The Steps

"I don't mean to be like people are stupid," I say, "but with math and science and history and art, any idiot can learn it if they do the steps." A felt ornament in hand, I pull embroidery floss through it's wool surface.

"I know," Jane says. I'm checking her school work. Paused at a cache of sketches, we stare at the latest installment of daily practice. "When we started art with Grammie," she says, "it was HARD. And I was like, I'm not gonna be any good at THIS."

"Yeah," I say.

"But after hundreds of hours, I mean HUNDREDS," she leans toward me. "That has some WEIGHT," she says.

"Yup," I say. "You're probably coming up on 400 hours."

"Yeah, WOW," she says.

"After hundreds of hours," I lean in and whisper, "any idiot can learn it."

"It does help to have IQ," she says, "but most people with a high IQ don't want to stoop so low, which is actually standing TALL." She shrugs.

"Yup," I say.

So it is. Practice makes easy. Hundreds of hours and suddenly, there, in the palm of your hand: skill.

Gratitude:

6198. George Lewis. Our newest additions grows strong and healthy. Big boy, over 10 lbs. by now.

6199. I get the blessing and privilege of having a dear, dear friend as my doula at George's birth.

6200. Jack meets my every possible need the weeks recovering from delivery. He cooks the meals, cleans the main living areas, does dishes. With nary a hint from me, he serves from his heart, every action pure love.

6201. Dear friends and family send us meals and treats and gifts. On top of the gift of a child, we find love and help there reaching out to us.

6202. We celebrate Christmas over the weekend with extended family. Peace settles on the whole clan of us out at my parents. Something more than us, something I can only describe as the presence of Christ encircles us. Christmas truly.

6203. I still struggle to keep the house tidy, and struggle to respond with the perfect combination of strength and grace when things go sideways, but even there, even the worst moments are fill with purpose. We encircle each other with grace and spur one another on in love and good works.

6204. The new geography of our family adds depth to each of us.

George Lewis

George Lewis
9 lbs. 6 oz.

Thanksgiving morning. Two and one half hours labor, and the all natural birth I'd dreamed of gave way to a beautiful baby boy. All the imagining in the world couldn't have prepared us for his resplendent face. Bliss. We raise our hearts in a song of joy, thanksgiving the air we breathe.

He eats and sleeps like a champ. The children encircle him with love and curiosity.

I take each slow moment for the gift it is. They run through our fingers like water.

Gingerbread

"Don't turn around, okay Mom?" Jack says. "I'm making a surprise." I hear dishes slide across the counter.

"Okay," I say. My fingers tap-tap across the computer keyboard. I flutter numbers and dollar signs into our family budget, flex my mind around the herculean effort of reconciling numbers. Like all great efforts it requires hours more than expected and yields peace. I gather a lay of the land and memorize the mountains and valleys.

When I turn around, finally: a sierra of gingerbread boys.

"It's a surprise for you," they say. Best of all they polish the kitchen to clean perfection, floors and all.

Peace settles over the house. It's not a sigh of having everything, but the long exhale of having all that matters. One by one we wrap our tired arms around each other and head to bed. Sleep holds us, gentle arms of strength encircle us.

Gratitude:

6183. A dear friend surprises us with a visit, gift in tow.

6184. A neighbor passes on bags of used books.

6185. I continue the quiet repetition that is knitting to smooth the evenings. I finish a baby hat and start a sweater.

6186. I finish my original knitting pattern.

6187. Lucy plans out Christmas gifts and sets to making them.

6188. Jane too.

6189. Jack makes gingerbread boys with an army of helpers.

6190. Myra and Joe build forts in the sunroom and clean them up when they finish.

6191. Mom and I compare notes on all things Oswald Chambers and theology.

6192. A fresh pot of soup: meat and sweet potatoes. Mmmmm.

6193. Craig and Jane stack a chord of firewood.

6194. We roast a turkey for on hand when the baby is born.

6195. We watch with mirth as the baby's due date comes tomorrow and yet no baby.

6196. I take note of how each of our children is so different from all the others. I can't imagine how one more can yet be so different. It will be like unwrapping a gift each day.

6197. And we wait.

Bedtime

Photo credit: Urban Rose

"I've been really liking First and Second Peter," Jane says. She flops an argyle rice bag into the microwave and closes the door.

"Really?" I say. "About the persecuted church?" Opposite my girl, I lean an elbow on the counter, a plate of peach pie balanced in my hand. I cut the triangle tip off the pie and eat it.

"Yeah," she says. She turns the microwave dial to three minutes, presses start. "I mean, I like listening to Revelation too. I'm just not sure I want to hear about bowls of wrath being poured out and then wake up sweating," she says.

I laugh. She grins. "When you're listening tonight, pick your favorite part, and then tell me about it in the morning," I say.

"Okay," she drawls. "I will." She blinks in time with a slow nod. I eat another mouthful of pie, peach almond filling warm and effusive. Bedtime, it's a three-step watlz with Jane and me.

I ask her in the morning, "So what was your favorite part?"

"Hmm, I can't remember," she says. "I knew before I fell asleep, but now I forgot."

"Oh. Well, listen again tonight," I say.

Then it's bedtime again and the liturgy of jammies and toothpaste. I change the baby. Jane pokes her head in.

"I remember my favorite part," she says, First and Second Peter ambling in the background.

"Oh, what is it?"

"Ahhm, hmmm, I just forgot. Wait," she stares up and to the right, "hmm." I watch her, undivided attention bunching up like a scarf encircling us. "Oh yeah," she says. "It's the part where it says if you are praying, you never have to be afraid."

"Oh," I say. "I like that. I don't remember that part." We nod. An umbilical cord of connection pulses for a moment. "That's really good," I say.

And with that a whole universe folds up like a paper crane between us. Bedtime ensues. Children tumble into bed.

Later, in mind's eye, that paper crane, I pull it out to trace again the folds of love.

If you are praying, you never have to be afraid.





Gratitude:

5603. Spices, the gift of spices. We restock the shelves of flavor.

5604. Jane finishes her stay as kitchen manager. Craig and I agree: we will miss all the pie.

5605. We experience again the special love of family and friends bringing us food and caring for our children.

5606. Betsy eats and sleeps like a champ.

5607. Craig and Jane brine and cook a 25 lb. turkey for the postpartum recovery.

5608. Joey samples my most expensive make-up with an electric toothbrush and a bottle of lotion. It's a total loss. Craig buys me new mascara so I don't have to go out.

5609. He runs all manner of errands, even those with the most exacting detail. Sometimes he comes home with chocolate.

5610. Mom makes our weekly talk date happen nary missing a beat.

5611. We pass the 15 year anniversary of our wedding engagement. Now more than ever, I'm convinced Craig can handle anything with strength and ease. We all lean into him.

Photo credit: Urban Rose

Baby Betsy

Betsy Kate. 

On time. 

And perfect.

A new life.

Our gratitude overflows.

Messages

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

"Momma, Momma," Myra says.

I look up from pools of honey toast. "Hmm?"

"Did you know this looks BORING to me," she says. She gestures to a picture dictionary of the human body.

"What do you think BORING means?" I say.

"I don't know."

"Oh."

Wednesday, we read the BORING book. A careful perusal and she still mixes up brains and guts. They look the same.


***

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Thursday breakfast. Tappity-tap-tap, tap-tap, Jane clatters the blinds. Tap-tap, tap, tap. Tap-ta-tap-tap --  ten-year-old intensity bound up in tappity-tap fingers.

"Jane," I finally unleash, "I can't bear that sound."

"I was seeing how long I could bear it," she says. We grin. Of course.


***

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Friday nap time. Myra rouses Joe. "Joey, are you scared?" she says.

"Yeah," he says in post-sleep grog.

"You don't have to be scared 'cause Jesus is with you," she sing-songs.

He grunts the usual wake-up greeting, blankie over face.


***

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Saturday haircuts. "I got a haircut," Joe wallops through the kitchen dressed in superhero skivvies. "I got a haircut, and I washed my haircut off with soap," he says.

"Joe, Joe," I say as I set dinner's burrito buffet. "Joe go tell Daddy. I love you," I whisper in his ear. He hugs my knees and gallops to the living room.

He trots a circle then flops on the couch. "Dad," he says, "Mom LIKES me." A brief pause, message delivered, he rolls to the ground, perpetual motion in flight. Landing half tritt-trot, he rolls on.

Message delivered: Mom LIKES me. Yup. The week distills and coalesces down to one single thought: Mom LIKES me. Our world pulls together like the laces of a shoe cinching up for flight.





Gratitude:

5594. Chocolate and hair ponies and grocery necessities all in one trip.

5595. Craig fixes a sink faucet, a shower faucet, and orders parts for another faucet fix. I never have to hire a plumber

5596. My dad replaces the cord on our space heater.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

5597. Craig washes the car, then rallies the troops to clean out the inside.

5598. I commission Jane to be my kitchen manager for the two weeks after the baby is born.

5599. I knit another baby sweater in cream and mint green.

5600. We donate extra stuff to Goodwill and tidy up the sunroom.

5601. Everyone waits for the new baby.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Football

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

"Mom, I don't know if you feel the same way about football as I do," Jane quips from the back seat.

"Yeah?" I say.

"I mean, I like the idea of football, but I sort of get tired of watching the same thing over and over," she says.

I laugh, signal right, and ease into the far lane.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

"I would kind of rather just get and update every time they score a point," she says.

"I know just what you mean," I say. Blue reflections of sky spread across the road, I whiz through a puddle. It sprays the front windshield.

"Dad's like, you have to see this great play," she says. "And I'm sort of like, hmm."

I nod, a giggle laced through my thoughts. Another right hand turn, then a left, and we pull up the driveway, home.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

"Come on," I say. "Someone unbuckle Joey."

We pile out of the car, into the house, and sidle up to watch the football game. I pop huge bounding bowls of popcorn, and we laugh, and we cheer. And camaraderie springs up there between us. All that tackling and straining toward victory, and something better than football happens. We hold on to it like an invisible thread pulling us together.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Gratitude:

5586. Craig travels on a five day retreat with his team from work. Friday comes, and with it, him safely home.

5587. I knit away on a baby blanket, these restless hands busy and productive.

5588. The children surround me while Craig is gone.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

5589. "I love this book," Myra says. "It's my best-friend-book."

5590. "Good job, Barry-Bear," Joe says and squeeezes Barry. "You're a good helper," he says.

5591. "Are lollipops fruit?" Lu wants to know. "Myra says they ARE."

5592. "How has your eye been feeling?" I ask Lucy. "I don't know," she says and looks at her palm, "I haven't been feeling it."

5593. Another week closes. Another week begins. The count down continues: we pass week 38.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Morning Time

Photo credit: Urban Rose.  

"Why were you pounding on the piano?" I croak.

Joe and Myra promenade around the end of my bed. "We were wanting to sing songs," Myra says.

"Yeah," Joe chimes, "we was. We was."

"Oh," I say.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

They trip-trop out of the room like puppets on a string then parade back through, Joe in underwear, Myra in a sweatshirt and pink rain boots.

"I'm making eggs for me and you, me and you," Joe says. He points to me and him and me and him.

"We're making MUSTARD eggs," Myra says. "But I might need you to crack the eggs."

"Oh," I say. "Better get dressed. Joe go put some pants on."

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

He wriggles into pants, stretches and contorts and finally has Myra snap the front. We make eggs. Myra dribbles on the burner. The eggs stick to the pan. We put lots of fancy salt on them.

"Want to pray together?" Myra says.

"Yeah," I say. And then we eat.

"I'm getting to be a little bit like a pig," Myra says "'cause I'm eating all these eggs." They look orange with salt. She has them cut in tiny triangles. Joe cuts haphazardly. Wet crumbs litter the floor. I make pools of honey on my toast.

"Mmmm. Put your dishes in the dishwasher," I say. "Here, bring me that rag. I'll wipe your spot."

They graze over oranges and bananas. I knit. Myra putters Joe over the hardwoods in a baby rocking chair: their car. He whirls his arms for the engine.

Then I tell them to clean up. The morning unfurls with the rhythm of a gently rocking sea.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Gratitude:

5579. Pomegranates, fresh and fat.

5580. New stitch markers for my knitting. I knit Gramma's old gull pattern no problem.

5581. Craig takes me on a date to a place I haven't been to in 15 years.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

5582. Gramma's old sewing machine comes home freshly serviced. I begin sewing and sewing. We set up three sewing stations for the three of us sew-ers.

5583. Craig takes the kids to the farm.

5584. We count down the days: 20 days until baby due.

5585. And we pray to come up with a name for this little babe.

Photo credit: Urban Rose.

Myra

"Sometimes something tickles on me, and do you know what it is?" Myra chirps.

"What?" I say, the the adult world punctured by her felicity.

"Nothing." She nods. Happy discovery dispensed, she hiccups past a sack of sweet potatoes, Joey trailing behind like a synchronizes swimmer.

Later, we pray before bed.

"Please help the baby be healthy and whole," Myra prays. "And please help her to go and be a friend to me. Amen." Her quiet submission lilts lightly across the other prayers. The stillness of a request, the un-presumption, the quiet wait -- here we all wait.

Gratitude:

5639. "Maybe the fruit flies should fly to Costco 'cause there's a lot of food there," Myra says.

5640. I talk my mom into sewing a baby quilt for the new baby. Pinks and greens, old fashioned flowers, a soft cloud of a back, it's perfect.

5641. The Tuesday Girls take communion together.

5642. Craig trades his old phone in for an iPod touch so I can text for free.

5643. Craig and the kids pick buckets of Italian plums, then Craig and I can them.

5644. Rotisserie chicken wraps and Asian slaw, turn into chicken soup for a week.

5645. Lucy loses her first tooth.

5646. A vintage round frame -- my mom brings over an old wedding photo of Craig and me, perches it on the piano.

5646. The children slack off on several school subjects and then learn the good lesson of catching up during their free time.

5647. Many evenings find us dessert-less, and then Craig bring home cinnamon rolls. Bliss.