Like That

"And I found out she does homeschool," Jane chirps. I gather laundry from the bedrooms. I kick a pair of footie jammies and the remains of Sunday's clothes over the hardwoods out into the living room. Jane gathers socks and unders that trail behind.

"Oh, that's nice," I say.  She plops on the leather ottoman pushed to the side for our laundry arena.

"She was being nice," Janie adds, "even to this kid that was being a PILL as if she loved him the same as she loved everyone else." I pause. She nudges another sock into the pile of whites. "I wanna be more like that," she says.

Like that. I'm surprised she can notice.

And so we divide the laundry into lumbering barges and set sail for the washer each load threaded to the next with conversation.

Gratitude:

3093. How I go to comfort Myra in the middle of the night and she traces my earring with her finger.

3094. How she pats my shoulder when Joe cries, "Up there, up there," she says.

3095. Lucy's announcement, "Did you know I have a hard time going to sleep without sucking my thumb?"

3096. Jane's observation, "Sometimes people that treat other people wrongly have been treated wrongly themselves."

3097. And how Auntie Rosie calls and Jane says, "Can we ask Auntie Rosie to dinner? Auntie Rosie is just such a pleasure to be around."

3098. How we clean out some of my old books from my parents house and Lucy prays, "Jesus, thank-you that Grammie gave us about a hundred books. And I don't think she has even read any of them."

3099. How Myra has a near success pooping in the toilet and Craig fields the ensuing clean-up.

3100. Barbecued burgers, bleu cheese and barbecue sauce, classic Lays, slaw and cream puffs -- mmmmMMm.

3101. The annual Mother-Daughter-Tea in Craig's home town -- generation after generation gathered around banquet tables in the old country church.

3102. How my sister-in-law's sister happens to be in town because of a death in their family and comes too.

3103. Myra snuggled asleep in my arms while the guest speakers talk.

3104. Lemon pie with a layer of whip cream.

3105. Learning to know what I think before I speak and when say it.

3106. Lucy's birthday party and how the night rolls out one conversation seamed to the next and how my dad and Craig's dad carry on about fishing and golf and have Great-Grammie laughing and laughing.

3107. Notes and gifts given with love.

3108. Fresh bark in the perennial beds.

3109. Raspberry starts from down on the farm.

3110. Learning again that with our children, compliance is not the same as devotion and how to make each work for the other.

3111. Lucy's prayer, "And Jesus, thank-you Emma told on me when I tried to get Myra to nurse on me."

3112. Jane's observation, "That guy looked really old so he probably doesn't have very good eyes so it's good we didn't honk at him," as we pass a slow driver.

3113. How when I burp Joe on my shoulder he turns his face to my cheek.

3114. How I confess I've wrongly accused Lucy of loosing Jack's flip-flop and Lucy grins. "Eventually I may be right," she says.

3115. How Myra mimes the whole story when Craig tells me Myra and Lucy collapsed the lounge chair out back.

3116. Lawn chairs with cushions.

3117. Teal bathroom rugs.

3118. Craig's confidence when I crumble under pressure, "I'd rather be around you when you're mad then anyone else when they're happy." And how I keep replaying that when everyone needs everything all at once.

3119. Learning again that sometimes just making a decision is more important than picking the perfect thing.

3120. How the staff at our favorite Mexican restaurant bought us dinner for Mother's Day.

3121. How Joe whinnies like a horse when I pick him up.

3122. Gathering up the reigns of each day and praying the Lord teaches me to steer.

On My Birthday

"Is that a horse track?" Lulie points out the window, her pointer finger up by her cheek. Wide green lawn swoops by: the cemetery.

"No." I glance at the grid of marble headstones. "It's a cemetery. It's where they bury dead people." I rest my hands on the top of the steering wheel, "The whole ground is just full of dead people under the grass," I say.

"Oh."

I slow for a light at the corner. "Do you know what happens when you die?"

"No." She stares out the window, then grins at me.

"Your body gets so broken," I say, "that your spirit, the part that makes you, you, leaves. If you've asked Jesus to forgive your sins and live in your heart, he takes you home to heaven." I glance at the hot summer sky, "And you get a new body that can fly and do other things, because it will be like Jesus."

"Oh."

I glance both ways for traffic, and round the corner. "If you don't have Jesus, you go to Hell and burn in fire forever."

She furrows her brow, "We don't like that."

"Nope." I glance at her round face in the rearview mirror. "Do you want me to pull over, so we can pray that Jesus will forgive your sins and live in your heart?" I ask.

"Yeah," she nods.

I accelerate to the next block. "When will we stop?" she chirps as I round the corner and ease in next to an overgrown shrub.

"There." I lean into the door and hop out, pull Lulie's door open and grab her pudgy hands.

I find her eyes. "If you pray and ask Jesus," I say, "he will forgive all your sins. Do you want to?"

She bows her head, pulls her hands up by her cheeks. "Please forgive me my sins. Amen."

She looks up. "When they nailed Jesus on the cross," I raise my eyebrows, "it was like he was getting all the spankings in the world."

She arches her brow, "Jesus got spankings?"

"No. It hurt worse than spankings," I stare into her eyes. "They nailed him on the cross." She demonstrates where they pierced his hands and feet. She knows the story. "He was getting in trouble for you," I say, "so when you die you don't have to go to Hell. You can go to Heaven if you've had Jesus forgive you!"

"Oh."

"If you ask him, he'll come and live in your heart." I watch her face. "Do you want to ask him to live in your heart?"

Again she bows her head and tucks her hands at her cheek, "Jesus, please come live in my heart. Amen."

She looks up. We meet eyes. "Now," I say, "he's living in your heart!" I smile into her eyes. "All the angels in heaven are having a party because you get to live with them when you die!"

She blinks. "And they're having a party?"

"Yeah!"

I finally notice the summer hot blacktop radiating up my legs. We smile, and I hop back in front seat, whirl off. Errands suddenly small, I chauffeur a new citizen around in my back seat.

"So how does it feel," I query from the front, "to have Jesus in your heart?"

"She watches the houses skim by. "Just, just good," she answers. We let the moment stretch long. "All those dead people under the grass," she adds, "they went to Jesus and had a party wiff him."

I grin. "Only if they had Jesus forgive their sins," I add. Capitularies of belief snake through new muscle and pulse.

She nods. "Yeah."

And so it is, a new child born into the Kingdom. Faith and understanding grow each day.

Gratitude:

1136. Lulie's prayer for salvation.

1137. Her sing-songy, "You are hugging me, and I am hugging you. I am holding you, and you are holding me."

1138. Jane's date with my mom and how when Jane peppers her with questions about make-up, my mom explains it perfectly: Some women wear make-up so people will notice them, but we wear it as a way of showing respect, like dressing up.

1139. Uncle Peter and Auntie Rosie home safe from Ireland.

1140. Jack's observation, "Jane, if you put your head out the window and close your eyes while we're driving, it feels awesome."

1141. How when Lulie tries to snip baby Rosie's fingers off to see what would happen, it doesn't work.

1142. Yellow Clematis, dug fresh on the farm and hand delivered.

1143. Lulie's comment on setting the table, "I'm moving all the plates to enough room for the elbows we'll have.

1144. Jane's prayer, "Help us all to be long-suffering -- except for Dady because he already is long suffering and single-minded too. Amen."

1145. Morning runs with Jane. And her commentary on jogging, "It's kind of like I get a date with you every morning."

1146. How we pour over the race rag in search of a new race to run together.

1147. New running shoes for me!

1148. Pineapple upside-down cake, caramelized around the edges.

1149. Qdoba queso burrito, steak and mango salsa -- birthday lunch, knee to knee with husband, children at each elbow.

1150. How Jack dead-heads my marigolds and feeds them to the chickens, then pulls handfuls of yellow clover for them.

1151. A roof on the hen house. How Craig shingles it until a migraine hushes his labor and he rests.

1152. How Jack wants to call all the chickens Marigold. Or Poppy.

1153. Birthday cards, phone calls, and messages.

1154. Homemade Thai peanut sauce.

1155. How even though Rosie pukes all over the car seat two blocks from the chocolate store, nothing can stop Craig. He dashes in and emerges with 4 bars -- for my birthday. We drive home windows down and hope no one else smells the stench.

1156. The privilege of bathing and dressing Rose all fresh.

1157. How Craig fields the car seat.

1158. Coffee and chocolate, burnt sugar caramel chocolate, the kind that drips caramel down your fingers.

1159. Sleep.

1160. The foreign feeling of a whole week of full nights sleep. The obvious increase in my intelligence.

1161. Our children's prayers for drought relief in Kenya. How they don't understand when I say people will be dead by Christmas if no one helps. And so they pray.

1162. More sketches and drawing class, daisies and lilies splayed bold.

1163. A visit from my cousin and her four children. How she practically brings a whole farmer's market with her. Deep bedrock kindness, unmistakable, unquenchable.

1164. Pictures from Pete and Rose's wedding.

1165. How we settle and linger and tease the moments out long with family.

1166. How I learn what good, good men my brother are from spending time with their wives.

1167. My sis-in-law's new blog.

1168. How Jane carries a tiny bottle of water when we run in case she gets thirsty.

1169. How Craig's brother is a teacher so they conspire on chicken coop plans and projects all summer.

1170. Cards from my children, letters scrawled out like works of art.

1171. How I stumble across an old note jotted to myself two years ago. I ask Jane how she is going to change the world. "Have kids," she says as if it were as obvious as the sun in the sky.

1172. Me too. My greatest footprint in this next generation is with her. And Jack, and Lulie, and Rose. Influence untold, it's almost too big to see.

Woman

"A bouncy ball." Lulie pokes a mole below my collar bone. "A bouncy ball."

"Don't." I shoo her chubby finger.

Poke. "A tiny bouncy ball."

"Honey don't, that hurts."

"A bouncy ball," she chimes, finger pointed.

I cover the nubby, "Lucy."

"When I be a woman," she says, "I will have a bouncy ball too."

And like the long sigh, the nervous hum, the occasional sniff, my children gather my flaws and call them perfect.

Moon

"Momma, Lucy's hanging on the dresser and about to fall off!" Jane and Jack thump bare feet down the hall. "Momma!" they shout.

I follow their bluster, peel little fingers off dresser top.

"What were you doing on here?" I hold Lu dangled mid air. "What were you doing?"

She kicks the air. "I was looking for the MOON."

I buoy piggy-tails up to the window. "See?"

Lulie blinks.

"She thought the moom fell in the yard," Jane pipes from top bunk.

"Yeah, I tot it fell in the yard."

"Oh." We stare at the back fence. "Nope." I swing red jammie-feet into bed. "Here you go." She rubs a jersey edge of blankie on her cheek, sucks thumb.

I snuggle down next to her, and she plops blankie-B on my chest. We pull denim covers under our chins.

"I'm born," Lulie says.

"Yup."

She hugs her shoulders. "Is the Rosie born?"

"Yup. Do you know what born means?"

"No."

"It means you popped out."

"Out of Mommy's tummy?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." She nuzzles blankie, gives a few sucks on thumb.

"I'm gonna beat you to sleep," she marbles around thumbie.

"What?"

"I'm gonna beat you to sleep because you aren't suckin' your thumb."

"Oh." I smile, poke her with my elbow. She grins. We lay still and let the night roll in.

Gratitude:

608. Lentil soup simmered hot.

609. Coconut milk, rosemary, made-from-scratch stock.

610. Celery, carrots, and onion chopped by Janie, Jack, and Lu while I nurse Rose.

611. Hand-me-downs orbited into bins and sweet, sweet organization.

612. Friend's insistence that it would be fun to help. Fun?!

613. A splashy kitchen apron, all flowers and a pocket with green polka-dot button.

614. A new jacket, the kind momma accidentally shrunk to just my size.

615. Lucy, blanket wadded, "This one is NEWBORN," she says. Newborn-blankie.

616. How she thanks Jesus for DUMPLIN'. And I have to ask and ask before I finally understand she calls her babies, Dumplin'.

617. Fresh apples, fresh grapes, yellow bananas.

618. Dinner guests that captivate us with stories of gangs and travel, football and gambling, their wide smiles, and belly laughs, and how he says, "Pretty soon I didn't hold back at all and just asked whatever question I wanted." And Christ's love tumbled between the stories and his wife's smile when he remembers their anniversary.

619. A honeydew melon.

620. Strong Daddy-arms that carry croupy-boy out in the cold night.

621. Husband's smile when I make another apron and wear it around. And how he wants to know if it's for always or a Scottish thing or what.

622. How Janie says the apron is outstanding, just outstanding.

623. Jane's grin, front teeth gone.

624. Her braids, her curls, her questions, a million questions a story, like," What sort of face do you think they were making when that happened, Momma?"

625. The simple discipline of sleep. How enough sleep makes everything two clicks nicer.

626. How Jack changes the sheets on his own bed and Jane throws in a load of laundry when she runs out of unders.

627. Still happy about another Rose in the family.

628. Jonathan Swift and the part of Gulliver's Travels where the Liliputians war over how to crack an egg, as in fight a blood-soaked war over how to crack an egg.

629. How Jack tells me that Malkus is the name of the servant whose ear gets cut off by Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane.

630. Mother-in-law dropped by to visit.

631. My friend Emily, pregnant -- a BOY.

632. How Rosie waves bye to Daddy up on an elbow across the room if we forget to prop her up with us at the door.

633. How her daddy chooses to see the best in me.

634. Every day more content.

Lulie

Middle children.

They always turn out great.

Piano

"Awesome. Awesome, oh awesome!" Lulie gushes and pokes her fingers into my big red hymnal. I coax chords and melodies from my old piano. The children fight over a little spool-stool at my side.

Lulie edges over my elbow, feathers through the fat side of the hymnal, "Dat don't have pictures in it," she twaddles, both eyebrows up, she turns, "so be. careful." She nods and thunks the hymnal back to place, then sways dulcet.

Holy, Holy, Holy gathers around my untuned voice. Lulie's top-not of curls flops in harmony.







Gratitude:

368. The sea. The great, big, wide ocean.

369. Wind blown faces and hair damp with ocean mist.

370. The layers and layers of friendship between my family and me. The remarkable strength of love over time.

371. Parents who are married. In-laws who are married. Siblings who are married. Aunts and uncles all married still. Grandparents and the immovable standard: to death do us part. The weight of this history, a footprint as big as the sun.

372. Our 16 hour drive back from the ocean. The adventure and thrift shops and coffee. The fun.

373. Five kids and three adults all splashed into a hot tub and their insistence that they were swimming in the ocean.

374. Claire. Olivia. Sophie.

375. The miracle of Claire turned woman pressing her stride in the world.

376. Our CLEAN house, the one sister-in-law and brother-in-law and kids made sparkle for us, the one we stumbled into at four minutes before midnight, bleary from road trip. How even the wet pants and soggy children seemed sweet after that.

377. My piano. And the piano dolly and three brothers and husband that wrestled my sweet beast into the living room.

378. How the children try to fly off the hearth when I play.

379. How Thanksgiving was like a dream this year wrapped in the ocean.

380. How Lucy favored my uncle and shared all the toys she stole out of cousins suitcases with him. And his generous heart, his quick mind, his gentleness with the children.

381. The way my aunt can embody peace and steadfastness and still laugh uproariously.

382. How Jack practically moved into cousins' family. The buzz of 5 little boys.

383. How identical twins can be so splendidly different. Did I mention Olivia's is taller and wants to work with animals? Sophie wants to be a pastry chef and help the poor. Such vivid dreams.

384. A blusterous game of Balderdash, and how I am completely awful at acronyms.

385. A green and orange hat knit in the round.

386. A husband so content I haven't a Christmas gift idea at all.

387. The 22 dozen cookies husband and I rolled out for half the night. How we had to use a curly piece of firmica in the middle of the living room rug so we wouldn't ruin the dining table with the pizza cutter.

388. Anise seeds.

389. Anise oil.

390. Children who blur all attempts at a family photo with their laughing and jokes.

391. Sister-in-law who tells me to make a cranky day good.

392. Six layer dip and salty tortillas.

393. Salami and cheddar.

394. A second Thanksgiving dinner with MORE family. {sigh} Such riches. Such. Riches.

395. The gathering up in preparation for Christmas. The liturgy of, no, to myself and, yes, to others. How giving ends in contentment.

396. Pockets full of seashells.

Indomitable Spirit

She almost electrocuted herself this week that after she pinned herself under a printing press. This one seems poised for action.




Gratitude:

290. The moon-shaped bruise on Lulie's chin -- all that's left after Janie muscled the press off her sister.

291. Jane's careful blink-blink at me when I tell her, "You're earning trust, honey."

292. Jack's nuzzle in my face when I say I'm not mad, puzzle pieces forgotten.

293. The smudgy outfit Myra wore to church.

294. The crew of kids that pulled me past breakfast bowls and into the car this morning, drippy nose and head cold not withstanding.

295. The carpet husband unfurled in the basement for me, the re-roll and cut to fit part included.

296. His gravity defying will to keep doing nice things for me.

297. Our warm fire and popcorn-picnic.

298. How the children cheered when I suggested dilly beans.

299. Another puzzle. Yup. 500 pieces of the Rocky Mountains reflected in a mountain stream.

300. How the children find puzzle pieces for each other to put in. "Here Lulie, you can push this one in."

301. Sudafed. The real stuff.

302. Baby who nurses well and can say a whole sentence in an eye-blink.

303. A good, good life full of all the important things. The way good things make you feel rested inside even when you're exhausted.

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.

Peed

"I peed, Momma! I PEED." Lulie kicks her heels on the toilet bowl and leans forward, "See."

"Ooooh, did you WIPE?"

"Yeah," her head bobs. "I peed."

"Uh, it's gonna flood."

"Momma," Janie calls, "This might be kind of a yucky job, but get a spoon and put some of it in the trash."

Lulie grins, "I wiped."

"Yup. Craig?!"

Lord only know how, but that whole mountain of toilet tissue actually flushed.

****


Any toilet training tips?

Sisters

"Momma, I think I know what Lucy did," Jane tip-toes into my bedroom.

"Oh," my eyes still closed.

"She put her hand in her diaper."

Oh.


Later Lulu bites Jane, a nice circle imprint. She screams. Lulu cries. Jack retreats. I reorder the chess board of our morning.

Before baby Rose wails for Momma, I hear whispers in the sun-room. Jane and Lulu cuddle cheek to cheek. "I still love you, Lulu," Janie lulls. Lulie sucks her thumb, pats big sister's cheek.

What's Your Mother Taught You?

"Little girl, what's your name?" Lucy freezes and stares at the photographer. It's the Mother/Daughter Tea in Craig's farmland hometown.

"Olive Rose," Lulie says. She blinks wide eyes and buries her face in my lap. The baby squirms. Lulie calls herself Olive now. She calls the baby Olive too. Out there on the green grass a photographer in fancy black snaps photos.


Farm wives and daughters, mothers and grandmothers, great-grandmothers, fill the small church in the small town; wheat fields spread in each direction. Long tables and chairs, bouquets and fine silver, and potluck food, good food, sunlight streams in the windows. We sit and chatter on in the ocean of women. Jane eats fried chicken and Lulie tries to lick chocolate frosting off her fingers and face.

Later I sit in a front pew. A gaggle of girls sings for us. Lulie tries to run off stage.

Then, everyone eyes the basket full of chapsticks, prizes. A woman with pink cheeks asks, "What's something your mother taught you?"

The girls jostle and giggle. One girl blurts, "To plant flowers," and picks a chapstick from the basket.

"To make cookies," says another.

"To obey right away," it's Janie's cousin.

One by one, they file off stage. Jane fidgets and watches the woman. "What about you? What's your mother taught you?" It's the last two girls. The woman looks right at Janie.


















"To love people," Janie says.

"To love people," the lady with pink cheeks repeats. She hands Jane a chapstick.

There in the pew, I catch my breath. To love people. Love. People.

Later Craig's gramma wins Woman of the Year. 95 years old and she smiles like a girl of 18. All the while my heart is racing, to love people. To. Love. People. My imperfections swallowed up in grace.

Sorrrryyyy, Momma

Anyone else had a few days like this?


"You can't hide from God things," Jack negotiates a mouthful of oatmeal, "Yeah, because He knows what you have done." With a pause and a swallow, "He sees it INSIDE you."

Morning light shines across our table as the boy shovels in more gruel. Inside of me. I probably look all scribbled green. Green and no guile. I suppose like Lulie I'm pigtails and green tummy to God. And sorrrryyyy. Most days I still can't believe he forgives me over and over and OVER for all my faults. For not being perfect. I'm not perfect. I sigh.

The morning settles around us in breakfast bowls and puddles of milk. And as grace swoops down, I breathe in the slow moments. Children chatter, one helps Lulie scoop bites. Even as I sigh, I long to obey this God. He forgives me.