Jane

"Hey, honey," I say, phone cradled to my ear. There at a bbq someone lofts a beach ball. It deflects off a picnic table and thuds in the grass next to me. I turn away to focus on the phone. "How's it going?" I say.

"Oh, good," Jane says. A boy in khaki shorts scurries over, grabs the ball, and hoists it over his head. He slaps it back across the yard.

"Everyone being good?" I say to Jane. She, home watching the kids, I called to check in.

"Yeah," she says. "Welllll, actually Joey was being kind of wicked at first, but then he ate and sobered up," she say.

"Ooooh," I say. "Is he being good now?"

"Oh, yeah, he's been being a perfect angel ever since," she says.

The cacophony of adults visiting and children volleying the beach ball all but vanishes as I listen to Jane. She waxes on about Joe and dinner and the kids all helping. I close my eyes and picture our home. Jane, she's a paradox of grace and confidence and yet eager for approval, carefully examined approval.

I'm not sure when the tide turned, but these days she goes after rightness more than pleasure. It's a strange turning, as certain as walking on water, as if everything and nothing depended on our guidance.

Like every great work, we fall on our faces and pray for God to have his way.





Gratitude:

6040. Craig starts decluttering the garage.

6041. We get and load the kids' new spelling program.

6042. Our tomatoes start producing well. Jack goes out and picks them everyday for me.

6043. We make salads for most lunches.

6044. I find a new pair of sunglasses to mitigate my light sensitive eyes.

6045. We settle into the school routine like a trail we've traveled enough times to make the turns without thinking.

6046. I connect with a new friend/missionary in Mexico.

6047. Jack makes zucchini bread with produce from his garden.

6048. I finish Plague by Judy Mikovitz.

6049. I finish all but the arms on a new navy sweater for baby boy.

6050. I buy some fresh, high quality cocoa powder in preparation for fall hot chocolates.

6051. We move Betsy to a big-girl-bed.

6052. My parents celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary. What a cornerstone. What a legacy.

6053. The old familiar turns of fall so close at hand we enjoy the gradual turning of the days. Each season rolls in new, fresh, and familiar.

Marks

"God knows how to dig a hole to China," Joe says. He's on the potty. I'm waiting for him.

"What?" I say.

"God knows how to DIG a HOLE to China," he says.

"Oh," I say.

"Yeah," he says. ""Cause God knows EVERYTHING."

"Yep," I say.

"Bad guys CAN'T kill God," he says.

"Yeah?" I say.

"'Yeah, cause God is STRONGER than everyone," he says.

"Yup. Hurry up," I say. "We gotta go. Church has already started."

"Ooo-kay." We clip-clop into church a little late but right on topic.

****

"Mom and me are the only ones that can take care of Betsy," Joe tells Jane. "Not you or Jack or Lucy or Myra. Just ME and MOM."

"Oh," Jane says. A grin wiggles at the corner of her mouth. "Mom, Joe says you and him are the only ones that can take care of Betsy," she says.

"Oh," I say. His eyes serious and round, I smile into them. "Well, I guess when you babysit for me that's true," I say. Something of mirth softens around his eyes.

"Yeah," he says. Me-and-you-you-and-me, I can almost hear him say. We smile the special grin of inside knowledge.

****

"Hey Joe, go put these away," I say. The rest of us immersed in chores, I hand him a purple and a blue colored pencil. "They're NOT yours. Find out WHOSE they are."

"Oh. Okay." He trip-trops off in his boots.

"Are these yours?" He thrusts the pencils toward Jane.

"Yeah, thanks." She sets a trapezoidal rendering of Jack's pants on a leaning stack of laundry, then retrieves the pencils.

"Ohhhhhhh," Joe says. "YOU were lost-ing them. Whelp, Mom found them for you."

Bare chested, sweater and button-down shirt piled somewhere southwest of the kitchen, he's down to cowboy boots and jeans. It's almost confidence, or maybe that he hasn't yet learned to look over his own shoulder but, whatever it is, radiates from his bones, effortless.

I think of two burn marks on the utensil drawer where he figured out how to use a lighter all on his own. Two perfect black circles -- Craig was sure one of the big kids made them. O-kay, show us how, Craig had said. Not this one, not this on. Here, Joe had held up the navy blue bbq lighter. then struck it so we all could see.

He makes a mark everywhere he goes. We all do, little perfect circles of permanent marks.

Gratitude:

5782. I find the perfect teacup with custom fit tea strainer. It has a lid and everything. A special treat.

5783. Mason jars, the really, really short ones with the big wide mouth.

5784. Fresh coconut oil.

5785. Our small group of almost 20 years now meets for our monthly dinner. Fellowship, there is no substitute.

5786. Fajita taco soup.

6787. Fried chicken and time on the farm.

5788. Jack and I spend a morning running intervals. Competition is gas in his engine. We laugh together.

5789. "God thanks that we got to go to church today and volunteer," Jack prays. "And please help us not to be tired tomorrow and even if we aren't, help us not act like it. Amen."

5790. "I could just hug you for hours," he says and hugs me tight.

5791. Hours. The days spin by a kaleidoscope of moments. By deliberation we treasure them all.

Pillars

"Betsy's frowning at me so I frowned at her," Joe calls. From the table, he shovels eggs into his mouth and furrows his brow at Bess.

"Why?" I say. I chop sweet potatoes like the slow click of a metronome.

"'Cause she frowned at ME," he says.

"Aren't you supposed to me older and more mature?" I say.

"No."

"What?"

"I mean, yeah I am OLDER." He shovels in another bite mirth replacing frown.



****

"Oh, we're going to go down a hill." Myra squeals. "This is the funnest thing E-VER."

"Yeah," Joe says. A loping hill at our front, we sail to Jack's wrestling match, top speed.

"See those stripes on the road?" Myra narrates. "Daddy says PEOPLE actually come and paint those."

"Oh," he says awe following the crest of her voice. We arrive just in time to congratulate Jack. A win.









****

"Mom," Jack taps my shoulder. Home again, he points at Joe. Toast generous with jelly, Joe spreads a swath with the center of a butter knife, hand awkward and novice. I widen my eyes; he flash-glances up.

"No. More," I mouth to him. He slacks the knife back in the jelly jar.

"Um," he looks at me. "I'll put that back," he says, and in one motion, plucks a sloppy berry off the toast. He plops it in the jar. It catches the knife handle and rolls slow-mo down the blade face. He makes a second swipe, lobs the berry center rim. He licks finger and thumb. "There," he says.

"Oh," I say. I mentally note the recalcitrant strawberry in the KIDS' jelly. "O-kay," I say.  He grins ripe with obedience. I nod, trace it's silhouette there on the knife blade.



****

"Myra CAN'T change her mind," Joe says. Ever-present commentator, he clunks my elbow as I type.

"Yeah?" I say.

"Yeah, you CAN''T change your mind," he says.

"Oh," I say. "You mean like lie?"

"Yeah," now shimmied up the back of my chair, he leans his head on my shoulder. "The Bible says Your yes shall be YES, and your no shall be NO," he says.

"That's true," I say. He sits on one of the desk's pullout boards then dismounts with the ease the Tin Man. He clatters off, his YES and NO still there with me.

Pillars of faith begin to form. Maturity and mirth, obedience and truth, he gathers them up one at a time, memorizes them until they are so close, so familiar, they are air.

Gratitude:

5740. Jack wrestles silver at a tournament. A pin and a technical loss included, he leaves with the sheen of something older imbedded in his face.

5741. Betsy turns one. A year with this child, and our family is complex and lovely so as we never could have imagined.

5742. A friend from college drops me a line. We catch up, exchange writing. Wonderful memories surface. Our lives interweave in separate but pleasant ways.

5743. Cabbage for sauerkraut, olive oil, a new Bible, the Lord brings nourishing staples.

5744. I near the knitting end [finally] of Myra's green tunic, just the linen stitch border at the hem.

5745. Jane goes on a date with Gramma.

5746. Asiago cheese bread.

5747. Lucy and I go to her eye appointment together. I find the eye exercises they have her do, targeted and rigorous. We laugh over Lucy's dogged determination. Unexpected conversations come up with the people there. Our lives overlap.

5748. I continue to discipline myself to sleep more, pray more, and read more. Small increments, surgical adjustments, discipline carves her good work across our lives.

Force

"You can't force people," Jane says. Her long curls shawled around thin shoulders, she sketches.

Exercises. Each child practices. Jane and Jack sketch. Lucy pounds scales. Myra holds Betsy. Joe recites fragments of Ozymandias as he balances breakfast dishes to the kitchen. Enveloped in morning work, world politics intersect conversation. A presidential debate, and Jane's tracing free will beyond beyond chores, beyond theology.

We review the contenders, but her main question: Why don't people DO what's right?

You can't force people.

"It's like a lot of things with Christ," I say, "he just presents the truth and lets us choose." I sip my coffee. "He never forces us." I say. The washer lud-thuds in the background. Jane zigs a few zags on bumpy line of  zigzags. Encircled in the navy stripes of her shirt, she chews the idea.

"It's like truthfulness is it's own defense," she says.

"Huh, yup," I say. She hardly looks up. Three quarter length sleeves and navy stripes, I watch her

Truthfulness is it's own defense. And it's own antidote. Speak it at any time and freedom will follow.

We slip the idea into our pocket like a smooth stone and carry on.





Gratitude:

5660. "If you want to play Trouble, Momma, I will," Joe says, "Do you want to play Trouble?" he says. Yes. Yes, I do.

5661. "Just a minute," I say. "One minute is like A THOUSAND minutes," he says.

5662. I discover migraines are a possible side effect of the vein procedure I had. At least I'm not so worried about the headaches I've been having.

5663. Thrift store finds, clothes for Jane, the backing for a quilt.

5664. Fresh shampoo, vitamins, and medicine.

5665. A new belt for Craig, black, simple, perfect.

5666. We learn to make pizza as a family and make it every night for a week.

5667. "Why does our conscience lead us with fear?" Jane asks me. "Because it is afraid of what we might lose." I say. "It steers us from evil, but it's God's goodness that draws us to him."

5668. Betsy starts calling me MOMMA, loud, clear, and with expressive eyebrows.

5669. "Mom, look how big of muscles I have," Joe says, his arms contorted in an almost flex.

5670. I make a new counter cleaner that smells just like a lemon San Pelligrino.

5671. I finally throw out the last garden bouquet, dried to a crisp, brownish on the countertop.

5672. Joe accidentally crushes half a carton of eggs in an unfortunate fall "helping" Myra make eggs for me.

5673. We find baby blue cowboy boots second hand. Jane and I share them.

5674. I continue to turn to the great grace and mercy in Christ. Perfect love -- this miracle encircles me.

Faith

"And without faith it is IMPOSSIBLE to please God," Lu recites.

Saturday night and she's pounding the memory verse for Sunday. I look up from a snarl of knitting. She's squinting her eyes, teasing the words across her memory.

"And with out faith it is IMPOSSIBLE to please God," she says. "That actually is true," she's stopped, eyes fixed on me. "Even if you try your HARDEST, it is IMPOSSIBLE." She rolls her mouth around the word impossible.

"Yup," I say.

"Yeah, you can never even do it," Jack says. Elbow deep in the kitchen sink, he leans past the door jam, nods.

"Yup," I say, "impossible."

So it is: faith, the evidence of things unseen. Evidence of the invisible, the suit of trump.

Gratitude:

5521. Sophie comes for dinner.

5522. Tuesday girls meet.

5523. Thursday pinochle, a circus of cards, cousins, popcorn, and candy, the memories flow like water.

5524. Jane finishes her checkerboard quilt top.

5525. Mom and I trade quilting chores.

5526. We thrift through a local second hand store.

5527. We have a work day at Great-Grammie's. A camaraderie of work encircles us.

5528. The cousins eat apples in the orchard and swing from the rope swing in the barn.

5529. We get a trunk and freezer and other pass-alongs.

5530. We trade pleasure reading books with the cousins. They give us some of their all time favorites. Bliss!

5531. "Do you need this?" Joe holds his blankie up to me then puts it on my back.

5532. Evidence of things unseen -- one of our children begins a habit of confession. A contrite heart, truth encircles us.

5533. Truth, the greatest gift of all.

Plait

"Do you think they have sort of a bad family setup?" Jane, orange long-sleeves and aqua sweater, gestures toward a man we know. He's bald and big in the muscular sort of way, almost towering, a white beard.

"Yeah," I say.

"'Cause," she cups a hand to her cheek, "about the stealing stuff." She frowns down the left side of her mouth, raises her eyebrows.

I smile into the blue iris seas of her eyes. "But God still loves them very much. Just means they're gonna have some harder things in life," I say.

"Just the kind of family that needs to be sewn together by God," she says.

We nod in that magnetic, contagious, way like a schoolyard sea-saw, up and down, down and up. The moment expands, but the wide spaces won't hold anymore words.

"Mom," she pierces the expanse, "can Joey come downstairs?" New scene. New moment.

"No."

A half skip and she tritt-trots down the backstair to math and literature, grammar and stories, a deft comma in our liturgy.

I follow. The day weaves, one rightly placed strand after the next. I braid the loose ends, just keep gathering and placing them in the middle. Bad family setup, there in the middle. Jesus, the tailor, there in the middle. Our bobbing heads, the moment turned horizontal, there in the middle. Weave and weave, the moments braid into ropes, long ropes of years. We all grab on and squeeze tight, swing for the sky.

I follow her down the creaky stairs another strand there in my hands.

Gratitude:

4834. Myra wakes with a nightmare. "Jesus, make myself not have bad dreams," she prays for herself. "Amen."

4835. Myra perches a roly-poly on her forearm like a parrot.

4836. "I saw a lettuce that is ripening," she confides while we trounce through the garden. "You better pick it," she says.

4837. Mom and Dad come for dinner. Chickpea ham soup, cucumber salad, fresh corn, ice cream with rum sauce, love.

4838. Craig rattles the front door. The children, all waiting, all circled around the table, cheer for his arrival. "He leaves a BIG hole," Jane whispers in my ear.

4839. I fetch bread from the freezer and find some bags of garden tomatoes processed and ready: Jane.

4840. Fall clothes, a new shirt and jacket, little extras, garnishes of love.

4841. Fresh plum jam.

4842. A girl baby shower for Cerissa and her beaming affection even when I muff the time and arrive two hours late.

4843. Sparkling water. Glass water bottle. Two.

4844. "Look both ways!" Jack shouts to Emma and Lucy when the deliver something across the street.

4845. "Did that hurt when they punctured your ear?" Lucy points to my earring while we wait in line at Costco.

4846. Gerbera daisies. Jane and Lu return from Cerissa's with brilliant red and yellow daisies.

4847. Another week looms by. We thank the Lord for a front row seat to all the action: love -- devastatingly full-strength, undiluted. Down-on-you-knees-completely-helpless-but-for-the-grace-of-God-faith greets us. And somehow the ground reaches up to meet us. All along solid rock, just out of sight, we plant our feet and step toward the horizon.

How Many?

"How many kids are you gonna have when you grow up?" I make grown-up talk with Myra, she reclined in a sea of legos, me cross-legged against the brown ottoman. 

Recumbent, propped on the palm one hand, she pops the other palm up, a five fingered staccato.

"Five? "

She nods.

"Why five?"

Her face, a spring peony, "'Cause Jesus love me," she says.

We nod and snap a yellow lego in place.

Gratitude:

4267. A cinnamon dulce cappuccino, the coupon and conversation that went with it, another friendship threads through my life.

4268. Lucy hands me a teardrop scallop of paper. "It's a picture of me and you on a boat," she says.

4269. Eight ice cream dishes.

4270. I introduce Joe to manners. At lunch, we have him sign "please" before every bite for practice. "Do you think he's starting to think this is ridiculous?" Jane giggles. Joe protests with a shout and feigned cry. "Alligator tears," Jack says.

4271. Jack narrates wrestling moves, context, and strategy while we make breakfast together. 

4272. We talk about why he doesn't wrestle girls. "I know, because we don't want our bodies to get pushed together in that special way even though we aren't asleep," he says.

4273. "The Mongols were in Mongolia," I realize halfway through the book on China. "I didn't know that. It makes sense. They sound the same." Jane grins, "You see," she says, "history isn't just memorizing a bunch of dates. It's finding out what happened."

4274. Jack wins three wrestling matches.

4275. The gang of cousins and siblings, parents and grandparents, hold up in the stands. We cheer and visit, share the burdens and joys of life.

4276. I fold a blanket at the end of my bed, putter and tidy up. Lucy tags along. "I know you're gonna put your make-up stuff on," she says, "'cause we are going on a date."

4278. "I know what a froggie says, : she continues, "cricket-cricket, cricket-cricket. Logan told me that 'cause his dad knows lots about animals."

4279. Joe pukes sweet taders all over his bed. I hope it's just that he ate a whale of a portion of sweet potatoes at dinner, but either way, I soak in the snuggles and coos, smoosh my cheek against his.

4280. We prepare for Lucy's periodic eye appointment. We pray all is well.

Home

"That's the way it always is: older people know more because they've done more and seen more," I say shaking my head over blooming scoops of brown sugar atop the kids' oatmeal.

I smooth a mound of coffee in the espresso basket, press it down with the tamper. Jane rinses egg batter from a white cereal bowl, the overspray a wake at my elbow. "Unless they've wasted their life," I add, "then they don't know as much."

Jane snaps the faucet hose back in place, quells the spindrift. She wads her hands into the hand towel. "They always know more," she says and brushes the towel up to her elbow.

I swivel the tamper in the espresso basket, shimmy off excess grounds until the coffee packs into a circular brick. "What do you mean?" I scrape the scoop along the shiny rim and loose coffee flutters to the sink.

"The older generation," she says and secures the white sackcloth towel back to the oven door, "knows more because they don't have as much stuff, and they aren't spoiled."  She nods as if listing the ingredients for the eggs and oatmeal she just made.

Less stuff. Less spoiled. A feather of a thought, I turn this over in my mind. She clips off to clear the dishes and rally rouge bits egg and crumbs.

My wide river of a day and the current eddies. Less stuff. Less spoiled. Yes. The election, another incremental change in our world, I realize afresh: this world is not my home. I pray to be worthy of the challenges ahead.





Gratitude:

3763. "Do you think chickens in Mexico speak Spanish to each other," Jack wants to know.

3764. "I hope we get lots of ads for our guy," Jane says of the election, "not that that gets people to vote."

3765. "We didn't call any of our babies Goliath," Lucy says, "'cause he's a very wicked guy."

3766. "It's election day today," I announce. Across the room, Jack widens his eyes, then bows his head to pray.

3767. Tuesday-girls at Mom's we pray for our nation over quinoa salad and salted chocolate.

3768. The cousins make a book club with our kids. Circled around the speaker phone they read to each other and make up discussion questions.

3769.  "You know what this apple pie is to celebrate?" I announce Wednesday morn as I peel and chop apples, "That even though Obama won, God is still in control." Jack bounds into the kitchen. "Really?" he says. "Really."

3770. I visit the night away with a dear friend. We even hop coffee shops when the first one closes before we are done.

3771. "Toot in the bathroom, not at the table," I warn Jack. "I find that pretty funny," he guffaws.

3772. Mom and I morn the election over coffee and pastry. Even in our astonished disbelief, the Lord is the path beneath our feet, the breath in our lungs, and the destination in front of us.

3773. Craig's mom drops in to say hi.

3774. "Lucy poked it out with a pencil," Jack says of his missing tooth. "We were playing."

3775. "Why aren't you leading in being joyful? The Bible says you HAVE to be joyful." I grouse to Craig. "Be JOYFUL," he commands. And what can I say? I submit. And JOY comes! Who knew.

3776. Saturday, the sky blue tang, we roust the crew and trounce to the local cupcake shop. Salted caramel cupcake. Who knew I would be 34 before I had the best cupcake of my life.

3777. We play games and eat popcorn all evening. Everyone practices being a good sport. Even the grown-ups.

3778. "It sounded almost like a violin," Jane says to Joey's coos in the bedroom.

3779. A treat for me: new eye make-up.

3780. "Why do you think adults have longer ears than kids?" Lucy wants to know. "'Cause ears never quit growing, "I say. "My ears are longer than Joey's and Myra's," she nods, "but Emma has longer ears than all the children in our family, and Ellin has the biggest of the bigger-ear-people. Logan has pretty big ears too."

3781. We run into our very first neighbors from our very first house and have lunch to catch up, the friendship still fresh.

3782. "Big girls get unda-wears on," Myra announces in the bathroom.

3783. "Daddy said he's gonna start running," I tell Jane. "I didn't know any boys liked it," she says.

3784. "Jesus my only way. Jesus wuv me," Myra says.

3785. "In Heaven we won't have to brush our teeth," Lucy whispers to Jack after they get ready for bed.

3786. "I a big girl," Myra chimes, "but Daddy's da boss."

3787. "You can have some of my lollipops anytime you want," Jane bursts when I tuck her into bed.

3788. A week of quiet before Thanksgiving, preparation, I greet it - eager.