Dates

"Mom," Myra says, "it may have sounded like I was talking harsh to you, but I wasn't." She blinks earnest eyes. "I was just trying to not talk to you with rubber lips like you've been telling me to."

"Ohhhhh," I say. Rubber lips, where you apologize expressionless, noodle limp lips. "That's good, Myra," I say. The end of her apology all grins and giggles, we sit there on the big sleigh bed. We blink into each other's eyes. "You didn't sound harsh," I say.

"Good," she says. It's a date. Every end-of-apology is a date, the sinews of love drawn up tighter.


***

"Jesus," Joe prays, "help me to not be scared in the dark."

The two of us sit in the suburban, the traveling cafe, another end-of-date, there in the front seat, just Joe and me. And just like usual we pray, gather up life worries and hold them up-up high to God.

"'Cause you know I am scared," he says. "We love you, Jesus. Amen."

"Amen," I say. And in that little eddie of moment, that cove where the prayer just sort of recoils, we sit, a slosh of silence washed over us. Then, "Yup," I say, unconscious acknowledgement the simple goodness, prayer. "Yup."

He nods.

And then the afternoon swallows up this tiny moment with the normal pace of normal living as if it's gentle cadence had not just paused to part the universe.

Gratitude:

6397. Prayer. We pray together.

6398. I get a new sweater.

6399. I make wool pants for George out of thrifted sweaters.

6400. Another dear family with seven kids invites us to dinner. Such goodness there. So much fellowship and gladness.

6401. Dad comes Saturday morning to help us with the kitchen. And my brother. And Craig's brother. Again. And still. We all band together, work-work-work until this project is drawn up in completion. All the help and advice is kindness to us. A gift. We are humbled and grateful.

6402. We slide into Sunday, a late, late night for me. Still, tomorrow awaiting my faithfulness in small things, small things that actually define us, I find myself landing grateful and ready for endurance. I pray that the mercy of God makes me patient and kind when I am tired and cranky. I picture this strength and realize I honestly desire it. This, what riches.

A Date

"Here, just a minute," I say, "I have to throw this away." Suburban door yawned open, there in the driveway, I scoop two candy wrappers out of the door trough. "You get in," I call. I flutter the wrappers into the trash can.

"Ok," Jane says.

I slip in behind the wheel, she in the passenger seat. Belts snapped, the cottony quiet of no other children clambering for attention, I draw an extra long breath and sigh long and trailing.

"Ya know," Jane says, "when you read your Bible in the morning it makes the in-between moments in the day feel peaceful, like when you're just sitting and waiting."

"Yes," I say. And she smiles, a gentle rolling-hill of a smile. "That's so true," I say.

"It's just peaceful," she says, "not like from a drug, but peaceful." She spreads her hands as if to trace that peace horizon. "It's not like the hard things are smaller," she says, "but it's like you are bigger."

"Huh," I say, nudged up against that peace.

Bigger. And bigger too, that quiet rest there between us, between the words, between each breath. Nourishment, a communion of quiet, we breathe, just breathe, there in the warm afternoon sun.

Gratitude:

6335. Craig roughs in greenhouse walls and plans the kitchen remodel all in his free time.

6336. Dan and Cerissa come over in the middle of date night to help.

6337. Jack continues to cook delicious pastries in the roaster over. It will be strange (and wonderful!) to have a working oven, one day, not too far off.

6338. Two friends loan me wraps, the beautiful luxurious kind, to play with with wrapping George.

6339. We meet up with old friends for afternoon dessert.

6340. Joe turns five.

6340. Monday afternoon, resplendent sun, we play with friends in the backyard, chickens out, swings up, mamas visiting amidst chatter and chirps.

6342. Peanut butter, walnuts, seaweed, treats and staples.

6343. The children while away out hours and hours in the fort out front playing with cousins.

6344. A new basketball finds its way to the kids.

6345. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I realize I am distracted, busy, and unseeing. I pray to stop and see, really see each child, my husband, and the arresting miracle of each day.

Family Date

"Like eat lots of oatmeal and homemade soup," Jane says.

"And fruit and sandwiches," Jack says.

There in the front seat, the litany of food interrupts my reverie. The car bounds over a humping hill, each cross street a bounce in our path.

"It's like you can't just eat chips all day," Jane says.

"Yeah," says Jack, "except if you're pregnant. Then you can have nachos for lunch every day."

Sunlight, soft through the passenger window filters across my face, more cross streets intersect. We lull to an uphill stop at a red light.

"Well, when you're pregnant," I say, "it's like you can eat good food and throw up or eat not so good and not."

"And you have to eat lots of little meals all day," Jack rallies.

"Yeah, and you're fat anyway," Jane says.

"Yeah," Jack nods.

Craig and I muffle belly laughs in the front, mirth like a ping pong ball volleys between us, our grins like rubber bands stretched beyond return.

We hide our flapping hilarity, disguise our voices with the rolling gait of normal. Still, Jane senses it, something off just a hair.

"Or at least the skin is all stretched out," she says, levity like tiny smile lines crease around her eyes.

Levity, skin, the tissuey crinkle of belly skin stretched and re-stretched around babies ensconces us.  Beauty, like skin all stretched out, creases into smiles.

Gratitude:

5642. Jane makes chocolate chip cookies.

5643. Jack wrestles gold. The family convenes for our weekly wrestling match reunion.

5644. Baby oranges.

5645. Hand-me-down quilting scraps.

5646. Why Revival Tarries by Leonard Ravenhill.

5647. Craig's mom stops by for the posthole digger. "Hi, sweetie," she says.

5648. I have my weekly communion with the women I love.

5649. "We found this in the closet," Myra says as I emerge from my room, bed-head and squinty eyes. She holds up the hook-end of a half gone candy cane.

5649. Pi Day - 3.1415.

5650. We make a family date of buying garden seed.

5651. I begin to knit at a more leisurely pace, frenzied knitting lulled to normal life.

5652. Betsy blows out her diaper which I change on the front seat of the car.

5653. I have my six week postpartum appointment, get a clean bill of health.

5654. Jane finishes her math book; we order the next.

5655. Life gently enfolds us with challenge and love. We hold on to each other.

Date

"I'm glad you had a fun time on your date," I say. I fold a scrap of hedgehog fabric into a triangle and stack it in the bookshelf next to other triangles.

"I really did," Jane says. Fresh home, in black and white stripe skirt, she skips down the last basement step. I brush fuzzies off the sewing desk into my palm.

"It's always a treat to spend time with Daddy," I say.

"It is." She staccatos each word, nods, the wide curve of a grin the defining feature of her face. "And he actually asked me some really challenging questions," she says

"Like what?"

"Like, What has God been teaching you lately?"

"Yeah?" I say. She leans on the desk corner, all conversation around my clean-up.

"And I was like, To love the other kids more and not be irritated by them. I prayed for that, and then God gave me A LOT of chances to practice it. I was like, WOW." She pauses and lowers her voice, "I kinda wondered if I shoulda even asked for it."

"Huh, yep," I say. "'Course that's the only way to get good at something." I stop, meet her eyes in a comma of a grin, water blue eyes.

"Yeah," she says. We blink and the moment courses on.

The basement sembled back to order we follow the evening upstairs. Craig barbecues. The children chop carrots. We find seats around the table, the liturgy of dinner. One communion leads to the next.

Gratitude:

5577. "Mom, ya might just want to take a few deep breaths before you come out here," Jane calls from the open car door. "Don't freak out. It's kinda a mess."

5578. We count down the bittersweet days before Olivia leaves for England.

5579. We close another summer with a small group barbecue. Another stride of friendship leaves us all standing a little taller.

5580. Pete and Rosie throw a garage sale. By sheer charm alone, they sell an old dresser for us.

5581. The girls and I have a sewing bonanza, the basement split open. I cross the finish line baby quilt in hand for sweet baby girl.

5582. Sweet and sour beets.

5583. Two batches of biscuits. Jane saves dinner. Twice.

5584. A new biscuit cutter and other treasures from Great-Grammie.

5585. Old sheet music.

5586. Gramma's cradle, the one from when she was a girl.

5587. Fried chicken, homemade -- on the farm of course. Joe helps Grampa clear the dishes.

5588. A friend passes on pink cloth diapers for our new baby. Hooray!

5589. Craig brings running water to our basement. A new era begins.

5590. We weave another week back to Sunday morning and begin again.

Mr. and Mrs. Mallard

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" I say. Myra and I swing our legs, a gargantuan garden bench our perch. We scan the river for Mr. and Mrs. Mallard no where to be seen.

"Like how many kids?" she says.

"No, what do you want to BE when you grow up?" I carve a fingernail into the foil and wax paper of a lifesaver roll.

"Like my name?" she chirps in ascending scale.

"No," I say. I flip a cherry lifesaver from the roll, pop it in my mouth. She nibbles the corner of a hand sized chocolate bar, a square one. "No," I say again, "what do you want to BE?"

"Like type?" she cocks her head. "Like boy or girl?" She tries for another nibble. A flap of gold foil pokes her nose. I clank the life saver into my cheek.

"No," I say, "like, what do you want to DO?"

"Oh." She tries for another bite. The foil flubs her nose again. "I don't know." She plucks the chocolate from the foil sheet. "Can't I just take it out?"

"No, it will sprinkle crumbs on your dress and melt." I open the foil like a book and stuff it back in. "Here, just fold it over like this." I crumple the corner.

"Ok."

"So what do you want to BE?"

"A girl." Red ringlets and green paisley dress, she scans the river bank. "Look, the water's bubbly over there." She points at a white smudge. I crunch the cherry saver.

"Who's the best girl you know?" I say. 

"Me."

"Who's the best woman you know?"

"You." We nod. The river rushes, a trickling rush from our perch. We swing our legs. "I would have said Jesus," she says "'cause he's the nicest one forever."

"Huh." We exchange listening sounds. "Excepts he's a boy," I say.

"Yeah." A neon green bike cycles by on the trail.

"Anything you want me to be praying about for you?" I say.

"Like at bedtime?" She flashes her blue eyes at me like blinking beacons.

"Anything you want."

"Oh, like bad dreams. I had a bad dream someone was trying to kill me." She strikes the casual beat of adult chat.

"Kill you?" I splutter. "What do you mean?"

"Someone had a bunch of animals they put out," she says. "And they tried to fire some fire on me and kill me. And then I tried to kick him." She nods to the commentary. I note her prayer. But I notice fresh how she's mastered the call and return of conversation.

Bad dreams, foible of childhood, we map the terrain, unmask the shadows, practice the gentle sway of words exchanged. Mr. and Mrs. Mallard never show up, but mother and daughter never leave.

Gratitude:

5426. The hot water heater breaks. Again. Craig fixes it. Again.

5427. Cerissa has the Tuesday girls over. She spoils us with salad, balsamic and basil. We dig perennials in her front bed for Rose.

5428. I make rice salad for dinner. "Jesus, thank-you that Mom served us expensive food for dinner," Lucy prays.

5429. Craig's mom celebrates another birthday.

5430. Jack weeds the whole wide long garden over and over. He pulls a chair up garden-side, gestures for me to sit, watch the show. He weeds. I recline, eat an ice cream sandwich.

5431. Dad and Mom join us for bbq. Craig makes burgers; we stack 'em high and deep. Conversation weaves with the trill of unexpected turns. We laugh until we cry.

5432. "Jack's feeding his spider some lunch," Lucy says. "I need some tape for it so the jumping spider doesn't get out."

5433. "For SHAME," Jane shouts across the back lawn. "Mom, he's gonna build a new fort just so he doesn't have to be in there with Myra." He hangs his head. They make a new plan.

5434. I catch a stroke of the flu, turn by turn become truly pathetic. Of course Mom know just how to cheer me, and Craig can still make me laugh.

5435. Peppermint soap, a bunch of bananas, ginger candy, more candy, lollipops, chapstick -- a Trader Joe's run.

5436. A green striped summer dress, summer aren't you almost here?

5437. We take the kids to their first parade, a Flag Day parade, farm town style. A family of dear friends joins us.

5438. "That is something I am not going to forget for a very long time," Lucy commentates the parade. She pats a haul of candy the size of her face.

5439. We bbq burgers on the farm. It's a shindig of friends and family and mustard-ketchup-drippy burgers. Craig's mom bakes three pies.

5440. Father's Day, one of my favorite days. I celebrate my father, first pillar of masculine strength, devotion, and love. I celebrate my husband, the wellspring of our home. And a shout out to Craig's dad, the first man he respected.

5441. Strength flows from these men, substance that is impossible to counterfeit. Hats off to the men who hold up the sky.

Rules

"Jaaaane, Jane come here," I call. The ironing board sprawled open in the sunroom, I press the iron down. It steams.

"Yeah?" Jane says. She leans around the kitchen counter. Poked out like an island, it marks the end of the kitchen, beginning of office and sunroom.

"Hey," I say, "you had such a nice attitude cleaning that up," I nod to the kitchen, the blast of dinner shrapnel cleaned and wiped away. "I just turned around, and you were gone, and it was done."

She smiles, her cheeks round out in apples.

"You did a good job when you realized you had to change your attitude." Had to, I wasn't exactly vague on that point. She skips over the lip of the sunroom down to the ironing board. I pull her close, kiss the top of her head.

"I was trying to figure out what changes attitudes," she says.

I pause, pull the iron upright. It hisses. "What does change an attitude?" I say.

"Oh," she shrugs, tilts her head, "you just tell yourself: I'm happy. I'm happy. I'm happy. And then you are happy." That effortless grin, felicity, soft and supple, I take it in.

"Yep," I finally say. "You're right. I guess that is how." I wonder how little effort I actually put into that kind of happiness. I press the iron over another seam. And then you are happy. The sinews of a new muscle begin to flex.

***


"Well, you're six," I say to Lucy. "Do you feel bigger?"

"Yeah," she says. We trip-trop over a curb, down onto a cobbly path. "I'm not really feeling bigger in my body, but," she trails off.

"Here wanna hold hands?" She slides her hand in mind. We pass under the cool of an enormous tree just leafing out what will soon be leaves the size of a man's hand. "Where are you bigger?" I say.

"Well," she trails off again as if the approximation of words were jagged and trapezoidal. "Like, I'm doing more grown-up things," she says. We tromp up a hill, cross a sweltery black road, and lip over the edge of the curb. Soft grass peeks past the edges of our sandals.

"Yeah?" I say. "Like what?" Grass tickles our ankles. Humidity encircles us.

"Mmmm. It's probably not stuff that you would really see," she says.

"Yeah?" A few more steps and we're almost to a bush of flowering onions.

"Like in Daddy's class," she says, "there are some kids that don't follow the rules. And when I was five and a half, I would just let them be. But now," she nods, her hands drawn in as props, "now, I go and tell them: STOP. You HAVE to follow the rules."

Something immovable flashes across her face then melts into smile lines at the corners of her eyes.

"Huh," I say. "Yeah, that is very grown-up."

We trolley hand in hand, snap pictures of tulips and daffodils, let the soft green face of lawn hold us.

I trace again that immovable arc, defiance rightly placed. Honor. Something like honor reverberates through all that humidity and warm brown dirt, tiny nuclear vibrations, electrons in perfect time.

STOP. You HAVE to follow the rules. Follow the rules. It's the staff on which all the music is built.

Gratitude:

5365. "Well, it's a new year, Lu. How can I pray for you?" I say. "That I would become better at singing," she says.

5366. A big pot of stew, the vegetables finely chopped, the Tuesday girls meet around a big pot of stew.

5367. A whole bouquet of new colored pencils, Lucy beams, spreads streamers of color.

5368. Cerissa brings me a bowl of minestrone.

5369. Soup, salad, and ice cream, it feels like summer around the big black table.

5370. Kale salad with cherries and pecans.

5371. Sewing machine oil.

5372. I service my sewing machine. It purrs.

5373. A summer dress all in stripes.

5374. Jane adds two fat quarters to her fabric stash. She strokes them like children.

5375. I finish a quilt top all in scraps.

5376. Craig takes the family on a frozen yogurt date. Joe finishes his first.

5377. Craig and I have our yearly conference to plan our garden. It envelopes a whole afternoon.

5378. Friends invite us to dinner. The kids disperse in the bliss of tag and picnic games. Adults weave food and flatware into full plates and wide smiles. Our many years of friendship bloom again. Once again invisible riches sustain us.

5379. Our pastor speaks on testing. Anything of value is tested. A statement of value. Even a $50 bill will be tested by the cashier if you try to spend it. How much more is my value than that?

5380. Past faithfulness gives us courage in current trials. Faithfulness. Faithfulness gives us courage. This makes me want to read my Bible more, to know the full account of God's faithfulness. Faithfulness is under appreciated.

5381. Lucy turned six this week. It's as if we've reached a tipping point. We all felt a little older but better and wiser too.