The Wedding

"I think Aunt Laura is an interesting person to visit with," Jane says.

"Me too," I say.

The reception hall a splay of jubilee, Jane and I thread our way back to our table. Relatives and strawberry shortcake, music and dancing, a fall storm held off just long enough to complete an outdoor ceremony, my cousin got married.

Something happened there in the squirreling wind and sprinkling rain, an act of God: marriage. Corey and Olivia became a new unit of family. We watched and beheld the glory. A holiday of love, merriment ensued.

And in a small moment between Aunt Laura and the cousins I rarely see, I turn. There is Jane out on the dance floor. Flip-flops lost under a folding chair, twinkle lights holding the room, she breaks into dance. We all step into a new season.





Gratitude:

Urban Rose Photo

5594. Corey and Olivia get married.

5595. Spur of the moment, I invite a neighbor to dinner. He accepts. And he brings three pies!

5596. I discover I love pumpkin pie. (?!)

5597. I lose my phone and then find it when the small diner next to the grocery store calls with it.

Urban Rose Photo

5598. A friend stops by out of the blue.

5599. I get hammered by a migraine and rise again.

5600. I discover how to knit a bonnet by Elizabeth Zimmerman.

5601. Craig surprises me with a date to a local pizza shop.

Urban Rose Photo

5602. We settle into the arms of autumn enjoying warm afternoons and brisk nights.

5603. I make one of the best lentil soups in years.

5604. Craig prints new family photos for our living room.

5605. We tumble into Sunday evening exhausted, spent, and full.

Urban Rose Photo

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

Strawberries

"Momma says we should give our first crops to other people, Lucy." Jack hitches the refrigerator door open. He reaches between a tub of yogurt and the pot of last night's stew to pluck up a tiny baggie of strawberries. "Now we can share it with Logan and Thad," he says. He unzips the little baggie and squeezes in two mostly ripe berries no bigger than thimbles.

Lulie nods, "Ok."

Jack squibbles the baggie shut and sets it on the yogurt tub. He whirls the fridge closed with one hand. "There," he says. "Come on, Lucy." He skitters out the back door like a tricycle on two wheels.

"Wait for me, Jack." She bobs out the back, a buoy on his heels.

The door clicks shut and I sigh. Joe again in the crook of my arm, me moored on the little black couch, I watch the children spin my words into worlds.





Gratitude:

3246. Jane makes a friendship bracelet. "It doesn't really look very interesting," she comments, "but it is -- like knitting." She weaves an indigo string into place. "If there's enough string in here for two," she adds, "I want to make one for you, Momma."

3247. "Some people leave a lot of food on their plate," Lucy notices. I tell her they shouldn't, and she responds, "Yeah, else they'll maybe DIE."

3248. "Lucy, why are you taking so long washing your hands?" I holler to the bathroom. "I want to wash up around my armpit," she shouts back.

3249. We dry a load of jeans in the dryer, all the buttons and zippers rattle and jangle. "Is that one of Jane's tooths in the dryer?" she wants to know.

3250. "Why did you try making hotdogs?" she asks me later. "It's a lot how I wanted it," she adds, "and a little how I didn't."

3251. She tastes dinner and drawls, "It's ADORABLY too spicy."

3252. She loop 'round the kitchen, through the laundry, into the living room and calls, "I did my extra-cizing five-minutes-a-hour. Mommy, mommy, I did it nine-minutes-a-hour now."

3253. We take the kids to a wedding, the kind where the bride and groom embody pure joy, the kind where the bride and groom have waited and saved themselves for their day. Purity. All seven of us lined up in a pew, we let the children watch, see the real thing.

3254. We eat salmon-melts down on the farm.

3255. The kids practice shooting cans filled with water. They all miss the target except for Lucy, her eye patch still on.

3256. Trader Joe's mini peanut butter cups.

3257. White balsamic vinegar, cold pressed olive oil.

3258. Mom and I visit Rosie's new apartment and soak in all the artful touches.

3259. Hand-me-down shirts.

3260. Myra holds my hand during worship on Sunday and strokes my arm.

3261. The cousins mount their posse of bikes and weave in and out of neighborhood driveways. Cerissa and I visit and enjoy our friendship.

3262. Queso bbq burrito, mango salsa on top.

3263. Grilled carrots with cumin and coriander.

3264. Craig takes note on the kinds of questions I love to be asked and then asks me.

3265. The comfort of complete agreement on a few controversial topics.

3266. I remember again how to stand tall, square my shoulder, and take the day in stride.

A Toast

"First let me just get one thing out of the way." All tuxedo and broad shoulders, father of the groom, balances microphone and notes. He slices the air with his hand, "The thing we're the most proud of with Peter and Rosie," he says, "is that they have relentlessly kept themselves pure until their wedding day." He pauses. "In this world, that's remarkable." Father of the groom gazes at each of us, smiles, eyes earnest. "And so what I'm saying," he sweeps the air, "in case you had any doubt, they have saved themselves for this day."

We laugh; we can't help it. Smiles pull and curl at the corner of our mouths as if drawn up by a relentless spring. Our cheeks round and red, we wait, glasses poised to toast. Bride and groom smile long and wide, wider than all. She sways her shoulders as if the day had rhythm all its own. For just a moment it does; her elbow touches his. They smile and beam and hold the crowd as if the sky itself were open, heavy with blessing. I notice how she leans her shoulder light on his chest and waits.

"I mean think about it," father of the groom continues, "how often does that happen?" He spreads his arms, "We'll just let that sink in for a minute." And it does, a marvel to behold. "You won't regret that," he says. "You'll never regret that the rest of your life." And we toast.

And we dance and dance and watch. We can't take our eyes off them. They capture us, joy irrepressible. We sneak peaks out of the corner of our eyes, try not to stare. While I caper and twirl, promenade and cavort, in heels and barefoot, I sneak closer and closer just to watch, to watch them unfurl the day.

923. Peter and Rosie married -- the promise, the purity, the joy, pure joy.

924. A new sister for me!

925. The sea of family who travel from near and far to celebrate with us and witness with us the birth of a new family.

926. How when I watch Pete and Rose, I see it, every good and perfect gift truly from above, and how it resounds from the hilltops -- worth it, worth it, worth it.

927. That my parents taught all of us kids to cherish purity.

928. It's lavish display at the wedding.

929. New shoes, wedges with gold shimmer.

930. How we dance and dance and Lulie keeps saying, "Dance faster, Momma. Dance faster."

931. Slow dance with husband.

932. How Lulie, the flower-girl, flops in the green grass half through the ceremony but still manages to exit with the bridesmaids and ring bearer on cue.

933. How each of my sister-in-laws is a perfect fit in the family. How I finally have sisters!

934. Shoe shopping and great, great shoe advice from one sister.

935. Rhubarb recipes from another.

936. A book of poems from still another.

937. How we linger with relatives new and old soak in our family.

938. How Janie gathers extra bubbles to make sure Jack and Lulie get some.

939. How Myra Rose sacks out on the dance floor, limp on my arms.

940. How Jack tells me all he really wanted at the wedding was for me to sit next to him.

941. How Craig's parents gather our children and feed them yummy wedding food.

942. An afternoon breeze that rolls in to cool the tuxedo clad men and guests.

943. Husband in a tuxedo.

944. Kissin' him.

945. How the girls and I all wore flowers in our hair.

946. The birth of a new family