Company

"No, no, not like THAT," I say. "Here," I extend a hand to Jane, snatch carrot and peeler, and stroke the long neck of a carrot down to soft orange flesh. "Like THIS."

"Oh. Ok," she says.

Company arriving in 15 minutes we scurry from cutting board to sink to counter top. I sigh.

"Are you mad?" she says.

Sigh. "No," I say.

"It just seems like you sort of are on edge," she says.

"Oh." I sigh again. "I guess, I sort of am. Sorry. You really are a huge help."

"Thanks," she says. "You are doing a ton too."

I sigh again, this time as if finally rolled over and ready for the backstroke. As if in tandem we work as each other's right hand.

"You two just keep talking to each other," Craig says. From the living room, he and Jack race the clock, competition gas in their engine.

Jane and I grin at each other, companionship better than a clock.

Gratitude:

6169. Dear friends join us for dinner. Their heritage from half around the world, we marvel at how our lives overlap.

6170. I make lotions, deodorants, and toothpastes all week to stock up.

6171. Taco soup. All week. All the fixin's. Including finely chopped red bell pepper and full fat sour cream.

6172. We all get sick. A family of eight. So we lay around, listen to audio books, and take turns taking care of each other. Nourishment sprouts up between us.

6173. Craig's ears get cold from being sick. He settles on an old toddler hat that covers the ears just right.

6174. Pork loin soup to fill in the cracks.

6175. The election plods to conclude this Tuesday. We await with curiosity. We pray God will give us a better leader than we deserve.

Notes

Dear Momma, 

I really love you.Thanks 

to you I think I am getting 

into a groove with my 

school work. I am looking 

forward to a freetime 

infested day tomorrow 

where I work hard then 

I play hard. You are the 

best of mothers.

P.S. I enjoyed talking politics 

with you today. I love 

you. Sleep Well!

Love,

Emma Jane

Dear Daddy,

I really enjoyed watching

the debate with you. As USA 

citizens I feel people have

an obligation to vote, or

at least inform themselves,

and many people skip both.

If only God gives us a better 

leader than we deserve...

Dear Momma,

I really enjoyed watching 

the debate with you. I

have no idea how people

will vote for a person

who is mean to people

and will not answer critical

questions. I feel sure the

devil is laying another trap

for our nation. I feel 

like people should at least

inform themselves. As to people

who will not vote, I feel they

must be either acting stupidly or

wickedly. I love you.

Love,

Emma Jane

So it begins, the girl is old enough to talk politics. Opinions bloom. And she shares. Most nights we find a note tagged to the bathroom counter, a token, a small vulnerability. Each says the same: Who am I in the world? We watch, trade secrets, and hold tiny pieces of each other like agates collected on the beach.

Gratitude:

6112. Jane's notes.

6113. We celebrate the birthdays of extended family. The party, it's where we share stories that have encouraged our faith. Something greater than the stories springs up between them.

6114.  Aunt Rosie takes family pictures of our great big family. Somehow, the whole day comes together with tranquility uncharacteristic of getting eight people properly dressed and smiling pleasantly.

6115. Friends come over to share an evening. We visit and have our favorite things: delicious food, a library of books, the love of Christ, the ebb and flow of small children, conversation that fills in the cracks. They even bring pie, TWO. Blueberry. Bliss.

6116. My parents visit dear, dear friends in Minnesota for their 40th wedding anniversary.

6117. Nighttime temperatures dip and threaten to freeze. The children traipse to the garden between dinner dishes and bedtime and pick it clean. 

6118. A long week ends with everyone on the same page and tired but content, jewels of our home.

Measuring

"I remember when I used to not care about my hair," Lucy says.

"Yeah?" I say. It's chore time, the timer set, the children bustling through the daily dishes, laundry, and sweeping. I stand in front of the big kitchen mirror and rake Myra's curls back into a pony.

"I used to think I could go for a morning run with just not even doing a pony," she says.

"Yeah?" I say.

"I mean, now I at least look," she says. The flurry of morning work, I stop to look at her, the tree-climbing, dirt-scuffing, leaf-rolling child. Her own hair drawn back in something similar, almost, to smooth, I see her measure the gap, try to gauge maturity.

"I know what you mean," I say and then turn to Myra. "Your hair looks nice," I say. She nods, scampers off. Then Lucy and I nod to each other, that sliver of shared grown-up knowledge a glint between us.


***

Then we are at Costco, the eight of us piling out of the car. It's like a clown car, another and another, we spill out into the parking lot. One of the kids buckles Betsy into a cart, Joe next to her.

"Can you unbuckle this?" Joe says to me.

"No," I say.

"Yeah," I hear Lucy somewhere over my shoulder. "You're supposed to put the booster back in the seat," Lu says. "Myra's in the he-did-it-so-I-can stage," she says. I look back. Lucy nods, purses her lips in an upside down arc, then smiles. There it is again, that perpetual measuring. What surprises me are the crinkles of affection around the corners of her eyes.

Myra skips up to Craig and grabs his hand. Lucy smiles at me, and we all head in.





Gratitude:

6093. Craig harnesses Jack's silliness tendencies. He puts him in charge of a church small group. He rises to the occasion. Perhaps every class clown should be in charge of something.

6094. A friend passes on four pineapple lamps to us.

6095. We begin tandem puzzles down by the fire.

6096. Craig returns from a four day business trip. We all breathe a sigh of relief.

6097. Jack buys a dowel rod with his own money and makes two arrows out of it for his homemade bow.

6098. "It's like trying to tag a wild buffalo," Jack says as he corners Betsy and puts a bib on her.

6099. We continue to work on actually harboring kind hearts toward each other, not just acting the role.

6100. I connect with a dear friend over photography and the art behind it.

6101. We find a source to buy organic bulk food for our family. The first load comes in and we tuck it away for use in the coming weeks.

6102. The coffee maker breaks. Craig fixes it.

6103. A neighbor graces us with pears, buckets of them.

6104. Soap. Homemade, real ingredient soap -- a whole batch. Love!

6105. I find myself tireder each nigh, but more faithful in the little things.

6106. "I was sort of awestruck," Jane says, "when Daddy asked if anyone knew what a presidential debate was and no one raised their hand." We await the first presidential debate with anticipation.

6107. We continue to make lots of hot chocolate, fresh, homemade: 12-16 oz. milk, 2 T. cocoa powder, 2 T. sugar -- steam together. It's best with foam on top.

6108. We go plum picking.

6109. Jane tells me that when it comes to politics, you have to agree with people on anything you possibly can or they close up like a box.

6110. I notice Jack has converted some red tubing into a sling shot and another bow.

6111. Less than two months now until the new baby. We settle in with excitement and rest for the next season.

The TENT

"Joe," I say, "Joe, come here."

"Yeah?" He trollops around a peninsula of kitchen cupboards.

"We have to stick together today," I say. I pat the table bench next to me, a small safety zone separate from general mischief. "To HELP each other," I say.

"Weeeelllll," he says, "can I play with Betsy in the sunroom?"

"What are you doing in there?"

"Throwing an ant in a spiderweb." He mimics my raised eyebrows, furrows his brow. "But the web is INSIDE," he adds.

"Well," I sigh, "where is it?"

"By the door. Can I?" he says.

"Ahmmm. Ok."

Later he trollies past the kitchen, orange diaper bucket in hand.

"WHat are you DOing?" I say.

"Making a TENT," he says.

"With the DIAPER PAIL?" I say once again burrowing a furrowed brow into his blinking eyes.

"I don't want Betsy to BREAK the TENT," he says over-anunciating "break" and "tent". I blink. He blinks. "Maaaaaybe I will use a stool," he says and tromps off.

Later a clatter in the pantry. "What is that sound?" I call from the table.

"The oatmeal bucket," he says.

"Oh," I say.

"I keep needing BUCKETS," he says.

"For WHAT?" I say.

"For the TENT."

"Might have to switch to something ELSE," I say. He stares. I blink. The oatmeal bucket two feet tall and still slung over one arm, he blinks.

"Maaaaybe a stack of blankets instead," he says.

"Is this to keep Betsy out?" I say.

"I already have THAT," he says.

"Sounds like a lot to clean up," I say, my eyebrows creeping up my forehead again.

"I like," he sways. "I like," he frowns. "I don't CARE," he finally says. We grin an informal truce. The tent burgeons in the sunroom. Coverlets, quilts, blankies, two black stools, an empty bucket, and a rocking chair flesh out the tent.

I carry on with chores. He builds, then cleans. Something like work unfolds betweens us. We ride it like a trolly car, satisfaction like a lunchbox on the seat between us.

Gratitude:

5984. A long week, Craig gone some of it, the kids and I band together. The house feels so empty when he's gone.

5985. In the void, the children and I talk and talk and talk. We map and frame their small worlds, memorize the important principles.

5986. We watch most of the Republican Convention and talk and talk and talk. Jane notes all the moves. I watch how she sees the move behind the move and generally assess the trajectory of ideas with accuracy.

5987. We find a feed of the convention without all the commentary and talking heads that tell you how to think. Just the speeches, please. Together, we make our own opinions. Everyone joins in. It's like a party.

5988. I find a recipe and make sourdough tortillas.

5989. The basement floods with a thunderstorm gully washer. I come face to face with how Craig shines in house emergencies and I, well, don't.

5990. We clean up the best we can, set up a fan, and heave a huge sigh.

5991. "Ya know," Joe says, "garbage-mans actually have HOMES." He watches the garbage truck with religious devotion and dreams of being a garbage-man one day.

5992. The baby kicks and kicks and kicks up a storm. Small reassurances.

5993. I sometimes help with dinner prep; otherwise the children make and clean up dinner.

5994. Many days I look outback to see Betsy marshaling a mass of blankets, babies, and stuffed animals, with Joe and Myra.

5995. The responsibilities of life swirl around us. Each day they feel both heavier and lighter. The yoke is easy, and the burden is light. I'm beginning to see how this is true.

5996. Each day we work to bow our hearts to our Savior, and each day our love for Him grows.

Debate

"I've actually thought of you for debate classes," I say. Taco soup scooped, scraped, and mopped up with bread from bowls, post-dinner lingers on.

"Really?" Jane says.

"Yeah. You're good at seeing all sides of a thing," I say.

"Oh," she says. Sour cream moored on a quilted center piece, glasses empty or half full, cookie bin bloomed open, time slows.

"You have to be able to see both sides and understand the other view as well or better than your own," I say. "And you have to understand why an intelligent person would choose it, but also what the flaws are so you can maximize them."

"Huh," she says. Joe gathers bowls around our elbows, stacks and clears the table.

"It's hard, but," I pause.

"How many easy things are worth while?" she says. "I mean really?"

"So true," I say.

Before we soldier dishes and into the dishwasher, we stop to watch old Reagan debates on youtube. So winsome. Intelligent and winsome. He seems to give value even to his adversaries.

***



"Who's that?" Joe says. Debate night. We congregate at six and take in the current political climate.

"Donald Trump," I say.

"Where's Ben Carson?" he says. He frowns, draws his voice up like a satchel. Three years old and he knows the team players.

"He's not coming," I say.

"Oh," he says, "Trump, there's Trump again. Why'd he come?" he says.

And so the conversations begin. Strategy unfolds, observations link arms until a clear picture emerges. We found our opinions on facts and ethics. Something immovable cures in our souls.

Gratitude:

5792. A hand-me-down cashmere sweater finds it's way to me.

5793. Eye patches.

5794. A new tube of mascara to replace the old flaking one.

5795. The children begin to voice political opinions. I note their unique bents synthesized into their analysis.

5796. I continue to enjoy a new found pleasure: tea. Green tea, chai tea, black tea, English, Irish, Asian, or Indian -- yum.

5797. A little sunshine and I make our first pasta salad of the year. A bit optimistic on the weather but the salad is delicious.

5798. Jack wrestles in a take-down-tournament. His endurance training pays off.

5799. A long week, but a good one, we slide into Sunday night ready for bed.

Just Think

"Just think of Sodom and Gomorrah," Jane says. Tuesday and we're traveling together. "It doesn't take very many good people for God to save a lot of bad people," she says.

Blue sky and intermittent clouds, we glide down the highway to Grammie's, our drive the usual hothouse of conversation.

"Yep," I say. For the sake of ten good men God would have spared Sodom and Gomorrah. Would have.

"And God still did save the good people," she says.

"Yep," I say.

"Ya just have to make sure you're on the right side," she says. She directs the conversation with full arm gestures from the very back seat. "The right side in God's eyes," she says. Children chatter tangents on her words. They lace ideas, one looped around the next and the next.

As politics spiral, as the narrative of Revelation reads easier and easier each day, one thing is clear: persecution will come. Every ilk will find it. Ya just have to make sure you're on the right side.

I pray righteousness finds us, that we grab on with both hands, fall on our knees, and devote ourselves to the one thing, the one Person, that will make every struggle worth it. Jesus.

Gratitude:

5627. Spices. New spices and herb blends for the simple kitchen. We bake a promised land of food from the simplest ingredients.  The pantry brims with fresh stores.

5628. I knit three quarters of a new pair of pants for Betsy.

5629. Coral peach yarn, I plan an Easter sweater for her.

5630. A knitting book of prayer shawls.

5631. New jars for the pantry spices.

5632. "I lied," Joe confesses. Slowly by slowly he grabs on to truth.      

5633. We play Settlers of Catan again and again. Symptoms of good sportsmanship emerge.

5634. I meet a friend via e-mail who has a daughter with the same name. Myra. Such a pretty name. We exchange knitting stories, our lives parallel from different sides of the country.

5635. We work to grow the children in kindness, kindness in adversity, kindness to the ungrateful. Siblings provide the perfect lab.

5636. The children bake apple crisp for Craig and me.

5637. Jane begins to learn Come Thou Fount. Lucy starts Holy, Holy, Holy.

5638. We receive TWO letters from George. Jane started writing the sponsor letters, and we received TWO in response.

5639. Betsy starts army crawling. The turn of one night, and suddenly she is into ev. ery. thing. Bits of dust, curls of hair, scraps of paper, snips of yarn, corners of furniture, everything makes it to her mouth.

5638. I try to slow the moments and enjoy each one. Each stubborn interruption a triumphant marker of the great responsibility God has entrusted to me. I marvel at this fine gem.

5641. At each turn I find Craig. There he is, doing the last thing I needed.

Stand

"I put it up high for now," Myra bubbles, "so WOBBERS don't get 'em."

Myra perched on the kitchen bench, scuffles a bale of flashcards onto the top shelf of the old pine wardrobe. The bench, lugged caddywhompus away from the table, knocks against a potted plant when she jumps off. Dead leaves rustle like old newspapers. She patters away, eyebrows still arched.

Then, I'm on c-span. Deep furrows cultivate my forehead as we parse out committee hearings on the IRS scandal.

"Look at that. He's not gonna answer the question," I blurt. "They always do that when they are lying. If they did what was right, they would just SAY it."

Janie frowns deeper than my furrow. We watch the man wheedle out of more questions. "I just wish I could hold him down and MAKE him answer," she spars. We nod, consternation splayed out.

"Well, you just have to get proof. Then, it doesn't matter what they say." I grouse. We nod again. Emotions weave in tandem.

"I'll tell you why if you are a president and you LIE it's so dangerous," Jane says.

"Why?" The conversation, shoulder to shoulder, we watch the man repeat the same non-answer again and again.

"'Cause," she says, "people like us watch and find proof. And if you won't answer a question, we're like: HE"S GUILTY. And you'll just be impeached or whatever." She frowns again at the missing pieces.

Then it's Sunday. We coax the morning scatter of oatmeal bowls, socks, and blankies into the home team all suited for church.

Somewhere between the memory verse and a missing sandal, I find Myra crouched in the sunroom. I pause and slow the melee.

"What are you doing?"

She stands, steps past a flat of coleus. "Not hiding," she says.

"What?" Another tip-toe step, eyes flitted up and to the right. "Why were you hiding?" I turn like the noonday sun, full and direct. She measures out another small step, me, a full-grown one, and I encircle her in my arms. All the way around, my hands smooth over the back of her arms.

"From WOBBERS."

I stroke her arms, perfect and smooth. "Do you know how to pray about that?"

"'Name of Jesus, go away, monsters," she whispers. I nod. That's pretty good.

So it is, with robbers and liars, we weave with the threads we understand, trace out truth and right, and make our stand.

Gratitude:

4489. The overnight temperatures dip below freezing. Of course, Craig has our 65+ tomatoes tucked under a feather shield of reemay.

4490. Dad and Mom join us for ham salad and soup, towering bowls of ice cream and chocolate sauce, conversation, another chapter in the story, love.

4491. Craig's mom brings up the last of the garden plants.

4492. Friends join us for dinner. We compare notes on laughter and discipline, diapers and daily routines. We barbecue burgers, linger over brownies, let the children run and whoop and slide another pearl on the string of friendship.

4493. Joey falls in love with his hand-me-down Nike sandals.

4494. "By the way," Jane reports, "I renewed Psalm 1 in my mind. By Saturday I'm gonna know it."

4495. A friend brings me fiddle head ferns ripe for butter and garlic and new porcelain white measuring cups, pristine as snow.

4496. Craig and I have a date night tucked away in the folds of the house.

4497. Friends invite us into their morning: brunch and sunlight, family encircled around the long kitchen table that keeps going and going until there is a place for us all and plenty of bacon and conversation and then volleyball out in the yard. It's the kind of brunch that lingers until almost three, coffee cups drained and filled and filled again, and we all leave filled up will the woven words between us, happy in all the cracks.

4498. Craig's parents drive up for a barbecue at our place. Lynn brings homemade hamburger buns and the burgers turn gourmet. Spur of the moment, we puncture the evening with the laughter of our children and the seesawing of our lives together.

4499. Friends call and ask what time they can come to help us paint the living room moss green.

4500. I slide into Sunday night with a headache and clear mind, confident once again of each tired step.

4501. Craig greets me with a smile, home from work. It feels like the day finally begins.