Myra's Birthday

"Can you put whip cream on mine?" Joe nudges a steel bowl, almond whip cream stiff and fluffy, the Kitchen Aid still on the counter. 

"Hmm," I say. He pushes his pancake a little closer. "Whelp, I can." Long swivel spoon, I circle the bowl, foamy white gathering on the end. "I can put on LOTS," I say, "but just 'cause you asked. Don't YOU do that. Ok?" He nods. He's all nods.

"Ohhhhh, that's LOTS," he says. I plop two blobs, shake the spoon a little and another drip slides off.

"Yup," I say, pancake buried.

"I'm gonna take my girl on a date today," Craig says.

"Mmm, good idea," I say, Craig blinking at Myra, shy eight-year-old eyes blinking back. He balances syrup and cream and eats another bite, smile and mooning eyes full like that cream.

"Ok!" Betsy chirps, joy garbled around pancake and a great herculean effort to swa-swallow that bite down. "I can go!" she chimes still swa-swallowing the tail end of that bite.

Craig shakes his head, smiles. Myra grins. And a smile slides across my face. Confidence blooming, twice and thrice, strikes gong reverberation. 

Gratitude:

6561. The plant sale opens, a smashing success.

6562. The children walk the neighborhood streets to deliver flyers. Confidence grows. Stress gives birth to ability. They speak for themselves and their business.

6563. Jane gives her first Toastmasters speech. Her confidence grows. The teacher encourages that the inevitable anxiety IS the goal. It's the only way to master public speaking.

6564. We celebrate Myra, sweet, light-hearted, deep-hearted Myra. She is a gift too big to appraise.

6565. I find the truth, that difficult conversations bring life, to be, well, true.

6566. We continue to teach the children that the most mature person in the room will do the most unfair tasks and without recognition. 

6567. I lament that the house has not gotten tidier this week, but rejoice at all the yard and plant sale work that is complete. I set my mind to embrace the extra tasks that lace through the next week.

6568. I think with anticipation about the children's next art lesson.

6569. I find a few moments to play piano.

6570. We land Sunday night with a promise to ourselves to get more sleep and find the weaving thread of contentment the hang the next week on.

These Times

"Wasn't that neat seeing a fast-forward video of a dandelion last night?" I say.  Fresh up the front drive, morning run in our wake, Jane and I visit, sun soft on our cheeks.

"Yeah," she says. It was." She pauses as if "was" were large and round. "Though I have to admit," she says, "to having a chronic dislike of dandelions."

"Hah," I say. "I know what you mean." And like that we are through the front door, the house quiet for encircling nine, warm light skittering across the hardwood floors. The morning turned past noon, I herald everyone in.

"We have to leave by 1:00," I say. Everyone pulls hard on the oars of time to row, row us all ready and set to leave.

"Joe's hair needs a little bit of guidance," Jane calls, hand cupped around her mouth, eyebrows and cheeks drawn up in bow. I snicker, but swept in the twirl-wind of gathering seven children into the car and off to Toastmasters, I forget about Joe's masterful hair.

"Oh," I say when the speech teacher pauses and admires the high-in-front doo. "That's self-made hair," I say.

"Yep," he says. A masterpiece.

Gratitude:

6543. We take a vacation to the ocean. So much family surrounding us, twenty-seven of us, we savor the relationships, roam the beach, and play and make worship together. Magnificent. We store up the memories like special treasures.

6544. Our greenhouse plants continue to grow-grow-grow into lush specimens.

6545. We settle into the comfort and routines of home like the chorus a song sung a hundred times. We determine to enjoy it as much as the sea, each thing in its time.

Chess

"Look, I can take two of your pieces," Joe says. A leisure Sunday afternoon, Joe and I play chess. The big brown table a fortress beneath us, I lean, lean an elbow out to the middle.

"Huh," I say my bishop and rook now both kitty-corner to his pawn. "I guess your right," I say.

"Only gonna be able to move one of them," he says.

"Huh," I say. A little bit of knowledge and suddenly strategy arises from nothing. The awakening of the mind is such a grand affair. And in this case it cost me my bishop. Brilliant.

Gratitude:

6533. Resurrection Day came again with all the celebration and humility that it brings.

6534. Joe turned SIX. I relish his generous spirit.

6535. Coleslaw, the best coleslaw, the world over -- red cabbage, sweet onion, fists of basil, and lemon avocado mayo dressing. We eat it with pulled pork. Then the pulled pork runs out so we start eating it on nachos. Then the nachos run out so it's just chips and still transcendent.

6536. Fresh groceries, the kind that fill up a paper sack and they have to double bag it. Lemons and cabbage and basil and mustard and ginger ale and cheddar and oranges and a mechanical pencil and lead. Perfection.

6537. The children have another art lesson and continue to progress in their artwork.

6538. The older four kids join a Toastmasters club. The first meeting leaves them chattering with excitement.

6539. Two beautiful baby wraps come to live at our house.

6540. I make elderberry syrup and turmeric golden milk from scratch.

6541. Craig and I squeeze in a date. We arrive at the movie theatre to find the film started 30 minutes ago. We have a mid-afternoon lunch together instead.

6542. The days gradually grow warmer if still wet. Signs of spring appear. Tiny green cotyledons poke through the ground and begin the new cycle of gardening. The yearly liturgy of seasons lulls us with it's familiar face.

Hand-Me-Downs

"Whelp," I say, "I think we are on at least step seven of organizing the hand-me-downs." The words leave my mouth pearled together in a long looping sigh.

The living room a castle of bins, clothes bundled and ordered by age and gender, I sink into the couch. We save meticulously, sometimes too much. A tower of donation items holds down the entryway. Bins on one side, bins on the other, it feels like parting the sea.

"Hmm," Jack says, "step seven of seven hundred." He grins. I shake my head, then nod.

"So true," I say. We laugh and laugh. So many hours wrangling organization out of so much blessing. It's harder than it sounds. I wonder what step eight will be.

Gratitude:

6522. Jack adds humor to our days, leafed in, gentle and without expectation of the hilarity that ensues.

6523. Jack and Lucy bake ginger snaps.

6524. A dear friend sends me a wrap to try with chunky fringe.

6524. The kids continue to work hard practicing art lessons.

6523. I learn again the good fruits of forcing myself to do dreaded tasks. Strength, peace, and tidiness appear, guests adored.

6524. The children continue to watch me flounder and then step into strength. So humbling. And yet so good.

6525. I sigh another tired sigh, contentment close on its heels. Sleep, the reward of the weary, I measure its goodness.

Dinner Guests

"Every time we have people over it's like we clean, clean, clean and organize and everything just spills out into a huge mess," I say.

"Yeah," Jack says.

From the passenger seat, he nods, sunlight skittering off the suburban hood into our eyes, the both of us picturing a blooming spectacle of crumpled laundry, toys and miscellaneous paper, pencils, pennies, socks, and sand pulled from the closets and beneath the beds, a fragile castle of organization toppled out the doorway, down the hall and yawning into the living room.

"It's like we pulllllllll eeeeeeeverything out and it's this gigantic mess and then we bring it up, up, up to a higher level," I say.

"Yup," he says.

"And then we just do it again next time," I say.

"Until one day we are just dusting the furniture before people come," he says.

"Hah," I say, "YES," the mirth of that faraway moment, gut splitting hilarity spilled across the front seat. "Yes," I say, the new Jerusalem of entertaining. Once again the bond of work shared draws us closer.

Gratitude:

6498. Dear friends come and surround us with fellowship. Everyone settles into the gentle pace of serving food, mouthfuls of soup swallowed between pulling oceans of conversation, reclining and the leisure of many elbows around a small table. All the while, the tidiness of a home cared for disappears, shrunk down to the simple goodness of air.

6499. A dear friend turns 30. A surprise party, all the children help, prepare cards, decorate. Such nourishing work, our hands made stronger, our friendships deeper.

6500. Thrifting provides new sweaters with tiny holes we sew up and a set of small mason jars, glasses for the children.

6501. Jack flips pancakes for the whole crew Saturday morning so for once Craig can lean an elbow on the island and visit with the children over pancake breakfast.

6502. We stay long after church to play with friends and visit. The goodness of life passes between us.

6503. A simple exchange and we finally have the perfect teapot, the kind that can manage a tiny trickle of water into a pour-over coffee stand.

6504. The children continue to practice their art lessons.

6505. A dear weaver from the US shows me great kindness. I take note of how kindness gives birth to kindness, the momentum always to become how we've been treated, every act a pebble in a pond.

6506. Sunday unfolds as if it were many hours longer that the usual 24 with children slipping into bed early and the week taking flight on the quiet wings of rest.

Fajita Soup

"Did Dad tell you to buy that?" Joe says.

A four gallon kettle of soup bubbling on the stovetop, I chug-a-lug frozen corn straight from the package into the pot.

"No," I say. "I knew to buy it -- to put in the soup."

"'Cause you have a mind of your own," he says.

"Yup," I say, a chuckle held steady with the corn.

"You DO," he says again.

"Um hm," I pinch off the corn bag to save half for later, then muscle a too short spatula through the gruel, the corn slowly spiraling into the soup.

"But Jane's hair really DOES have a mind of IT'S own," Joe says.

"Hah," I say. "It DOES." I pause to gaze past the kettle's rim. We smile and nod. He rhymes ideas, one thing like another, like another, and another. And I make soup. Thus we build the foundation of so many days.

Gratitude:

6485. Jack and Lucy tidy the family room and organize the library before I'm up and out of bed Sunday morning.

6486. We study the habits of tidy people and begin to map out some grounding principles.

6487. Betsy turns THREE. The day unfolds like a gigantic promotion. Every meal, every gift, every hug/smile/kiss, that shiny red birthday plate, her grin spreads as wide as the horizon.

6487. We celebrate Craig's birthday complete with homemade pizza and chocolate bundt cake made by the children, then followed by documentary night. Feature film: Army Ants.

6488. Jack and Lucy read obsessively on gardens, and every tangental topic, preparation for our annual plant sale.

6489. Life takes on the quiet stride of late winter. These are the work days, the gentle repetition of days that spell out the mindset for the year. Habits gestate right beneath our noses and learning gathers into more learning and effortless thought until it is a cornerstone we're standing on instead of some far off goal.

6490. And thus, we're poised to leap, clothed in habits made stronger by practice.

Bananas

"I already ate all my bananas," Joe says. Jammie clad minus the t-shirt, bare chested boy lopes into the living room and drapes himself over an arm of the couch.

"A-all of them?" I say, the ones he bought himself.

"Yeah," he says. I wipe a dried coffee spot off the counter.

"How many where there?" I say.

"Eight."

"Eight? Since yesterday?"

"In TWO days," he says.

"In 12 hours," I say, washcloth slack.

"Yeah," he says.

"Well, how do you feel?" I say.

"Great." He grins, now sitting upright on the faded red couch arm.

"Very nourished," I say.

"Yeah," he says. "I just need two more dollars."

"To buy more bananas?" I say,  my eyebrows rounding upward,

"Yeah," he nods, the responsible accountant nod.

"Wow," I say.

And so it is nonchalance and small talk unfold in gargantuan swaths.

Gratitude:

6460. Joe continues to unfold in full blown boyhood.

6461. Betsy demands a stool in front of the stove. Jack rebuffs then refuses. "Betsy is as stubborn as Balaam's donkey," Jack whispers under his breath. And yet the two find a duet of sorts as Jack prepares dinner.

6462. My new devotionals for this new year arrive. I promptly sit down and read to catch up. Nourishment fills my soul.

6463. I plan an overnight with Jane. We whisk away to house sit for a night and fill the time with chatting, the leisure discussion that unfolds between a woman and her almost woman daughter. This is a pleasure I had not fully pictured. So. Good.

6464. Jane steps into the role of no-longer-child with so much grace.

6465. Jack continues to prep and prepare meals and desserts. I feel like I live with a chef.

6466. Craig replaces the bathroom toilet when plunging, snaking, and heaven forbid, reaching his arm down the mouth of the toilet, can no longer cure its ills. He replaces it with a champion promising to flush up to 18 golfballs at once, should we ever have the need. Brilliant.

6466. I continue to teach myself to reach for contentment. Projects linger and progress at the slow steady rate of things that actually get finished. I let this be music to my ears and harmonize with its strains.

Get Out Here

"Get out here, everyone. Children, everyone come out here," I say. There in my PJs I stand, wool sweater and stripy pants.

Seven thirty and the cogs of the house in motion, children patter down the hallway; two pad up from downstairs.

"Did you not see that my door was closed?" I say.

"Um," Lucy says. Blank stares, nod, almost-nod.

"Yeah?" Myra chirps.

"I had a very hard time falling asleep last night," I say. "Now I almost have a headache. I woke up at 6:30 and thought, Oh good, I can get a little bit more sleep, and I bet I'll be ok. But I couldn't fall asleep with all the noise."

"Oh," they say, "oh."

"Yup," I nod, my eyebrows practically pinned on the ceiling.

"I told the other kids to be quiet," Lucy says.

"And then you were SINGING right outside my door," I say.

"Oh," she says.

"Lucy did clean up the end of the hall," Jane offers. Lucy, a half-smile under furrowed brows, diminutive mock-ups of my staccato-ed brows, shrugs.

"I've been trying to do an extra chore in the mornings to help out," she says, half-shrug.

"Mmm," I say. "That IS nice, Lucy." An appreciative-but-no-thanks-necessary smile, she shrugs again. "Thanks," I say.

"Sure," she says.

Then it's lunch, we're gathered at the old black table.

"I think I need to start practicing piano for longer," Lucy says.

"Oh?" I say.

"Yeah, I have so many songs I'm working on I just don't feel like I can get to them all in half an hour."

"Huh," I say.

"I think I need like maybe 40 minutes," she says.

"That is a very good idea."

And so it is, the arms of time enfold these children and begin to turn from children to something more than a child but not yet adult. I see the teen years will be something altogether different than the expected teenage-ness, something more like the balancing of a scale than the pushing of a bird out of the nest.





Gratitude:

6414. Brisket. Warm, falling apart, crockpot brisket. Meat cascading into soft bread and falling into our mouths like manna. Brisket.

6415. Craig gets the new-old-fashioned farm sing set in place, our rapturous eyes blinking happiness.

6416. Shortbread cookies, the toasted almost black kind.

6417. Craig travels to a conference and back. The kids and I continue the daily routines, the school day blended to real life, and our symphony of life carries on as if our beloved tempos could carry the whole endeavor.

6418. Craig returns home safely and carries on the continuing saga of kitchen remodel as if it were the work he'd been born to do. Adoring eyes watch his every move.

6419. His beard grows long enough to be silky soft.

6420. A dear friend offers to send a lovely wrap for me to try.

6421. Another friend receives terrible news and then horrible news on top of that. The burden is Christlike paradox of both unbearable and weightless. I pray for her trials.

6422. Sad tragedy of a third friend leaves me breathless. I throw myself on the mercy of God. I long for the day when all wrongs are made right. And I feel so grateful for his presence with me now.

6423. I find playing piano more sweet than ever.

6424. Lucy discovers nourishment in music. She plays piano, and it's there. She sings, and it's there. She raises her hands in worship, tender affection of Christ, and it's there. Something sacred lingers, the kind of something that seems too delicate for direct gaze. I hold it in my peripheral and try not to look, all the while staring long and sharing in her nourishment.

6425. Craig buys me barbecue chips. Swoon.

6426. Joe and Betsy help me finish some old chocolate from last Christmas. Joe concludes it's the sickness-curing kind of chocolate.

6427. We settle again into the daily routines like the comfort of favorite clothes. We let the familiar creases pull us down the familiar paths, all the while taken by the loveliness of being together. Minus all the regular struggles, of course. That's still there. But it just seems smaller and smaller each day, it's importance fading like babyhood.

Petals

"Seems people are like, I just really want to change the world," Jane says. She leans an elbow on the back of our 1990's black pick-up truck.

"Yep," I nod. Fall leaves stir in the breeze. We linger, a morning run fresh in our breath.

"But if you reeeeally want to change the world," she says, "you have to be a servant. Seriously, a SERVANT."

"Yes," I say. I watch her talk with her hands, emphasis drawn between her palms.

"'Cause if you aren't serving, you might get glory for yourself, but you aren't even going to get ANY glory for God."

"Yep," I say, autumn astir, we breathe and parse out petals of discovery.


****

"I really like that they are frank," Jane says, our friends, frank people, unusual these days.

"Yeah?" I say. Bedtime, we visit at the end of the hallway. Jammie-clad, we speak in whispers then lapse into full voice as conversation turns and we forget that the little children might wake.

"It's like they aren't afraid of looking stupid," she says.

"I know," I say. "Seems like when people are afraid of looking stupid, everyone looks at them and are like, Oh, well, that DOES look kind of weird. But then someone else will do the same exact thing without even giving a care and everyone will just be like, Well I guess that's fine."

"YES," she says. "It seems like if you do things with a certain amount of confidence," she traces the air, "you can do the most outrageous thing and people are like, Oh, well, I'll take that into consideration."

"Yes," I say. "It's so crazy."

Conversation orbits, twists, interlaces pearls of events, the morning run or bedtime jammies. The events all hang on it's silken string, whole universes. Gravity undone, we don't clatter to the ground.

Gratitude:

6403. We attend a Bible conference with the kids.

6404. We continue to putter ahead on the kitchen remodel. Endurance, we remind ourselves, is not a trait easily won.

6405. Thrifted cashmere. I invent a pattern and make a dozen woolen pants from the thrifted sweaters.

6406. Libby invites the whole sister-in-law clan over for a Tuesday afternoon. Seventeen kids, three adults, everyone heaves a collective sigh of enjoyment.

6407. Jack joins Craig on a work related trip, the men off traveling together.

6408. Craig's dad brings us a roasted chicken.

6409. The kids join me visiting a dear friend. We commune with an afternoon of waffles and tea. She sends me home with homemade Indian food. Bliss. Manna, both the conversation and the food.

6410. We listen to a book on tape all week with the kids, all of us hurrying to finish our work so we can shore up and slip into the reverie of a good story together.

6411. Shoulder to shoulder we work to make good habits in the midst of so many household and cooking inconveniences. Though hand washing and drying dishes, I hear Lucy humming a hymn one night, and the next, a whole smattering of children chattering away as they care for dinner dishes in the basement utility sink.

6412. Craig grows a beard.

6413. I work to find the good things right where I am at. Like low hanging fruit, they are right there in front of my face if only I will open my eyes to see them. I feel foolish for my angst and discontent, and in response, happy. Gratitude begets strength, endurance, fortitude -- happiness the invisible shadow trailing behind them all.

First

"Feels weird being served first," Jane says. Jack's birthday and a tower of pancakes circles the table, Jane first.

"Well, that's probably good," I say. "It should feel weird."

"I usually just shoot for the middle," she says.

Off to her left and just louder than an evening breeze, "The first shall be last, and the last shall be first," Jack says.

"Well, you'll be in the middle in heaven then," I laugh.

"Even if I'm last, at least I'll be in heaven," she lilts.

"Haha, so true," I say.

So it is, joking and banter takes on new nuance. Subtlety weaves the fabric of days.

Gratitude:

6237. The kitchen remodel begins. Demolition starts. And we sell the old big desk. A lovely couple from Switzerland takes it. Such sweet people I don't mind seeing it go, much.

6238. A neighbor brings us homemade banana bread cupcakes to celebrate the summer birthdays in our family.

6239. Family and neighbors stop by to contribute brawn and/or expertise to the remodel.

6240. The children while away hot summer hours flying kites with cousins, riding bikes, and splashing down the slip 'n slide. Finally the afternoons feel sufficiently long, like real summer days.

6241. The children continue to impress me with their ability to cook for themselves while we are busy working hard. Jane proves her stripes on the grill barbecuing burgers for the family.

6242. Joe recovers from a bee sting.

6243. I work through a bout of mastitis. Misery. Finally gone.

6244. I finish the autobiography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer. My abhorrence of evil and earth shattering adoration of Christ and his goodness ensues.

6245. At each turn God brings people into our path who love Him. Even the most unlikely places find us surrounded by those who carry His Spirit. I find this a great kindness.