A Cabinet

A cabinet sealed entirely in toothpaste. "It was supposed to keep Lucy out," she says.

I hand her a washcloth, and we scrub. The bathroom smells like bubble-mint. We forget all about a plugged toilet just behind us and agree toothpaste was a terrible idea.

"But you told me the truth," I say. "So, when you finish, this business will all be done."

"Here," she smiles, "I can get that for you, Momma." She smudges and polishes. "I should be doing this anyway," she says. And so she does. I marvel that discipline has made her so lovely.

Daddy

"Can you carry me upstairs?" Jack pulls Daddy's elbow.

Daddy gathers him up all lanky limbs and wiggles. "Yeah, I can carry you upstairs because I am a big strong man like you," he says.

Little boy smiles, lays a cheek on Daddy's chest. "Well," the boy says, "I'm only half a big strong man right now," and he rides Daddy's arms to the top.

Wings

"Do you think we'll have legs in heaven?" Jane pulls a flannel quilt up on one shoulder, sidles down under it's wings. "Legs to walk," she says.

"I think so." I elbow over the bunk rail, stand tip-toe on the bottom bed. "What do you think?"

She sways curls over jammied shoulders. "Nope. Wings. Wings to fly." She captures my eyes. "In heaven we won't need to walk. We'll just fly."

"Hmm. Fly." I snug the flannel in tight around her six-year-old self. Of course, we'll just fly.

I pad bare feet down the hall. Christmas words circle back soft in my ear, You're the best part of my day, husband says. And, You make everything make sense, I say. And it does.

Between flying in heaven and husband's words, Christmas unfolds, another Christmas, down the hallway and into the evening. Christmastide.

Gratitude:

448. Husband.

449. Child-wrapped presents, lots of tape.

450. Gelatin, radiant, sprayed kitchen-aid-mixer style all over the kitchen.

451. Rapturous grins the children try to hide.

452. Peppermint marshmallows.

453. More wrapping paper than ever and tape and markers and scissors and an assembly line the kids set up that manages to cover every lumpy present with paper and tape of some sort.

454. Janie's reminders, "You guys remember, Christmas is really about GIVING gifts."

455. A clock. The clock. One that chimes and makes Great-Grammie cry.

456. Open arms that welcome us, that hold the door between trips to the car, and carry our children 'round piggy-back.

457. Gifts. So many gifts of love. And the uncanny feeling that someone has read your mind.

458. Being truly, genuinely, completely, utterly surprised.

459. How the children laughed and played and played and laughed and no one begged to open presents.

460. And the gifts, every one, love made flesh.

461. Alice in Wonderland. Reading to the children. How they snuggle bumped under my elbows and chin and press in close to see the words and stare into space to picture the story.

462. Books, books, books galore! The classics. Peter Pan, Les Miserables, Oliver Twist, Gulliver's Travels.

463. Janie learning to sew.

464. How Lulie explains that she doesn't have to wear patches anymore now that she's two when I forget to patch her for a day.

465. The way red nail polish chips off and leaves white nails underneath.

466. A full pot of stew, three loaves of banana bread, and a tidy kitchen.

467. Time off with husband and how even if the house gets messy we just step careful and be together and make time go slow.

468. How even though little Rose has a fever she cuddles extra long and smiles when I kiss her feet.

469. Sleep.

A Gift

"That's ok. No big deal," I say.

Jack grins. Broken pencil forgotten he jumps, claps his hands together.

"Yeah, that's our gift to each other today, you guys. That's-ok-no-big-deal. It's a gift," I smile.

The morning pivots and Christmas begins.

A Horse

"I'd rather have a horse than a coon hound," Jane blurts between chapters of Where the Red Fern Grows. And then at night she prays God will send her a horse. "Probably not what you wanted," she sighs to me, "but I did it," prayed for a horse.

"If I had my horse," she adds later, "we could just ride my horse around the block and that would be the funnest." She sweeps curls out of her eyes. "And when I pull left, he would go left. And when I pull right, he would go right."

"Yeah." Jack nods and zips his coat up. They tromp out to fill the yard with tracks and snow angels.

A horse. When I was all of six I prayed for a piano.

Who knows? Maybe God will send a horse.

December Thanks

"Is it sometimes hard when you're the smartest person in the room?" Janie wants to know.

Later, Jack bobs through the kitchen in blue jammies, "We played Go Fish, and Janie won," he jabbers, "but I'm gonna be first in heaven." His bare feet pad down the basement stairs. I make oatmeal with lots of cinnamon and some apples.

At bedtime, Janie tells me, "I heard Lucy say, 'Jesus come into my heart,' and I asked her if she loves Jesus and she said, 'Yes.'" Jane runs the words together, but warns us that Lucy probably doesn't really understand.

I tuck the sheets in snug, kiss her neck, "I love you, Jane."

Jack rubs my face and smooths my hair back.

"You make me happy," I whisper to Lulie and she nods, sucks thumbie.

Another day winds down.





Gratitude:

422. Go Fish. And teeny tiny playing cards.

423. Chex mix made with Grampa's secret recipe, the one we thought passed on with him.

424. A batch big enough to fill a garbage sack made by sister-in-law.

425. Early Christmas and an overnight sleep at my parents with brothers and families and kids everywhere.

426. A Christmas pageant with cousins, one with towels and scarves and headbands with flowers, and how Uncle Peter had to be Joseph because all the boys wanted to be wise men. But Mary didn't mind. And no one minded that we all had to pretend that Zeke's stuffed owl was baby Jesus because all the real babies were asleep. But all the wise men still bowed down to the baby Jesus, and we acted out the story.

427. How Janie sat and nibbled Christmas candy with the grown-ups while we played Balderdash.

428. The riotous laughter.

429. The letter I wrote to George, the boy we sponsor in Adiedo, Kenya. His mother and father have both died. He's eleven.

430. The picture Jack drew of him and George to send with the letter.

431. An old song book of Mother Goose rhymes -- 1906.

432. Another Christmas book, The Gift of the Magi, by O. Henry.

433. Prime rib, baked potato soup.

434. Breakfast and Psalm 19 with Jack while the girls splash in the bath.

435. Bananas black enough to make banana bread and sweet Chinese cinnamon.

436. Nail polish, red -- and how we sit at the breakfast table and polish fingers and toes between bowls of oatmeal.

437. Nice short fingernails, the kind you can play piano with.

438. How Craig never worries about anything. Not a thing.

439. And the unspoken permission to not worry with him.

440. How Rosie plays soft with my hair when she nurses.

441. How the other kids arrange the baby monitor when she sleeps, and how Jack wears both receivers clipped to his pockets to keep an eye on her.

442. How they still try to figure a way to use the monitor as a walkie-talkie.

443. How my brothers all respect my dad and love my mom.

444. Kazoos. A whole army of them on full volume.

445. Jesus. The real Jesus. The one who died for my sins.

446. And the unbelievable, my every wrong is made right in Him. Unbelievable. A miracle.

447. The gentle passing of each day, each one good.

Tonight

Chicken soup. Bread and grapes. Janie lugs the silver stock pot from fridge to table, places the settings, flops a bag of rolls next to the pot.

I scoop a tornado of papers from desk to trash. "Momma," Jane calls, "come have dinner." We eat. We smear the rolls with butter, dunk 'em deep in the soup. Crumbs fall to the floor.

Later, I splay the night with temper.

Craig raises his eyebrows. I frown, hands on my hips.

And Jack. Jack tootles down the dining room bench in black rain boots. "Daddy," he chimes, "you're the king of this castle," he hops one foot to the other, flaps his arms for balance. His boots clap loud against the hardwood when he jumps down.

His words wash up around my ankles like ocean surf. The king of this castle. For a moment the world pauses. King of the castle. How do you treat the king of the castle? Every one waits for their cue.

Poem

You are my light
in the dark,
my beacon
on a hill,
the only one
I want
to come
home to.

A poem.
From husband.

The words encircle us,
loop and spiral,
wheel and whirl.

Our world orbits the poem-words
gravity between us.
I memorize small lines
at his eyes,
and rest
in the crook
of his arm.





Gratitude:

397. Chicken soup with rice -- my first try.

398. Hot chocolate with vanilla beans and cream.

399. Vanilla beans.

400. Lulie's wide eyes when I explain that the public toilet won't flush her down, although I did one time hear about someone that accidentally flushed their keys down. And her serious blink and, "Holy moley."

401. How Janie trolleys everyone in for naps on Saturday -- their giddy grins irrepressible from the broken open binkie-bin from storage, the one they stole binkies from and hid under all their pillows.

402. Patient children who forgive me when I shout about the banana on Lulie's dress right before we leave for church.

403. The miracle, we pull into church 1 min. early.

404. The amazing, awesome, good deal we find on a computer that turns out to be stolen and how we don't buy it. How doing the right thing is always, well, the right thing.

405. Husband, who says, "I'm not worried, things just always seem to work out for me."

406. The confidence I borrow from him.

407. The continual ebb and flow of children and laundry through the house.

408. How Rosie humors the children trying binkie after binkie, old relics of Janie's babyhood.

409. How we sing carols down the halls of a nursing home in town.

410. The children gathered elbow-deep in fabric to cut bookmarks before I even get up in the morning -- bookmarks for the nursing home. And how they press the gifts into Ron's hand quietly after Happy Birthday and a hug.

411. Ron with a wide smile and a wooden cane and the woman who cannot speak but sang along to the carols.

412. How Lulie hugs my leg and peeks around at the residents.

413. How our children drew names for Christmas this year, the giddy secret-name bubbling on the tip of their tongues.

414. Jack's whisperer each morning to me in bed, "Momma, I made you a present, do you want to open it?" More bookmarks.

415. Prayer with my parents and how my dad is such a man of integrity even at great personal cost.

416. Penzy spices.

417. How my mom is always kind. A dignity giver.

418. Dinners on the farm, cousins, fresh potatoes from the cellar, beets, sweet potatoes, turkey sent home in a baggie for later. Arms-wide-open generosity. In-laws become parents to me.

419. Sledding children before farm dinner.

420. Oranges. And how Jack can't resist eating his like an apple when I step into the kitchen.

421. Another night's sleep and everyone well.

Lulie

Middle children.

They always turn out great.

Wednesday.

Totally regretting, "Sure honey, go ahead and try to make lunch," the jelly explosion.

"How did you get jelly EVERYWHERE?"

"I don't really know," he purses lips, wrinkles forehead, "I wasn't really watching." Decidedly. I plop the jelly knife in the sink, break out the wet-wipes.

Now the boy's cutting a little-sucker-thing the baby can bite on out of scrap fabric. "Can you sew this for Rosie, Momma?" He flits at my elbow. I sigh, crooked edges, shining blue eyes. "Momma?"

Janie whispers in my ear her that she'll make a whip for the cousins. "They'll LOVE it," she says. Lulie unloads the freezer ice machine, toddles in, an ice cube frozen to her lip.

They wave by in shifts. "Now we have all the whips that we'll need," one of them says. "Can we use the pins? When will you sew them, Momma."

The world swings like a ball on a string.

All that Christmas spirit. Sigh. I almost missed it.

Piano

"Awesome. Awesome, oh awesome!" Lulie gushes and pokes her fingers into my big red hymnal. I coax chords and melodies from my old piano. The children fight over a little spool-stool at my side.

Lulie edges over my elbow, feathers through the fat side of the hymnal, "Dat don't have pictures in it," she twaddles, both eyebrows up, she turns, "so be. careful." She nods and thunks the hymnal back to place, then sways dulcet.

Holy, Holy, Holy gathers around my untuned voice. Lulie's top-not of curls flops in harmony.







Gratitude:

368. The sea. The great, big, wide ocean.

369. Wind blown faces and hair damp with ocean mist.

370. The layers and layers of friendship between my family and me. The remarkable strength of love over time.

371. Parents who are married. In-laws who are married. Siblings who are married. Aunts and uncles all married still. Grandparents and the immovable standard: to death do us part. The weight of this history, a footprint as big as the sun.

372. Our 16 hour drive back from the ocean. The adventure and thrift shops and coffee. The fun.

373. Five kids and three adults all splashed into a hot tub and their insistence that they were swimming in the ocean.

374. Claire. Olivia. Sophie.

375. The miracle of Claire turned woman pressing her stride in the world.

376. Our CLEAN house, the one sister-in-law and brother-in-law and kids made sparkle for us, the one we stumbled into at four minutes before midnight, bleary from road trip. How even the wet pants and soggy children seemed sweet after that.

377. My piano. And the piano dolly and three brothers and husband that wrestled my sweet beast into the living room.

378. How the children try to fly off the hearth when I play.

379. How Thanksgiving was like a dream this year wrapped in the ocean.

380. How Lucy favored my uncle and shared all the toys she stole out of cousins suitcases with him. And his generous heart, his quick mind, his gentleness with the children.

381. The way my aunt can embody peace and steadfastness and still laugh uproariously.

382. How Jack practically moved into cousins' family. The buzz of 5 little boys.

383. How identical twins can be so splendidly different. Did I mention Olivia's is taller and wants to work with animals? Sophie wants to be a pastry chef and help the poor. Such vivid dreams.

384. A blusterous game of Balderdash, and how I am completely awful at acronyms.

385. A green and orange hat knit in the round.

386. A husband so content I haven't a Christmas gift idea at all.

387. The 22 dozen cookies husband and I rolled out for half the night. How we had to use a curly piece of firmica in the middle of the living room rug so we wouldn't ruin the dining table with the pizza cutter.

388. Anise seeds.

389. Anise oil.

390. Children who blur all attempts at a family photo with their laughing and jokes.

391. Sister-in-law who tells me to make a cranky day good.

392. Six layer dip and salty tortillas.

393. Salami and cheddar.

394. A second Thanksgiving dinner with MORE family. {sigh} Such riches. Such. Riches.

395. The gathering up in preparation for Christmas. The liturgy of, no, to myself and, yes, to others. How giving ends in contentment.

396. Pockets full of seashells.

Holiday at the Sea

"When we walk Jesus goes with us," Jack says.

And so he did. To the sea and back.




Many thanks to Auntie, Uncle, and cousins.

Morning Prayer

"God is here wit us," Lucy says and squinches herself under the wardrobe. I nurse the babe. Lulie crawls under with the dust-bunnies and Jack's stray bullets. I stroke Rosie's red baby hair. The morning eases in.







"And help everyone lub you," Lulie twaddles.

Prayer drifts up from the wardrobe. Janie's words come back to me, "Momma, I love everything you do just because I love you." And I'm there again as she gathers blankie up in long six-year-old arms, squeezes the love out of it. "I just don't even care what it's made of," she says. "I just love it because it's made by you."






Made by you. I stroke Rosie's cheek. Jane's words turn kaleidoscope, encircle me. I don't even care what you're made of, I just love you because you're made. by. God.

Made by God. Tread lightly.




Gratitude:

347. Mountains of clean laundry. Even the dirty load shoved straight in the dryer by eager little boy hands.

348. Jane's gentle words, "Think about what's gonna last forever here, Momma," as I yank a small hill of laundry from the dryer.

349. Six extra hands to ease cookies from mixing bowl to baking sheet to oven.

350. Cinnamon. Penzey's Cinnamon. Sweet, sweet cinnamon.

351. New niece, Rockie Amelia, safely delivered, her shock of velvet brown hair and how my brother practiced swaddling her for me, her mother's peaceful smile c-section not withstanding.

352. Lucy's eye appointment this week. The gift of an expert -- knowledge, discernment, eye-to-eye confidence.

353. Rosie gaining weight. And how she pokes her belly up in the air to the people she wants to pick her up.

354. Good running shoes.

355. Holy, Holy, Holy -- the hymn the children shout for at breakfast.

356. Jack's assessment, "A queen, Janie, is a WIFE."

357. Mango salsa chicken.

358. Banana quinoa pudding, lots of cinnamon.

359. Lentil soup with husband's parents.

360. Pulverized treat bags the children fill with water and smash out back.

361. A new headband.

362. Gray woolen boots.

363. Thanksgiving. Family. Blood relations. And the communion of saints.

364. A house full to bursting with all the family-ness.

365. Strength under control, meekness, parents who embody meekness.

366. Good, good food.

367. A warm rice bag for my feet seasoned with rosemary.

Hush

"Jack-Gordon," I say, "hush." Little boy throws a fuzzy duck up at the ceiling, plucks its orange legs out of the air.

"Ok." He flops ducky side to side, "Quack-quack. Quack-quack." He makes him fly and bomb, "Quack-quack. Quack-quack."

"Hush," I cuddle Rosie a little closer. Unflappable girl nurses away.

"Quack-quack. Quack-quack."

"Gordon, you said you would hush."

"Oh," he waggles ducky wings.

"What did you think I meant?"

He tilts his head, "I didn't know what you meant." He zooms ducky into the school cabinet. "But I did know I love Momma. That what I meant."

"Oh. Hush means quiet."

He totters scruffy duck into the step-stool, buries him in blankies, snaps the step closed. "There." He thumps little boy feet through the kitchen, trundles down stairs.

"... in all that he does he PROSPERS," Lulie recites from the table between mouthfuls of boiled beans.

I hear the swell of little boy feet pound back upstairs. He rounds the corner, an encyclopedia of snakes tucked under one arm. "This should be quiet," he splays the book open belly down on the rug and reads the pictures.

Jane

"When I'm seven," Janie says, "I'm gonna love it, I just know it." She flops a soft-back reader on to one leg, runs her fingers over the words. "'Cause I'm studyin' to love it," she says then furrows her brow and pokes at the next sentence.

She unravels the words, one line to the next, adds commentary at the commas and periods. I draw circles on her shoulder with the tip of my finger. "Uh huh," I say, "Good job."

Lulie wriggles herself onto my lap, curls up like a kitty. Jane stops, squeezes sister's soft cheek, "Do you want to hear a story, honey?"

They giggle back and forth like a birdie in a badminton tournament until, "Okay, okay, read, Janie," and she opens her mouth and the words come out. From page, to brain, to little mouth, she's making story out of black squiggles on a page. Studyin' to love it.





Later at dinner she dresses a third baked potato in butter and cheddar and spills all over the brown table. I wipe her fragments into a pile. We bump elbows. "I made most of the mess," she comments.

"Was that you?"

"Yeah."

I kiss the top of her head.

She looks up, "All you are is just a chunk of love," she says. "To me, you are just love. If I were gonna draw you, I would just draw love." Our eyes smile at each other.

"I love you, too."

I polish potato streaks out of the table and soak in the love.

Home

"And some day," I say, "you'll grow up and leave home." I smile to Jack, "And, I'll come over, and pick up your kids, and hug them, and hold them, and say, 'Oh, you are co cute!'" He opens his blue eyes wide like plums.

Janie smashes her dinner roll flat like a tortilla. "And someday when YOU leave home," I say. She smiles back, passes a deflated roll over for butter. I smear butter to the edges with the back of a baby spoon and finish with, "I'll hug them and hold them and say, 'Oh, you are co cute!'"

Lulie grins and pounds the table, "And when YOU grow up and leave home," I say. She giggles. The words come out like a Christmas jingle. Then, I sing to Rosie too, and the girls chortle and bump elbows.

"All right now," I say just as Janie almost drags her hair through baked potato soup. "All right," I turn to Jack. Wide blue eyes blink, "Are you okay?" He blinks again and blanches right before my eyes, all splotchy red. "Honey?"

A lip quiver. I furrow my brow. "Oh," I tilt my head. "Oh honey, are you afraid you'll have to leave HOME?"

With that little boy dissolves into a sprinkler of tears. "Uh, huh," he sobs. His little four-year-old hands wrap python-style around my neck. He rubs his face in my ear.

"Oh, honey, you don't have to leave. You don't have to leave." He snuffs. "That's just when you're a grown-up. A GROWN-UP." He squeezes tighter.

Finally, he snuffs and slips into my lap. His little boy head bobs and bumps my chin, an anchor in my arms.








Gratitude:

322. Little boy who calls to screaming Rosie, "Hold on baby, I have to do my job," and scrapes onion scraps into the garbage.

323. Janie who tells Jack, "I'm being my name. Jane means God is gracious," and ignores his boy-pokes.

324. Lulie decked out in striped stretch pants and white shorts for bed when she can't find jammies.

325. Rosie smilin' and smilin' and smilin' all blissed-out at daddy.

326. A haul of carrots and potatoes with Craig's mom, good food and even better company.

327. The boxes of books Momma and I wrestle down stairs, the years of love that spille out as I trundle each spine to a new home on our shelves.

328. Dad spry and chipper after surgery -- makes recovery look simple.

329. Baked potato soup (thanks for the recipe, Ceris) and all the guests we share it with -- lots and lots and MORE yet.

330. Twin boys growing and nursing like champs for a dear friend.

331. A sweet, SWEET girl to be born on Wednesday. My NIECE!

332. Her brave momma steeled for a c-section if she stays breech by then.

333. Homemade ice cream made with homemade vanilla.

334. Gingersnaps with cayenne.

335. A fireplace and Mt. Everest of wood stacked husband-straight.

336. Jungle Book, 1894 original story.

337. Compliments from Craig.

338. A late night puzzling with my grown up little brother while Craig snores on the couch.

339. Packing and planning and writing lists for Thanksgiving.

340. A big hard back book of World War II that Jack pours over in search of The Battle of the Bulge.

341. A box spilling with fabric, remnants of a wedding shop, and the friend who brought it.

342. Banana bread, the kind with 5 bananas in it and no eggs, magnificent.

343. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and the raucous cousin-filled house that devoured them.

344. Coffee and conversation with their momma.

345. Lucy's eyesight and how she told me twice in one day when the contact popped out and how we found it both times.

346. Lucy.potty.trained.

Girl Talk

"Your daddy is so good to me," I say. I hand the chocolate jar to the backseat. Janie tips it sideways, fishes out a chocolate chunk. "I hope you marry someone like your daddy, Jane."

She sucks the chocolate down warm and soft. "I'm not gonna choose just anyone," she says. "I'm gonna spend some time choosin'."

"That's a good idea." I crunch a rectangle of chocolate, watch Janie in the rear-view mirror.

"I'm not gonna pick the one that is the handsomest," she rolls the glass chocolate jar to one side. Chocolates tumble. "I'm gonna pick the one that is the best for me." She watches a truck with ladders on the back pass in the left lane.

"Sounds like you'll pick a good one," I say.

We settle into the quiet rhythm of conversation. It weaves through traffic with us. She passes me chocolates; I let her hold the old mason jar. I ease into a parking spot; she spins the lid back on.

"I have not been eating chocolate at all," she says as she passes it back up front. "I've just been sitting here listening to you talk."

She grabs her wallet. I balance packages and swing the car door shut. Listening to me talk. Listening. to. me. Wow. Always on stage.








Gratitude:

304. Crisp grapes.

305. Almond sugar cookies.

306. Books -- a whole library full, lined spine to spine in the basement.

307. Jane's listening ear and how she says the hard things probably happen because God wants to keep me humble.

308. Our children's wide eyes when I read Where the Red Fern Grows at night.

309. How Janie leaps out of the couch and demands that Little Ann LIVE when the small hound almost drowns in the winter-cold stream.

310. My tight throat and bleary tears and how everyone piles on us while we read.

311. How Lulie takes care of all the baby dolls in the house. Even Janie's.

312. Her incredulous frown when I suggest we just shake the pretend poo-poo out of the dolly diaper.

313. Whispering, "You are special," into the children's ears at night before bed.

314. New hair trimmers to tame little boy hair.

315. Jack's insistence that I cut off his girl hair.

316. An estate sale with lots and lots of books. Classics. Old.

317. Dates with each of the kids. Chocolate or lifesavers. The talk and play.

318. Rosie splashing my sleeves wet in the bath.

319. The almost-tidy-house, the almost-banana-bread still in the fruit basket, and the almost-frustrating night that ended in crunchy grapes and a puzzle instead.

320. Husband. A good, good husband -- ceaseless joking, irrepressible humor, funniness in every moment.

321. Another week. Another whole week.

God

"This is something that a lot of people question among themselves," Janie says one day at lunch, "how is God made?" She leans on an elbow, bites into her sandwich.

"That's a good question." I slide onto the table bench. "What do you think?"

"I. don't. know." She chomps each word and then whispers, "How did God get made?"

I scoop salsa onto a chip, "No one made Him."

"How did He get there?"

"He's always been there."

"Interesting," she furrows her brow. I watch her look out the window into the yard.

"That's why he's worth worshiping," I say. If you knew how He got there He wouldn't really be worth worshiping."

"Why?"

I look at her sideways, "He wouldn't really be much bigger than you."

"Oh." She takes another bite of sandwich, looks back at me, "Do you think when we get to heaven we'll know how God got made?"

"I don't know."

Jack turns to us, "God might tell us," he says.