s1600/unnamed-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsR2aOgoRLzDVbJCeHvl5SB93Yo77ClaNVjNlxjfkDgBjud3TLpTg0B7vySFYVCLLhx3BdXHr-EcniuIwQgxPlIbKMLP_eZWmjCwaKSRIEmggljQIqyIJXFEZa269NNHGiNjhxqofQ8ICK/s400/unnamed-12.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6525. I sigh another tired sigh, contentment close on its heels. Sleep, the reward of the weary, I measure its goodness.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHZirSduxEen29CJkZlqphK5vottlcLMb3HURomTjfuE5U9XsmGYjeObAf8Pif6ABcQ2doLakL37MjE8NDLZlenPp4Llqz-ettBO6j6ZRBz1Ad-rlJPIHGApBCcZoBMC_FsH9l0KSVu-zP/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHZirSduxEen29CJkZlqphK5vottlcLMb3HURomTjfuE5U9XsmGYjeObAf8Pif6ABcQ2doLakL37MjE8NDLZlenPp4Llqz-ettBO6j6ZRBz1Ad-rlJPIHGApBCcZoBMC_FsH9l0KSVu-zP/s400/unnamed.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-72075226157393476932018-03-12T00:22:00.001-07:002018-03-12T00:22:23.197-07:00Ten Minure Timer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWa6ZKtcY05_H7xcyFfxoeHMMhRYcY1_EDOjbopS3zHheN_5DEeVRaOa2JNysgcSeukBgcb0yvUOfJJV96TuHUG_RCM6q5cw7nJ_AlOj3mpmfDEYbEb3zLrwoP8Iv03BRdL0UVLTClnG7d/s1600/unnamed-34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWa6ZKtcY05_H7xcyFfxoeHMMhRYcY1_EDOjbopS3zHheN_5DEeVRaOa2JNysgcSeukBgcb0yvUOfJJV96TuHUG_RCM6q5cw7nJ_AlOj3mpmfDEYbEb3zLrwoP8Iv03BRdL0UVLTClnG7d/s400/unnamed-34.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Ten minute timer," Craig says. He patrols the hallway, rounding up bedtime stragglers for evening prayer. "Jane, you didn't make it," he says.<br />
<br />
"No," she says, "I'm ready!" She blubbers around a toothbrush corralled in her cheek. "I'm alllllllmost ready."<br />
<br />
"No," he shakes his head, "you're not done."<br />
<br />
"But," she wrinkles her forehead, raises her shoulders. Sigh, "Ok."<br />
<br />
"She didn't make the timer," Craig calls around the corner to me ten steps later, a bale of laundry now blooming from the dryer into his arms.<br />
<br />
"I ALMOST did," Jane says.<br />
<br />
"But you didn't," he shakes his head.<br />
<br />
"It's because I linger and talk and relish relationships more than just the task." Her face sings.<br />
<br />
"Sounds like Mom," Myra lilts. Sprawled on the floor, she passes puffs of post-documentary popcorn to George.<br />
<br />
"But," I say, the big popcorn basin in my lap, hulls between my teeth, "what we want you to understand, Jane, is that you need to hurry and get the task done so you CAN get out here and enjoy the relationships."<br />
<br />
"Oh," she says.<br />
<br />
Oh, that. Finish the task to make room for margin. This is an art I am still learning, and in good company.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC7uX20al4sF8JxDNU5QTXLXMhD0He6ppE_Gxd1IOymfqkDxxJWQu9OOJaWMN45oiXUK9nk6oL7uCn-Rpafg8Evjz8xjpCgbabMfk0wEAbeoemmpNZgf3yo18XEsKcDhyPQXybq25sHQBu/s1600/unnamed-35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC7uX20al4sF8JxDNU5QTXLXMhD0He6ppE_Gxd1IOymfqkDxxJWQu9OOJaWMN45oiXUK9nk6oL7uCn-Rpafg8Evjz8xjpCgbabMfk0wEAbeoemmpNZgf3yo18XEsKcDhyPQXybq25sHQBu/s400/unnamed-35.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6515. A new ruler, a teeny tiny triangle one, like a mini-drafting one with a pencil clip on the side.<br />
<br />
6516. Friends invite us to dinner and serve oxtail. Bonanza! And there is so much affection and fellowship in the evening, we stay way, way, way to late but enjoy the camaraderie so much.<br />
<br />
6517. Dad's birthday lands on Saturday-pancake-breakfast and in all its maple syrup and whip cream bounty we celebrate. Joe and Myra surprise us by eating 10 pancakes each. Best of all, we linger in stories and laugher.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmb420y40AjIki5Yj88cT_icq68WXf1upmYdLh_-8OEHgKjLKBjXxc-LXw8MRRtbOGeS4H-rcLNAy2JAgQIXuZUiW420a717wJvPfm2SyNzxy71tbVuX72ECu5FPtt74Q9MAHJc3E9R95/s1600/unnamed-24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmb420y40AjIki5Yj88cT_icq68WXf1upmYdLh_-8OEHgKjLKBjXxc-LXw8MRRtbOGeS4H-rcLNAy2JAgQIXuZUiW420a717wJvPfm2SyNzxy71tbVuX72ECu5FPtt74Q9MAHJc3E9R95/s400/unnamed-24.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6518. We celebrate the life of Great-Grammie, 102 years. Family gathered, we remember the irreplaceable riches of a life well lived.<br />
<br />
6519. Jack tears out two shrubs and a fence for us, the beginning of another new garden.<br />
<br />
6520. The children tend to their 1000+ baby plants.<br />
<br />
6521. I land this Sunday more tired than I've been in a very long time. Sleep is such a gift. I can't wait to open it tonight.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wQ6NGMTaCksJUhnq2PK-b9DOwWSpPWBCzUFFlJRBe1Epsai3Vdinvcz96DaLzwKOohIinOzWDxh5tPHp85KJbeIRINjZct9KVf1AwuY1e84Wht5JUK2mfz2_NeY2dYY1wbj2Hw8r9yhf/s1600/unnamed-25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wQ6NGMTaCksJUhnq2PK-b9DOwWSpPWBCzUFFlJRBe1Epsai3Vdinvcz96DaLzwKOohIinOzWDxh5tPHp85KJbeIRINjZct9KVf1AwuY1e84Wht5JUK2mfz2_NeY2dYY1wbj2Hw8r9yhf/s400/unnamed-25.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-71114053128562320292018-02-26T01:04:00.000-08:002018-02-26T01:04:44.545-08:00Sample<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_PCEfLePap4HDmQKVTHoDX3O06Va0leuMCX0ud7YNGxIoKbBAEkeTgHLXSaQBeT2z002RN9gXc7rH28bjgz5YIXys7jfT9XCmL1ENSOKKXG7n2-Cnpb1p39uF-j4VgxsEZYBM7wAoNSmx/s1600/unnamed-54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_PCEfLePap4HDmQKVTHoDX3O06Va0leuMCX0ud7YNGxIoKbBAEkeTgHLXSaQBeT2z002RN9gXc7rH28bjgz5YIXys7jfT9XCmL1ENSOKKXG7n2-Cnpb1p39uF-j4VgxsEZYBM7wAoNSmx/s400/unnamed-54.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"You guys can have the fish sticks sample if you want," I say.<br />
<br />
The Costco hustle, Jane, Jack, and I round the back corner. A bag of carrots slides into two bags of celery, the cart barely holding down all four wheels, a bonanza of samples on all the end-caps in sight. I never say yes to samples, but just the three of us, well, ok.<br />
<br />
"Oh, OK," they chime. We sidle through line. Without meaning to I calculate the varying sizes of fish stick chunks and, like the three-year-old version of myself, hope they get a big one. All the while I replay in my mind <i>parmesan-and-coconut-milk, </i><i>parmesan-and-coconut-milk</i>, the last two shopping things.<br />
<br />
"Here, have a chimichanga too," I say, one fat sample left, a blob of cheese dripping out a triangle corner. And I scan-scan-scan. W<i>here is the parmesan?</i> I whisper, the sample all but forgotten. I pause and chew the corner of my mouth. <i>Hmm, there</i>. I nudge the cart and pause, Jack in the way, then turn to navigate the other way.<br />
<br />
"<i>That</i> was the the most <i>wonderful</i> thing," the sample lady says. And for the surprise and joy in her eyes, I stop and stare, smile blooming over my face.<br />
<br />
"Oh," I say riding the wake of bright-hearted happiness. And as I blink-blink the five ticks it takes to make a smile I replay Jack to my left, a glad, "Jane, do want to split it?" and her, "Sure," and the unrehearsed bite that left more than half, the seamless pass-off, the, "Thanks, Jack," and the casualness of kindness as if it were normal.<br />
<br />
"Wonderful," she says again.<br />
<br />
"Yes," I say, slowed, humbled. I watch her face as we turn to go. "Have a great day," I say. She nods a affection between us, two strangers, but family for a moment.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX86d3ViLSV12T-DyxsI969V9jvWfItg926Dq3cQFjOUheiqTpk5zeNtaqVEnWjKWcXAUL8twmDYyUn0lDwB11pQa22D_EIN-fZZMxlNAiXdLcnz_5zPuxxPQJZnPsgKensnmB4-boUwoO/s1600/unnamed-41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1599" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX86d3ViLSV12T-DyxsI969V9jvWfItg926Dq3cQFjOUheiqTpk5zeNtaqVEnWjKWcXAUL8twmDYyUn0lDwB11pQa22D_EIN-fZZMxlNAiXdLcnz_5zPuxxPQJZnPsgKensnmB4-boUwoO/s400/unnamed-41.jpg" width="398" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6507. We rearrange the house to make more room for projects and play. Less stuff means more elbow room. It's perfect.<br />
<br />
6508. I continue my routine of weekly soup making. Gallons and gallons of soup ensue.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13z-kWt4n09ghSj0smoaVGu0uaj7O46djAbg8LWamee1Q4ysFR16hBDKmmevhmH5qb5UkZ4vI-DEZIH5U0tqAQhOojAtx1Ls9XQAy2hCL46lsgt6Uzl5n7e1g2bwM8A-hblNTVoiuEV-C/s1600/unnamed-28.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1281" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13z-kWt4n09ghSj0smoaVGu0uaj7O46djAbg8LWamee1Q4ysFR16hBDKmmevhmH5qb5UkZ4vI-DEZIH5U0tqAQhOojAtx1Ls9XQAy2hCL46lsgt6Uzl5n7e1g2bwM8A-hblNTVoiuEV-C/s400/unnamed-28.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6509. Jack surprises me Sunday morning with the biggest loaf or challah bread I've ever seen. "I'll plan lunch," he says.<br />
<br />
6510. Lucy makes stoneware cornbread browned to crisp golden brown perfection.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQXknNmbvldLPftMhHg_qhT4nWGaMPEpI5LO25Gtz-n3BrZea4ixOWyDSK_xobuz7qBrOIYPw-1XemvxO5paW1xGRUDORstivU_hjHLttV7XP4o0wk9XnSfg9YoyUmoH-hFCu0RpME1X4C/s1600/unnamed-31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQXknNmbvldLPftMhHg_qhT4nWGaMPEpI5LO25Gtz-n3BrZea4ixOWyDSK_xobuz7qBrOIYPw-1XemvxO5paW1xGRUDORstivU_hjHLttV7XP4o0wk9XnSfg9YoyUmoH-hFCu0RpME1X4C/s400/unnamed-31.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6511. We get gifted tickets to a Gonzaga girls' basketball game. We relish it complete with enthusiastic screaming to punctuate a close game and victory.<br />
<br />
6512. Mom and I run errands together and share the burdens of life.<br />
<br />
6513. Craig's mom gifts the girls with sweaters that Great-Grammie made. What a collection she had.<br />
<br />
6514. The full week still a jumble in my mind, so much shoe-hored in and seven pairs of eyes blink-blinking at us, we take it in, offer our best, and lean full-hearted into the provision and goodness of God. Peace ensues.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqvX_HUbRu_kIJh-RjpJFWinp1_TkVLbP4AK2kQ6daoLRSSVQRaI_x3dFlXKi4y2VZ9q7QRqToqG5HPdDFrG3Dnqz0NlDwYC6SdwZRYh_-iSdbfKNt70jQcDXy0aLMfmTcieEJZhV97CAo/s1600/unnamed-48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1163" data-original-width="778" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqvX_HUbRu_kIJh-RjpJFWinp1_TkVLbP4AK2kQ6daoLRSSVQRaI_x3dFlXKi4y2VZ9q7QRqToqG5HPdDFrG3Dnqz0NlDwYC6SdwZRYh_-iSdbfKNt70jQcDXy0aLMfmTcieEJZhV97CAo/s400/unnamed-48.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-52285434678719866812018-02-18T21:12:00.001-08:002018-02-18T21:12:48.125-08:00Dinner Guests<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3OTRGf_SnfG7Ehjr9O-vXPS7J1G2nt5_0nbICdxeq1_SUXrYtr874M4OIgpciKMHt-lWtcuqGQtQvqmbCrSWPUbTfrnWE1rDecwshxEwRlkFdv9_BaWag7ZKY-b2S2S6hrq3-lg4vmWV8/s1600/unnamed-15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3OTRGf_SnfG7Ehjr9O-vXPS7J1G2nt5_0nbICdxeq1_SUXrYtr874M4OIgpciKMHt-lWtcuqGQtQvqmbCrSWPUbTfrnWE1rDecwshxEwRlkFdv9_BaWag7ZKY-b2S2S6hrq3-lg4vmWV8/s400/unnamed-15.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Every time we have people over it's like we clean, clean, clean and organize and everything just spills out into a huge mess," I say.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," Jack says.<br />
<br />
From the passenger seat, he nods, sunlight skittering off the suburban hood into our eyes, the both of us picturing a blooming spectacle of crumpled laundry, toys and miscellaneous paper, pencils, pennies, socks, and sand pulled from the closets and beneath the beds, a fragile castle of organization toppled out the doorway, down the hall and yawning into the living room.<br />
<br />
"It's like we pulllllllll eeeeeeeverything out and it's this gigantic mess and then we bring it up, up, up to a higher level," I say.<br />
<br />
"Yup," he says.<br />
<br />
"And then we just do it again next time," I say.<br />
<br />
"Until one day we are just dusting the furniture before people come," he says.<br />
<br />
"Hah," I say, "YES," the mirth of that faraway moment, gut splitting hilarity spilled across the front seat. "Yes," I say, the new Jerusalem of entertaining. Once again the bond of work shared draws us closer.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk82jhXJcd-IUnkER8nOn569YKDI9sWRP8Qq00eCwc_7dpD1Ky9Y73BZwQbkOUyMb207FJWPpBBWwDNzXB35qX2Fw1ouJ5kpKK_g-VOVfOK__aY5U-5eMClBaLydMixYQYyHPX9F6jE0zL/s1600/unnamed-14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk82jhXJcd-IUnkER8nOn569YKDI9sWRP8Qq00eCwc_7dpD1Ky9Y73BZwQbkOUyMb207FJWPpBBWwDNzXB35qX2Fw1ouJ5kpKK_g-VOVfOK__aY5U-5eMClBaLydMixYQYyHPX9F6jE0zL/s400/unnamed-14.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6498. Dear friends come and surround us with fellowship. Everyone settles into the gentle pace of serving food, mouthfuls of soup swallowed between pulling oceans of conversation, reclining and the leisure of many elbows around a small table. All the while, the tidiness of a home cared for disappears, shrunk down to the simple goodness of air.<br />
<br />
6499. A dear friend turns 30. A surprise party, all the children help, prepare cards, decorate. Such nourishing work, our hands made stronger, our friendships deeper.<br />
<br />
6500. Thrifting provides new sweaters with tiny holes we sew up and a set of small mason jars, glasses for the children.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAS4AM47yZR7xFcZl3RqwSkpHT0S7lbXQxSLK5dv9t02lC72KPxoMdvuDvhKvZiYnS9g-72sYSH6fqZhyphenhyphenvVJyKHuEOgb4tdc0WoGxhRc5OPhlpsGktMd7Ka9nMi023Fv7ohN1x1mdhsXwQ/s1600/unnamed-19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAS4AM47yZR7xFcZl3RqwSkpHT0S7lbXQxSLK5dv9t02lC72KPxoMdvuDvhKvZiYnS9g-72sYSH6fqZhyphenhyphenvVJyKHuEOgb4tdc0WoGxhRc5OPhlpsGktMd7Ka9nMi023Fv7ohN1x1mdhsXwQ/s400/unnamed-19.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6501. Jack flips pancakes for the whole crew Saturday morning so for once Craig can lean an elbow on the island and visit with the children over pancake breakfast.<br />
<br />
6502. We stay long after church to play with friends and visit. The goodness of life passes between us.<br />
<br />
6503. A simple exchange and we finally have the perfect teapot, the kind that can manage a tiny trickle of water into a pour-over coffee stand.<br />
<br />
6504. The children continue to practice their art lessons.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBiWqb5LmIuHlMRSsKmO4zyzxL-C9-8Nz-g1J4UnkTq1wDmhEibmksYfjjFhtCKFwTKDrreVV0dHlsRKGpzY0FdhHzb2uKdSg1F4pYv8RNXbgGRMFXLVsvZmgBGyPT6U6wFCMz3SH8RT2/s1600/unnamed-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBiWqb5LmIuHlMRSsKmO4zyzxL-C9-8Nz-g1J4UnkTq1wDmhEibmksYfjjFhtCKFwTKDrreVV0dHlsRKGpzY0FdhHzb2uKdSg1F4pYv8RNXbgGRMFXLVsvZmgBGyPT6U6wFCMz3SH8RT2/s400/unnamed-16.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6505. A dear weaver from the US shows me great kindness. I take note of how kindness gives birth to kindness, the momentum always to become how we've been treated, every act a pebble in a pond.<br />
<br />
6506. Sunday unfolds as if it were many hours longer that the usual 24 with children slipping into bed early and the week taking flight on the quiet wings of rest.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDE33lezcBFN33oTBvKHAEGX6aJhU3OG6NLd6wgR4t1Sn2KsmCN6VX07zh71KiyX3enelgiOjlseHfbJD67sVv6UZwAXxDapr2cCi-9fUI69i1zIKQkCJsf788nf_z6Yjz2G2OGeAM6lEp/s1600/unnamed-18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDE33lezcBFN33oTBvKHAEGX6aJhU3OG6NLd6wgR4t1Sn2KsmCN6VX07zh71KiyX3enelgiOjlseHfbJD67sVv6UZwAXxDapr2cCi-9fUI69i1zIKQkCJsf788nf_z6Yjz2G2OGeAM6lEp/s400/unnamed-18.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-83436793155438684132018-02-12T01:14:00.000-08:002018-02-12T01:14:11.182-08:00When We Got There<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3atsIolXQ9vzDFalwjEM1EYKKNz3L3eD-FwIf1AaqVJyFUXraRBYTyWAlgVy569RfTVol-wUagTKGEijY5yBycqNHfWxoi7F-V8UwRzYR6FoWu_trU9PXqpFuz88RlfeB62XMSG3bLpd/s1600/unnamed-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3atsIolXQ9vzDFalwjEM1EYKKNz3L3eD-FwIf1AaqVJyFUXraRBYTyWAlgVy569RfTVol-wUagTKGEijY5yBycqNHfWxoi7F-V8UwRzYR6FoWu_trU9PXqpFuz88RlfeB62XMSG3bLpd/s400/unnamed-3.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"And when we got there," Jack says, "he was showing me around the house, even though I've already see it before."<br />
<br />
He chomps oatmeal, late night fuel after an evening with friends. I lean on the kitchen island.<br />
<br />
"Yeah?" I say.<br />
<br />
"I think he was trying to get out of doing the cleaning chores," Jack says, "'cause, yeah."<br />
<br />
"Been there, done that?" I say, a grin ticklish at the corner of my mouth.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," he smiles, a nod wagging his head.<br />
<br />
"Hah," I say.<br />
<br />
"It's easiest to see your own problems in someone else," he says.<br />
<br />
"Yep," I say. So true. I'm an expert on those ones.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuobWRvUphrzhVCwdLJyaJkDZ6LyxfgxPOgpDXg6TCp3b6_ISLZ9QX1q0lQAPW91GoqNvzIA2LJda2qRGmGp6XVkHqw2QAaw8u3IXr-CYYjiDwIk15ynWhwcjRjfJkvEdHsgTHUrq0YYn7/s1600/unnamed-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuobWRvUphrzhVCwdLJyaJkDZ6LyxfgxPOgpDXg6TCp3b6_ISLZ9QX1q0lQAPW91GoqNvzIA2LJda2qRGmGp6XVkHqw2QAaw8u3IXr-CYYjiDwIk15ynWhwcjRjfJkvEdHsgTHUrq0YYn7/s400/unnamed-4.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6491. A loom. A hand loom. Wow, what a gift. A dearest friend gifts us a beautiful loom already warped and ready for weaving. Jane spends hours coaxing weft into warp, humbled and filled with resplendent joy at the gift.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJk4IJIWcwoxIJceCrPovaRp0_JexGt-eXMUDQHqEwMx3Y27Yuo90ldXEwSGLlqK0osjEzFrXudtYISNjix4ErTWmE_j7TjhoXDeqFieTnpDBT8NfQOIP7tfVJJCrI7zK1rEFQdY6YqHlV/s1600/unnamed-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1066" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJk4IJIWcwoxIJceCrPovaRp0_JexGt-eXMUDQHqEwMx3Y27Yuo90ldXEwSGLlqK0osjEzFrXudtYISNjix4ErTWmE_j7TjhoXDeqFieTnpDBT8NfQOIP7tfVJJCrI7zK1rEFQdY6YqHlV/s400/unnamed-9.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6492. Another dear friend passes on a treasure trove of homeschool supplies. She and family drop by one day unannounced, the house asunder with the spindrift of life and school and remodeling, a spectacle. But everyone just grins and visits and embraces the humanity of it.<br />
<br />
6493. A beautiful teapot, the whistling kind with a narrow spout and shiny silver belly sits on our range, queen of the pour over coffee, queen of my morning breakfast.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho5IijBNvFKWXVc0lFDJLhogHhX_Z9MpfaUqKkqWYjcXzmoEr9nAUZyOtTsbKK8YcTgmoixjC15ngejEWdKK3P8Uk4cjaZZsZHKkmsOSvtvsvh9tmRyOfrxL9Dvdxw8gi9oq4we4dy2GqD/s1600/unnamed-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho5IijBNvFKWXVc0lFDJLhogHhX_Z9MpfaUqKkqWYjcXzmoEr9nAUZyOtTsbKK8YcTgmoixjC15ngejEWdKK3P8Uk4cjaZZsZHKkmsOSvtvsvh9tmRyOfrxL9Dvdxw8gi9oq4we4dy2GqD/s400/unnamed-6.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6494. Craig takes Jane, Lucy, Myra, and Betsy to a father/daughter dance. The boys and I leisure the evening away with another family attending the dance.<br />
<br />
6495. Jack greets me Sunday morning, another corner of the house organized and beautified.<br />
<br />
6496. I cuddle with Myra before bed this evening, the tiredness of the week melting into the couch.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD3EfyWFQ6fR_vHi0IizwvAwMnWyAVBFfm9Z7tZ_0BSsnUrJ74wntxSaN76f3W2x9Gg3WTF_yN2gUBauCBKqFhgunWjvcsJBMq7X1doX-8Dc2J_uN5xtVDEXleXyfpbb0HQL6QPMuee-jq/s1600/unnamed-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1599" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD3EfyWFQ6fR_vHi0IizwvAwMnWyAVBFfm9Z7tZ_0BSsnUrJ74wntxSaN76f3W2x9Gg3WTF_yN2gUBauCBKqFhgunWjvcsJBMq7X1doX-8Dc2J_uN5xtVDEXleXyfpbb0HQL6QPMuee-jq/s400/unnamed-8.jpg" width="398" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6497. I picture school with the kids tomorrow and joy fills me. So many small disciplines and I get to share in the formation of them. Like the comforting rhythm of a morning run, I set my heart to their pulse.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJTlum88bSyvW7Tz2nUM8ot8_L82HZ3ASGRZ8L7tv-YJZU-_kQWN7I2Omp1yDcSUhZD0Dtr7Ts2UK-J8Q8lRz2eJILng82SMtQTWdXTwhC3XpqUoxv6c5XckFx2gW7J0JsLyETn2M8V5bH/s1600/unnamed-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJTlum88bSyvW7Tz2nUM8ot8_L82HZ3ASGRZ8L7tv-YJZU-_kQWN7I2Omp1yDcSUhZD0Dtr7Ts2UK-J8Q8lRz2eJILng82SMtQTWdXTwhC3XpqUoxv6c5XckFx2gW7J0JsLyETn2M8V5bH/s400/unnamed-7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-41352796186989951682018-02-04T21:26:00.000-08:002018-02-04T21:26:41.531-08:00Fajita Soup<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTl1GZW5YMdDGzhyphenhyphen5ZSIJmPjvelLJtj2osJJ6WDM6vC4SrwuIkN23Am2wDuJVwV4yoFL5cuL9AZWm5jwNHWOMREc-uLy7VD8ZFymdp04x0mb1f0PIjcP2mNOHddp0f0JocemNGS34HNa3/s1600/unnamed-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTl1GZW5YMdDGzhyphenhyphen5ZSIJmPjvelLJtj2osJJ6WDM6vC4SrwuIkN23Am2wDuJVwV4yoFL5cuL9AZWm5jwNHWOMREc-uLy7VD8ZFymdp04x0mb1f0PIjcP2mNOHddp0f0JocemNGS34HNa3/s400/unnamed-3.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Did Dad tell you to buy that?" Joe says.<br />
<br />
A four gallon kettle of soup bubbling on the stovetop, I chug-a-lug frozen corn straight from the package into the pot.<br />
<br />
"No," I say. "I knew to buy it -- to put in the soup."<br />
<br />
"'Cause you have a mind of your own," he says.<br />
<br />
"Yup," I say, a chuckle held steady with the corn.<br />
<br />
"You DO," he says again.<br />
<br />
"Um hm," I pinch off the corn bag to save half for later, then muscle a too short spatula through the gruel, the corn slowly spiraling into the soup.<br />
<br />
"But Jane's hair really DOES have a mind of IT'S own," Joe says.<br />
<br />
"Hah," I say. "It DOES." I pause to gaze past the kettle's rim. We smile and nod. He rhymes ideas, one thing like another, like another, and another. And I make soup. Thus we build the foundation of so many days.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiazo8s2_VMKD0Vg_8JQVJ-RAUjt3-86-Np5PWx7sK0J4xGOtAktIFP8Fl-uRIoXhQ9K1bGh___6mL5fcK2C9Qlhv5wQLZJKDMFDI-aTtvkiOrBC-0p0tua01FA8MOXFmm8660Mad9FwVq/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiazo8s2_VMKD0Vg_8JQVJ-RAUjt3-86-Np5PWx7sK0J4xGOtAktIFP8Fl-uRIoXhQ9K1bGh___6mL5fcK2C9Qlhv5wQLZJKDMFDI-aTtvkiOrBC-0p0tua01FA8MOXFmm8660Mad9FwVq/s400/unnamed.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6485. Jack and Lucy tidy the family room and organize the library before I'm up and out of bed Sunday morning.<br />
<br />
6486. We study the habits of tidy people and begin to map out some grounding principles.<br />
<br />
6487. Betsy turns THREE. The day unfolds like a gigantic promotion. Every meal, every gift, every hug/smile/kiss, that shiny red birthday plate, her grin spreads as wide as the horizon.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRSUniwsfboXTsl8BGbaORnc-4Yk7cSCJpfdNA6AXggBmBDXX_wF7iwsjDwkUEhMB2JPphkeK_JFPXLSi0lATzxI-ja6vRcME2_BF70yqDE17VFS0X-uLz1wRR3indD5jvM4QbFJLG-t3M/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRSUniwsfboXTsl8BGbaORnc-4Yk7cSCJpfdNA6AXggBmBDXX_wF7iwsjDwkUEhMB2JPphkeK_JFPXLSi0lATzxI-ja6vRcME2_BF70yqDE17VFS0X-uLz1wRR3indD5jvM4QbFJLG-t3M/s400/unnamed.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6487. We celebrate Craig's birthday complete with homemade pizza and chocolate bundt cake made by the children, then followed by documentary night. Feature film: Army Ants.<br />
<br />
6488. Jack and Lucy read obsessively on gardens, and every tangental topic, preparation for our annual plant sale.<br />
<br />
6489. Life takes on the quiet stride of late winter. These are the work days, the gentle repetition of days that spell out the mindset for the year. Habits gestate right beneath our noses and learning gathers into more learning and effortless thought until it is a cornerstone we're standing on instead of some far off goal.<br />
<br />
6490. And thus, we're poised to leap, clothed in habits made stronger by practice.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh46LKxBTFNNeZDus-WPHJrHS5V-NZHoYsOMl7IcQipsGh3WseMMbOQVIUBIhQq7trxgT40SgZif-c9bOmhP788pKoWcwT4GI0k9RSiMMVk211pvxOuWZvQQhBpddE1OHHCr_TPNZiqfoV/s1600/unnamed-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh46LKxBTFNNeZDus-WPHJrHS5V-NZHoYsOMl7IcQipsGh3WseMMbOQVIUBIhQq7trxgT40SgZif-c9bOmhP788pKoWcwT4GI0k9RSiMMVk211pvxOuWZvQQhBpddE1OHHCr_TPNZiqfoV/s400/unnamed-6.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-72898397609747802622018-01-29T00:22:00.001-08:002018-01-30T00:03:23.637-08:00Prize<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZ4Db88CdEg4JnS3Si4Mb1mZcBNrR2Zl_t-5T_F52WTU388L0_OK9jTKXJE2CghCe9teIh19voihmXGCOXCjwt4CfbzutVX4Birtk4Ng0U6gkqB7c2qfBSHZnSBIQK-Zficd8ZI2wDlLO/s1600/unnamed-20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZ4Db88CdEg4JnS3Si4Mb1mZcBNrR2Zl_t-5T_F52WTU388L0_OK9jTKXJE2CghCe9teIh19voihmXGCOXCjwt4CfbzutVX4Birtk4Ng0U6gkqB7c2qfBSHZnSBIQK-Zficd8ZI2wDlLO/s400/unnamed-20.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"And then this one girl was talking and talking and talking over all the other girls," Jane says, her girls' small group from the 2nd/3rd grade class fresh in her mind.<br />
<br />
"Yeah?" I say. I check the rearview mirror for pedestrians, then nod, sideways glance to her.<br />
<br />
"And I was like, <i>Well, the kids who talk the most have to come sit by me so I can hear them better. So you better sit over here</i>."<br />
<br />
"Hah!" I say.<br />
<br />
"I find it really helps with the over-talkers," she says.<br />
<br />
"Yes," I say.<br />
<br />
"And she was like, <i>Um, ok,</i>" Jane says.<br />
<br />
"Um, huh," I scan for more pedestrians as we lumber through the church lot and coast to a stop at the street.<br />
<br />
"And then another girl was like, <i>Let's go around and say everyone's favorite color</i>. And I was like, <i>That's a great idea. Let's pray so we can do that</i>."<br />
<br />
"Oh, good idea," I say.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr4Wj2ItvwztVKn-i8CTrL3jSMbMfn_bzBkAoHUS_ek3o_wTJPtm8PLByLI5GjK2ukcrSVwurQPfzrVmPbmgy2SGjnlw7z_HmS6CVzwMQeS96zQ14X6EJQibRFcEbYboqwXL0z0WNSBQD7/s1600/unnamed-18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr4Wj2ItvwztVKn-i8CTrL3jSMbMfn_bzBkAoHUS_ek3o_wTJPtm8PLByLI5GjK2ukcrSVwurQPfzrVmPbmgy2SGjnlw7z_HmS6CVzwMQeS96zQ14X6EJQibRFcEbYboqwXL0z0WNSBQD7/s400/unnamed-18.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"And then they were like, <i>Oh, we don't have anything to pray about</i>. So I said, <i> I know, that's why we're going to sit here quietly and think</i>."<br />
<br />
"Oh, good'," I say.<br />
<br />
"And then suddenly they had tons of ideas," she says.<br />
<br />
"You're so great at this," I say.<br />
<br />
"It's just like I really love them, but I'm not going to let them get away with doing any old thing," she says.<br />
<br />
"I know," I say, "That's exactly what I loved about teaching. Sometimes I even found myself really loving the naughty kids the most."<br />
<br />
"Yes!" she say.<br />
<br />
And in that moment I can picture how this lovely child shall sprout wings and fly. And I shall call to her for the pleasure of friendship. All the leading and guiding and setting of immovable and unpopular boundaries, and yet there it is, the far horizon of friendship. The prize.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYQTijzdxOcJ8Rs8j7iWFMn5m4fZ-XzOgy7nCUzLDg18pgSbNRGH9Y_bNWV0VHMitRVcIej1UbKuJB1w4yWSs-JFgX43YRJME_BpmmBNo6GSTqXFXmZRUaPZa2g5oET7w3sDhfVrsYjOo6/s1600/unnamed-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYQTijzdxOcJ8Rs8j7iWFMn5m4fZ-XzOgy7nCUzLDg18pgSbNRGH9Y_bNWV0VHMitRVcIej1UbKuJB1w4yWSs-JFgX43YRJME_BpmmBNo6GSTqXFXmZRUaPZa2g5oET7w3sDhfVrsYjOo6/s400/unnamed-16.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6476. Running errands and package mailing with my mom, the joy of lovely company and conversation makes it a date.<br />
<br />
6477. I continue the slow twenty-mile-march of organizing and simplifying our home.<br />
<br />
6478. Jane and I collaborate with another homeschool family on curriculum ideas. All the way home, nibbling chocolate as we go, we chatter about how much fun we had.<br />
<br />
6479. Salted chocolate caramel.<br />
<br />
6480. I catch up with a dear, dear friend going through incredible painful trials. We draw strength and encouragement from each other.<br />
<br />
6481. Jack figures out which ingredient he has been measuring wrong in his famous berry cobbler.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbyOhD_PHiihozdS_nu27Y8GT7q3z5I_1tuAQJCTFWv6GhdIY_CApLduP-ft_ZkHAHwL5z86xAozsruEC6NB3LhmBTIM9YNzxIcx_UemmLgwdNvG8ngPHmunZfobvyq7ahjx9QzQyyt-l/s1600/unnamed-17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbyOhD_PHiihozdS_nu27Y8GT7q3z5I_1tuAQJCTFWv6GhdIY_CApLduP-ft_ZkHAHwL5z86xAozsruEC6NB3LhmBTIM9YNzxIcx_UemmLgwdNvG8ngPHmunZfobvyq7ahjx9QzQyyt-l/s400/unnamed-17.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6482. We enjoy the fruit of many weeks labor doing school work at the wide open kitchen dining area. All the work begins to feel worth it.<br />
<br />
6483. We enjoy a double date with friends, the first in more than a decade.<br />
<br />
6483. We catch up with our dear small group, friends of twenty years. As always, it feels as if not a day has passed since our last gathering except for all the children grown taller.<br />
<br />
6484. We begin to find our stride through the days as if we are by miracle of miracles beginning to trace and match the steps of our beloved Savior. Such peace ensues, I am surprised, speechless.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDiyqlhR8-DdI7eZRm-SgTNn7rLpw8rNoME8jPvQTzQ7mlEFujGcYMV1wbwMMsHkPRjI701wpkng8lDWnHVwtDoq1hM4ea8dI4KQmh8A9JfsFrLOqg5jI6K8Ph2VUk15_XelyaiwjLVNwu/s1600/unnamed-19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDiyqlhR8-DdI7eZRm-SgTNn7rLpw8rNoME8jPvQTzQ7mlEFujGcYMV1wbwMMsHkPRjI701wpkng8lDWnHVwtDoq1hM4ea8dI4KQmh8A9JfsFrLOqg5jI6K8Ph2VUk15_XelyaiwjLVNwu/s400/unnamed-19.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-907440010392619462018-01-22T00:07:00.000-08:002018-01-22T00:07:14.647-08:00Betsy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhON5NPR_43uZcOExFf6S4usod-yKCmX9CRI7gxngIUEJBBGUsyF8kg500w-q99THf13ZK2BDV_iDA7no9bGzfmH6wBXdFzy1Zi5DhH_Yci3qXMlfj2c4eo6K9d_3bqOZR4kVKNsqXijbHQ/s1600/unnamed-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhON5NPR_43uZcOExFf6S4usod-yKCmX9CRI7gxngIUEJBBGUsyF8kg500w-q99THf13ZK2BDV_iDA7no9bGzfmH6wBXdFzy1Zi5DhH_Yci3qXMlfj2c4eo6K9d_3bqOZR4kVKNsqXijbHQ/s400/unnamed-8.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Mom," Betsy says.<br />
<br />
She nudges a metal stool next to mine and climbs up. I sip coffee. She pushes a saucer to the side. Crumbs capsize the edge. I purse my lips, smile subterraneous.<br />
<br />
"Hi, Mom," she says.<br />
<br />
"Hi." We share elbow room. I read my Bible. She nibbles crumbs.<br />
<br />
Then she's down, and I'm turning through my Bible.<br />
<br />
"Mom," she says again, ascending the metal stool.<br />
<br />
"Hmm," I say, trying to finish one more sentence. She's up, a gold package in hand, much tape used in wrapping.<br />
<br />
"Mom, can you write on this?" she says.<br />
<br />
"What do you want me to write?" I peel my eyes away.<br />
<br />
"For BETSY," she says.<br />
<br />
"Oh," I say. We stare at the package, bigger than an egg, smaller than a teapot. "Hmm," I say.<br />
<br />
"It's mine," she says.<br />
<br />
"Oh," I say. Conversations spelling out her soon birthday play fast forward through my mind. "Ohhhh," I say. "Hmm, I see."<br />
<br />
Felicity blooms across her face. And I scrawl BETSY across the top of the gold package.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNEJatNELkPN6Xr8cTdHexM8wawbmJNDkJPCH8gkubyWMKTkKWxB5JYq45sNeTKd1ZdVSdII7k8koakq2RuVtiCQfW0bVmII9l_fjHEf0TDqb-zujCfOoSlSQEDBJI6UodPP7UCFJrmAsV/s1600/unnamed-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNEJatNELkPN6Xr8cTdHexM8wawbmJNDkJPCH8gkubyWMKTkKWxB5JYq45sNeTKd1ZdVSdII7k8koakq2RuVtiCQfW0bVmII9l_fjHEf0TDqb-zujCfOoSlSQEDBJI6UodPP7UCFJrmAsV/s400/unnamed-9.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6467. Fresh measuring cups.<br />
<br />
6468. Spices and fancy Hawaiian salt.<br />
<br />
6469. A visiting baby wrap made of silk and sparkles.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15MMS4qVkh88ckqHsNjO_kriU4-qiFSFR12vAAAzk46tb0aOUz6yKrvSsR1AZjfZ_cYV5B8B3q9gnBqRHtMvzHrZbNn1ntKGMkojbrSaqAzJGPzw91m2nBO04wjWkyE0dwlLcgz8sw1zN/s1600/unnamed-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15MMS4qVkh88ckqHsNjO_kriU4-qiFSFR12vAAAzk46tb0aOUz6yKrvSsR1AZjfZ_cYV5B8B3q9gnBqRHtMvzHrZbNn1ntKGMkojbrSaqAzJGPzw91m2nBO04wjWkyE0dwlLcgz8sw1zN/s400/unnamed-10.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6470. Betsy sidles up to me at breakfast, pets my well worn sweater and fondles one of the many "pills" on it. "I like the bugs on this," she says.<br />
<br />
6470. Craig organizes our closet and room.<br />
<br />
6471. A teapot big enough to boil water for many.<br />
<br />
6472. Puritan prayers, a book of them. I read them like manna from heaven. No words can describe their nourishment.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSncJ2_LocT4ButZhJptA3617bTlFpNIcUSPqY8T1uTw0z3FlGWDIbNqoF0tAZxzoGmON7BlcDMuplU3hqwys1sowFG44YmH1yrVKdWQOyHUUmr1u_S3Zv0gqGtMcyqa502I6Z2ZByEXr/s1600/unnamed-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSncJ2_LocT4ButZhJptA3617bTlFpNIcUSPqY8T1uTw0z3FlGWDIbNqoF0tAZxzoGmON7BlcDMuplU3hqwys1sowFG44YmH1yrVKdWQOyHUUmr1u_S3Zv0gqGtMcyqa502I6Z2ZByEXr/s400/unnamed-11.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
6473. The children continue to learn and grow together.<br />
<br />
6474. We continue to organize our home.<br />
<br />
6475. Sunday finds me stilled with peace.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF6vz4nsj00hiiPeOu1_EfvJXhws80tvRmMhU_OjV3WncFIV2sbyRDE2tSUrHbKDS3b86VgjYzJ_-I8rnHqlV9ewNzYUyFogq-mU7EsMSEFY2gRKYnYaYiCTzIwGq6jGwyXwU8lb0A02aC/s1600/unnamed-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF6vz4nsj00hiiPeOu1_EfvJXhws80tvRmMhU_OjV3WncFIV2sbyRDE2tSUrHbKDS3b86VgjYzJ_-I8rnHqlV9ewNzYUyFogq-mU7EsMSEFY2gRKYnYaYiCTzIwGq6jGwyXwU8lb0A02aC/s400/unnamed-12.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-57224746962593121382018-01-14T21:37:00.000-08:002018-01-14T22:14:11.546-08:00Bananas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_PIXngrRNkQp5mga3inv0F5uWPygHemIJFcT81CzWYTdfv-EljH3_ckx1YDhjtaatCbSwneoXTiGtOP4si1Bm_9AgKj8F5KvUnPfJgu6Y46W6kwUGjGwPB4BTGtFF9IDXTqanwHO4v16/s1600/unnamed-0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_PIXngrRNkQp5mga3inv0F5uWPygHemIJFcT81CzWYTdfv-EljH3_ckx1YDhjtaatCbSwneoXTiGtOP4si1Bm_9AgKj8F5KvUnPfJgu6Y46W6kwUGjGwPB4BTGtFF9IDXTqanwHO4v16/s400/unnamed-0.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"I already ate all my bananas," Joe says. Jammie clad minus the t-shirt, bare chested boy lopes into the living room and drapes himself over an arm of the couch.<br />
<br />
"A-all of them?" I say, the ones he bought himself.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," he says. I wipe a dried coffee spot off the counter.<br />
<br />
"How many where there?" I say.<br />
<br />
"Eight."<br />
<br />
"Eight? Since yesterday?"<br />
<br />
"In TWO days," he says.<br />
<br />
"In 12 hours," I say, washcloth slack.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," he says.<br />
<br />
"Well, how do you feel?" I say.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEKzmxHgkTB2Cptp9ITanOZM7r0HtykaiUtDQ9yJUnrBcy9Va-UG4IsPXzlxr3E3bauMTfwcmpD9Y_W4UGWue44sKx8q1eBNt_TDeB0F0v818U05vJjW4NAJkkNLYfS967vFDB8qFSdmym/s1600/unnamed-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEKzmxHgkTB2Cptp9ITanOZM7r0HtykaiUtDQ9yJUnrBcy9Va-UG4IsPXzlxr3E3bauMTfwcmpD9Y_W4UGWue44sKx8q1eBNt_TDeB0F0v818U05vJjW4NAJkkNLYfS967vFDB8qFSdmym/s400/unnamed-2.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Great." He grins, now sitting upright on the faded red couch arm.<br />
<br />
"Very nourished," I say.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," he says. "I just need two more dollars."<br />
<br />
"To buy more bananas?" I say, my eyebrows rounding upward,<br />
<br />
"Yeah," he nods, the responsible accountant nod.<br />
<br />
"Wow," I say.<br />
<br />
And so it is nonchalance and small talk unfold in gargantuan swaths.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip2MW2mVPCNZehgehF6yoUz6fVzx7suuvhvL56JptLFrPv6SA_d084zLM5_rttfHq-EMdzXd0bxP8Lj23Vl5o_71Y4gvzQjWOSe0jQtlyarc6Xiv8DCROJzSi3jM5Z6MJitCYdNdQsTW-e/s1600/unnamed-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip2MW2mVPCNZehgehF6yoUz6fVzx7suuvhvL56JptLFrPv6SA_d084zLM5_rttfHq-EMdzXd0bxP8Lj23Vl5o_71Y4gvzQjWOSe0jQtlyarc6Xiv8DCROJzSi3jM5Z6MJitCYdNdQsTW-e/s400/unnamed-5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6460. Joe continues to unfold in full blown boyhood.<br />
<br />
6461. Betsy demands a stool in front of the stove. Jack rebuffs then refuses. "Betsy is as stubborn as Balaam's donkey," Jack whispers under his breath. And yet the two find a duet of sorts as Jack prepares dinner.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-3pJXoKuSq5jedovJtjOOKvkLHsA8wYOLTTVTizSRoWt-bakCZUKbRXivTS4V5vp9ea4yHgloJ8r-3AL17rrJvK0BIb7WqLIksBEDQ6EbydUyuT_MDJ16RkGsSx3h0w7EUgVgVUquPzP/s1600/unnamed-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-3pJXoKuSq5jedovJtjOOKvkLHsA8wYOLTTVTizSRoWt-bakCZUKbRXivTS4V5vp9ea4yHgloJ8r-3AL17rrJvK0BIb7WqLIksBEDQ6EbydUyuT_MDJ16RkGsSx3h0w7EUgVgVUquPzP/s400/unnamed-4.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
6462. My new devotionals for this new year arrive. I promptly sit down and read to catch up. Nourishment fills my soul.<br />
<br />
6463. I plan an overnight with Jane. We whisk away to house sit for a night and fill the time with chatting, the leisure discussion that unfolds between a woman and her almost woman daughter. This is a pleasure I had not fully pictured. So. Good.<br />
<br />
6464. Jane steps into the role of no-longer-child with so much grace.<br />
<br />
6465. Jack continues to prep and prepare meals and desserts. I feel like I live with a chef.<br />
<br />
6466. Craig replaces the bathroom toilet when plunging, snaking, and heaven forbid, reaching his arm down the mouth of the toilet, can no longer cure its ills. He replaces it with a champion promising to flush up to 18 golfballs at once, should we ever have the need. Brilliant.<br />
<br />
6466. I continue to teach myself to reach for contentment. Projects linger and progress at the slow steady rate of things that actually get finished. I let this be music to my ears and harmonize with its strains.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMZVQRXrfRfIamrGTy7_hYz4NwqCAhvBhwKXPVsbbZ7WmUkX1ZsqetXrNAKuBWMjXMhrf6qGftkV_XLun1kF-csWz15RJ7VfjXqrYG3gglUagCKAwVJlCSSjLJJQ1hS071TrofqSk6UJ6/s1600/unnamed-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMZVQRXrfRfIamrGTy7_hYz4NwqCAhvBhwKXPVsbbZ7WmUkX1ZsqetXrNAKuBWMjXMhrf6qGftkV_XLun1kF-csWz15RJ7VfjXqrYG3gglUagCKAwVJlCSSjLJJQ1hS071TrofqSk6UJ6/s400/unnamed-7.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-73849405539004271722018-01-07T22:12:00.001-08:002018-01-07T22:12:47.539-08:00Air<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTkniEl0CysW4y3h_CRnpN6P7O-ROQu9YGjisV2eAksu43E9cHcMrDWn3BNeKsHuodAhPmlwUQObSPQYnv2mCg2QuE6u9H1ExYYbibaH34CBMz9gbqQ8_qzj2wmYjK2xZXKrLrZfyapiH7/s1600/Christmas+card+2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1174" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTkniEl0CysW4y3h_CRnpN6P7O-ROQu9YGjisV2eAksu43E9cHcMrDWn3BNeKsHuodAhPmlwUQObSPQYnv2mCg2QuE6u9H1ExYYbibaH34CBMz9gbqQ8_qzj2wmYjK2xZXKrLrZfyapiH7/s400/Christmas+card+2017.jpg" width="292" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
"Whelp, it's the 22nd of December, huh," I say.<br />
<br />
"Yep," Jane nods, the two of us planted on a stool and a five gallon bucket, kitchen island under our elbows.<br />
<br />
"Wow," I say. "What a hard year."<br />
<br />
"Yeah," she says.<br />
<br />
"Huh." We stare across the long swath of kitchen now finished, almost. A camaraderie of burdens shared, we watch, detached fascination between us. Lucy and Myra pour flour into the breadmaker. Strains of <i>Peace on earth, good will toward men</i> waft up the stairs. Twenty seventeen unfurls like a sigh dissipating, leaving us pulling for the fresh air of a new year to our lungs.<br />
<br />
"But," Jane says, "we <i>can</i> stand to meet 2018."<br />
<br />
"Yep," I say. "Huh."<br />
<br />
And so it is. We stand.<br />
<br />
May the love of Christ carry you like an ark through the waters of this new year.</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-5433751623044635832017-12-17T22:33:00.000-08:002017-12-17T22:33:30.832-08:00Christmastide<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gPLbNMSPLtV6EQ6g0b0R30B06-iy5xtQnarA6CuGgCbEDPFJ0PjRnBGdoZQ_8iKCruXlVqaZO7b6vZnISeoX0yQizgWMUEyZx5Tpd13mESBH4W6kbuWBzzXdvO47gu7lIvC6b7l_a2xj/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gPLbNMSPLtV6EQ6g0b0R30B06-iy5xtQnarA6CuGgCbEDPFJ0PjRnBGdoZQ_8iKCruXlVqaZO7b6vZnISeoX0yQizgWMUEyZx5Tpd13mESBH4W6kbuWBzzXdvO47gu7lIvC6b7l_a2xj/s400/unnamed.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Is it good Betsy?" Jack cackles. "Is it GOOD?"<br />
<br />
A mouthful of horseradish, she crunches a condiment drenched chip, the confidence of an executive all hers.<br />
<br />
"No," she says. "It BAD." She hops off a five gallon bucket, her perch/stool at the new kitchen island. The skitter of babyish feet, the chuckles and chitters of siblings, she makes for the bathroom and a blasting faucet drink.<br />
<br />
Pot roast and potatoes, a smattering of dips and side dishes, Betsy tries everything on the table glops of salsa, titanics of cream cheese, globs of beet horseradish.<br />
<br />
All rainbows and unicorns, she returns and slings herself back on that five gallon bucket. Eyes blinking, bites of dinner squirrled in their cheeks, elbows slung on the island, siblings grin and grin, mirth and affection their tambourine in the band.<br />
<br />
"Git, me more olives," Betsy points, a tiny bowl of kalamatas.<br />
<br />
"Um, no, <i>May I please have more olives?</i>" I say. Siblings draw up their faces until every dimple is shouting, hilarity scattering limelight. Betsy slings it across the room like glitter at a party.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," she chirps, dimpled cheeks rounded with giggles. "May I please have more olives, Mom?"<br />
<br />
"Hmm," my pursed lips pulling a dimple in my cheek.<br />
<br />
"Say, YES," she giggles.<br />
<br />
"Hmmm," I snicker.<br />
<br />
And so it is, something better than food alights on the table. Audacity, unguarded affection, the jesting of siblings, everyone laughs. The applause of affection refreshes our spirits.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6456. Dinner together. The prep, the eating, the clean-up, the togetherness, we gather a harvest of goodness.<br />
<br />
6457. Meat for the freezer.<br />
<br />
6458. The simple goodness of kitchen towels.<br />
<br />
6459. We celebrate Christmas with my extended family. Seventeen children, ten adults, we all bring food and gifts yet we all just come as we are. It's a symphony of contribution and belonging, unguarded affection with all the complexity of twenty seven people. We rest in this unspeakable gift while we celebrate the most miraculous gift of all, a Savior. It's an ark to carry us through the year.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr2g3qya02ciCTSvekyD5uVppHqjaztEh7dk8xto45GWm6Ns6t7jVbDc_OoYDuZHakL2XJuwwmAXG3GVFGRx7it-jSc2lP42OYR0VNEytrpMr0UV_wwsfNRuyTYCaN1fDooI8m8M_imqom/s1600/unnamed-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr2g3qya02ciCTSvekyD5uVppHqjaztEh7dk8xto45GWm6Ns6t7jVbDc_OoYDuZHakL2XJuwwmAXG3GVFGRx7it-jSc2lP42OYR0VNEytrpMr0UV_wwsfNRuyTYCaN1fDooI8m8M_imqom/s400/unnamed-1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-7804466726455429592017-12-11T00:12:00.002-08:002017-12-11T00:12:47.322-08:00Renovations<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgkBvvEjGGcjvk2m-162Us0YBdU4zec_l6ReUaSBA-yRW6BNthyBHPLqdosfVTSPfzd9UcFHHat76VYDG_dPYNC3EJmfPJJ4OOC5yJ-SG08se4w3uCYXtzF6fWd7wsMa2-hDQHr6jJSvmi/s1600/9D8E8F5A-66B4-4E39-A4F0-85FA803FACF2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgkBvvEjGGcjvk2m-162Us0YBdU4zec_l6ReUaSBA-yRW6BNthyBHPLqdosfVTSPfzd9UcFHHat76VYDG_dPYNC3EJmfPJJ4OOC5yJ-SG08se4w3uCYXtzF6fWd7wsMa2-hDQHr6jJSvmi/s400/9D8E8F5A-66B4-4E39-A4F0-85FA803FACF2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"And sometimes I probably haven't been the best example," I say.<br />
<br />
Nose to nose with Lucy, I gaze into her wide and watery eyes. An almost invisible nod.<br />
<br />
"It's probably really easy to see when I do it," I say. "But it's wrong when I do it, and it's wrong when you do it. Will you forgive me?"<br />
<br />
She shatters into tears. "Yeah," she says. We both nod arms wrapped in an oaken hug. With that we carry on. With the face of fresh morning she smiles into my eyes.<br />
<br />
"Ok," I say. "Let's go out and help finish the dishes."<br />
<br />
"Ok," she says and we return as if feathers alit our shoes.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEDU-eoonWtI1w4f28rU3I8bBhExVKuNGzic6o_rRTEsYs6w510m9iDKMLg_rEw5rO8P1EPkaWc_YrU9CXEyBbFRu1R2nMlue18SJqwhCwQ9fM7wlFEU8XCaFh4linAOXO8Cc-aEPyMsoD/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1511" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEDU-eoonWtI1w4f28rU3I8bBhExVKuNGzic6o_rRTEsYs6w510m9iDKMLg_rEw5rO8P1EPkaWc_YrU9CXEyBbFRu1R2nMlue18SJqwhCwQ9fM7wlFEU8XCaFh4linAOXO8Cc-aEPyMsoD/s400/unnamed.jpg" width="377" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6448. Mom returns from Montana. All the assurance and love that trails an invisible wake behind her sets my world straight.<br />
<br />
6449. Jane has her first babysitting job. She steps into the new responsibility outside of our home with grace and confidence.<br />
<br />
6450. I find the perfect tote bag to carry our adventure needs as these children get older.<br />
<br />
6451. A dear friend brings me a plate of oxtail.<br />
<br />
6452. Another dear friend connects us with Blue Apron and sends us some meals.<br />
<br />
6453. Nourishment finds us. I sit in the stillness of this kindness and drink it in.<br />
<br />
6454. My dad, like most Saturdays, comes over to help us more on the kitchen. I'm growing fond of seeing him each Saturday.<br />
<br />
6455. Bit by bit we work away. Now we do most of our dishes up at the new sink by hand. As we stand, the many of us filling the kitchen, washing dishes, clearing the table, finishing food, I look and marvel that it doesn't feel crowded, just clean and simple. The nine of us being together fills me with nourishment.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiqa53da-o2Jgdh8EV6qUyH-EfFmZHreUdSjEIXcXX02RQlYy9xucVY1E4n4YA5eFaSfIzUs5t2H4-W7yp9X2kmZ7CJcltCL5rSjyK01h1bg28lRtO4dbqA3OmzZF6atj_JNTlxkQg8xCT/s1600/283A7DFE-1D68-4560-93F5-1D7A579DAB6C.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiqa53da-o2Jgdh8EV6qUyH-EfFmZHreUdSjEIXcXX02RQlYy9xucVY1E4n4YA5eFaSfIzUs5t2H4-W7yp9X2kmZ7CJcltCL5rSjyK01h1bg28lRtO4dbqA3OmzZF6atj_JNTlxkQg8xCT/s400/283A7DFE-1D68-4560-93F5-1D7A579DAB6C.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4171000125014278436.post-8646439279121223022017-12-04T01:35:00.000-08:002017-12-04T01:35:02.866-08:00Jack<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwzVtCbltlGmOwR-XYrRRhKypYSJLcGwZ-JBSOO3hpmAEynLA6Mpqz_gzKI49NFHNGsVqcYS89NC4ygIBAfbOi4JjqksoOg7dM7y_wSfTI8kOkpWUpog4m_9dVeuYuc8OQbNWmmvscYie/s1600/unnamed-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwzVtCbltlGmOwR-XYrRRhKypYSJLcGwZ-JBSOO3hpmAEynLA6Mpqz_gzKI49NFHNGsVqcYS89NC4ygIBAfbOi4JjqksoOg7dM7y_wSfTI8kOkpWUpog4m_9dVeuYuc8OQbNWmmvscYie/s400/unnamed-12.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
"Yeah," Jack says, "they have bat dung in this one."<br />
<br />
"Huh," I say. Me knitting on the couch, leg elevated, Jack attends to my every need, vein surgery finally complete. He pages through a garden magazine.<br />
<br />
"It's apparently extremely fertile," he says.<br />
<br />
"Like for fertilizer?" I say.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," he says. He looks up from the wholesale supply catalogue, "It's extremely fertile." His face leaned out, the remnants of summer freckles still dabbled over the bridge of his nose, all long limbs and angled elbows, he's suddenly a flash of manhood.<br />
<br />
"Huh," I say. He smooths a crinkled page, eyes combing the details. I nod, precision and facts a mantle he wears easily.<br />
<br />
I soak it in. The straight back and clear eyes, the leisured reading. It's the tic-tic of moments waiting for my leg to heal, and it's the rare and rarer each day, slow moments, the ones you remember 50 years from now. I memorize his countenance and how things are easy between us. And then suddenly I've mentioned hot chocolate and he's loped downstairs to froth up my sixth or eighth cup in two days.<br />
<br />
This. These are the days.<br />
<br />
Grampa passed away this week. Grief. Such grief. Whole horizons of moments with him gathered up, the memories like these, now, that's what we have left. These best moments, I don't want to miss any of them.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gratitude:<br />
<br />
6446. Grampa. A man who live a good life and left a long legacy. A real class act.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-xODZAa9HMH07fXGYxDvnEASw1qsCk7HQOqiqAGYSMyM7UzhIwoWg2XLLtWx_TE1gukKFuayeJAqef2CxxobkOLZBy6MZH4QARteo5U3ONwtIYpMjdTZFtpew6_wIAxAC4Urdz5PcDVGW/s1600/unnamed-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-xODZAa9HMH07fXGYxDvnEASw1qsCk7HQOqiqAGYSMyM7UzhIwoWg2XLLtWx_TE1gukKFuayeJAqef2CxxobkOLZBy6MZH4QARteo5U3ONwtIYpMjdTZFtpew6_wIAxAC4Urdz5PcDVGW/s400/unnamed-1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
6447. I have a fifth vein surgery. Craig pushes forward on the kitchen remodel so we have running water upstairs. And yet I see the best of memories unfold right in front of me despite the mess, irrespective of inconvenience, oblivious to background and expectation. There. The moment right in front of me. This is the gift of life that one day when the papers, and laundry, socks and hangers, miscellaneous yarn and shoes and child spindrift are all put away I might be full. Full and grateful. Everything else is just props.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsLf_QDvtMwMa-8ysoOr4aaXrtlXoH0xmq-ArJmqaIKvGzbUq8LNRMqF69jlW-ZrCws6xZVB5gzD4AYBrjDDbRIS0ebt-7OFvPARHzmPFbY_oQt-y4NqCTQSxCXawALCvWDhVE5bk5lDY/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1133" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsLf_QDvtMwMa-8ysoOr4aaXrtlXoH0xmq-ArJmqaIKvGzbUq8LNRMqF69jlW-ZrCws6xZVB5gzD4AYBrjDDbRIS0ebt-7OFvPARHzmPFbY_oQt-y4NqCTQSxCXawALCvWDhVE5bk5lDY/s400/unnamed.jpg" width="282" /></a></div>
</div>
Craig and Bethanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12779997485604319727noreply@blogger.com2