Butter

"Joe-Joe, guess what." Jane tilts her head. In another era she'd have hands on her hips, but today she just sighs.

There moored at the bottleneck part of the kitchen, Joe stands tip-toe, his elbows propped on the counter. A red step stool wobbles against his weight. He clanks the butter knife back to the butter dish, blinks.

"We don't eat plain butter in this family," Jane staccatos each word. She scoops the pottery dish beyond his reach, then softens her eyes. "I know, it sounds sort of crazy," she says.

Joe, the glisten of butter around his lips, grunts disapproval.

Then, it's Monday the wide mouth of afternoon open and grinning at us.

"Alright, everyone suit up for bike rides," I say.

"Yay," the children cheer. They gather scruffy tennis shoes and helmets. I brew a cup of espresso.

"Mom," Myra jangles at my elbow, a blue helmet balanced on red cloud hair. "Jude really likes me because he like my BIKE," she beams. For all the beatitude in her voice I can picture hands clasped beneath her chin. "He maybe likes me BEST," she says.

"Oh," I say. Jude, cousin of all bluster and gusto, always finds redheaded girl in a crowd.

"I'm just so excited 'cause Jude likes me SO much," she says. I nod, her face resplendent with friendship.

They blast up and down the street, pedals spindling spools of mirth. The cousins can't come. Jack's bike almost breaks. Still, warm sun careens across our skin, fractures dullness and woe.

The night circles up at the old black table. We gobble bowls of soup, chew down bread, butter, a generous smear atop. And we unweave the day in gossamer threads of conversation.

The dishes pile in the sink, bowls balanced in uneven stacks, silverware pinched in between. Jane loads the dishwasher, the mathematical plodding of duty, the slavedriver at her elbow. Slog and schlepp, plough and drudge, she pulses the dirge of duty.

"Jane, stop," I finally say. I whip a wadded scratchie-pad from her hand, a bouquet of silverware in her other. She turns the orbit of her face to me, that same slow plodding. "These do not need to be scrubbed," I say. "Just put them in the dishwasher."

"Oh." she lilts.

"Jane, don't be slow," Craig cannons over my shoulder.

Like mortar in a stain glass window, her face fractures; a smile emerges. "O-K," she says, sighs. "I'll try not to do the dishes with my fingertips."

Fingertips. Indeed. She grasps the silverware along their full shiny backs, docks them in the gray washing basket. She whips a washrag over the counters, sidles miscellaneous jars and pans into place, and settles. Something settles across the back of the evening. Strength rises, wings unfurled, and we carry on.

That last dish clangs into place. I watch her, taller than a year ago, curls springs at her elbows, and duty a weightless banner across her shoulders.

Gratitude:

5348. Jack and I take a hike in the woods. A date.

5349. "I really like birthdays and Christmas," Lu says, "because I get to see Uncle Jesse and Uncle Dan and Uncle Peter. I don't get to see them very much."

5350. White chicken chili and leftovers, I love it when dinner guests leave leftovers. Jack says it's his favorite soup ever.

5351. "Please stop kicking the heater," I scold Myra. "I'm not kicking it," she calls from the other room. "I'm hitting it with a hammer."

5352. Out with my mom, the car dies. Twice. Peter rescues us. Twice. Love.

5353. Rosie arrives home safe from Europe.

5354. Carolyn and Ellin arrive home safe from NYC, a good report from the doctor in hand.

5355. Pillow shams, again. The melons ones go back; cream ones come home. The whole room sings around the white shams.

5356. Lucy pukes in the night. In bed. Craig and I stay up until 3:30 washing puke laundry and watching reruns. He lets me sleep until 10:30.

5357. Jane bakes brown sugar oatmeal cookies for Craig. And me.

5358. We attend Easter service as a family. Rapture. Surrounded by our children, we worship the risen Savior. HE HAS RISEN. HE HAS RISEN INDEED.

5359. Jack challenges me to a chess match. I win. He smiles. "Wanna play another game?" he says.

5360. The girls volunteer with Craig in five of the six Easter services. At the tail end of Sunday we catch dinner with my family. Reclined around the remains of a ham dinner and carrot cheese cake, Mom pulls out the prayer requests from last year and reads them off. HE HAS RISEN INDEED. We praise him for his answers.

5361. We leave some items on the prayer list and add to it.

5362. We get the bad news that Great-Grammie fell and is settled into the hospital. "Who wants to pray for her?" I call to the back of the car. "We do," they chorus. We bring her before our Savior.

5363. Resurrection Day. Greatest Day Of All. I bow my heart in recognition of my Savior. I am lost without him. Praise be to Jesus. Amen.

Popcorn Prayer

"And Jesus, I just thank-you so much for how I see Janie trying to be like you and trying to serve others." I nod as I pray. "Please just help us all to serve you like that including me." I bow my head over folded hands.

Popcorn prayer. Our children pop in and pray one after another, no special order. We just pray as it comes. I used to peek to make sure. Now I just wait.

"And Jesus," Jane prays, "help everyone to be more like me," she says, "and help me to be more like you. Amen."

From across the room, "Jack, your turn," Lulie belts, and he pops in, prays his turn, thanks Jesus for us all.

Prayer circles, and I picture my dad. My brothers and me, all fidgets and closed eyes, we prayed each night before bed. Dad sat still, eyes closed. And still, I hear his whisper, "Lord, help me be more like you." His invisible faith in invisible God pulsed like a heartbeat. It still does.

Now, encircled by his grandchildren we pray out that pulse, every night a new circle. As we linger, I hear it in Jane's words: Jesus, help everyone to be more like me, and help me to be more like you. Yes, that's it. Follow me; Follow me as I follow Christ. The burden of love.

Gratitude:

797. Ragged cough almost gone.

798. A bouquet of snap barrettes and butterflies and pink headbands.

799. Coffee with new sis-in-law and how she made the dinner eggs for me.

800. How my brother rushed follow when Rose Emily had to leave early.

801. How we linger long enough to piece a whole puzzle.

802. Family banter over baked ham and sweet potatoes and savory melon salad.

803. How husband helped the boy in the wheel chair at church.

804. The gradual steps each day to not speak annoyed to the children.

805. A birthday party for 13 year old niece, the wild flower cake her little brother decorated especially for her, and the grape hyacinth he plucked from the garden and poked in the side of the cake.

806. That Craig's parents showed up late, not dead. Being that we've never seen them ever even once be late, death was the only thing we could think of. Thank the Lord for a mix-up on times!

807. That 13 year old niece makes junior high look way easier than I remember it.

808. How the cousins play and play and play until finally dinner.

809. Silver cookie scoop Janie finds and buys at an estate sale for two quarters and four pennies.

810. How the kids and I gather to watch the washer fill up with suds.

811. How when we have company Jane sets the table and fills the glasses with water while I chop salad.

812. How Jack hugs my waist, nuzzles me with his face while we watch the blender whirl up almond milk.

813. Soup at mom's with sisters-in-law.

814. Baby oranges, yellow bananas.

815. How Lulie tells me she's named one of her babies Rockie, "the one with the giant eyes," she says.

816. And how she lifts up a dolly and says, "See, this one's big," as she bounces the babe, "his legs almost touch the ground," she says.

817. How cousin Rockie gets a fresh body cast tomorrow for the second six weeks.

818. A giant jar of red tomato sauce.

819. How Rosie flaps her arms anytime Craig comes near.

820. That for all my imperfection I am not condemned to Hell but healed and made whole.

821. That Jesus suffered the cross for me.

Jack

"Hey Daddy," Jack looks up from his paper, marker still bleeding into the masterpiece, "when I go up to heaven, I will show my picture to Jesus and explain it to him." Jack furrows his brow and continues coloring. It's a picture of the cross. "This will be my card for God," his voice quiet, it sounds like he's forgotten Daddy and me. "This will be my card for the one who died for me."

The one who died for me. Sort of makes everything else seem peripheral.

Resurrection Day

Breakfast and he's directing the play. "I'll be Jesus," Jack says, "and you can be an angel," he points at Jane and waves his arms, "that flies down from heaven, and sits on the tomb and says, 'HE IS RISEN!'" Jack uses his man-voice.

"And Lucy can be the women that come," Janie says, "and you," she points to me, "you can be the disciples." She turns to the living room, "I'll say, 'Why are you looking for the living among the dead?!" She turns a circle in her Easter dress, "Quick go tell the disciples and Peter!"

And so the morning begins. HE IS RISEN!

HE IS RISEN INDEED.

Sighting Day

At birthdays we all we take turns. Bellies feasted full, we divide up a lemon pie. Then, one by one, we say out loud good things about the birthday recipient. Grown men and women pause to squarely evaluate the miracle of you. It's a feast of words, the pie is just a garnish.

If photosynthesis were human we'd see it weave and grow right there between lemony bites of pie. The power of a word. ~I've really seen great courage in you this year... I respect how skilled you've become at your job... I'm picky, but you are the kind of person I'd trust my kids with... Everywhere I go I am so proud to be related to you... Your faith impresses me... The way you go the extra mile, that's the way I want my kids to be... I always laugh so hard when I am with you.

















This year to celebrate resurrection we offered simple sentences of God's work in us. One by one we groped for the words to encircle who Christ is. Layer upon layer we each offered our own portraits of grace. It was as if the resurrection unfolded there on a plain black table between forks and crumbs and elbows leaned in close. The layers of who we each know Christ to be fleshed out an image of my invisible God. I welled up in reverence, shame, and devotion. How is it that I've taken Holy Week so lightly? I left quieted in the bedrock assurance of God's presence. Worship, the starting point, when did I forget? He is RISEN. He is risen INDEED.

So here we are, simple offerings in hand:
~I am coming to realize I have nothing, nothing to offer God. Even my kindest acts have some selfish kick back for me. And, also humiliation is the beginning of humility. I should feel humiliated at my sin.

~God CHOOSES us. Breathtaking.

~Sometimes it is so hard to know if I am praying in the will of God. Other times, I pray for a small thing for someone, an extra, a blessing. I almost feel foolish to mention it. And yet, there God is answering with, "Yes." The kindness of God makes me weep.

~God's will for me may be different than my will for me.

~Passiveness and idleness are dangerous. And the devil is happy to entertain you, set you down the gentle road to destruction.

~God, please reveal something new to me this year.

~God is teaching me to find a sustainable faith.

~God is so patient with us, patient far beyond what we would ever tolerate.

~In graphing my greatest trials I see I have peaks of faith at every trial. I don't want to wish for trials, but I do want to know great faith in God.

~God always reveals himself at just the right time, never early, never late, right on time.

So there we are, it is sighting day and we are each catching glimpses, angles, snap shots of the King. There he is, there, here, over yonder, round back, disguised in the minutia of that situation you were sure he had left you in all alone. Sighting day.


Tell me your sightings!

His Hand is as BIG as the SKY

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(Click on pic for a larger image.)

He is Risen

Lift your eyes to the heavens.

He is risen.
He is RISEN indeed.

Resurrection Clothes

My children wore their Easter clothes to a funeral today. Resurrection clothes, I guess. Plaid and flowers hand in hands we munched over stodgy spring grass up a neat sidewalk to the funeral home. Inside my children's wide eyes absorbed black ornate rugs, soft and deep as quicksand, solemn faces, and I suppose, the knees of a lot of suits. Janie carried our handwritten card as a matter of rank. Jack held my hand.

With friends and relations we marked the passing of a friend of a dear friend. While people shared, I realized the shadow of this man was far greater than the man himself. I was struck by the indelible mark he's left on lives close to him. Funny, if the lighting is right, we are so much more than the sum of our parts. Isn't influence like this, a shadow cast far out beyond our feeble attempts at greatness. It's almost as if it sneaks up on us, piled up in small gestures, simple moments around a table passing the potatoes and carrying on about deadlines and raises and dessert. Suddenly before we know it, there behind us is a shadow quotient of all those days ironed out in a perfect silhouette of character. I was honored to come today with my kids.

I savored up mismatched moments of Jack and Jane racing over the front lawn, a flurry of watercolor blue and chestnut brown tangled in a game of tag. Race to sidewalk, race to Momma, lob a Cheerio in Lulie's mouth, refrain from tagging to the ground. Base! One of them grabs my leg.

In the end I left, shadows trailing behind. Each day I pray my face will be warmed by the light of my Savior that my shadow may rise up and honor all it touches.