Myra

"Let's pray and ask Jesus to forgive you." I grab Myra's hands. Small and yielding they curl up like tangerines in my palms. She squeezes her eyes shut.

"Jesus, please forgive me for disobeying," her voice creaks like a violin half on key. "Amen," she squeaks, her hands balmy and aromatic with Jack's grass scented hand sanitizer, the one she stole right before meeting up with me in the bedroom for discipline.

"Did you know the Bible says when you say the wrong thing you did and ask Jesus to forgive you, he DOES?" I say. "He makes you all CLEAN. Do you you feel clean?" Down on my knees, eye to eye with my red-headed whirlwind, we hold each other steady. I peer at her out of the top half of my eyes, nod.

She nods back, frowns. "Is Jesus in my tummy?" she asks and strokes her frontside.

"No." I grin at her approximation. "But if you ask him, he'll come live in your heart."

And as if whispering to her neighbor, she bows her head and murmurs, "Jesus, live in my heart. Amen." Eyebrows up, she blink-blinks perfectly round dolly eyes at me. "There," she says. "Him's in my heart."

"You have to tell Him you're naughty," I blurt trying to figure out how to trace the red thread of doctrine in her spontaneity. "Do you know you're naughty?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want Him to help you?"

"Yeah."

"Tell Him. Tell Him, Jesus, I'm naughty."

"Jesus, I'm naughty," she says and clasps her hands together.

"Please forgive me."

"Please forgive me," she nods.

"Thank-you for dying on the cross for my sins," I say

"Thank-you for dying on the cross for my sins," she repeats.

"Please come live in my heart."

"Please come live in my heart."

"I love you."

"I love you."

"Amen."

"Amen!" A grin blooms across her face. The apples of our cheeks round and pink, the moment sounds, resonates like the lowest key on a piano, deep bass.

And we flutter up in treble. "Did you know the angels in heaven are having a party to celebrate you being a Christian?" I say.

She beams. She squints her eyes and leans in. It's the comma before a hug. I hold her in my arms.

Another step in the path, faith grows. It swells, burgeons, sends up shoots.

And all I can think is I'm so glad I decided to discipline her. The moment could have passed, unrealized before it even began. I take note of my high position.

Gratitude:

4719. Joey stands for 60 seconds. Jane times him. "I think he'd almost do anything to get everyone to cheer," she says.

4720. My mom takes Jack to bee heaven, an adventure. It's fields and fields, a whole farm of all sunflowers.

4721. Myra invites Jesus into her heart.

4722. Jane tattles on Jack disobeying the babysitter. "The reason I told on you," Craig hears Jane tell him, "was because I don't want you to make the same mistake tomorrow."

4723. The children love their babysitter. "She doesn't necessarily like everyone," Jane assesses, "but she does LOVE everyone."

4724. Even Joey likes her and has two pleasant days while Craig and I attend a leadership conference.

4725. I learn something new: the people that are best at holding others accountable are the ones with the lowest blame index. Blaming, a good way to undercut your authority.

4726. We have lunch with my parents and Stan Simmons, the pastor from my hometown.

4727. "I found a dead grasshopper," Myra announces. "Wanna see 'im?" She opens her cupped hands, a small carcass nestled in one. "Don't kill 'im," she says, "It's not a bug. It's a grasshopper." She closes her hand and trit-trotts into the sunroom, the grasshopper as real as a dolly.

4728. A neighbor give me a whole bale of fresh dill. The kids process it for me, snapping the heads into a huge pile.

4729. Jack ambles into the sunroom, four dill stems trimmed and bundled. "I like the fragrance of this," he jabs the air with his dill sword. "If I ground this up and put it in a candle, I bet it would smell really good. It would make the whole house smell REALLY good."

4730. Jane flops two banana peels in the kitchen garbage. "Ah," she says, "I guess I better take the trash out," and she does.

4731. We take communion with the kids.

4732. "Jesus, please help Jane's tummy feel better," Jack prays and hops off the bed to come rub Jane's arm. "And thank you for communion," he says.

4733. We attend a wedding of dear friends, you know the kind, where the bride and groom have been pure and chaste for their wedding day. We feel dizzy with honor. Wide rolling wheat fields golden and heavy, evening breeze, a gazebo, an old barn, and something electric and unmistakable: purity. Every color rich and deep, every moment pristinely in focus, the five children on our laps and all around us, we bear witness. Radiant, radiant purity. We can't take our eyes off of it. We memorize every moment.

4734. "It sounded like he had tears in his voice during the vows," Jane retells that night when we settle in for bed, their resplendent faces still aglow, flushed and pink from all the dancing and celebration.

4735. We meet the cousins at the pool. The adults lounge poolside and chat.

4736. Lucy sobs when I tell her to collect basil in the midday sun. "RACCOONS," she wails and hangs her head. She's petrified of raccoons. I make her pick the basil. She wins over the fear.

4737. I see her shoulders a little stronger, a little more tenacious and brave, her steady gaze all fortitude and confidence. I conclude it's true: courage gives us power over fear.

"We never feel more alive than when we are brave." ~Brené Brown

Trust

"What do you like about the book so far?" A bag bulged with blue swimsuits rests on the passenger seat. In a hollow of the afternoon Jane and I set out to return swimsuits. A receipt in my wallet secures a school book for us to pick up.

"Hmm," she says. I wait. The yellow air of late summer swirls past the car heavy with wheat dust and forest fire smoke. A chapter and a half in, I wonder what she thinks of The Hiding Place. "Hmm, I think," she nods, "I like how they are so trusting in God."

I nod, sip my black coffee. Trusting in God, I trace the wideness of her remark. Holland 1937, immanent invasion, occupation. Hitler. Concentration camps.

"I didn't expect you to say that," I finally say, "but I think that's what I like about it too." A hundred and fifty pages deeper in the story, I eddie at my bookmark. Trusting God, it still encircles the story.

We lull. The skein of conversation runs slack. I ease into the far left lane and round the corner. Autumn golden at the edge of the day, I pluck sunglasses off the top of my head, slide them on.

"One of the things I liked about William Tell," Jane tugs the thread of conversation, loops it through another story, another hero, "is how Walter was so trusting in God to let his dad shoot the apple off his head."

The Apple and the Arrow, I nod again. A feat of trust. Courage encircles injustice. We map this strange anatomy, memorize its bones, muscles. We let it sit between us, a spectacle, a masterpiece.

Our words slow, the golden air enfolds around us. Strands of words slow and turn, weave and interlace. I hold them light, reins that lead with the slightest touch.

Gratitude:

3458. Lucy trots out of the sun room. "This would be a good picture: letting God go first on something," she says.

3459. A new nephew, Maxwell Jesse, arrives safely in this world. Eight pounds, one ounce, and a whole chorus of Hallelujah and amen.

3460. We celebrate Craig's dad's birthday with pie: pizza pie, peach pie, and blackberry pie.

3461. I find Jack asleep in bed with blue work gloves on.

3462. The kids roost at the head of our bed to watch Craig mow the lawn out a tiny window in the bedroom. When I go to bed a find an old red stool next to my pillow.

3463. "Bluey has sticky hands," Myra comments on her blankie.

3464. I eat Calamata pasta salad at Mom's. We ruminated on being prompt, how it's like a muscle and grows with use.

3465. Macbeth.

3466. Peanut flour.

3467. "I'm gonna have hotdogs tonight," Janie says. "'Cause I'm sitting by Grandad tonight, and he really likes that I have mustard just like him."

3468. Hamburgers and pineapple salsa outback with Dad and Mom on the coattails of summer.

3469. I ask Jane to make peace in the car while children squabble and posture, poke and prod. "That's gonna be hard," she says. Still, I exhort her, press on anyway. "Yep," she finally says, "that's the way we are in our family."

3470. Lamb chops and garden beans, tortellini and couscous, brownies, ice cream, strawberries and a wide open prairie walk: dear friends graft us into their family for a night.

3471. My dad's company invites us to the annual staff picnic. We spin the afternoon long in swimming and fellowship, barbecue from the local butcher, salads and sweets, pie and cookies, and a window into the lives behind their work.

3472. My youngest brother joins us for a night of cards. We laugh and laugh, humor effortless and unrolling at every turn.

3473. Furrowed brow and half-skip, Lucy jumps off the diving board for the very first time. "Jesus, thank-you that I was able to jump off the diving board," she says. "And I pray that I will be able to do a belly-flop. Amen."

3474. "Wow, it feels kind of weird to be organized," Jane comments on school the new year.

3475. "I have three blackberries," she sing-songs, homework finally finished up at the blackberry patch, "I'm gonna see if Great-Grammie wants them."

3476. We find Great-Grammie making zucchini bars, red carton of raisins in hand, her face a beacon of love.

3477. We scrape past thorny limbs of branches to pick buckets of blackberries down on the farm.

3478. "Dad, do you think Great-Grampa can fly 'cause he's in heaven?" Jack asks as we head home. "I think so," Craig tells him. "'Cause in the Bible," Janie adds, "it says something to the effect that our body will be like Jesus's, and he can fly." She shrugs. Jack nods. "Nothing is impossible for God," he says.

3479. Farm fresh honey.

3480. Corn on the cob.

3481. Jane finishes The Apple and the Arrow.

3482. My cousins, identical twins who played the flower girls in our wedding, head to college this week, just minutes from our house.

3483. I find a little rocking chair wedged in the pantry door when I tell the kids to get out a fresh pack of gum.

3484. Again and again I rein in the impulse to be too harsh on the kids this past full, full to bursting week.

3485. I encounter James 1:12, Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him. I think on how steadfastness is a marker of love. Simple but true.

3486. As life bursts up against my rough edges, I think on James and face the challenges as if I were made for that moment.

A Father's Love

"Da-da," she says, "I'm all done. I want OUT."

So, he scoops up. Strong arms carry her down the stream and home.




***

Brave

"I'm gonna tell you something, Momma," Janie says. "Well, well," I watch her raised eyebrows, "it's kinda SCARY," she pauses, "but I had a stick, and Jack had a sword. And there was a BEE'S nest," she opens her eyes real wide, "with bees STILL in it. And Jack just kept hitting it and hitting it. And I just poked my stick in it, and SHOVED it off, and RAN!" With that, she grins and bounds out of the kitchen into the yard.






A moment later, at my elbow, "You have to be really BRAVE to do this, but I'm gonna do it a SECOND time. A second time, Momma." She lopes out of the kitchen, Jack on her heels.

"We did it AGAIN!" they cry as they pitch the back screen open.

"Nice job fighting the battle," I say. "Wow. Don't get stung now."

"We won't," Janie shrugs, "because we RUN."

"Yeah, we run," Jack repeats. "And we're brave enough."

"We're brave enough. You can tell Daddy that," Janie calls as they trundle out again.






"Be careful," I call, "Bees will come out and attack you."

"REALLY?" Jack stops, makes his blue eyes round like marbles.

"Yeah." I copy his eyes.

"Well, we already did it," he says.

"And well, we're brave," Janie adds.

With that they timber out the back.






Gratitude:

219. A big mountain of popcorn in the huge silver bowl.

220. Cinnamon rolls. "It's the sabbath," they say, "the day Jesus rose from the DEAD. Can we celebrate with cinnamon rolls?" Lulie insists the cinnamon is chocolate.

221. A road trip to Grampa's cabin.

222. A late night of cards with Grampa and how we all played Solitaire.

223. How a brown bear that tried to break in to the cabin while Grampa was gone, hasn't come back.

224. A lock on the front door, the one with teeth marks from the bear.

225. The pistols Grampa and Craig carry on our walks.

226. Jack's laugh of relief when I tell him Daddy and Grampa will bring their guns.

227. The sound of, "Hi, Great-Grampa," as our children tumble out of the cabin loft while Craig and I sleep.

228. The pictures our children make for Grampa all on their own. And how Janie slips in to hide hers on Grampa's pillow for him.

229. The stories Grampa tells me about being a boy in the 1920's.

230. The converse tennis shoes we've found at thrift stores. They look just like the ones Grampa wore when he was a boy.

231. The generations of right living passed on from father to child to child until great-great-grandchildren of good men hold on to a legacy.

232. How Grampa hands me paper towels when Lulie throws-up on the cabin stairs. And how it's just water she barfs, and then it passes, and no one gets sick.

233. Coffee. Did I mention the coffee? Grampa brews us coffee in his fancy coffee machine.

234. Husband who drives all legs of the journey, packs the car, carries everything in, re-packs the car, and hauls it all back inside at home.

235. Husband's strong arms that carry Lulie when her small feet grow too cold to wade.

236. How husband collapses into a beanbag at the end of long days and still makes conversation.

237. That this steady rudder of a man never gets angry. Oh, how I've tested him in this. Still, he never responds in kind.

238. How I am humbled by his kindness -- to me. Many, many kindnesses.

Angel Armies

"If you choose the Lord your God, Lucy, you'll SEE God and the angel armies in heaven," Jane whispers to Lulie.






Later Jane and Jack ask to try out a homemade sling with REAL rocks. Jack waves his arms and spreads all his fingers to demonstrate. The belt and rubber band contraption looks like it really could kill someone, but I let them give it a try.






Everyday we memorize a little more of the epic exchange between David and Goliath. All audacity and courage, David runs to Goliath in the name of the LORD of hosts. The LORD of armies. Hosts.

All through the house and yard, my children slay Goliath again and again; angel armies poise for victory. Heavenly ranks descend from the skies invisible except in the audacity and courage of my little ones. Goliath shrinks, a giant smudge of a man now snuffed out by all the glory. LORD of hosts, the armies await!






Later I hear from the playroom, "Ok, now I am going to have to behead you." Serious business. Yeah, David actually cuts off Goliath's head. Anyone else forget that part?

Surgery

January 13. Surgery. A pinpoint incision in the new year. Each day closer. A long tether of faith pulls me, encircles the fear I expect. Cataract surgery. On Lulie.

"The hearing ear and the seeing eye
the LORD has made them both."

I'm finding submission more and more like the deep breath of an athlete.


Ready or not





here we come.

Janie pats my shoulder, "Momma." I'm half-listening. "Momma, I'm trying to be patient with you." She's on tip-toe, "Momma, I'm trying to be patient with you. I don't know if I can, but I'm trying to." She circles me like a tether ball.

"Momma?"

Janie grabs my hand, "Can you read me a story?" A pile of books at the bottom of the stairs. A hand to hold.

A leash of love.

Confession

She's perched on the top bunk. Her blue eyes roam the ceiling as if an answer were tucked between the wooden boards.

"Jane." She avoids my eyes. "Is there anything else you need to tell me?" I stare. My eyebrows form an impenetrable fortress. She's breathing in and out like a road racer. "Jane." I bark it out sharper than I expect.

She hugs the ladder and fidgets, all elbows. Then suddenly, like a pop-tent collapsing, she claps her hands, covers her eyes, and bursts into a whisper, "Dear God, please give me the strength to say it. Amen."

As I exhale, the room seems small. Even as she wrestles the truth out like a long splinter, inside I shrink down to the size of a penny. Courage unfolds and I am undone by a thimble-full of confession.

Day Four

"GLORY to GOD. GLOOOORRRY to GOD. GLORY to GOD in the HIGHEST!" It's a shouting match in the sun-room. The piano thunders with small fists pounding out fits of enthusiasm. Jack's voice echos a half-second behind Jane's, and Lulu is screaming. Day four of Daddy's backpacking trip and the glory's getting quite stout around here. As it erupts down the hall and across my bed covers, I sigh. Morning light pools on the floor. It's one of those moments where staring far off into space never felt so good.

Barbarian husband is off fighting the whiles of mountain trails, rugged peaks, hiking on past the pit-bottom of exhaustion. Surviving on the land (and dehydrated food), a communion of man-ness happens. It's the antithesis of our safe life. The antidote. How is it that danger nourishes the heart of a man? And glory the heart of a child. Who knew I would tend such rare commodities .

Blue Shoes

Blue, that was the problem. Janie's shoes pinched her feet because they had no blue on them. If you are going to have a favorite color there is no sense in being half devoted to it. The running shoes had to be BLUE.

I showed her the entry form for the St. Paddie's Day Five. Her eyes got big. The race included a 300 m kids run! Janie squinched up her nose, raised both shoulders. Hooray! Her 1.2 miles an hour on the treadmill were going to pay off.
























Then, there they were sky blue and soft like the leather of an old purse. The shoes practically climbed off the shelf and onto her feet. Laced up like a sigh cradling her foot, they were the slipper kind of the running shoe. Once conceived baby blue permanently adhered to the memory.

This is why at half past five on a Tuesday night we scrapped plans for dinner and headed across town to the shoe store. In our love affair with baby blue I had purchased the wrong size!

This is also why I was performing radio theater David and Goliath for the um-teenth time. We are always telling, acting, becoming stories as we go places.
























"And he said, 'GOLIATH, you come at me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come at you in the name of the LORD God of the angel armies,' and he put one of the smooth stones in his sling and he began to RUN toward Goliath." I'm pumping my arms, pump-pump-pump, "RUN."

















Jack interjects his usual, "Don't scream momma."

"I won't scream. And he's running, RUNNING TOWARD Goliath." I can just picture it, he's wearing baby blue shepherd sneakers and sprinting over the dusty ground, puff, puff, puff. "He's whirling his sling and...SWISH...the stone explodes out straight for Goliath, POW!" I slam my hand down on the console, a couple of receipts and a pencil fall between the seats, "POW, RIGHT between the eyes." I'm pointing to my forehead now. No one says a word. I hear them breathing in the back seat. "Goliath is DEAD."
























Craig turns left into the parking garage. "The moral of the story is," I whisper, "if God asks you to do something HARD you should always do it," I pause, "even if it means fighting a giant or doing something dangerous because God will take care of you."

A click-click of the blinker and we're almost parked. I sigh into the quiet eddie left behind by our story. Jane stares at her reflection in the window, "I would be like David," she says. "I would just do it anyway even if it meant I would die because I have Jesus living in my heart. I would just real quick say, 'Jesus, will you live in my heart?' and then I would do it." And all at once the blue shoes are so abundantly frivolous and yet precisely right.