Dinner Guests

"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.

"Yeah," Jack says.

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.

"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.

"Yup," he says.

"And then we just do it again next time," I say.

"Until one day we are just dusting the furniture before people come," he says.

"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.

Gratitude:

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.

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.

6500. Thrifting provides new sweaters with tiny holes we sew up and a set of small mason jars, glasses for the children.

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.

6502. We stay long after church to play with friends and visit. The goodness of life passes between us.

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.

6504. The children continue to practice their art lessons.

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.

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.

The Egg Dish

"Soooo, are you attached to this?" Craig says. He hold up a serving dish, little egg indentations around the plate's perimeter. It's painted in six-year-old script, Jane's.

"Uhmmm," I say.

"'Cause I'm NOT," he says. I'm sitting on a plastic food bin, the two of us in front of the pantry, miscellaneous, boxes, bags, and cartons stacked around us.

"Wellll," I say, "I'm not really either, but I'm not sure how to get rid of it." I smile with my teeth, blink-blink.

"I'll let YOU have that conversation with Jane," he says.

"Wellll," I say, "maybe we could just break it. Not really." I grimace.

"Here," he says. "Jaaaane, come here." From the kitchen a spoon clanks. Jane appears. "Hey Jane," he says, "are you attached to this?" He holds up the dish, rubs his finger in one of the little indentations.

"No," she says.

"Oh," I say. Craig looks at me. I look at him.

"I was just sort of waiting around for it to break," she says.

"Oh," I say.

"OH," Craig says. We split grins; giggles spill out our cheeks.

"I guess we were too."

In that moment, I realize again what my momma always says: It's not the things that matter; it's the time spent together. It's one of my favorite things about her. Things are just things.





Gratitude:

5953. Fresh basil, the biggest, hugest hand-sized leaves of fresh basil.

5954. A few staples: garbanzos, fish sauce, ginger ale, and tiny peanut butter cups. Manna.

5955. Linen for a baby blanket.

5956. Quilt batting.

5957. Fabric dye, navy blue, apple green, apache black.

5958. By miracle we retire the old hole-y living room couch for a new-to-us perfect couch. The whole house feels brand new.

5959. Raspberries fresh picked by Craig and the kids.

5960. Betsy starts trying to dress herself.

5961. We earmark more things for a garage sale.

5962. Small efforts in organization: quilts folded in size order, toys corralled to a bin, budget paperwork marked and filed, the pantry reset.

5963. The children help Craig at work. Manual labor, they come home exhausted and happy.

5964. A clean kitchen sink fills the kitchen with pleasure.

5965. Each of the kids grow a little more opinionated and a little more kind. It's better than fine dining or expensive clothes. Confidence sprouts when we're not even looking.

5966. July lulls unexpectedly cold, the smell of cool rain, evening breeze.

5967. We await the arrival of a brand new niece.

5968. Jack gives me a daily tour of his garden, each leaf worthy of inspection.

5969. "I've missed you," he says after helping Craig all week. "I could just talk to you for hours," he says. Me too.

5970. Each night closes like a long sigh. Goodness encloses the moments.

The Toilet

"I think cleaning the toilet is one of my favorite things," Myra says.

Crouched over the bathroom sink, mascara wand in hand, I pause and look at her. She stretches out a ponytail holder, watching it a couple of inches from her face. There waiting on the closed toilet for me to refresh her hair, freckles, red hair splayed sideways out of yesterday's ponytail, she stops and blinks at me.

"Wow. Why?" I say.

"I don't know," she chirps.

"Oh," I say. I stare, consider finishing my mascara, but just watch her instead. All set for church except for her hair, I marvel at the electric display, curls grown by sleep and smeared into frizz and knots.

"'Cause, it's sort of like running, ya know," she says.

"Oh," I say. "Running. What do you mean?" She pinches the rubber band with the tips of her fingers, willowly frog like fingers, and stretches the band wide then returns it to size.

"Like how you go for run and you get your energy out," she says. "Like that, cleaning the toilet's like that."

"I see," I say. "Running. Like that."

Common sense. She says these things as if they were self-evident, obvious, pedestrian. And all the while I trace the unexpected arc. Cleaning the toilet is like running, the best; it gets your energy out -- the perfect solution for all those days I have too much energy.





Gratitude:

5874. "When you're the pregnant lady, you get more chocolate than other people," I tell Joe. "I know," he says.

5875. Green beans and okra. "These are my favorite," Myra says of the hot dish our friends bring to dinner. "You have to learn to make these," Jack says.

5876. We meet new friends, and they come to dinner. We talk theology, children, and life. It's a feast of words and food.

5877. We discover Betsy is terrible at sharing. We never noticed that all her favorite toys are the ones no one likes, no one except for the guests' kids who liked them too.

5878. A neighbor, expert landscaper, pulls a stump for us. It looks like a miracle, the shaken out stump sitting there next to the sandy hole, not even a leaf of Jack's garden nudged sideways.

5879. We go through the childbirth-like-pains of cleaning the house as a family. It ends with new requirements for the children: don't even ask to play outside if your room isn't clean and your chores aren't immaculate.

5880. The weather gradually becomes warmer and sunnier. Rumors of summer begin to circulate. We finish our last school unit. A last little bit of testing, and we're don'e for the summer.

5881. A dear friend's mother and family friend passes on to heaven. We heave heavy hearts for the loss. Even with the hope of heaven, the pain of loss is so present. In the middle of it all, my parents join us for dinner. It's as if we are all bearing witness to her passing.

5882. Craig and I visit with the neighbors. Jane trails along with us mostly listening but jumping in with humor and comments. I begin to picture her as a grown woman.

5883. With the house tidied and clean everything feels simpler. I make plans to spring clean and give away more stuff.

5884. When our grain mill begins to have problems, we find another one on ebay for a smashing price. It works better than I could have imagined. Jane takes over grinding and bread.

5885. When Craig and I wish we could order in pizza or cheezy sticks, we have fresh bread with garlic butter instead and it's ten times more delicious.

5886. Craig's mom takes me and three of the kids out for the kids' birthdays. Coldstone Creamery, new running shoes, it's a lovely time.

5887. Craig's Grammie celebrates her 101st birthday. She's so happy when we sing Happy Birthday to her.

5888. Another week settles at our feet. We thank the Lord that we are alive and content. We await expectantly on this next season.