Myra

"Let's pray and ask Jesus to forgive you." I grab Myra's hands. Small and yielding they curl up like tangerines in my palms. She squeezes her eyes shut.

"Jesus, please forgive me for disobeying," her voice creaks like a violin half on key. "Amen," she squeaks, her hands balmy and aromatic with Jack's grass scented hand sanitizer, the one she stole right before meeting up with me in the bedroom for discipline.

"Did you know the Bible says when you say the wrong thing you did and ask Jesus to forgive you, he DOES?" I say. "He makes you all CLEAN. Do you you feel clean?" Down on my knees, eye to eye with my red-headed whirlwind, we hold each other steady. I peer at her out of the top half of my eyes, nod.

She nods back, frowns. "Is Jesus in my tummy?" she asks and strokes her frontside.

"No." I grin at her approximation. "But if you ask him, he'll come live in your heart."

And as if whispering to her neighbor, she bows her head and murmurs, "Jesus, live in my heart. Amen." Eyebrows up, she blink-blinks perfectly round dolly eyes at me. "There," she says. "Him's in my heart."

"You have to tell Him you're naughty," I blurt trying to figure out how to trace the red thread of doctrine in her spontaneity. "Do you know you're naughty?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want Him to help you?"

"Yeah."

"Tell Him. Tell Him, Jesus, I'm naughty."

"Jesus, I'm naughty," she says and clasps her hands together.

"Please forgive me."

"Please forgive me," she nods.

"Thank-you for dying on the cross for my sins," I say

"Thank-you for dying on the cross for my sins," she repeats.

"Please come live in my heart."

"Please come live in my heart."

"I love you."

"I love you."

"Amen."

"Amen!" A grin blooms across her face. The apples of our cheeks round and pink, the moment sounds, resonates like the lowest key on a piano, deep bass.

And we flutter up in treble. "Did you know the angels in heaven are having a party to celebrate you being a Christian?" I say.

She beams. She squints her eyes and leans in. It's the comma before a hug. I hold her in my arms.

Another step in the path, faith grows. It swells, burgeons, sends up shoots.

And all I can think is I'm so glad I decided to discipline her. The moment could have passed, unrealized before it even began. I take note of my high position.

Gratitude:

4719. Joey stands for 60 seconds. Jane times him. "I think he'd almost do anything to get everyone to cheer," she says.

4720. My mom takes Jack to bee heaven, an adventure. It's fields and fields, a whole farm of all sunflowers.

4721. Myra invites Jesus into her heart.

4722. Jane tattles on Jack disobeying the babysitter. "The reason I told on you," Craig hears Jane tell him, "was because I don't want you to make the same mistake tomorrow."

4723. The children love their babysitter. "She doesn't necessarily like everyone," Jane assesses, "but she does LOVE everyone."

4724. Even Joey likes her and has two pleasant days while Craig and I attend a leadership conference.

4725. I learn something new: the people that are best at holding others accountable are the ones with the lowest blame index. Blaming, a good way to undercut your authority.

4726. We have lunch with my parents and Stan Simmons, the pastor from my hometown.

4727. "I found a dead grasshopper," Myra announces. "Wanna see 'im?" She opens her cupped hands, a small carcass nestled in one. "Don't kill 'im," she says, "It's not a bug. It's a grasshopper." She closes her hand and trit-trotts into the sunroom, the grasshopper as real as a dolly.

4728. A neighbor give me a whole bale of fresh dill. The kids process it for me, snapping the heads into a huge pile.

4729. Jack ambles into the sunroom, four dill stems trimmed and bundled. "I like the fragrance of this," he jabs the air with his dill sword. "If I ground this up and put it in a candle, I bet it would smell really good. It would make the whole house smell REALLY good."

4730. Jane flops two banana peels in the kitchen garbage. "Ah," she says, "I guess I better take the trash out," and she does.

4731. We take communion with the kids.

4732. "Jesus, please help Jane's tummy feel better," Jack prays and hops off the bed to come rub Jane's arm. "And thank you for communion," he says.

4733. We attend a wedding of dear friends, you know the kind, where the bride and groom have been pure and chaste for their wedding day. We feel dizzy with honor. Wide rolling wheat fields golden and heavy, evening breeze, a gazebo, an old barn, and something electric and unmistakable: purity. Every color rich and deep, every moment pristinely in focus, the five children on our laps and all around us, we bear witness. Radiant, radiant purity. We can't take our eyes off of it. We memorize every moment.

4734. "It sounded like he had tears in his voice during the vows," Jane retells that night when we settle in for bed, their resplendent faces still aglow, flushed and pink from all the dancing and celebration.

4735. We meet the cousins at the pool. The adults lounge poolside and chat.

4736. Lucy sobs when I tell her to collect basil in the midday sun. "RACCOONS," she wails and hangs her head. She's petrified of raccoons. I make her pick the basil. She wins over the fear.

4737. I see her shoulders a little stronger, a little more tenacious and brave, her steady gaze all fortitude and confidence. I conclude it's true: courage gives us power over fear.

"We never feel more alive than when we are brave." ~Brené Brown

Resurrection Day

"Why when you sleep or wear boots it makes black stuff between your toes?" Lucy wonders. Scrunched up, fingers separating each toe, she squints, picks the black stuff out, wipes it on the carpet.

We gussie up in fresh clothes, me in soft black running jersey, her in apple skirt and green rain boots.

And all of us, the five kids, me, we gallop down the block, sun on our heels and in our hair, Joey on my back. We run down around the horse track, around again, back up the block, and then pile in the car, zip off for errands together.

"So what's so great about Jesus rising from the dead?" I ask. We skitter down the main drag, kids' heads bobbing in the back.

"'Cause he raised again," Lucy bellows.

"But Lazarus raised again. Why is it so great that Jesus did?"

"'Cause he died for us," Jack says, and the others clamor and bluster. The chatter blends together, then lulls.

"But, why is that so great?"

The wide five-lane road aflutter with cars, a suburban to my right, a corolla slows, and I switch lanes, pull the visor down, piercing orange sun hidden for the moment.

Jane's voice rises from the backseat, "He died the death of a criminal so he can pay for criminals like us."

There, in that blazing orange sun, I feel her comment warm on my skin. He paid for me. I'm all paid for and clean and perfect in his sight. Oh happy day. The Lord has made us new. Jesus has made us new.





Gratitude:

4281. "If you don't obey Jesus's instructions," Jane says, "you usually still get to the same place, just not in the same way." We trace again the life of Abraham and notice his detours.

4282. The seven of us make the four-and-a-half hour drive to Lucy's four hour eye appointment. We turn around and come home the same day. Jack makes wrestling practice. Craig and I have date night. It's the best long day ever.

4283. "Pardon me, I tooted," Jack whispers in the waiting room. "Jack tooted just now," Myra announces in full voice.

4284. Egg salad -- with bacon. Warm rosemary bread. Oven crisp chocolate chip cookies. Warm brownies.

4285. Cerissa hosts a Tuesday retreat.

4286. "I'm always gonna be a nice girl," Myra reassures.

4287. I comfort Myra after a nightmare. We pray together.

4288. Craig calls on his way home. "What kind of pizza do you want for dinner?" he says.

4289. "You're pretty," Myra says. "You're pretty with your head," she points to my long hair.

4290. Cerissa makes a big happy deal about Lucy's new reading glasses.

4291. Myra squishes Joe's cheeks like putty.

4292. Rockie gets the spica cast off!!!

4293. We all feel relief and joy, but it's palpable from her parents.

4294. The Sugar Creek Gang.

4295. Top Dog.

4296. A cup of soup, a cup of glorious steaming coconut-curry-sweet-tater soup comes from across the street straight to my bowl.

4297. "That's my stinky toot," Myra announces. "I said PARDON ME, I TOOTED," she rambles on. "I didn't poop my pants."

4298. Scented pencils. A friend gives us scented pencils.

4299. Lavender seasoning. The perfect blend.

4300. Question games, stories, laughter and play, we practice our signs with Miss Lynne.

4301. Craig's parents celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. We throw a party. We laugh and linger and marvel. What a blessing to be in their family.

4302. Joey fusses. "Mom, Joe says him's tooth is hurt," Myra reports.

4303. Pink polka-dot shirt, all happy and fresh, cardigan to match.

4304. I decide to boycott Starbucks. As per the suggestion of Starbucks' CEO I'll take my stake somewhere else.

4305. Cerissa faces an awkward situation. She hits it head on. We all silently cheer and take note.

4306. I buy honey yogurt. The kids split wide smiles, quietly lick their spoons.

4307. Pecans on salad.

4308. Down at the horse track two Boston terriers join us. Myra spots them. "The horses are coming," she says and motions to the two dogs. They trot up, sniff us, and continue on. "Her is nice. See Lucy, her is nice," Myra says.

4309. "Tell me when you wake me up," Myra suggests.

4310. For Resurrection Day, I make pancakes. Jack grabs Lucy's hands and dances around the living room for all the joy of it.

4311. Lemon cheesecake, coconut cupcakes.

4312. Resurrection. Jesus's resurrection.

4313. My salvation.

Myra

"You know how to drive." Myra nods to me. I pull a down jacket over my shoulders and kneel to fasten buttons on her neon yellow sweater. She pokes willowy fingers through a button hole, tugs the button through.

"Yeah," I nod. She nods back. We nod in unison. Blink. "Do you?"

"Yeah," she mimics head still bobbing. "I do." She blinks. "But I don't." She blinks again. "I can't drive, but I can turn the fan on."

"The fan in the car?"

"Yeah." She fiddles the last button through, pulls the sweater down 'round her waist. "I have to go poopy," she adds. "I want you to flop me on the toilet."

"Flop you on the toilet?"

"Yeah," she nods again as if adjudicating a piano recital. "Don't let my head go in," she warns. I make my eyes round like hers and watch the words tumble out. "Don't let my arms go in either."

We hit the bathrooms and head out.

"That car is HEAVY," she remarks as we board the suburban. "Suckers are STICKY," she says as we depart down the driveway. "Faster, faster, faster -- drive, drive," she lilts. "Cars can hurt my fingers when I get out, " she continues. "Then I go to sleep for a long time, long time, long time and then my owie gets off, and I can take the band-aid off."

Christmas music croons and Myra joins in, "and heaven and nature sing, and heaven and nature sing." She knows most of the words. I never noticed in December. "Glory to the King," she chirps. We bump-bump over a parking lot ramp. "That's a heavy part," she evaluates.

We follow the familiar route of grocery chocolate and warm steamer. She picks vanilla.

At a small bistro table she bustles handfuls of baby peanut butter cups to her mouth. She piles them on the little plastic lid and loopty-doopty pops them in her mouth one after another.

"I'm not gettin' it on my shirt," she reassures. "I'm not puttin' my lips on my shirt." She jabs the yellow sweater, "Right here."

I flip the receipt over and scratch out the crossbars of tic-tac-toe. We take turns. She's dots. I'm exes. She makes her eyes perfect round irises, full blue marbles, when I say, "No, I can go there," and jab the corner quadrant. "You don't have a dot there so I actually can go there." Still she practically cheers when I win.

Midday ebbs; afternoon eases in. We gather the remains of chocolate, tepid steamer, rumpled receipt and lollygag to the car.

And then we're home, ascended the driveway, parked. "Myra," I say, "I have an important question for you. And I want you to REALLY think about it." I twist around in my seat, look my eyes into hers. "Myra, what do you want me to pray about for you?"

In time with conversation, hardly a pause, "Jesus," she says.

"Jesus?" I say, "What about Jesus?"

"Jesus be in my heart." She measures out the words with the sure gait of an executive officer.

Jesus be in my heart. In the small frame of an almost three year old we rough in the walls of the future.

Jesus be in my heart.

Gratitude:

4125. "Want to open your mouth and close your eyes?" Lucy asks and them plops an orange slice in my mouth.

4126. "Jesus, I'm naughty. Please die for me and live in my heart." Myra's prayer.

4127. "If I get hurt, I'll wake up Joe," Myra predicts her glass fluttering scream.

4128. To the woman I love with all my heart. As always I give all my love to you. Craig rubber-bands his love note to chocolate bars and garden seeds.

4129. He tolls in the final hours of Valentine's Day belly-down on the hardwoods, elbow deep in the bowels of the washing machine. All that wrestling and he pins a victory: new drain pump fully operational. An avalanche of laundry awaits.

4130. Lavender athletic jersey, hobo mitts and all soft, my running clothes become my regular clothes.

4131. Sweet Rockie's surgery goes well. She awakes and blusters, "Holy smokes!" all drowsy and surreal. I memorize her two year old sweetness gathered in pillows and tucked under a soft quilt, arms crossed.

4132. We round-up with family on the farm. Roast and potatoes, salad and green beans, it's a feast.

4133. I knit the first nine inches of Joey's monkey sweater.

4134. We circle up for sign language and laugh and whittle away an afternoon.

4135. "My favorite person," Lucy lilts, "is standing there: the girl in the green coat." I smile green coat zipped up under my chin.

4136."Those are SPICY." Myra motions to a pile of orange peels. "Don't eat that," she says.

4137. The three older kids go to a local GOLF show with Craig. They return with complimentary kids' clubs. Myra assesses the clubs and turns to me. "Are we gonna go to the DOG show?"

4138. Cousins send us valentines.

4139. The kids dig last years crop of carrots. Sweet, crisp candy.

4140. A flight to the ER for sis-in-law-Rose and we get the news: It's pneumonia. 3.5 liters of fluids by IV, a load of antibiotics and she's cleared to recover at home.

4141. Friends invite us to lunch after church.

4142. I stop in a local bookshop and the owner visits with me long past closing. I take note of her kindness.

4143. Pizza night.

4144. "Yeah, let's don't pick our nose," Myra wipes her nose. "That's ICKY."

4145. Another week lands in our laps somehow seamlessly woven despite my many flaws.

Lucy Date

"Do you think all the people out in cars are just going on a date with one of their kids?" Lucy asks.

We ease right and sigh down an off ramp. A red light at the bottom, another arterial merges full onto the road ahead. Cars flit by. Red, yellow, black, every one a car on a date. I wish it were true. 

We buy cat cookies and a chocolate bar at the local grocery. We open them up on a table set with raspberry steamer and crayons lined up in marching order. We color in cerulean, green, and violet.

She copies me. We smooth wax thick and shiny. Flecks stick to our fingers. Indigo and purple speckle the blonde table. I try to brush them off, and my hands collect more speckles.

"How many kids do you want to have when you grow up?" We cultivate conversation between smooth waxy strokes. We hardly look up, but the words form.

"A hundred." She coaxes green into each corner of a triangle undaunted by the bulbous crayon, blunt, thick, deliberate. I watch, but she doesn't notice.

"Do you think you'll have girls or boys?"

"Just boys." She rotates the crayon, presses more green into that triangle.

"Why do you think that?"

"Just do." She scratches a smudge with her fingernail then captures cerulean.

I sweep purple in stripes. "What's your favorite Bible story?"

She pauses, props an elbow on the table. "Jesus dying on the cross," she says. I rub more purple into my picture, occupy my hands while she weaves her words. "What's your favorite?" she adds.

I copy her elbow, gaze out floor-to-ceiling windows. "Probably Jesus dying on the cross," I agree. "Why is it your favorite?" I follow our liturgy and color while an answer germinates inside her head. 

"'Cause it shows how GOOD God is," she says. I glance up into her eyes. "And how sweet he is doing stuff for us," she says, "even if it hurts really bad." At the word sweet her voice waxes high, and she squints just ever so little. 

How sweet he is. Yes. Four and a half and a perfect silhouette emerges. Sacrifice is sweet. The fragrance of salvation. Sweet.

Gratitude:

4099. "In our little family I think that Daddy is the best at not being prideful," Jane observes.

4100. Jack finds a Bible at the thrift store and chatters on all week. "With my money," he says, "I'm gonna buy gifts and Bibles."

4101. "Daddy works so hard, and he never gets a break," Jane notices.

4102. "How do people in public schools do history without including God at all?" Jane queries.

4103. We make sandals out of cardboard and rafia as we study ancient Egypt. "If Obamacare gets too bad," Jane comments, "we might be making shoes like this and actually wearing them."

4104. "I always say, YES, MOMMA," Myra tries to instill confidence.

4105. Jane knits me a scarf, all 100 rows.

4106. We work the afternoon away, side by side, knitting and sewing.

4107. She helps me make a rubbing of a favorite skirt so I can create a pattern to copy it.

4108. I brown sausage, and she chops celery and onions for lentil stew.

4109. Lucy tries to learn to knit. 

4110. Jack fashions masks out of paper and pastes together a giant scroll.

4111. Joey gobbles up the lentil stew.

4112. Constant Comment tea.

4113. Three summer skirts, whimsical, functional, and tucked away for summer.

4114. Blackberry pie. We make blackberry pie for Craig's birthday. Yup, I married into a farm family so I'm a pie-maker now.

4115. Coral sweatshirt, teal sweatshirt, don't ya love sweatshirts?

4116. Easter outfits continue to take shape: green button-down shirts for the boys.

4117. My mother surrounds me with conversation. The easy lull waxes and wanes like the ocean.

4118. Craig's mom stops by. We visit. I memorize the happy blue of her eyes.

4119. Myra sirens from the bathroom. I wipe her backside. "Don't get any on the RUG, Momma," she warns.

4120. She suits up in jammies. "Jesus made these for me," she says and tugs her sleeve.

4121. We have another party for Craig and for sis-in-law Rosie, a party of pies. A round-robin of exhortation, I feel full and happy just listening. At the end we pray for Rockie's up coming surgery. The Lord surrounds us with his presence.

4122. Myra rushes in from outside. "I don't need to go pee," she says. "I just wiggle-wiggle-wiggle if I need to go pee." 

4123. Another birthday party, this one for a sweet nephew, the season of celebration continues.

4124. "I have unders in my pants," Myra announces. "And ya don't eat poopy, Momma," she adds. "That is YUCKY." The other golden rule.

Amphibian

"If Jesus had any sins, he would have had to die for HIS sins." I pull at a snarl of nachos, dislodge a chip. Lucy bites the corner of her peanut butter and jelly.

"And we would have to die for OUR sins on a CROSS," Lucy wrinkles her forhead, her cheeks round with sandwich, "and Myra would cry and cry on the cross." She pats little Myra's hand kitty-corner around the big black table.

"Well, you wouldn't necessarily die on a cross," I scoop up a diced avocado, "but you would go to Hell when you die and that's the part that would hurt."

Lucy tilts her head, "And Myra would cry and cry until they let her out." She nods and copies my matter-of-fact eyebrows.

"No, they never let you out. It lasts forever," I say.

She sways her shoulders, "Yeah, it lasts forever like amphibian."

"No, inphibian," Jane calls from the end of the table.

"INPHIBIAN," Jack shouts and jumps off the leather ottoman.

"Infinity," I say.

"Infinibin means forever and it never stops," Lucy recovers.

"Infinity."

"Infinity," she punctuates.

With that we eat lunches down to clean plates and scattered crumbs. The children dicker over what books to bring to the beach and what to eat for breakfast in the car.

I tread lightly, let the current carry us.

Gratitude:

1638. How Myra tries to give me a back rub.

1639. How she whispers, "Love," in my ear.

1640. How Lucy calls the salad dressing BRANCH all one dinner and points to the word, "Lighthouse," and sounds out, "Brrrraaaannch."

1641. How when I ask Jane to bring me my school plan book, Myra brings me my Bible.

1642. Jane's offhand comment as I cut sweet potatoes, "Mom, I gotta tell you something. You're the best mom I know of."

1643. Four children gathered around the oven to watch candied sweet potatoes bubble.

1644. First Tuesday in a month to gather with mom and sis-in-laws.

1645. Lucy's assessment, "The stars looked like little pieces of fire, but they didn't fall. And they didn't burn our eyes. They were really pretty."

1646. Myra sacked out in my lap while the older three work away at their schoolwork.

1647. Jane's observation, "Momma, time flaps its wings so fast." And Jack's, "Yeah, perhaps as fast as an American eagle."

1648. Lucy standing on tip-toe, "Mommy, even though you don't want me to grow so fast, I just go on and grow -- until I'm a grown-up."

1649. Youngest girl cousin a whole year old.

1650. How I pause at dinner dishes and see Jane sneaked away to twirl and hum to Christmas music.

1651. How she calls Craig's mom to see what we can bring for Thanksgiving.

1652. Early Thanksgiving with Craig's side, a feast to be sure, and laughter and sledding, knitting and talk over pie and coffee and how the day stretches and stretches on.

1653. How Lucy draws a picture of the baby inside of me: a bubble of sea-green and azure blue.

1654. Jane almost ready for bed, "I feel like I could only move as fast as a stone could move."

1655. Scrambled eggs and peppermint oreos.

1656. Jack's assessment, "I like learning about the world." And his full examination of our globe.

1657. How we hear Lucy whisper from the car's backseat, "Guys, let's NEVER do bad things."

1658. And her conclusion, "If Jesus didn't die on the cross, we're gonna have to go to Hell, all of us, even our DAD," eyebrows raised. "And," she adds, "it's gonna hurt really bad, and we can never get out, and all our teeth are going to fall out."

1659. The pressure, privilege of doling out a little more knowledge each day.