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.

Girl Talk

"Your daddy is so good to me," I say. I hand the chocolate jar to the backseat. Janie tips it sideways, fishes out a chocolate chunk. "I hope you marry someone like your daddy, Jane."

She sucks the chocolate down warm and soft. "I'm not gonna choose just anyone," she says. "I'm gonna spend some time choosin'."

"That's a good idea." I crunch a rectangle of chocolate, watch Janie in the rear-view mirror.

"I'm not gonna pick the one that is the handsomest," she rolls the glass chocolate jar to one side. Chocolates tumble. "I'm gonna pick the one that is the best for me." She watches a truck with ladders on the back pass in the left lane.

"Sounds like you'll pick a good one," I say.

We settle into the quiet rhythm of conversation. It weaves through traffic with us. She passes me chocolates; I let her hold the old mason jar. I ease into a parking spot; she spins the lid back on.

"I have not been eating chocolate at all," she says as she passes it back up front. "I've just been sitting here listening to you talk."

She grabs her wallet. I balance packages and swing the car door shut. Listening to me talk. Listening. to. me. Wow. Always on stage.








Gratitude:

304. Crisp grapes.

305. Almond sugar cookies.

306. Books -- a whole library full, lined spine to spine in the basement.

307. Jane's listening ear and how she says the hard things probably happen because God wants to keep me humble.

308. Our children's wide eyes when I read Where the Red Fern Grows at night.

309. How Janie leaps out of the couch and demands that Little Ann LIVE when the small hound almost drowns in the winter-cold stream.

310. My tight throat and bleary tears and how everyone piles on us while we read.

311. How Lulie takes care of all the baby dolls in the house. Even Janie's.

312. Her incredulous frown when I suggest we just shake the pretend poo-poo out of the dolly diaper.

313. Whispering, "You are special," into the children's ears at night before bed.

314. New hair trimmers to tame little boy hair.

315. Jack's insistence that I cut off his girl hair.

316. An estate sale with lots and lots of books. Classics. Old.

317. Dates with each of the kids. Chocolate or lifesavers. The talk and play.

318. Rosie splashing my sleeves wet in the bath.

319. The almost-tidy-house, the almost-banana-bread still in the fruit basket, and the almost-frustrating night that ended in crunchy grapes and a puzzle instead.

320. Husband. A good, good husband -- ceaseless joking, irrepressible humor, funniness in every moment.

321. Another week. Another whole week.

Boy Talk

"Watch ya thinking?" I ask.

Jack pops a pretzel in his mouth, crunches it. "Nuffin."

"Wow. Nothing?" I raise my eyebrows, "HOW do you do THAT?"

"I dunno. Just," he shakes his head, opens both eyes wide, "like this," little boy stares at a plant across the room, crunches another pretzel.

"That's all? Just like that?"

He pauses, cocks his head, "Momma," he says, "ya have to not talk."

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, "Oh."

I pass him another pretzel, pick one with lots of salt. We crunch them together and watch my house plant grow.

Marzipan Date

"If everybody would just obey every rule at one time, everything would be perfect," Janie says. I turn the car into traffic, flip the wipers on.

"Yup."

"''It's just like, I'm wanting everything perfect, but my way." She licks a smudge of chocolate off her finger.

"What makes things perfect for you?" I ask.

"Mostly just like, hmm," she tilts her head, wrinkles her brow, "like if I'm pulling this box and it's really full of things and I'm pulling and PULLING and I finally do it, and I'm just like THAT is PERFECT, because I DID it." She crumples the chocolate wrapper, slides it down next to her seat. I bite the last bit of marzipan in half, press it to the roof of my mouth.

"So what do you think has been the hardest thing I've done lately?" I pass the last crumb of marzipan back to her. She nibbles it up.

"Hmm," she says, "probably not getting mad in situations where you think you should, but then you're like, 'No,' instead."

"You know me pretty well, Janie," I say.

"What's that mean?"

I reach back and grab her heal, smile to her in the rear view mirror, "Means I never even told you that, but you KNEW because you KNOW me."

"Actually, you did tell me," she says, "just not in those words." A red car whizzes by her window. I signal to the left lane, press into the brake. Just not in those words. I flip the wipers off. For a moment there I see it, my every gesture a thesis. She knows them all -- by heart.







Gratitude:

239. Another impossible puzzle that husband and I do together.

240. The volley of conversation and rhythm of silence as we lean over the puzzle and press pieces into place.

241. A date with Jane.

242. Rowdy boy cousins (the good kind of rowdy) who come to play trains and disturb nary a puzzle piece.

243. Baked. Potato. Soup. My hugest stock pot full up of baked potato soup.

244. Piles of fabric organized into stacks of color and stripe.

245. A clock, a new clock! The old-fashioned face kind.

246. A couple of new shirts in sensible black and white.

247. Another day with my children -- healthy, whole, content.

248. Cereal and coffee every morning. The kind of cereal with pecans in.

249. A morning run again and again. Every day. But Sunday.

250. The way my children sword-fight and fight-the-bad-guys still for pretend.

251. The children's new toothpaste, same as when I was a kid. Mmmmm. Sorry Mom, I used to eat it straight out of the tube. So far I've only caught Lulie "brushing" her teeth that way.

252. Stripe blue knee socks turned into baby leg warmers.

253. Children played out all tired-to-the-bone and now asleep after the cousins drive home.

254. The miracle of good work turned exhaustion turned sleep.

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.

Singing

"Shhh Jack, Momma's singing."

My fingers feel stiff, but the old piano keys still find their place under each fingertip. An old melody threads me through quarter notes and crescendos, metered time and counterpoint.

"HOW are you DOING that?" Jack furrows his brow, his mouth agape.

Jane balances with Lulie in a tiny rocking chair, "I LOVE that singing," she whispers.

I smile. I can't even sing one note on tune. It's all in my fingers.

They call it singing.

40 Weeks

"Momma," Jane's still barefoot while we wait, "I have a feeling the baby's gonna pop out on her due date." Auntie Cerissa and I smile. Guess we're all a little distracted these days.

40 weeks. TODAY. Still no popping.

***


Another week of gratitude.

11. Shattered oatmeal bowl, no glass embedded in small bare feet.

12. Husband-hands that sweep up glass shards and sticky oats.

13. 40 weeks of baby curled in my womb.

14. Hospital bags packed.

15. Stacks of clean laundry.

16. Red geraniums like Gramma used to plant.

17. Awaiting arms to gather my children and their suitcases.

18. Strawberries and whip cream.

19. Cucumbers and olive oil.

20. A quiet nest of waiting before the whole world changes.

21. Another baby.

10 Years, My Honey

Ten years ago today. That's when Craig started courting me. Cold and icy and December wind, it was a day like today. He said he'd have none of this dating business. Dating is for the birds. Could he please court me, he asked.






Court. It seems strange now, we spent that whole time, days, weeks, a couple of months, not so much as a kiss. Just miles and miles of words, jokes and questions, belly laughs and stolen glances. We ate at Perkins, had "our" table. We knew the servers names.





On his birthday he asked me to marry him, held my hand and lassoed the moon. Held my hand, a first. And asked my daddy.





It doesn't take so long to plan a wedding. Don't we just buy a dress and get a church, I asked? It was all so simple, like how we hiked up a waterfall one afternoon just for the fun of it. Our faces wet, the view stretching on and out a million miles, simple.





And all along, he held my hand. Here and there at first. Then lots. Encyclopedias of conversation, atlases of adventure, and he held my hand.

A kiss and a wedding. Three kids, four. Ten years. I couldn't be a richer woman.

Baby

3.44 cm and growing. Another little one. Ten weeks and a tiny pomegranate seed of baby has sprouted already to strawberry size. Heart pulsing 160 beats per minute, all the hope and possibility of a person unfurls. Arms, legs, hands, feet. Lead violin sounds high A and in a small concert hall just behind my belly button, the symphony begins. That drum of a heart beats on strong and clear, a metronome of life. The whole body encircles it.






Janie and Jack swear they can already feel the little kicks.

Favorite name: Snoopy.

Grace

Anyone else wake up to the melodious strains of, "MooOOoomma! Wipe my POOOOOP."?

Mary-Sunshine, Jane, greets grumbly me en route, "Momma remember, 'Do to others..'"

Touche'.





And also, was it before or after breakfast that the children converted a half-full toothpaste into a fire hose? Apparently between the three they can siphon water from the sink. Oh, and any comments on an appropriate amount of toothpaste to ingest?

And all the while my life sleighs along past pit stops and toothpaste puddles. I lean over to Jane, "Think about the BEST thing in your day," I whisper. Camera poised, I hold my breath. And before I can capture her dewy face or still spirit, she leans around my camera. Her arm across my shoulders, {squeeze}, "THIS is the best part of my day."

I lean into her. For a moment my eyes squint shut. Oh Lord, may I be the woman she sees.

Blind Spot

"Do you know why I do that, Momma?" Every half-year or so we notice a small underwear tower in the far corner of Janie's room.

I arch my brows, "Why?"

Her mop of curls tilted to the left, she blinks, "It's because," eyebrows now arched like mine, "the dirty clothes basket, is sort of in my blind spot."

"Oooh." Darn blind spot. Mine too.

We reassemble her underwear tower in the basket.

"Follow me, Jane."

I'm half down the hallway when I hear, "I'll follow you wherever you go." She's almost on tip-toe, "Like wherever you step, I'll step," she says. She mimes it.

With that, all my steps seem to magnetize. This child, building underwear towers and walking on tip-toe, strides and steps in the quiet hole of my blind spot.





And so, we pull out our markers. Write it on your gates, Moses said. Toes pressing into garden dirt, we lean to the back fence and scrawl out a verse we know. And then another. Maybe another tomorrow, making a few footprints we can see.

Girls' Date

"Momma!" I turn to see Janie stopped at a rack of rather "dainty" women's underwear. "These are NOT modest," she says.

"I know. Can you believe that?!"

Next, she is captivated by a bright white mannequin noting and then poking her holey tights. "Momma, are these dead people?" She steps just beyond my peripheral and gasps, "Oh my word!" Why, that one has shorts as small as underwear.

And can you believe it's a normal sort of trendy store that I'd hardly think twice about if I'd gone shopping alone?

Day Four

"GLORY to GOD. GLOOOORRRY to GOD. GLORY to GOD in the HIGHEST!" It's a shouting match in the sun-room. The piano thunders with small fists pounding out fits of enthusiasm. Jack's voice echos a half-second behind Jane's, and Lulu is screaming. Day four of Daddy's backpacking trip and the glory's getting quite stout around here. As it erupts down the hall and across my bed covers, I sigh. Morning light pools on the floor. It's one of those moments where staring far off into space never felt so good.

Barbarian husband is off fighting the whiles of mountain trails, rugged peaks, hiking on past the pit-bottom of exhaustion. Surviving on the land (and dehydrated food), a communion of man-ness happens. It's the antithesis of our safe life. The antidote. How is it that danger nourishes the heart of a man? And glory the heart of a child. Who knew I would tend such rare commodities .

Got Your Back

It was a scritchy-scratchy, thistle of a morning.

"Momma, you just said that you don't like Daddy's sense of humor." Her eyebrows are arched. I can hear it without even turning around. "Is that really what you want to say." The frame freezes. I see a smile tease at the corner of Daddy's mouth. "How would you like it if someone said that to you?"

I sigh.

The apology was spectacular. Daddy said he thought we'd entered a parallel universe. Don't ya wish you could grab on to that apology so fast every time!?

A Gift

The hospitality of a hundred years ago. My friend, Mel, brought me flowers. Sidled into an old milk bottle, they set me and the half-tidied house at ease. Anyone else have friends that can't help but add value to every room they enter?

Quarantine

"I'll give you a treat if you poop, but you have to do it in the little DISH." Yeah. The DISH. The lab gave us an upside down "top-hat" to fetch stool samples from the children. Stool samples, that's right. Guess who got to do the fetching. Did I mention Craig is sporting a strain of African Ghiardia? Oh, and one of the wee ones displayed an awesome spread of diarrhea, fully clothed, even shoes. The clean-up involved a plugged bathtub, lots of bleach, gagging, and my saintly mother. Let's just say I love bleach. And my momma.

They diagnose ghiardia with a stool sample - AKA, no stool sample, no medicine. Apparently the human body will sustain the entire life cycle of the amoeba. Indefinitely. Sooooo, hence the stool samples.

Of course the chillin's wanted to WATCH. Latex gloves, funny scoops, collection cups, I mean who wouldn't?! And Mom's on RED ALERT, the kids GIDDY. Giddy-up.

Then again, at least we can get meds. When the little African babies get this they die. Perish the thought.

Anniversary

So today marks a nine year anniversary. Nine years ago I married this man (the one on the right). Here he is in Africa, handsome from half around the world.

Africa. The whole thing reminds me of an IQ test we took years ago. Craig beat my score. An unfortunate and decisive victory. {Sigh} It's laughable now, a couple of measly points and I did the only logical thing a smart girl does. I FREAKED. For those of you who know him, Craig wins at EVERYTHING. He's amazing. :) Think we're competitive? Let's just say we even have blood pressure competitions seeing who can score the lowest blood pressure at the grocery store pharmacy. (Try it, just thinking about it will raise your blood pressure.)

So anyway, I moped around for a few days until finally a very sweet sister-in-law asked, "Do you want your husband LESS intelligent than you?" Haha, touche'. No wonder it is a delight to banter with this guy still nine years later. He keeps me guessing. And who can put a score on irrepressible optimism. Pure gold.

Africa? That was an outrageous idea. Crazy. Out of the question. Worse than an IQ test, another worthy freak out topic. And still I hear my brother's voice, "Well, what kind of a man do you want Jack to be seeing?" And imitating. A fearless one. Honorable and fearless.

The kids still talk on Africa. Yesterday, driving in the heat their giggles weave into the roar of wind blowing through the windows. Through the white noise Jack's voice surfaces, "But, WHY did Daddy go to Africa?" His voice hangs in the air.

Janie takes the reigns, "Because GOD told him to go to Africa!"

What a gift. He went because God told him to. It's as normal as water. God TOLD him to. How inadequate I feel. Or blessed. Spoiled.

Janie's chest swells with a smile. "'Cause God told him to!"

HOME

So he stepped off the plane whole and handsome.

And HOME.































































































































































































More to come.

Love you ALL.

~Bethany

Almost HOME

Moments ago Craig boarded another plane headed back to Nairobi. Now just more planes, airports, layovers, little baggies of salted peanuts, packets of oyster crackers, luggage, funny shaped neck pillows, hopefully no more blown hatches, and the man I love will be ... HOME! It still feels sort of pretend -- like a well drilled in an African village far, far away where there they don't have running water and all the while my own children wage water-war in our green yard with water cannons and a bucket.

















Before I know it Craig will be here and I'll face a man gone half around the world and come home. Can't be the same one who left. So begins the next leg of our journey, "Hi, I'm Bethany, who have you become? Tell me everything the same and different so I can love you all the more." How frequently the best things in life are the impossible combination of letting go and hanging on. I don't know weather to laugh or hold my breath.

To all of you, thanks. Thanks for being a hand to hold down the path of this journey. A listening ear, fresh encouragement, fun, {Grin} you've been FABULOUS! Wish I could HUG you all. Please pray for traveling mercies as the team heads home. They sure could do without the 17 EXTRA hours of travel they ended up with on the way there. :)

Half-Marathon

NEWS BREAK: For a post that captures the best moment of the whole race click HERE.

Kisses and hugs to Rosie. Thrilled to bits. Thank-you beyond all the silly words of my heart that could never speak as well as that post. Speechless I feel so loved.