Birthday

"My birthday is in one week," Myra says. The two of us lilt through the kitchen groggy with sleep but breakfast at hand. "I was like, it's in seven days, wait, that's ONE week," she says.

"Yep," I say. "You're at seven and then suddenly down to ONE."

"Yeah," she nods. I gather the third cup and the eighth cup measures, head to the oatmeal cupboard, then circle back to pluck an oatmeal bowl from a waining stack.

"Is there anything special you want or are interested in?" I say.

"Hmmm," she looks to the left. Her eyes roam the ceiling. "Ummm," she says. "There is actually one thing."

"What?"

"I was wondering if you could read us one of those Bibles with the pictures in it," she says.

"Oh," I say, "Yes, yes, I will."

The ribbon leash of a birthday gift flutters away, and I'm left with a red-headed wisp.

"You can read a story and then we can worship together," she says. Not cute or self-aggrandizing, it's like she's forgotten herself encircled in the satin liturgy of morning devotions gone by.

Gratitude:

6546. Joe, Betsy, and I spend a morning lingering with friends. We iron Monday morning smooth with fellowship, deep, deep friendship.

6547. Oxtails. Cooking with friends. A dear friend teaches me to cook oxtail. It's like a bell that cannot be unrung. The children rave it's their favorite soup.

6548. A neighbor surprises us with a plate of gingersnaps.

6549. Craig continues to slave away on the kitchen remodel.

6550. A new pair of pants in linen.

6551. "I remember when Jack and Lucy and I used to work out," Myra says. "Yeah? What'd you do?" I say. "Oh, just sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups, and walk around the yard with bricks in our backpacks."

6552. "Daddy can have five cookies if he wants 'cause he's a grown-up," Betsy says.

6553. Jane gets a chance to babysit.

6554. The children excavate all manner of landscaping debris from the backyard to have a dinner picnic with my parents.

6555. The plants in the greenhouse grow larger and lusher, a real garden paradise.

6556. We while away an afternoon down on the farm.

6557. Jack and his buddy pour over a cooking subscription. He comes home and promptly bakes a loaf of artisan bread.

6558. "I cut you choose," he says of the slices of fresh bread. When I linger long finishing chores he whisks by me, "I took a bite our of this one, so the other piece is bigger now," he says, impish grin splaying his face.

6559. The week rounds out with an afternoon of rest. We drink in its deep waters. As evening turns to night, I remember my Saturday's prayer was for a sabbath.

6560. We set our hearts to be glad at the work of the week.

These Times

"Wasn't that neat seeing a fast-forward video of a dandelion last night?" I say.  Fresh up the front drive, morning run in our wake, Jane and I visit, sun soft on our cheeks.

"Yeah," she says. It was." She pauses as if "was" were large and round. "Though I have to admit," she says, "to having a chronic dislike of dandelions."

"Hah," I say. "I know what you mean." And like that we are through the front door, the house quiet for encircling nine, warm light skittering across the hardwood floors. The morning turned past noon, I herald everyone in.

"We have to leave by 1:00," I say. Everyone pulls hard on the oars of time to row, row us all ready and set to leave.

"Joe's hair needs a little bit of guidance," Jane calls, hand cupped around her mouth, eyebrows and cheeks drawn up in bow. I snicker, but swept in the twirl-wind of gathering seven children into the car and off to Toastmasters, I forget about Joe's masterful hair.

"Oh," I say when the speech teacher pauses and admires the high-in-front doo. "That's self-made hair," I say.

"Yep," he says. A masterpiece.

Gratitude:

6543. We take a vacation to the ocean. So much family surrounding us, twenty-seven of us, we savor the relationships, roam the beach, and play and make worship together. Magnificent. We store up the memories like special treasures.

6544. Our greenhouse plants continue to grow-grow-grow into lush specimens.

6545. We settle into the comfort and routines of home like the chorus a song sung a hundred times. We determine to enjoy it as much as the sea, each thing in its time.

The Audiobook

"That is SO loud," I say. "It is GRATING on my ears." Furrow deep between my eyebrows, I reach over Jane and turn the audiobook down, staccato obvious in my arm.

The nine of us folded like origami into the Suburban, Jane and I sit elbow to elbow in the front seat, she between Craig and me.

"Here, let me just turn it up," Jane say. Before I can crane my neck enough to bore that furrow into her, she's clicked it up a quarter turn.

"WHat?" I say. "WHY did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Turn it up."

"It was hard to hear," she says.

"But I said NOT to."

"No, you said it was loud and turned it down, so I asked to turn it up."

"No, you didn't," I say, my scarf and sweater suddenly weltering rags dampening my neck.

"Yeah, I did," she says.

"No," I say, "you said, here let me turn it up."

"Oh," she says.

"Why would you do that?" Exasperation bloomed into something like a room without very much air, me leaning into some sort of winning move, I deepen that furrow as if my whole face could pivot around those eyebrows.

"Well," she finally says, "I guess it's because you are normally so good at reading my mind."

"Huh," I say. "Well, there's that." A grin, ticklish at the corner of my mouth, pull, pull, pulls those eyebrows loose and consummates into an all out laugh. "I guess you're not in trouble," I say. And something shared lets loose between us, slack, as if a tether has just grown both longer and stronger.

Longer and stronger. This seems to be the order of the day. Something adult begins to stand up inside of her as if this lovely child were just the breathtaking shell of a magnificent something. I await, abated breath, and pray to honor the passing of this season.

Gratitude:

6345. We take a trip to the ocean. A holiday at the sea. The memories page out like stories from our favorite books. The peace and comfort of family and extended family nourish us body, mind and soul. 17 children, 10 adults, and 5 days, we weave the fabric of family.

6246. Craig nearly completes the new greenhouse. 800 baby plants grow, grow, grow up toward the sky.

6247. We make the long, long drive to the ocean and enjoy the time of no expectations. We unroll the hours at the slow pace of ones whose schedules rarely leave time to just sit. Just. Sit. The slowness speaks peace.

6248. I work daily to cultivate kindness and gentleness in my replies. I note that hurrying makes me mean. I work to right this wrong, grow strength where I am weak. Be kind always. This is not too tall an order. I meditate on this truth.

6249. I note that when I take the time to apologize when I fall short all other things bother me less. Contentment finds me. Endurance and self-discipline sidle up inside of me.

6250. I pray to be diligent and attentive, never missing a moment or detail that God has appointed to me. Let the obedience and beauty ensue.

Growing Pains

"There are FOUR," Myra yells. The duck pond glistening just beyond the bridge rail, she points, an exclamation mark emphatic. "Last time there were only three ducks. They had a BABY," she effuses.

"Oh, WOW," I say. We watch them, her excitement a foaming ocean lapping against me as she points and hops and bungles against my shoulder.

"They put their heads in the water like that because they don't want to look at us," she says. All three ducks momentarily troll the shallow water for niblets on the bottom.

"I think they might be eating," I say.

"Oh yeah," she says, "they're eating." One at a time they poke heads up then trollop back down, tails in the air. "OR," she says, "maybe they are scratching their beaks."

"Oh," I say. "I think they're eating."

"But they MIGHT be scratching their beaks," she says.

"Well," I say, "I guess so."

We watch them bob and dive and eventually flap their impossibly orange feet up on shore. Myra sidles as close as possible before they edge back into the water.

***

"Do you remember me rubbing your leg last night?" I say. Now back in the car, the afternoon heat swollen around us, we scroll the windows down, and pull out. Something of a breeze flaps across our sweaty foreheads.

"No," she says.

"Remember you came into my room and asked me to ruby your leg?"

"Oh, yeah," she says, "I forgot because I did my same thing."

"Your same thing?" I say say. In the rearview mirror, I see her hand's out the open window. She's cupping it to the wind.

"Yeah," she says, "remember? I pray and ask if Jesus will make my leg stop hurting, and then I rub it while I fall asleep."

"Oh yeah," I says. "That's good."

"Yeah," she says.

It hadn't seemed my careful massage helped much, but then this newly turned six year old has a way of fixing things herself. These middle born children, these unflappable ones, they're a mystery to me. They quietly formulate answers, blaze trails, and invent solutions without audience or fanfare. They observe more than they bluster. They're almost invisible unless you look directly at them, and they are becoming more rare every day. Strange to have a nation of so few middle borns.

Gratitude:

5853. We go on vacation with extended family. Moments and memories ensue. They glide in on the wings of sea birds. They slurp in with the tide. They glitter and gleam in piles of agates. They howl and crash and encircle us with unending fellowship, mirth, and strength. The children begin to weave the matrix of family. We pull together and find the fabric of family surrounding us.

5854. After numerous beach adventures, treasure hunting unending, trails and waterfalls eternal, we slide/crash/collapse in to our own beds 2:00 am Thursday morning. Since I married Craig, we enjoy everything to the very last possible drop.

5855. Myra turns six. She becomes six as if it were the next very best version of herself. Best of all, she wears it without looking over her own shoulder hinting for compliments.

5856. We celebrate the Mother/Daughter Tea with Craig's mom in his hometown. The featured speaker shares the story of her life. We can hardly blink for how miracle after miracle unfolds in her life.

5857. The children share things they love about their mothers at the tea. "I love that my mom is kind, but she doesn't let me get away with things," Jane writes.

5858. The children gradually settle into their regular routines. We put things away and tidy the house.

5859. "If you stay out playing basketball," Joe advises, "you might get goosebumps." Myra nods. "They don't hurt," he adds.

5860. "The white eggs don't have a yolk," he confides.

5861. As we settle back into routine, we find the break has changed us. All the conversations of loving each other, sacrifice, giving when your tired and hungry and upset, they've made marks on the inside of us. We love each other more. We've made a little deeper groove of sacrifice.

5862. So it is, we give and that makes us love. I pray these bonds grow stronger each day.

The Lake

"Good job, just giving Betsy a quick snuggle," I say, "before finishing your job." Crouched over Betsy,  Jane looks up, her face luminous.

"Thanks, Mom," she says.

"Sure," I say

"Really, thanks,"she says. "I maybe looked like I didn't notice your words, but," she taps her temple, "I did."

I nod. She smiles like a ribbon uncoiling, loping in the wind. She tips her head to me in minute salute and jollies on. The room reverberates from her example.

Gratitude:

5522. My mom makes me a quilt for my birthday, my very own handmade quilt. It has linen on the inside and all my favorite colors on the outside. Love.

5523. Craig's parents join us for dinner. My favorite moment is when we all pray before bed with the kids. Each voice sounds a worshipful chorus.

5525. Peaches, fresh peaches. A whole family-sized bowl of them. Sweetness.

5524. We spend a weekend at the lake with family. A whole weekend with one responsibility, love each other, bask in our friendship. Riches.

Soda Water

"What's soda water?" Jane chirps from the backseat.

"It's water that's fizzy," I say, "with no flavor. Doesn't that just sound like something I would like?" Marooned at a red, white, and blue gas station, the fifth or sixth so far, Craig runs in. Soda water, he's looking for soda water. We stay buckled in.

"One time I had Sprite," Jane says. I feel her lean forward. "Oh, this is a memory that I'm not gonna get out a my mind," she titters. "We were at Rocky Rococo's, and Daddy gave me a glass I thought was WATER, and I DRANK it and was like..." She trails into gurgles. They erupts into chortles.

"What's SPRITE?" Jack demands.

"It's a type," Jane recovers, "of SODA." She straightens, nods, anchored with importance.

And we wait. All strapped in and eager, we wait. The sun crystalline, the sky azure, we wait, momentum gathered and silent.

"Your daddy is so patient with me," I say. Elbow wheedled against passenger window, I stare at the sky, summer blue in November, the hush of the trip bonded between us.

"Oh," Jane says.

"You know, for about three years before he met me, he prayed for patience," I say. "The Lord gave him many difficult things to grow patience in him." I lean an elbow over my seat, the sun scattered across my face. "And it was one of the sweetest gifts he's ever given me," I say.

"Oh," Jack says. The windows portals of light, we stare at the sharp cityscape around oil stained lot.

"Ya know," I say, "the gifts that you can't wrap up and put a bow on, end up being the ones you treasure for a lifetime."

"Yep," Jane says.

Craig, lithe over the dingy blacktop lopes to the car. He strides, optimism like diesel.

"Did you find it?"

"Nope," he says. "Not yet." He turns the key, swivels the steering wheel, propels us to the next stop. Six, eight, nine, I don't know how many. I just know we left with soda water. And love.

Gratitude:

5009. "Ok, let's start this trip off RIGHT," Craig tackles Jack.

5010. We take a trip to the beach. A whole clutch of family gathers, prepares Thanksgiving, gives thanksgiving, lingers in the bond of family.

5011. My aunt and uncle have us all, all 21 of us, for a week of celebration. So accommodating, so gracious, so high class and hospitable, the weekend unfolds like a symphony.

5012. We feel it again: blood is thicker than water. Cousins play. Adults linger late into the night over board games and Canasta. Parents and children slow to look each other full in the face.

5013.  We collect agates, bags of them.

5014. We thrift shop in droves.

5015. And I run with my dad. We run and talk. It's the best. All that wisdom and life tied up in someone I respect so much, someone I just plain like. We run nine minute miles. I can hardly believe it. The time with Dad is such a highlight.

5016. Craig drives the whole journey there and back. We listen to This Present Darkness on audiobook and hang on every word.

5017. Craig teaches the kids how to play Settlers of Catan, and we spend a whole morning playing together.

5018. We unpack and reassemble the house. We settle into the folds of a new week.

Vacation

"Mom, what do you think I should be when I grow up?" Lucy says. She nudges a foot against Craig's seat, wriggles to sit taller. She peers around the armrest, seatbelt looped over a shoulder.

I knit two more stitches, dark purple yarn, then purl two, knit two. "Hmmm," I say, but I'm not sure she hears. The hot sun, humid ocean air, six of us beached in the car, we wait, the moments elongated and moist.

Craig, somewhere in the belly of Safeway, fetches a few staples: toilet paper, mayo, mustard, potato chips. I debate if I should take off my running jersey or just try not to move and sweat.

"How much longer do you think 'til he gets here?" Jane asks. She pulls an old pink comforter up to her chin, the picnic blanket. She had tripped when the big sneaker wave gushed up on shore, a sluice through her hair. She had spat and spluttered the salty water, and laughed. Oh courage, she laughed.

But, Lucy had jumped, gripping Craig's arm. And he had curled her heavenward, muscled her to the sky, grit and salt a spout around her knees.

"Do you think I should be an artist?" Lucy says.

Swish-click, another knit of purple, "Yes," I say, the invisible stitch between knit and purl.

An artist. Art, it's all seeing, learning to see, to trace the tiny, near-invisible deviation from normal, the one that makes your face, you, and mine, me. An artist, yes she would be good at this.

"Then I can go to gallery meetings," she says, "and paint stuff." She nods, impressed with the minutia.

Then, as if water through our fingers, a whole week on the beach passes by, feet smoothed on sand, faces peached from sun. It's Saturday breakfast and last-minute packing.

"I want to sit in the back on the way home," Jane announces, her green cereal bowl padded with a full-sized paper towel folded down to catch drips.

"I think you have to," I say, swirl my coffee, and take a swig.

"What?"

"Didn't you sit in the middle row on way here?"

"I did half, and Jack did half," she says.

"Oh. Ok."

She leans a pink sleeve on the table, watches a diving duck out the front window. It disappears. Hup. She holds her breath. One-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three... one-thousand-nineteen. Puff. She scoops another square of cereal. We watch for the duck to re-emerge.

"It's nice to sit by someone who is closer to my age," she continues, "so they know more how to encourage me." She rests the spoon back in the green bowl, time a forgotten commodity. "It's not just like saying, You're great," she shakes her head. I watch her curls concuss around her elbows. "I mean, I want evidence,"she says. "Let me put it this way, I want to know they mean it." She nods, lips drawn up, perfect pink.

"Yeah," I say, "me too." I recline, time loose around my ankles.

She dredges the last of the cereal and drinks the milk. She gathers the paper towel like a nest under the bowl and ambles to the sink. Her curls almost waist length, a dalmatian on the front of her shirt, I note the interweaving of child and adult.

And then, the long drive home. It's the shortest yet. We seven squeeze in and unfurl the stories. Narnia: The Horse And His Boy, The Magician's Nephew, The Last Battle.

"No, no, turn it off," Jane shouts from the back when the Shift, the ape, captures the stage. "I can't bear to hear him LIE like that." Lie -- artful, beautiful, horrible lies. They slither, seem alive. "No, I won't listen to it." Her voice visceral, she clamps hands over ears, frowns resolute.

And then we stop, again, all seven of us paused so Myra can pee. Or not, again. "Really? You can't pee?" I say.

"No. I think maybe my tummy was actually hurting because I wanted to snuggle with you," she says. I nod, pull up her pants and hike her three-year-old self on my hip. We head back the suburban. She wraps her arms around my neck.

The drive is long, full. It's the last bite of dessert before you're overfilled and really too full. But we never reach that point, just really, just right full.

Gratitude:

4848. "The end of plums is at the horizon line," Jane says as we process plums for freezing. "It goes straight from plums into ocean," she says.

4849. Finally, we pile into the suburban, packed to the gills, and set out for vacation.

4850. I finish knitting Myra's blue dress. She loves it.

4851. The beach house. We arrive in one piece. Happy memories greet us. Peace, like a long sigh, trails through the house. We swell with gratitude.

4852. We walk the beach, Myra's willowy hand in mine. "Why do roly-polies run?" she asks. "'Cause they have legs," I say.

4852. "My pants are rainy," she chatters, slaps her wet jeans.

4853. Paradise-sun. We play in the sun.

4854. Sunset, the kids race the waves and gold light.

4855. Myra dons her new sweater and kicks up the sand.

4856. Jane and I play Quarto! Then we have a dueling playoff with the other kids.

4857. Hot tub. We play on the beach until a core chill settles in, then pile in the hot tub.

4858. We retreat for naps. Craig and I land in the window seat, sun full and bright, waves cresting. I fall asleep in his arms.

4859. We finally circle back home and find it just the same as before. Home, the perfect punctuation.