Cursing

"Lucy said that Joe's cursing," Jane calls from the kitchen, the children a tornado of cleaning, Craig just about to leave for church without them.

"What'd he say?" I call back.

"HURRY, we're not gonna make it!" she relays.

"Ahhh," I say. Jane pokes her head around the corner, shrugs.

"I guess that's one person's definition of cursing," she says.

"I guess so," I say. We grin, the joke a ping-pong ball bouncing between us.

Gratitude:

6054. After much searching we find the perfect grain mill to replace our broken one. Pristine condition, LOW price, and buckets of grain to go with it -- it's like a miracle.

6055. We take a road trip to pick it up. Joe perennially comments on all the deer we see, herds and herds of them: actually cows.

6054. After more bathroom stops than you can count, we decide to go back to our old plan: no water until we get home.

6055. I confirm the age old truth: 12 dried apricots in one sitting is WAY TOO MANY.

6056. A Trader Joe's run: chocolate, peanut butter cups, kale, and pure Castile soap.

6057. Betsy releases Jack's praying mantis. I find it -- landed on my neck and scream.

6058. Craig drives home from El Paso, TX in 31 hours with a suburban to fit our soon to be bigger family. We all breathe a huge sigh of relief.

6059. Lucy explains to me that she always though idiotic meant weird. A couple of things she said recently suddenly have more context.

6060. My cousin Claire marries her sweetheart.

6061. The garden explodes in tomatoes. The children rapture with bliss.

6062. Betsy takes note of the new school routines and concludes pencils are the special-est toys of all.

6063. I stay home from church after the dried apricot incident, but the day ends solidly, heart bowed in worship to the Lord.