Home

"I want to go home to our real home." Jane's voice glides on alto wings, soft in the coal black night.

Still, in the hush of a long drive home, I smile. "Ya mean not our fake home?" I banter. Craig chuckles. I stretch my smile long and feel the pleasant tug fill my face.

"Yeah," she counters. The rolling marbles of mirth settle. Street lights, apricot orange in the soot black sky, whisk past.

"Where's our fake home?" Craig probes.

"It's where we're going now." Her face an open peony, she glances at Joey, strapped into the carseat at her elbow. She plucks up the slumber-limp hand, wraps his tiny fingers around her thumb.

"Where's our real home?" he returns.

"Heaven." She waves Joe's hand then glances at Craig in the rearview mirror. She looks away; he glances at her; I watch them both. The ordinary moves of conversation unfold.

"I pray for Jesus to come back," I add and look away before they see me spying.

"You mean before--" her words enfold in the strum of Joy To The World full and acoustic in the suburban.

"What?" I turn to face her, capture her words.

"You mean before a loaf of bread costs more than a day's pay?" she says audible now above joyous strum of guitar.

As she replies, I replay the words, press them flat in my mind. Revelation 6. "Yeah," I say. A loaf of bread for a day's wage. I let the long view of the world fill my mind as we sail on home.





Gratitude:

4001. "I got all my Christmas wrapping done before," Jane sing-songs, Christmas Eve just begun, "so I could be like, ok, let's just enjoy the Christmas Recess."

4002. We celebrate the birth of Jesus with family, exchange gifts, enjoy the camaraderie of people we love.

4003. "Momma, watch this," Myra chirps. "I'm walking on my tip-toes. Yeah," she nods at the cool-ness of it.

4004. "Mom, what's gonna be for lunch?" Jack asks. "I hope it's just nutmeg logs," he dreams.

4005. Myra promenades past Joe and me shored up on the couch. She stops, observes him nursing. "Momma, Joe's trying to get milk out of there," she concludes.

4006. I meet up with my mom, and we chatter a morning away -- grocery shopping and coffee the perfect backdrop.

4007. Fennel. Ginger root. Peanut sauce. Trader Joe's Everyday Seasoning. Great spices make beans delicious.

4008. We make more peppermint bark popcorn.

4009. "Mom, we're gonna play Narnia today," Lucy announces. "And I've got a gun, and Jack's got a bow and arrow."

4010. Friends invite the whole lot of us to dinner. Italian beef on ciabatta rolls, angel food and berries-n-cream, coffee, conversation that weaves and encircles the belly-laughs of our children, the night blesses us.

4011. I confess to the kids that back in ancient Egypt the children actually didn't wear clothes. "Do you think they still do that from tome to time in Egypt today?" Jack wants to know.

4012. Myra dog-piles Craig, wallops Jack in the ear. "Oh, watch out!" I call. "What do you say when you accidentally kick someone in the head?" She straightens up. "Thank-you," she says.

4013. We continue our talk of heaven. "Then I can see Corrie ten Boom," Janie says, "and Uncle Kevin and Ronald Reagan."

4014. We come to rest after a month of celebration and find strength for the new year has gathered and grown, a secret underneath our feet.

Lucy

"Do you know what is my favorite part?" Lucy scritch-scratches colors on a sheet of paper. She peels the cerulean blue a bit more.

"What?" I say.

"The part that is burning that God made for the Devil," she says. Sprawled tummy-down on the rug, a shoebox of crayons sidled up next to her, Lu rubs blues and reds into the lumpy soft paper, a smudge of yellow, a swipe of orange.

"Hell?" I frown. Settled into the old black couch, Joe under an arm, feet propped on the coffee table, I watch Lucy.

"Yeah." She scruffs out more flaxen yellow, scarlet, tangerine. They warble and twist, a collision of hues. I wonder about her bad dreams, the scary people that say they will cut off her toes, the ones that chase her until she wakes up and comes to me in the middle of the night -- to pray.

"I hope Great-Grampa turns to Jesus before we all go dead," she blurts. "Because when we die, Jesus will check our hearts to see if we love God, and if we don't, we are on the Devil's team."

I watch her stroke more blue onto that paper. "Yep." I wonder if she's remembering how I had said Hell is made for the Devil and his angels.

She pauses, glances at me from the corner of her eye. "Can you not be loud for a minute?"

Lost in my thoughts, I draw Joe a little closer, gaze at Lu. She tucks her chin, squeezes shut her eyes. Seconds unroll.

"Ok. You can be loud now. I was praying for someone to turn to God." She smooths on more cerulean. "For Great-Grampa." She bobbles her head, raises her brows, "Maybe God is talking to Great-Grampa. Right. Now."

I nod, picture Grampa back in Montana, middle of the morning, that big library of a house.

The soft rustle of crayons on paper on carpet lulls with each stroke. Shush-shush. Lucy holds the crayon all wrong, brushes on more apricot and golden sand yellow.  Shush-shush-shush. She cocks her head, chews her lip.

"Do you think I should cut out this part that is God and hug him?" She jab a corner of the paper.

Hug him. "Sure."

"Or the Bible?" she says and pokes another corner. She looks up, contemplates out the picture window, the miles of green, staccatos of orange zinnia, an old gray fence.

"You might hug the Bible," I say.

"Yeah." She nods, brushes her finger over the crayon wax. "Buh-Buh-Bible," she says and fiddles on more cerise.

Bible, God, Hell, it all weaves together. And so we talk theology and try to figure out how to hug God.

Gratitude:

3586. "Is there anything else I can do to please you now that I cleared the table?" Jane rings in the new week.

3587. "When you're done do you want to study the grasshopper?" Jack asks at breakfast.

3588. "My next grasshopper I want to call Grass Gordon," Jack chatters. "They're real eaters. They're mostly eating all the time. Lucy, what's 1 + 2? I need you to know 'cause that's how many grasshoppers we have."

3589. "I just like to feed them and hold them and take care of them," he says.

3590. "I have slepten with one of the grasshoppers," he confesses. "I just put him under the covers. That's how much I like them."

3591. Craig takes an afternoon golfing with my dad.

3592. A grasshopper escapes in the house. "I was just trying to hold him," Lucy explains.

3593. "Mom, are you an optimist or a pessimist?" Jack asks.

3594. "Wobber, wobber, I see the wobber," Myra shouts at a cat in the garden,"by the 'matoes."

3595. Tuesday at Mom's. The weekly rhythm. Taco soup and cheddar cheese, prayer. A fermata. We miss the girls that can't come.

3596. "Mommy, wanna know what we do?" Lucy asks. "We tell the truth, that's what we do."

3597. Lucy watches me put on mascara, "What does that do? Make your eyes smell good?"

3598. "Ugh. Myra spilled my coffee," I grouse. "Well, that will take the pee smell out of the house," Jane consoles.

3599. We gather in prayer for a dear friend in unending pain, a medical mystery. Craig prays. The children watch and copy, make paper airplane notes, and carry in their hearts the image of their father on bended knee.

3600. We enjoy the treat of family pictures. Up in the woods amongst vintage furniture, antique trunks, couches, an old pick-up truck, quilts, glassy pond, love unfurls, the life of our party. Rose captures the love.

3601. We carpool on the mini-roadtrip to our photo shoot. Chit-chat, pizza, Pepsi, and every seat of the suburban filled.

3602. Buckets in hand we plod home from the plum orchard, laden.

3603. Dinner on the farm topped off with swatsbin pie all anise sweet.

3604. I practice more lessons on patience -- poorly. I compare notes with Mom. We zero in on the antidote: prayer. Pray for more patience. So simple. And since love is patient, it's really like praying for love.

3605. "Laugh," Myra commands. "Mom, laugh. Ha-ha-ha," she demonstrates, "Mom laugh. Watch me." Joe stops nursing to watch the spectacle.

3606. Craig's brother brings over fresh deer sausage to share with us.

3607. "Since my grasshopper wasn't even moving at nap time today, that probably means he was napping," Lucy fills me in. "My little child, my grasshopper child," she says.

3608. My little child. I pray to nourish my little children this week. And I pray to bless and serve my husband.

Moses

"If you mess up everything in your life," I say, "but you say, 'Yes,' to Jesus, it's like you did everything right in my book." Jane hugs my shoulder. We snuggle down in pink fleece, fringe knotted at the edges. "But if you do everything perfect and still say, 'No,' to him, it's like you failed everything."

She rubs her cheek against my arm. "Oh." I smell her hair, kiss the crown of her head. "Can you tell me another story?" she says. "Just do the first one that comes to your head, ok?"

"Hmm, ok." Moses. The ten commandments, a golden calf, thunder, lightening, and glory. Glory. Moses hides his face. All that glory shining out of his face and the people are terrified -- a veil for all the glory. Just a glimpse of God, he's changed unmistakable. Just a glimpse.

Somewhere between the golden calf ground to powder, poured in the drinking water and Moses' face aglow, I hear it. There on bottom bunk, snuggled under denim quilt, Jack. Whispered like wind, "Yes. Yes, Jesus," he says. Yes.

Just a glimpse.

Gratitude:

635. Twenty and Ten, twenty French children who hide ten Jewish ones, parents dead by the Nazis.

636. Jane's command, "Read, Momma, READ."

637. Crisp red seedless grapes.

638. A Springbok of parrots, all 500 pieces puzzled together with little kid hands.

639. Salted caramel ice cream sauce and husband by the fire.

640. A book light.

641. Selling clothes and bedding we don't need.

642. How Jack covers me in kisses before and after I tell Daniel in the Lion's Den.

643. How husband refuses to be offended by me. Or anyone.

644. How he secretly tries to make Saturday a sabbath for me and does practically everything for me, except breathe.

645. That salted caramel sauce on cereal.

646. Sourdough cheese crisps.

647. Lulie's remark, "The paper towel sucked up the owie-ness on my finger," when she cuts herself.

648. Mighty Mike.

649. Cutting coupons while the kids cut flowers out of old magazines.

650. February birthday party for Craig and Rose Emily.

651. Gravelly croup cough almost gone.

652. Bed and warm covers calling my name.

Headache

"I wasn't licking her."

I peer over my book at Lulie. She leans on an elbow next to Rose.

"What?" I raise my eyebrows.

"I wasn't lickin' her." She blinks.

"What were you doing?"

"I wasn't lickin' anybody," she says and stands up.

"Oh."

She swings her arms, "Yeah."

"Ok."

Later I sprawl in bed, headache-engulfed. I squeeze eyes shut, just breathe. I hold still, perfectly still. Children cavort down the hall.

"Shhhh. Momma has a headache, come on." Jane encircles me with her words. "Come on, you guys, lets go downstairs." Their voices grow faint. I breathe.

Time tumbles, jumbles. I wake up. Squint, the door open a crack.

"What do ya need?" I whisper.

Her hand soft on my tummy, "I made a birdie for you, Momma." Jane nestles soft on me.

"Thanks."

She slips out, pads down the hall.

Dusk cradles me.

"I love you." Jack. He pokes a head in, "I love you, Momma." He whispers.

"I love you too."

He softens the door shut, calls to Jane and Lulie, "Guys! I just gave Momma some love and she gave me some back."

I stretch, wiggle toes. Breathe.

"Momma," Jane whispers, "It's 6:10. Can you get up and get me something to eat? We're really hungry." She pauses, slips out.

I press my spine back, curl my shoulders, sit up. Tender as a newborn, I move. Down the hall, I walk as if the whole word were made of water. Sleep falls away in layers. The tide of pain washed out, I crack eggs for dinner.

Children trundle up the stairs.

"Oh, thank you, Momma!" Jack eddies at my elbow.

"We made sure to pray that your headache got better and then came up here to say, THANK-YOU!" Jane chatters.

The evening snaps to motion, but everything is pleasant and soft. I'm baptized with gratitude.

Gratitude:

559. Headache gone.

560. Children making play while I rested.

561. The color-checkered bag Jane sewed for Jack's matchbox cars -- green ribboned drawstring and white label and all.

562. Lulie's prayer, "Please die for my sins so I don't have to go to Hell," and her follow-up comment to her prayer partner, "Here, smell my feet."

563. I blow up over coffee splashed on the carpet and sewing projects, I mean really freak out. A round of forgiveness and I tell the kids I'd go to Hell for that sort of display if it weren't for Jesus. Then Lulie wants to know all about Heaven and Hell. Grace.

564. Laying in bed with Luli, she whispers in my ear, "I like bunk beds," and tells me all about the warm side and the cold side of her blankie.

565. Learning coupons.

566. Peach pie.

567. Boxes of pizza. Garlic breadsticks. Gifts.

God

"This is something that a lot of people question among themselves," Janie says one day at lunch, "how is God made?" She leans on an elbow, bites into her sandwich.

"That's a good question." I slide onto the table bench. "What do you think?"

"I. don't. know." She chomps each word and then whispers, "How did God get made?"

I scoop salsa onto a chip, "No one made Him."

"How did He get there?"

"He's always been there."

"Interesting," she furrows her brow. I watch her look out the window into the yard.

"That's why he's worth worshiping," I say. If you knew how He got there He wouldn't really be worth worshiping."

"Why?"

I look at her sideways, "He wouldn't really be much bigger than you."

"Oh." She takes another bite of sandwich, looks back at me, "Do you think when we get to heaven we'll know how God got made?"

"I don't know."

Jack turns to us, "God might tell us," he says.

When You Get Big

"And when Lulie gets bigger, she'll get to decide too."

Jane turns to Lulie, "When you get older," she says, "I want you to say, 'Jesus, please come into my heart. Amen.'" Lulie takes another bite of sandwich. Jelly blobs out the side onto her plate. "And he will take ALL the bad guys," Jane tilts her head, "to a naughty place, and he'll take you to a good place."






Lulie swallows, "The donut store."

"No."

"Grammie's house."

"No, HEAVEN."

"Oh."

Jane scoops up her sandwich and bites the corner. They eat down to crumbs and lick their fingers, wipe their faces and tumble out into the afternoon with brother.






I rearrange the dishwasher. Heaven. Wish I could wrap my mind around that.







Gratitude:

105. The old hymns.

106. Fresh strawberries, sliced and frozen.

107. Baby fallen asleep in my arms.

108. Husband's big brown chair. And how he sat on the floor when I fell asleep too.

109. Summer birthday parties, family and the chorus of encouragement as we take turns to say what we've noticed about each other this past year.

110. My momma moved to tears at almost every one.

110. How Dad shakes his head at the end, amazed at the God-work in each of us. Us too. Like my brother says, "Makes getting a year older worth it." Such riches.

111. Husband's mother who finds blueberry plants on sale and shares the secret.

112. Husband's father who always says, "Come down anytime." And how it feels like home.

113. Little boy who begs to pull weeds in my garden.

114. Drippy ice cream cones.

115. Summer hours that linger with my children on the swings out back.

116. Husband who laughs at the beans I cook down to smoke and have to throw out.

117. The pickled asparagus and olives we served instead.

118. Muffin tins shaped like bugs.

119. More puzzles.

120. A date card to a restaurant!

121. A canvas photo of our kids.

122. How my children always forgive me when I ask.

123. That my parents always seemed more afraid of offending God than me.

124. The rich, rich love of parents on both sides of our family. Riches untold.

Great-Grammie

95. She turned 95 this May.

We named our boy after her husband. Gordon. Such a man. Such a husband. Wish he were here. Even so, a daughter unfurls the yellow table cloth and we celebrate. Grammie wears a blue sweater made years ago; all that blue coaxed in to stripes and a curving collar to encircle her shoulders.







Over rosemary roasted chicken, we open cards. The great-grandchildren cipher out scrawlings. Grandsons give hosta and a daisy. Her children surround her. Grammie blesses each like the strains in an old hymn. Each verse rings sweeter than the last.

Every day Grammie prays for us. Every day like Daniel of old, she marks time by her prayers. There on old blue carpet, brilliant blue in the living room, she speaks our very names to the Lord in heaven. Her knees grow tired, but her voice is strong. Each day she comes again, bows in prayer. Each day she calls out blessing and healing as she waits for heaven. Such riches I've married into.

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.

Breakfast

We eat oats for breakfast. On bright mornings when the table shines with sun I see a hundred hand-prints scattered around bowls and crumbles. Janie still chews on after I clear dishes and spoons, sippers of milk and coffee cups.

Between bites she drawls on, "Momma, how about we call Fridays, Gray Friday, I mean Black Friday," she swallows, "because that was when the sky turned black."

"The sky turned black?"

"Yeah, like when Jesus died." It's her favorite story. She flutters on. Ravens feed Elijah, and Joseph's brothers sell him into slavery, Esther, David, adventures of playing spiders with Jack, games of Billy Goats Gruff. Her words, a river of days, rush past me.

The bowl half empty, the table cleared and wiped, Janie leans on one elbow. "Hey Momma, in heaven will there be something greater than talking do you think?"

Talking. She blinks. For a moment we both wait. "Probably."

She grins, "What could it be?! Oh, I wonder what it could be." And a small pool of quiet is washed away with the wonder.

What could be better than talking?

Angel Armies

"If you choose the Lord your God, Lucy, you'll SEE God and the angel armies in heaven," Jane whispers to Lulie.






Later Jane and Jack ask to try out a homemade sling with REAL rocks. Jack waves his arms and spreads all his fingers to demonstrate. The belt and rubber band contraption looks like it really could kill someone, but I let them give it a try.






Everyday we memorize a little more of the epic exchange between David and Goliath. All audacity and courage, David runs to Goliath in the name of the LORD of hosts. The LORD of armies. Hosts.

All through the house and yard, my children slay Goliath again and again; angel armies poise for victory. Heavenly ranks descend from the skies invisible except in the audacity and courage of my little ones. Goliath shrinks, a giant smudge of a man now snuffed out by all the glory. LORD of hosts, the armies await!






Later I hear from the playroom, "Ok, now I am going to have to behead you." Serious business. Yeah, David actually cuts off Goliath's head. Anyone else forget that part?