Trust

"So, I want you to read it out loud to me for a while." I lower my chin, nod into Jane's unblinking eyes.

"Why?" She tilts her head. We let the moment of correction turn, slow like a sundial's shadow.

"Because you broke my trust." I wait for the moment to be long enough. "I will always love you and appreciate you and want to be around you. But if you want me to trust you, you have to be very careful with my trust." I watch her turn this over in her mind. A blink. A nod.

And, small like a puff of wind, the moment ebbs. I hug her to my chest. "Just like I have to be very careful with your trust," I say, "if I want you to trust me."

We linger. She kisses my neck. I kiss her forehead.

And silently, like her warmth in my arms, authority circles back, makes a path of equal footing. Isn't this what always happens when we learn to submit to authority?

Night falls, and we're home late. We linger again, the whole car of us stopped at a red light.

"How come if it's a red light and no one's there and you see it's clear, you don't just go?" she wants to know.

Before I can weave a thoughtful answer, the words spill out, "'Cause," I say, "if we did that it would change us into the kind of people that disobey when no one's looking."

There again, that equal footing. The light flashes green, and we speed away home, another glimpse of the path ahead of us.

Gratitude:

1962. The children peeking over shoulders and around elbows to see pencil sketches turn into watercolor painting. How they clamor for paper and paint and try to copy.

1963. A hot fire, warm coffee, salted chocolate and a photo to sketch.

1964. How I ask Myra how she slept and she responds, "BIG."

1965. How Jane tells me that when you read your Bible, you start to think what God thinks.

1966. How Myra makes her baby wave at me.

1967. How Lucy confesses to breaking six eggs.

1968. How Myra raises her hand to be like the big kids.

1969. How Jane, Jack, and Lu all help Myra sled in the backyard.

1970. A whole pizza and all the laughter that went with it.

1971. Myra leaned on the counter watching Craig make scrambled eggs.

1972. How the children have the entire living room turned into a bed when I get up.

1973. How Myra wears Lucy's shoes over her footie jammies.

1974. Jack's exhortation, "Jane, I like it when you clean."

1975. His admiration for Craig, "Daddy, you have fat muscles."

1976. A surprise date from Craig, how he and his buddy make our house feel like a fancy restaurant for an evening. And how it reminds me of the early years, back before kids -- but better.

1977. Lingering conversation with his buddy's wife.

1978. Feta and bacon stuffed chicken, seared green beans, red potatoes, ice cream and rum sauce.

1979. Craig's wild enthuasiam over his latest project: mealworms. And how he greets me Friday morning, "Wanna see my mealworms?"

1980. Noticing what beautiful hands my mother has.

1981. A blue wallet purse that even holds my keys.

1982. Waking up to "Oh, My Darlin'" on Jane's dulcimer.

1983. Jack's latest inquiry, "Will I have rubber toots because I swallowed my gum?"

1984. Meatball soup and apple crisp.

1985. A vintage cutting-board.

1986. Jack's admonition as waits patiently to feel the baby kick, "Shhhh, if you're quiet you can hear him kick."

1987. Three of the four kids poised, hands on my belly waiting for a baby kick. And how Myra tries to copy, her hand on Jack's shoulder.

1988. How when one of our chickens winds up dead under the little ramp, Craig handles all after death proceedings.

1989. Babe still growing in my belly and the calm before the storm of major life change -- birth.

1990. Taking each day in small measures and being faithful in the small things.

Angry

"I'm turning this off, 'cause I don't like the way this guy is talking." Craig pops the power button on the radio with the palm of his hand. "There."

On the way home from ice skating, Jack and Jane sit in the back seat. Coats, mittens, hats, scarves, snow pants form a landslide around them.

"What do you mean?" Jane asks.

"How is he talking?" Jack wrinkles his forehead.

Craig eyes them in the rearview mirror, passes a red Subaru. "He's angry so he's using bad words," he says.

"Like WHAT?" Jack makes his eyes round. Craig switches lanes, slows to turn left at our corner.

"You know Jack," Jane jumps in, "it's like when you're mad and you say FART instead of TOOT."

"Oh." With that they round the corner and pull up to our house as if all the world's problems have been solved.

Gratitude:

1942. How when I ask Myra to get shoes on she comes out with a spiderman slipper and a sock on.

1943. How Lucy hops belly up on the table, leans on an elbow and watches me work on a project.

1944. Her commentary, "Dad actually makes gooder things than us."

1945. How Myra slurps when she eats an orange.

1946. How Jane lies on the grass and spins a shiny pinwheel in the sun before the snowstorm hits.

1947. How Jack and Lu come in from playing outback and Jane pauses in Math. "Mmmm, they smell like outside," she says.

1948. How Lucy pats her tummy, "I don't know why my belly is getting big," she says, "but I think it might be 'cause there's a baby in my tummy."

1949. How when Jack gets in trouble we pray together. And how when I say I can't understand what he's saying he says, "Oh. Do you think God could?" And we agree he can.

1950. How Myra brings me her blankie when I sleep in.

1951. Teaching the children to obey the first time we ask and the harmony it brings to our home.

1952. How we giggle and laugh over the tiny diapers I've made for the baby.

1953. A frying pan big enough to cook eggs for all of us.

1954. Short grain rice with lime and browned butter.

1955. Learning Canasta and how to be a good sport. Again.

1956. Fried chicken and blackberry pie.

1957. Settling into a season of waiting, seven weeks now until the baby's due.

1958. All the name suggestions. (Thank-you!!) And how we pour over them like a bag full of marbles waiting for one to seem just right.

1959. Learning and praying to be gentle, to let quiet words speak for themselves.

1960. Learning to not laugh at things that aren't funny.

1961. Learning again how small I am and how big God is.

Questions

"You're being like me asking Momma TWO times," Janie nods to Jack. "Sometimes I get a different answer I like better."

From around the corner, elbow deep in dishes, I take mental note. The never ending rain of questions, they're mapping my every move.

Gratitude:

1918. Jane's assessment of Psalm 139, "If you get an air tank and go to the bottom of the sea and bury yourself in the sand, God still knows where you are."

1919. Lucy trying to sound grown up, "Frow-up tastes like juice."

1920. Jack's offer, "I'll help you, Jane. I don't want you to be left out."

1921. And his commentary, "I tighten up my butt when I'm holding a toot."

1922. How I show Craig my progress on the boys' room and find the children have a fort under the baby crib.

1923. How Craig takes a vacation day and spends it taking our children on dates.

1924. Time with my mom parsing out motherhood and children, learning from someone who knows more than me.

1925. Evenings working another puzzle down by the fire, Prince Caspian audio book in the background.

1926. Baby things lent from a friend in CA.

1927. A dentist visit, teeth polished clean.

1928. A fresh shower curtain.

1929. Myra, arms raised to be held.

1930. How she shouts, "I SWALLOWED," from the dinner table when we insist she eat what was served.

1931. A day on the farm, a pot roast feast, apple crisp and a nap to draw the afternoon long. Mother-in-law who spins all things possible.

1932. A string of pearls and all the history and heritage that came with it.

1933. A birthday party for the February birthdays in the family, all the ferris wheels of conversation and carnival of children, the litany of appreciation for each birthday person.

1934. Lucy's progress as a hairdresser, "Look, I braided my bear's ears."

1935. Her birthday wish, "I want an animal that is a real animal that sprays stinky stuff."

1936. How she calls scones, STONES.

1937. How Myra shushes Lucy's doll.

1938. How Jane's suddenly taller than the light switches around the house.

1939. "I have something that I want to sell for two hundred dollars: my magnet drawing thing." Jack starting to notice how the world works.

1940. How Myra sits on my lap and whispers, "Mum-mum, hi."

1941. Learning not to fret over if I said or did the perfect thing and just step into the next moment.

Lead On

"Momma, I'm sorry," Jane shakes her head. "Will you forgive me for trying to make it look like I'm working when I'm really just sandbagging?"

The living room a kaleidoscope of laundry and legos, dollies and dart guns, velcro shoes, rain boots, socks and tinker toys dispersed like tide, I sigh. I smile at her tilted head, curls askew. "Yeah, I forgive you."

And so it is, all the counterpoint of discipline and training and it comes to this: repentance. Suddenly, she's easy to lead. Fierce girl that she is, strength under control is greater strength yet.

Gratitude:

1900. Lucy's announcement, "If it's on the bottom right, that means it's in the middle."

1901. Family puttering around the table making breakfast together.

1902. How when I tell Jane that flattery will get you nowhere she asks, "Is flattery a street?"

1903. Family gathered for cousin's birthday, and how we laugh and visit, three conversations going at once, and land soft and tired for bed.

1904. Thai peanut sauce made from scratch.

1905. A trip to two grocery stores and home in less than an hour, a record to be sure.

1906. Jack crossing the street alone, off to fight nerf wars with the cousins.

1907. How he could jump off practically anything.

1908. Craig home safe from a conference away from home.

1909. Excavating the playroom into the new baby's and Jack's room, and all the help that went with it.

1910. Refurbishing cloth diapers in tiny sizes for new baby boy.

1911. The continued search for a one syllable boy name that Craig and I both love. (Any suggestions?)

1912. Jane's observation, "Daddy can make practically anyone laugh."

1913. How she wakes me this morning, "Momma, will you get up, I'm dressed and already ready for church."

1914. How when I tell Jack he's a nice boy he says, "You're a nice girl! Or woman."

1915. A road trip with the kids to run an errand.

1916. My huge belly and how all the quiet moments are filled with baby kicks and life moving inside.

1917. Learning the hard road of setting standards high and expecting the children to jump.

Prayers

"God, help me to make nothing fair and love my neighbor as myself." Eyes squinched shut on bottom bunk, Jack pieces together the golden rule.

"Help us to do whatever you ask," Jane adds. "Thank-you that I get to have a big family."

Across the room, Lucy pulls her thumb out of her mouth. "Jesus, thank-you that everything impossible is for the Lord. Amen."

And amen.

Gratitude:

1882. Casual conversation with Lucy, "Jack said in the playroom, if I didn't clean he would pull my ponytail out. But he forgot."

1883. The gradual ebb and flow of keeping this house tidy.

1884. How Lucy plays with my hair when we read Bibles.

1885. How Myra kisses me on the nose at breakfast.

1886. Lucy's raised eyebrows and, "I'm reading my Bible silently."

1887. And her offhand commentary on Craig, "He's a sweet man, pretty sweet to me."

1888. Jane's insight, "Hey Momma, can I tell you something that's true? It actually kind of hurts when you fall on the ice."

1889. How Jack rests his hand on my shoulder when we read Bibles.

1890. Relaxing with old high school friends.

1891. Jack bounding down the stairs, "Jane, Let's go read to each other even though it's not a school day."

1892. Peach pie and blackberry pie made all in one day in case Craig wanted birthday pie for breakfast.

1893. How even on his birthday, he makes the day perfect for me.

1894. Two hours sleeping away a headache, straight through dinner.

1895. A kiwi green candle and thank-you notes with a with a red finch on the side.

1896. A superbowl party with chili and cornbread and children run blissfully tired.

1897. Hand-me-down cloth diapers, bright primary colors for baby boy.

1898. Hand-me-down crib and clothes.

1899. Maneuvering these tired days into moments where our children pray and for all the grace of God, our flaws fall back to the shadows.

The Tooth

"Jack, supplies," Jane thunks a bowl of ice on the table, rectangular mirror and wash cloth in hand. "If you just sit here," she points to the kitchen bench, "I'll hold the mirror."

I plop a stick of butter into the Kitchen-Aid mixer, watch Jack reef on his loose tooth. "Wow, that looks like it hurts." He bends if forward, back, forward. I turn to Jane, "He's tough; that's what he is."

"He's a BOY," she adds, "that's what he is."

They rotate: ice, mirror, bend the tooth, mirror, ice, have Momma try. Jane flops the wash cloth on the table, leans on an elbow. I add brown sugar and eggs to the cookies, whirl the mixer.

And then, he pulls it out. We cheer. The children erupt, I smile, pat his back. And I watch over his shoulder. He holds it up, jagged white pebble, and whispers, "Look, a newborn baby."

Tenderness, folded like moth wings, unfurls. "Can I have a tooth holder," he says. So, I dig out an old baby food jar. The tooth rattles like a metronome inside.

"Jane, let's go downstairs and look at my tooth and do the puzzle," he shouts, and ragtag band of adoring sisters trot down stairs to look at his tooth.

Another moment, another milestone.

Gratitude:

1852. Up before six Tuesday morning and Jack's incredulous, "Momma, did you stay up ALL night?!"

1853. How before bed Jane kisses my hand and croons, "You're so sweet," then cuddles my it to her face.

1854. Lucy playing house, "Raise your hand if you're a marigold."

1855. How when Myra cries Lucy lulls, "Yes, my dear?"

1856. How when I tell Jack he can sit by me at lunch, he won't take a bite until I do.

1857. How at the first sign that tooth is loose he bursts, "Can we have a party when my tooth falls out?"

1858. How Jane clomps upstairs after half an hour, "I don't know why they think seeing teeth is so interesting."

1859. A tooth party with all the fixin's.

1860. New pants.

1861. How Lucy rotates a load of laundry when I mention it needs being done.

1862. How Jane makes name tags for place settings when we have company and makes a big card: Find Your Name.

1863. How Lucy copies her.

1864. How Myra eats the core of her apple.

1865. Lucy trying to sound grown-up, "Black widows like BANANAS."

1866. Jack at breakfast, "If you let me make toast, I'll let you HOLD my tooth."

1867. How when I ask Jane what God's teaching her, she pauses, and says, "He's reminding me not to get angry when people do things I don't like."

1868. How Lucy makes me a card, "It's just important to write Momma whole bunch of times."

1869. How she hugs her dolly and sing-songs, "I'm thinking you're getting cold." And how she turns to me, "I'm taking my baby on a date to the store."

1870. How Jack reads a book while he brushes his teeth.

1871. How when I return from getting my pregnancy rhogam shot, Jane bounds to the door, "How was your rabies shot, Momma?"

1872. Lucy's explanation, "Jane let me use this toothbrush."

1873. How Myra toddles over, lays her head on my shoulders.

1874. How Jane sets a coffee cup out for me, grinds the coffee.

1875. Three girls gathered around to watch me brew it.

1876. How Lucy rotates another load of laundry without me asking.

1877. Lentil chili and fresh bread on the farm.

1878. The kids' new game: Mad Tea Party. The cacophony that ensues.

1879. The insight from my mom that God put beauty here to comfort us.

1878. Jack's affection to Myra, "Hi, little mother duck."

1879. Lucy's question, "Mom, wanna know what study means? It means win the race."

1880. Better than playing house, "We're pretending Jack's Peter Pan, and I'm Captain Hook," Lucy says. "And Peter Pan always wins on me," says adds.

1881. The deliberation to slow these days, enjoy them as they come.

Math

"Ok, about five more minutes, then you should be done." I poke my head out of the kitchen, raise my eyebrows to Jane.

She nods, cups a hand over four remaining math problems. She scratches another answer on her paper then pauses, "I try to hide it from you," she says, glances back at the paper, "but it's just like, you're no dummy."

I laugh. She grins then rotates her pencil for the perfect hold and scrawls out more answers.

From the kitchen I chop onions for stew. I think of how Myra tried to eat a penny a couple of days ago, hand cupped over her mouth.

Jane and her math, Myra and her penny, I turn the images like smooth stones in my pocket.

Later, schoolwork a stack next to the jar of sharpened pencils, stew heated to a simmer, Jane lingers in the kitchen. Conversation orbits around dirty dishes, smudgy cutting boards, the way the world works.

"Maybe you should pleasure read," I suggest.

Jane leans on the counter. I plop a dish in the sink. "I sometimes just pleasure read," she says, "because I know I can get away with not doing school work if I hurry and start reading."

"Oh. Well, I guess that probably works, doesn't it?"

She nods. I laugh.

We visit, make the afternoon long and wide, a place we can hold hands and explain the world.

Gratitude:

1819. How Lucy tries to help Myra be big like her. "Do this, Myra. Walk like a KANGAROO."

1820. How the story of David and Goliath collides with the topic of child birth and Lucy concludes, "I guess he just popped out ENORMOUS."

1821. How I corral Myra for bed and Craig warns me, "She may still have potatoes in her mouth -- although she did brush her teeth, twice."

1822. Lucy's raised eyebrows when she reports, "Jack said that if I peed on a towel in our room again he would give me the cold he caught."

1823. How Myra discovers fuzz between her toes and pulls all ten apart to check for more.

1824. The realization that she's been eating it.

1825. Jack's matter-of-fact, "You weight more than you used to," as he nods to my belly.

1826. How Lucy holds her baby doll up to the chalkboard and makes her write school stuff.

1827. Nearly a foot of fresh white snow.

1828. Myra decked out in diaper, hats, mittens, and cowboy boots vying to play in the snow.

1829. Lucy's assessment, "We played in the snow today for nine hours. Or five hours."

1830. Trying to figure out why kissing boo-boos really actually helps -- if the kiss actually lands exactly RIGHT on the boo-boo that is.

1831. How Lucy miraculously develops the skill of looking me in the eyes when she gets in trouble in Fred Meyer.

1832. How she tries to soothe Myra, "Myra, cool your jets off!"

1833. A new baby wrap for the new babe.

1834. Making a new friend and her kindness to our family.

1835. How kindness is contagious.

1836. How Jane wipes Myra's face after lunch.

1837. How Lucy prays at dinner, "God, thank-you that we have enough food to fill up our bodies."

1838. Her description, "Huh-HA. It's a bad word. It means YOU'RE WRONG."

1839. How Craig announces at breakfast that he felt the baby kick and Lucy's incredulous, "You have a baby in YOUR tummy?"

1840. Watching Myra try to whisper during school.

1841. How I listen to a Chapter 2 of Learn the Bible in 24 Hours, and Jane responds, "People are naughty from day one."

1842. How Lucy sings Holy, Holy, Holy in three-year-old soprano while she works a puzzle.

1843. How Myra makes an eight pretzel tower with her lunch.

1844. Homemade pizza and caesar salad with friends and how the children play games all night while we relax.

1845. Ice cream with peach rum sauce and an evening of reading by the fire with Craig.

1846. The sledding run he sculpted outback.

1847. A black baby for Lucy given with love, one that fits into to all her favorite baby jammies. "This one just popped out of my tummy," she says.

1847. Her admonition, "Be VERY quiet because my baby's to sleep in the stroller. He didn't sleep very well, and then I gave him a kiss and a hug, and he fell right asleep."

1848. Learning how to dye.

1849. Myra on my back shouting, "BOO!"

1850. Taking one thing at a time and feeling capable of at least that.

1851. Reading how the people of Israel said, "What is it?!" the first time they saw manna, and realizing I say that to most of the best blessings in my life.