Plume

"Don't." Myra frowns at Joe, eyebrows foiled. Joe hauls Olive Sunny over his head, grunts and grins, does a two-step-stomp.

With the skill of an incision, Myra yanks Olive from Joey's paws.

"I'm not playing baby any more," she chirps, and with perfect posture, she clasps Olive to her chest.

"Why?" I glance up from Lucy's sewing kit, it bloomed over my lap, embroidery floss limp and impossible to thread.

"'Cause," she says, "he's grabbing my baby when I don't want him to." She pats Olive and trounces off, shoulders square, eyebrows up. She gives Olive a nap.

The day unfolds, a paper crane of a day. And then, it's dinner.

"Myra, do chickens poop?" Craig asks. All eyes on Myra, she strokes a downy buff feather, soup bowl long forgotten. "Myra? Do chickens poop?"

"No," She pops her head perpendicular to the table, corkscrew red curls twanging around her face. "They just lay feathers," she says. Her eyes round polkadots, she puffs the feather around her hambone soup.

"They sometimes get poop on their feathers," Craig says.

Myra blinks. "Oh."

"Go wash your hands."

"Ok." She trifles from the table, buoyant on the ball of her foot. I pass her in the hall. "I'm gonna soak my hands in hot water," she says, "HOT water." She holds palms out like dirty socks. Ebullient navy wellies to her knees, she rolls on past.

The day settles, a plumule of a night. Then, Sunday morning, and I'm gathering the flock of children. I frown at my closet, try to goad a sunday best from my drawers.

"Mom," Myra sits on the edge of my bed, knees gathered, oatmeal smudged on the hem of her dress. "I can pick my nose and frow it on the ground," she says. She gives a grown-up nod, flicks something like chaff off her index finger. "But I can't ever put it in my mouf."

I pause, nod. She nods. I wonder if I should address the booger-flick or just race to be on time. Her face beaming, we sprint into clothes, chase bowls and spoons and flecks of oatmeal around the breakfast arena.

We circle up and land in the car, something silent and peaceful between us. The accumulation of hurrying with out yelling feels foreign but good. The children have their papers, reasonably warm clothing, and I hear the seat belts snap as we back down the driveway.

"Hurry up," I say as we tumble out of the suburban, "we have about one minute to be on time. Here, you carry my bag, and you carry my water bottle. I've got Joey." We hasten like prairie dogs over the gravel, scamper around the south sidewalk.

Somewhere between that sidewalk and the front door, it dawns on me. My feet feel so light. And warm. I'm wearing my slippers. Dear Lord, I'm wearing my slippers.

We scuttle in, my feet light and warm, ebullient like Myra's wellies. The plume of peace between us outweighs it all.





Gratitude:

5107. The cousins come to play. Monday bliss.

5108. Joey struts into the room and hollers his usual greeting. I finally realize what it is. "Guys, GUYS," he shouts.

5109. I sew a whole bobbin of bad stitching on my latest quilt. "Take it out," Cerissa says, "or you'll regret it." We commiserate.

5110. Rockwood Bakery treats: cream cheese danish, almond croissant.

5111. "And Jesus," Myra prays, "please help Joey to hold the babies right. Amen."

5112. Myra heaves a three foot lion up our stairs. "Doggie, DOGGIE," Joey shouts, flaps his arms, "DOGGIE." Myra, lugs it over the top step, dups it, plants a hand on her hip. "Joey," she says, "that's not a dog." She grins tilts her head in affection, "It's an ELEPHANT."

5113. Bean soup and baked potatoes, peppermint popcorn for dessert, we linger with family. Camaraderie infuses us.

5114. Coconut macaroons. Chocolate glaze.

5115. I tear out the bad stitching on my quilt. Twelve hours, the children watch.

5116. The children continue to perfect the ASL alphabet.

5117. A king sheet set in faint spring green, it will make the backing of my new quilt. I snug it away with my quilting essentials.

5118. Out come the light spring sweaters, morning sky blue, admiral blue.

5119. I knit to the armpits on Lucy's sweater.

5120. We take a trip to the local zoo: Cabella's.

5121. We round up Saturday and have a puzzle and tea with my brother and his family. We feel it, supreme blessedness, beatitude.

5122. "Do you think Grammie's gonna be happy when she doesnt' have to by steak 'cause I'm gonna shoot her some?" Jack asks.

5123. "Mom," Myra tattles, "Lucy was trampoling to me."

5124. "Joe, I love you," I say. "Good," he says.

5125. Leftovers. We eat leftovers for three nights this week -- felicity and gladness.

5126. Jane finishes sewing miles of fat quarters together and sails off to the next step of her quilt.

5127. I mull over a quote from The Princess and Curdie: He who is diligent will soon be cheerful.

5128. Cheerful. I shall work to be diligent.

The Guy

"What's your favorite Bible story?" Colored pencils slung between us, I toss out a question.

Lucy lolls her fingers over the lined up pencils. They rattle and scuff. "Probably one that has red words," she says, "'cause that's when Jesus is talking." She settles on a limey green.

"Oh. But what's your favorite story, like what happened?"

"The red word part." She prods a jade green and rubs the jade and lime between her fingers.

"Ok, how 'bout this: you think of a story and I'll think of a story, and we'll see if they are the same, 'cause the one I'm thinking of isn't a red letter one." I smooth out our coloring notebook and then  encapsulate the willowy fin of an angel fish in cornflower blue. The question ripples, buoys. I pluck up fern green and start on the fishy tail. Color rubs on effortless and thick.

"Probably the part where the tree is lighted on fire." Lucy strokes chartreuse into the gangle and tangle of seaweed.

I eddy between colors. Tree on fire. "When did the tree light on fire?"

"You know," she pauses, pencil sagged horizontal, "when the angel came in the tree."

Angel in the tree. I wait for the pool of shared knowledge to swell, include me. Angel in the tree. "Oh, yeah." Moses, burning bush.

"And then he said, 'Take off your shoes. You're on holy ground,'" she says. She tic-tocks her head side to side, plucks up burnt orange.

She doles out details, fluent, offhand, a spinning rolodex behind her eyes. "How do you know this?"

"I just listened." She doesn't even look up. Just listened.

On the way home, I ask her more. "Who do you think in the Bible loves God the most?" Again the question lobs between us, rolls, a marble in a labyrinth. We loopty-doo down a rolling-trolling hill south of town. I wonder if she's forgotten and ask again, "Who do you think in the Bible loves God the most?"

"Probably the guy who had all the bad things happen to him, and he still loved God." I can't see her there in the back, but I feel the firm earth of her answer.

"Job?"

"Yeah."

I trace her answer in my mind. It's all braille and invisible earth. I trace it out, "If you love God when everything is good that doesn't take very much strength at all. But if you love God when things are bad, then you really love him."

"Uh-huh."

The guy who had all the bad things happen to him. Love. I wonder what this means.





Gratitude:

4176. "I think Joseph was braver than all of his brothers because he was able to go THROUGH all that stuff," Jack comments.

4177. "That's such a cute little one legged monkey," Jane comments on my knitting.

4178. I quiz the children on integrity. "Integrity is like reading someone's mind and then doing it," Jane guesses.

4179. We have Tuesday at Auntie Libby's, and the kids get to play with Rockie. We all swell with love for her.

4180. Name bracelets.

4181. I read a children's version of The Tempest to the kids. "Momma, thanks for reading that," Jane gushes. "I just feel really satisfied now."

4182. "I know what would be good," Jack suggests, "chips covered in butter."

4183. We get another flat tire, the spare already replacing the last one, still I don't worry a bit. Even as I pray, I know Craig will find a way to fix it. And he does.

4184. I navigate another day with a migraine. When I rise, well again, Jane greets me. "I didn't clean the downstairs yet because I was reading to the kids to keep them quiet."

4185. I watch Craig express his authority through gratitude and encouragement. I watch him bless Jane for her help and her receive it. "I want to help you, Momma," she says. "Helping you all the sudden got way more fun."

4186. The migraine abates.

4187. We plan our end of unit celebration. I rearrange the living room and Myra comments, "This is ready for PARTY school."

4188. Craig watches the Gonzaga game with his dad complete with steak and potatoes.

4189. We learn the new world of woodless colored pencils, 100% lead. It's like going from drip to espresso.

4190. Spring sweaters. Isn't it time for spring sweaters? Lime. Coral. Mint blue. The weather almost agrees.

4191. Flannel sheets.

4192. Myra starts applying sign language without cues.

4193. I sling Joe over my shoulder, and he pats my back.

4194. Miss Lynne tells us about Tongue Twister Day. "Tomorrow you have to say something to make your tongue get all twirled up," Lucy translates.

4195. "Do some people not marry the person that God tells them to?" she wants to know.

4196. I set the kids loose in the backyard. Naturally, they fill the wheelbarrow with water, and Lucy takes off a rain boot to stir it. Later they tell me it was the boot washing station.

4197. Jane discovers The Secret Garden. "I'm really glad that The Secret Garden is a really long book," she tells me.

4198. I go out with Myra. "'D  ya want to hold hand, Mom?" she says.

4199. We get ready for church (no one faint) early. We arrive on time, non-frazzled, and gallop inside.

4200. On the way to church Lucy comments, "It's gonna be so wonderful when I get to ride on the clouds of Heaven."

4201. I run into a dear friend from college. I marvel at her genuine joy and sincere interest in me. I feel so loved.

4202. We give the three older kids headlamps for reading lights.

4203. I make coconut curry chicken soup with bell pepper and whole chunks of ginger.

4204. The kids and I spend the evening coloring. We eat dinner at the kitchen counter so the whole table is just paper, pencils, and elbows.

4205. I start reading the autobiography of George Muller. I take note of how he values his private times of prayer and Bible study. All the good things in his life seems to flow from how he nurtures this private love of the Lord.

4206. I square my shoulders to this next week intent to do what is right however I am able.

Christmastide

"Wonder what this is?" Lucy flops a mishmash of Christmas wrap like a leather strap over one knee.

"I don't know," I say.  She creases it in half, edges uneven then lopes around the ottoman.

"It's my card I made for Joey," she says. She clatters onto the black couch, plops next to me. "See? I made it for Joey."

She rests still for a moment, leans a cheek on my shoulder. I pause and jot in my journal. She scampers away, returns with an old bank ledger and black pen. She opens to the first page and forms a few letters.

"Can you write JOEY right here?" She points to the end of the letters. "It says: I love JOEY," she lilts. So I write JOEY. She captures the pen again. "Now, I'm gonna write: I love MYRA," she says and weaves the pen through more curls and curves.


***

"Momma, I can't wait for Christmas." Jane lingers, last at the lunch table. Propped on an elbow, cottage cheese long forgotten, she nudges the spoon.

"Uh-huh," I mumble, scurry a cranberry on to my fork. "Why is that?"

"'Cause I want to see Jack open his present." She leans in, clanks the spoon sideways, and ever so slightly, I lean in too. "I got him a blue one," she whispers. "He thought there was only one, and it was for me, but I have another."

She sits back scoops the cottage cheese again, cinnamon speckled, then idles it on the bowl's white edge. Like a kite string loose in the wind, she chatters. She flutters anticipation. "I also got Jack an H-A-T and a lollipop." Gifts unspool. She's a bobbin ribbon loose in the Christmas air.

We chase the last morsels around our dishes and dream about the gifts we will give.






Gratitude:

Photo from  Urban Rose.

3861. My husband builds a new blog for the family {WELCOME}. He builds it for me. {LOVE}

3862. And my sis-in-law makes the header. 

3863. "Why do you not like port-a-potties?" Lucy wants to know. "I like 'em when we're fishing and need to go," she says.

3864. "I'm trusting Myra not to break my fort," Lucy announces and trots upstairs for school.

3865. "When you hear me reading aloud that means I'm reading to YOU," Jack says as he practices his lessons.

3866. "Mom I store conversations in here," Jane holds up an empty lead container, mechanical pencil in hand.

3867. We meet up at mom's and eat lentil soup. The week-to-week friendship grows sweeter with time.

Photo from  Urban Rose.

3868. I make an attempt at a joke. "It's surprising when Mommy makes a joke," Jane says, "'cause she doesn't make them very often."

3869. "Wherever you go it's not nowhere," Lucy philosophizes.

3870. "I kinda like this," Jane comments on an outfit she picked out herself. "I think it might actually be sort of in style."

3871. Lentil soup, a bouquet of winter spices, nutmeg log cookies, and company. We treasure the time with my parents.

3872. We serve up leftover soup. "You should take two scoops, Daddy, 'cause you're still growing," Jack offers.

3873. Myra lays next to Joey on the floor. They hold hands and snuggle. Myra falls asleep.

3874. I sip coffee in the snow and go Christmas shopping with Mom. We trace the work of God in our lives and memorize the shape.

3875. I hide Christmas outfits for the kids.

Photo from  Urban Rose.

3876. We indulge in drinking-chocolate at the monthly gallery meeting.

3877. Winter jacket: green, down, basically a big hug.

3878. Myra finds Jack asleep after nightly prayers, and before we can stop her, she slaps him awake for a hug.

3879. We have dinner and an afternoon on the farm. Good food, coffee and dessert, football and cards, the afternoon encircles us.

3880. Another week wound tightly around us, I thank the Lord for every moment. In light of the terrible CT shooting, I am struck again how every single moment is a gift. Even the hard moments, gifts from above. I pray to treasure every one.

Photo from  Urban Rose.

Mighty

"Jane come here, I caught a grasshopper," Jack bellows down the lane.

Jane, feet jammed into Lucy's black flip-flops, toes curled over the front, heel off the back, breaks into a run.

"It sounds like popcorn when it hops," he whoops and holds an old cookie bucket above his head. "It sounds like popcorn!"

Jane lopes up to the clear pail. Puffing for breath, she leans her face down, peers around an old cookie label. Eye to eye with the hopper, "Wow."

"I might draw it when I get home." he says.

We nod, trot home.

Mighty, he names the grasshopper Mighty and gives him a fresh handful of grass every morning. The little pail migrates from table to coffee table, kitchen counter, bedroom dresser.

"Mom, I think grasshoppers have only one big jumping leg," he announces as I nestle onto the old black couch and gather Joe up to nurse.

"Here, let me see." I hold the old cookie bucket above my head. Huh, Mighty's only got one back leg.

"Mom, wanna hold my grasshopper?" he blusters. "It's actually kind of fun having a grasshopper." He plops a rust-red footstool next to the couch. Elbows on his knees, he raises his eyebrows, "Mighty was the only name I really wanted." He nods, tilts his head.

"Is he mighty?" I say.

"Yeah, like I am mighty." He flexes his arms for me, then taps the lid. "I made three little breathing holes for him. I just used a pencil." He holds the bucket up to his face. "He's actually kind of fun to hold," he offers again.

I smile. Craig ambles into the living room. "What do you have to say for yourself?" he jaunts.

"Are you talking about Mighty?" Jack twists sideways on the stool. "Looks like Mighty's eating. I'll set him down." Little boy settles Mighty on a stack of books atop the coffee table, "He can still eat when I'm holding him," Jack adds, "but," he shrugs and pops up off the stool, bends down face to face with Mighty. "He's trying to climb the wall. He usually gets up a little way and then he falls."

We furrow our brows and watch little Mighty.

Nod and shrug, shrug and nod, Jack fills the night with commentary. Mostly I gaze at his blue eyes. Matter-of-fact and blinking in time with each detail, I watch him memorize the little hopper.

Memory. We memorize what we love.

Gratitude:

3552. Jane helps me make lunch. "I hear them out there," she nods to Jack, Lu, and Myra out on the back lawn, "and I think, 'Oh, no, now what mischief are they into?'"

3553. Lucy canters inside. "Wanna know what that SHOT noise out there was?" she says and holds up a ziploc bag. "I popped this bag."

3554. My cousin comes to dinner. We make egg salad sandwiches together, sip coffee, and visit the night away in long strings of conversation. Craig and I tell her our love story and sigh at how it's still so good.

3555. Lucy scuffs out to wave at Craig, grass fragments already snarled in her pigtails.

3556. Salad and prayer and the hot afternoon sun, we linger around Mom's kitchen table.

3557. Dear friends and I wade another few chapters deeper in Revelation. We marvel at how it ripples all through the rest of the Bible.

3558. We forget Myra's blankie at Dad and Mom's. When we drive back, Dad fires it through the open window like a rocket. The children chortle.

3559. Myra squishes my face between her hands, kisses the top of my nose. "Mom, I love you hair," she says.

3560. Myra peels an orange herself and carries it dripping out to wave at Craig.

3561. Jack rambles around the house, his giraffe pillow-pet on a leash at his side.

3562. "Jesus, thank-you Daddy funny. Amen," Myra prays.

3563. I stir flour into bread. "Did you put the EAST in," Jack asks.

3564. We take an afternoon walk, "Stop, stop," Myra insists. "My bawtum stuck." She tries to explain and rearranges her unders.

3565. Egg salad, cucumber salad, green leaf cranberry salad, basil tomatoes, and little smokies, Dad and Mom join us for dinner.

3566. Jane props a baby doll in her lap while she eats breakfast.

3567. She writes a paragraph on how she loves her toy pony so much that the pony seems REAL.

3568. Burgers, brownies, tag, hide-n-seek, and miles of conversation, friends come for dinner.

3569. "Guess who is my favorite," Lucy says as we clean up lunch. "Jesus?" I say. "God," she answers, "'Cause he made Jesus alive again, so I think he is the strongest."

3570. Jane finishes her schoolwork before the whole day has wasted away. "I finally realized: there's no way around it," she says, "you have to do your schoolwork. Playing hooky doesn't really work."

3571. We take a trip to the county fair with dear friends, a whole troop of kids between us. We land home the middle of the afternoon and nap. Oh bliss.

3572. We read more Tales of the Kingdom. I try to explain how Jesus gives us each different gifts, special things we are good at. "I know what mine is," Janie says, "READING." I explain that Jesus's gifts are much bigger and sweeter even than reading and at the same time marvel at what a gift it is to be so rich in reading.

3573. Mom and I pray for revival in this land starting the only place revivals can start: our own hearts.

3574. Craig and the kids pick two buckets of yellow plums on the farm.

3575. We harvest sweet corn and carrots from the garden.

3576. I start Pursuit of God by A.W. Tozer.

3577. An answer to prayer: I find an earring I lost pressed into the rug by my bed.

3578. Craig's mom sends home a hand knitted blue blanket for Joey.

3579. A fresh pack of moleskin journals, black this time.

3580. Myra keeps calling Jack's grasshopper, Froggy.

3581. I hear a quote by C. Missler. "The secret to a happy life is to learn to delight in duty... Work is a form of prayer."

3582. Lucy lingers in the kitchen as I spread peanut butter for sandwiches. "You're nice," she blurts.

3583. She runs her fingers over my shoulders as she skips in from outside.

3584. I force myself to slow down and look into the eyes of each of our children, memorize that infinitesimal pause before they speak.

3585. I remember again how much I enjoy them. We dillydally and lallygag, saunter and dawdle, let gladness grow up between us. Mighty. We memorize it.