Christmastide

"Is it good Betsy?" Jack cackles. "Is it GOOD?"

A mouthful of horseradish, she crunches a condiment drenched chip, the confidence of an executive all hers.

"No," she says. "It BAD." She hops off a five gallon bucket, her perch/stool at the new kitchen island. The skitter of babyish feet, the chuckles and chitters of siblings, she makes for the bathroom and a blasting faucet drink.

Pot roast and potatoes, a smattering of dips and side dishes, Betsy tries everything on the table glops of salsa, titanics of cream cheese, globs of beet horseradish.

All rainbows and unicorns, she returns and slings herself back on that five gallon bucket. Eyes blinking, bites of dinner squirrled in their cheeks, elbows slung on the island, siblings grin and grin, mirth and affection their tambourine in the band.

"Git, me more olives," Betsy points, a tiny bowl of kalamatas.

"Um, no, May I please have more olives?" I say. Siblings draw up their faces until every dimple is shouting, hilarity scattering limelight. Betsy slings it across the room like glitter at a party.

"Yeah," she chirps, dimpled cheeks rounded with giggles. "May I please have more olives, Mom?"

"Hmm," my pursed lips pulling a dimple in my cheek.

"Say, YES," she giggles.

"Hmmm," I snicker.

And so it is, something better than food alights on the table. Audacity, unguarded affection, the jesting of siblings, everyone laughs. The applause of affection refreshes our spirits.





Gratitude:

6456. Dinner together. The prep, the eating, the clean-up, the togetherness, we gather a harvest of goodness.

6457. Meat for the freezer.

6458. The simple goodness of kitchen towels.

6459. We celebrate Christmas with my extended family. Seventeen children, ten adults, we all bring food and gifts yet we all just come as we are. It's a symphony of contribution and belonging, unguarded affection with all the complexity of twenty seven people. We rest in this unspeakable gift while we celebrate the most miraculous gift of all, a Savior. It's an ark to carry us through the year.

Renovations

"And sometimes I probably haven't been the best example," I say.

Nose to nose with Lucy, I gaze into her wide and watery eyes. An almost invisible nod.

"It's probably really easy to see when I do it," I say. "But it's wrong when I do it, and it's wrong when you do it. Will you forgive me?"

She shatters into tears. "Yeah," she says. We both nod arms wrapped in an oaken hug. With that we carry on. With the face of fresh morning she smiles into my eyes.

"Ok," I say. "Let's go out and help finish the dishes."

"Ok," she says and we return as if feathers alit our shoes.

Gratitude:

6448. Mom returns from Montana. All the assurance and love that trails an invisible wake behind her sets my world straight.

6449. Jane has her first babysitting job. She steps into the new responsibility outside of our home with grace and confidence.

6450. I find the perfect tote bag to carry our adventure needs as these children get older.

6451. A dear friend brings me a plate of oxtail.

6452. Another dear friend connects us with Blue Apron and sends us some meals.

6453. Nourishment finds us. I sit in the stillness of this kindness and drink it in.

6454. My dad, like most Saturdays, comes over to help us more on the kitchen. I'm growing fond of seeing him each Saturday.

6455. Bit by bit we work away. Now we do most of our dishes up at the new sink by hand. As we stand, the many of us filling the kitchen, washing dishes, clearing the table, finishing food, I look and marvel that it doesn't feel crowded, just clean and simple. The nine of us being together fills me with nourishment.

Jack

"Yeah," Jack says, "they have bat dung in this one."

"Huh," I say. Me knitting on the couch, leg elevated, Jack attends to my every need, vein surgery finally complete. He pages through a garden magazine.

"It's apparently extremely fertile," he says.

"Like for fertilizer?" I say.

"Yeah," he says. He looks up from the wholesale supply catalogue, "It's extremely fertile." His face leaned out, the remnants of summer freckles still dabbled over the bridge of his nose, all long limbs and angled elbows, he's suddenly a flash of manhood.

"Huh," I say. He smooths a crinkled page, eyes combing the details. I nod, precision and facts a mantle he wears easily.

I soak it in. The straight back and clear eyes, the leisured reading. It's the tic-tic of moments waiting for my leg to heal, and it's the rare and rarer each day, slow moments, the ones you remember 50 years from now. I memorize his countenance and how things are easy between us. And then suddenly I've mentioned hot chocolate and he's loped downstairs to froth up my sixth or eighth cup in two days.

This. These are the days.

Grampa passed away this week. Grief. Such grief. Whole horizons of moments with him gathered up, the memories like these, now, that's what we have left. These best moments, I don't want to miss any of them.





Gratitude:

6446. Grampa. A man who live a good life and left a long legacy. A real class act.

6447. I have a fifth vein surgery. Craig pushes forward on the kitchen remodel so we have running water upstairs. And yet I see the best of memories unfold right in front of me despite the mess, irrespective of inconvenience, oblivious to background and expectation. There. The moment right in front of me. This is the gift of life that one day when the papers, and laundry, socks and hangers, miscellaneous yarn and shoes and child spindrift are all put away I might be full. Full and grateful. Everything else is just props.