Myra

"I like sitting here snuggling you," I whisper, "even though I can't talk right now." Myra smiles. Adult conversation swirls around us. She's folded up like a map of the universe under my arm. She nods. I lean closer.

"I'm just trying to get a booger out of my nose," she whispers in full voice.

"Oh," I say from the corner of my mouth. I peek to see her cleaning her fingernails. Surrounded by a labyrinth of plaid, the old red couch engulfs us. It's a micro-universe.

"I got it," she says.

"Ok," I say.

Conversation splays in front of me. Craig and I talk principles and worldview. I try to listen more than I talk, but all the while this other universe unfolds just below the surface. Counterpoint. Many melodies at once, the chords interlock.

Gratitude:

5616. Cerissa gives birth to a new life. Baby Theo arrives safe and perfect. Life resplendent greets us.

5617. "I cannot believe how sweet that baby is." Lucy whispers. She utters it absent minded as if still up that hospital room holding him.

5618. We have dinner on the farm and pick two boxes of apples, then swing from the rope up in the barn.

5619. I make a pan of lemon/lime bars from scratch.

5620. We start soup season with a stockpot brimming with chicken stock.

5621. Craig takes me on a date of thrifting, fast becoming a pastime of pleasure for us.

5622. Cerissa and Dan's kids while away the hours waiting for baby Theo at our house. Cousins, what joy.

5623. Mom and I have coffee and a morning of fall together. We gather groceries and run errands, laugh and speak life to each other.

5624. I start reading Oswald Chamber's My Utmost For His Highest. What a gem of a book.

5625. I finish knitting a bootie and hat set for Betsy.

5626. We thank the Lord for another week together. Character and love grows between us.

BIG

"You are going to get very BIG," Myra says.

"Yeah," Joe says.

"'Cause people about your size get VERY big," she says. They nod, a collection of facts lolling between them.


***

"So if you forgive someone, does that mean they don't have to DO anything? Anything at all? Everything just goes back to normal?"

"Well, surely they have respond in SOME-way."

"But if they have to respond are you really forgiving them?"

"If you expect anything, is it really forgiveness?"

A debate. Theology circles our dinner table. Pizza and salad, brownies, pie, leftover dessert, we weigh and flex scripture against experience. Conversation flits like a flock of birds. Murmuration ensues.

"Surely they have to do something," someone says. "What if I punch you in the nose, and you forgive me, but I still say you deserved it? What then? Ya can't just go back to normal. Can you?"

"But God forgives us before we even ask," someone else says. "Forgive them for they know not what they do."

"But some people DO still go to Hell," someone else says, "even though he forgave them."

We turn it over again and again like a coin with two sides.

"When you forgive someone they don't have to DO anything," Jane pipes up. Childish candor becomes her; she speaks in step. "But in order to RESTORE the relationship they have to acknowledge it in SOME way," she says. Acknowledge. Restore.

The room hushes around her words. As if gathered from the four corners of the room, she synthesizes air down to a single breath. Forgiveness. Restoration. They form a bag of waters around us, sustain us and hold us, give us our first breath.





Gratitude:

5606. Myra and Joe make me breakfast.

5607. Jack and Joe debone a chicken for me.

5608. Betsy continues to roll all over the house, pulling stuffing out of a hole in the couch, chewing on rogue flip-flops, biting up bits of paper, and calling whole conversations of Hi there.

5609. We wait with anticipation for the birth of my nephew, the children one big hoorah of excitement.

5610. We attend a funeral in Craig's hometown, his aunt laid to rest.

5611. New yarn.

5612. A polkadot headband for Betsy.

5613. Guacamole, we develop a signature recipe.

5614. We continue to pray for the fruit of the Spirit and watch our lives conform to the particular challenges that cultivate character.

5615. Each night rings in another victory: life together laid one brick at a time. We build castles of affection.

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:

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Trials

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Sigh. "Today has just been like a trial and a tribulation," Jane says. She shakes her head, curls swing around her, a bowl of steel cut oats slack at her hand.

"Yeah?" I say. I watch her from the kitchen door, Sunday afternoon bunched up around us. Her daily chore just barely finished: tidy the living and dining room.

"It's like test, test, test," she nods and whirls her hands in a wheel motion. Myra left oatmeal smeared on the table. Lucy splattered water on the floor. Jack didn't put his laundry away. Joe hazed the table in crumbs.

"I think you are doing remarkably well," I say. "It's always hard when you don't get enough sleep."

"It's just like I wish they could be staggered a little," she says. She tilts her head, sighs again.

"I know what you mean," I say. Chores, the act of laying down our lives again and again -- it's serious work.

She scoops a swath of steel cut oats and swipes it into her mouth. She gathers more bites, the tink of her spoon, marking the tock of time.





Gratitude:

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5587. My parents throw the annual party for summer birthdays. Another round of encouragement and love, it's so good every year.

5588. We take the kids out for bike rides. They burst with bliss.

5589. A neighbor invites us to can pears.

5590. Another neighbor passes on leftovers.

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5591. We go on a walk and chit-chat with the people we see.

5592. A friend passes on hand-me-downs.

5593. We continue to step forward confident of God's goodness.

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Breakfast and Dinner

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"Momma, when are you gonna get up?" Joey says only his head leaned through my bedroom door. "We made you EGGS," he says.

"Pretty soon," I say. I sigh and roll over. He clatters the door shut and shouts down the hallway to Myra. 

"PRETTY SOON," he says.

Pretty soon. I sigh, open the covers like an envelop and slip out. 

Joe pokes his head in again, then whispers in full voice," SHE'S UP," to Myra.

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"We made you EGGS," Myra says. 

"Thanks," I say.

"We made you eggs, but we didn't make you toast," she says. "Not to be mean, but 'cause we don't know HOW," she says, shoulders raised, arms protruded in explanation.

"Ahh," I say. "Well, thanks." She can fry an egg but can't make toast. The eggs were delicious; they even had a fat tomato waiting for me.

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"Every church day you want me to make me eggs like that?" Myra says.

"Sure," I say.

"Okay! It might be kind of loud," she says, "I'm just telling you. Want me to make them tomorrow?"

One good deed leads to another.

***

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"The house is actually looking pretty good," Jane says. She pats my back. 

Dinner guests. House prep. Four o'clock and I'd forgotten to put potatoes in the crockpot. A new blitz in full gallop, schedule careening: ham, potatoes, and brownies spindling through our shoebox-sized oven; I pause. I force myself look at Jane, feign calmness. 

"Yeah," I nod.

"Just a little more CPR," she says, "and the it'll all be up to snuff."

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CPR. House CPR, humor splashes the landscape. All hands on deck, we pump this home to life. A party unfolds. Family communes. We laugh and serve plates high and deep with green salad and ham, potatoes just in time. The butter runs out, but there's plenty of olive oil. Brownies and ice cream.

We eat with the people we love and celebrate the birthdays of our children. By evening's end all the preparation feels like an honor, like making eggs. We cook for the people we love.





Gratitude:

5576. A wonderful birthday dinner with family. Everyone takes the time to write cards of encouragement to the children.

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5577. I go on a date with Lucy and a walk with Joey. I memorize their luminous faces.

5578. We have a game night with the kids complete with popcorn, cookies, and ice cream. We let loose and be silly.

5579. I come across an old book of Lincoln's speeches. The editor calls Lincoln a humorist. "It is the great humorists who have drawn the truest pictures of human life, because their humor was a constant corrective against one-sidedness." I consider this in light of Craig's knack for humor.

5580. Laundry bags. Three.

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5581. I find second-hand snow boots for the kids.

5582. Running shoes.

5583. Jack inundates me with all manner of bug facts.

5584. He finds another praying mantis.

5585. Craig and the kids harvest what they can from the garden before it freezes.

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5586. We settle into an autumn pace of life, let the emphasis fall to academics and late afternoon sunlight. Memories of so many autumns before greet us like old friends.

Cucumbers and Bananas

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"Thanks for picking a cucumber for me," I say. Joe trots over the backdoor threshold. His three-year-old stride does double time at my elbow. "Thanks," I say. I brush spiny prickles from the cucumber.

"Yeah," he says.

"I think I might give you some of it," I say. I pat the cuke.

"Well," he says, "I actually was kind of wanting ALL of it." He arches his eyebrows and raises his shoulders.

"Oh," I say. "Nope. But I'll probably give you a piece."

"O-kay," he says reminiscent of Alvin and the Chipmunks. We trit-trot inside and build a salad together.

***

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"Can I have a brallilla?" Joe says.

"A what?" I say.

"A brallilla," he says.

"Um."

"A BRALLILLA," he lopes to the fruit basket and points.

"Oooh," I say, "a BANANA. No, I think I might make banana bread."

"Oh, but I want a banana." he says. "I could maybe peel this one off and you can have these." The bunch now in his arms, he makes as if to peel off one.

"Nope."

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"Oh," he sighs. "I wonder why you're not making PIE," he says. I pause and look into his blue seas of eyes. "I wonder why you're not making PIE actually," he says.

"I know," I say. I smile, optimism alights his face. "Me too," I say.

"You SHOULD," he says.

"I might," I say

"'Cause it's YUMMY," he says.

Yummy. Yes. I'm caught in the hurricane of his face. Happiness and expectation turn long arms of conversation. "Pie, huh?"

"Yeah."

"We'll see," I say.

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So it is, optimism meets me in the morning and at every turn. The unfolding of the human mind is so grand an affair.





Gratitude:

5561. A neighbor brings over four bags of garden tomatoes.

5562. Another neighbor gives us four buckets of pears, a tub of grapes, and a lovely afternoon.

5563. New soap.

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5564. Craig throws and end-of-summer carnival for the kids at church. Cousins come, and we play.

5565. Craig and I go on a thrift shopping date. I find New Zealand wool yarn for $0.50 a skein and books for $0.29 each.

5566. I learn how to make lemon bars from scratch.

5567. I ferment a couple more gallons of vegetables and start a second gallon of apple cider vinegar.

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5568. "Thanks for taking care of us," Jack says as I wash dishes at the sink. "Oh, you're welcome," I sigh, then pause. "I like taking care of you," I say. "That doesn't go unnoticed," he says.

5569. I round the home stretch knitting Betsy's winter jacket. I might have enough yarn left over to knit a bonnet.

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5570. We watch the Republican presidential debate. Circled up as a family, it rings in with the excitement of a playoff game. We talk politics like game strategy. Jane doesn't miss a thing.

5571. "What's Planned Parenthood?" Jane wants to know. There at the table, it's lunch, all eyes on me. So, I tell them. Jack and Jane tear up, speechless. Me too. The littles don't seem to notice. "Maybe one of you will be the one to stand up and stop this," I say. Indignation and resolve. Something changes in the room.

5572. We continue to tidy the house.

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5573. Jane writes a seven page paper on Clara Barton.

5574. I make stew, then doctor it up with mushrooms sautéed in a stick of butter and rosemary. That plus a little salt, it does the trick.

5575. The house vacillates in varying levels of tidiness, but in each frame, there we are. Unmistakable and unbidden, love springs up between us when we least expect it, the soaring wings of devotion.

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Evenings

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"Do you think I should make this for the fair or just so that I like it," Jane says. She pokes a darning needle through the bald-face of a knit bunny. She pinches the seams tighter and squints at the nose placement. She knit the bunny.

"I don't know," I say. I micro-turn a red yarn-ball, wind away, making a floppy skein into a perfect ball. Neither of us look up.

"'Cause I don't think those are going to be the same thing," she says.

"Yeah," I say.

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"Seems like people now a days are like, What's the CUTEST?" she says. "And I'm like, What's the most LITERARY?" She tilts her head, studies a knotted blue eye she's secured on one side, gauges its placement.

"Yep," I say. "Me too."

"The cute stuff usually isn't very literary," she says.

"They like the stuff that's more cute, and you like the stuff that's more REAL," Jack chimes in.

"Yup," Jane says.

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"I mean cute's good to an extent..." Jack trails off.

Projects.  Conversation. We sew up the evening in leisure. Jane embroiders the face on her bunny. Lucy crochets a dolly dress. Jack turns a rope into a basket. Myra snuggles into Craig's chest, the two of them slumped into the soft gold couch, limp with sleep. Joe jumps off the table bench, thunks the floor with cannonball weight, grins and tweedles Betsy's belly.

The evening comes in for a soft landing. We work projects and visit. Cute. Literary. We map the world and choose our sides.

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Gratitude:

5547. Betsy cuts another tooth and rolls and rolls with the agility of a gymnast.

5548. Fall bbq and family gathering.

5549. I start knitting a winter coat for Betsy. A third of the way in, I realize I'm short on yarn. In a flurry I find the very last skein at the yarn shop and buy it up, and on clearance too.

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5550. Magic erasers.

5551. Betsy plays peek-a-boo and exerts her opinion with increasing clarity.

5552. The children stray from our school schedule and get in trouble. The next morning I awake to fried eggs, a full breakfast, and repentant hearts.

5553. "You take such good care of me," I tell Jack. "You remind me of your daddy," I say. "Yes," he says under his breath and pumps his fist.

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5554. I give all the boys hair cuts.

5555. The weather turns to rain and we eat soup. Chicken soup with barley.

5556. Basil blueberry beet salad, the latest at our kitchen. The kids and I love it.

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5557. Fried chicken on the farm and the family that went with it.

5558. Jack dotes on his pet praying mantis.

5559. Rosie sends us a beautiful bouquet of family pics.

5560. We settle into the school year, enrobe in new routines, and make learning our work.

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