Prize

"And then this one girl was talking and talking and talking over all the other girls," Jane says, her girls' small group from the 2nd/3rd grade class fresh in her mind.

"Yeah?" I say. I check the rearview mirror for pedestrians, then nod, sideways glance to her.

"And I was like, Well, the kids who talk the most have to come sit by me so I can hear them better. So you better sit over here."

"Hah!" I say.

"I find it really helps with the over-talkers," she says.

"Yes," I say.

"And she was like, Um, ok," Jane says.

"Um, huh," I scan for more pedestrians as we lumber through the church lot and coast to a stop at the street.

"And then another girl was like, Let's go around and say everyone's favorite color. And I was like, That's a great idea. Let's pray so we can do that."

"Oh, good idea," I say.

"And then they were like, Oh, we don't have anything to pray about. So I said,  I know, that's why we're going to sit here quietly and think."

"Oh, good'," I say.

"And then suddenly they had tons of ideas," she says.

"You're so great at this," I say.

"It's just like I really love them, but I'm not going to let them get away with doing any old thing," she says.

"I know," I say, "That's exactly what I loved about teaching. Sometimes I even found myself really loving the naughty kids the most."

"Yes!" she say.

And in that moment I can picture how this lovely child shall sprout wings and fly. And I shall call to her for the pleasure of friendship. All the leading and guiding and setting of immovable and unpopular boundaries, and yet there it is, the far horizon of friendship. The prize.

Gratitude:

6476. Running errands and package mailing with my mom, the joy of lovely company and conversation makes it a date.

6477. I continue the slow twenty-mile-march of organizing and simplifying our home.

6478. Jane and I collaborate with another homeschool family on curriculum ideas. All the way home, nibbling chocolate as we go, we chatter about how much fun we had.

6479. Salted chocolate caramel.

6480. I catch up with a dear, dear friend going through incredible painful trials. We draw strength and encouragement from each other.

6481. Jack figures out which ingredient he has been measuring wrong in his famous berry cobbler.

6482. We enjoy the fruit of many weeks labor doing school work at the wide open kitchen dining area. All the work begins to feel worth it.

6483. We enjoy a double date with friends, the first in more than a decade.

6483. We catch up with our dear small group, friends of twenty years. As always, it feels as if not a day has passed since our last gathering except for all the children grown taller.

6484. We begin to find our stride through the days as if we are by miracle of miracles beginning to trace and match the steps of our beloved Savior. Such peace ensues, I am surprised, speechless.

Betsy

"Mom," Betsy says.

She nudges a metal stool next to mine and climbs up. I sip coffee. She pushes a saucer to the side. Crumbs capsize the edge. I purse my lips, smile subterraneous.

"Hi, Mom," she says.

"Hi." We share elbow room. I read my Bible. She nibbles crumbs.

Then she's down, and I'm turning through my Bible.

"Mom," she says again, ascending the metal stool.

"Hmm," I say, trying to finish one more sentence. She's up, a gold package in hand, much tape used in wrapping.

"Mom, can you write on this?" she says.

"What do you want me to write?" I peel my eyes away.

"For BETSY," she says.

"Oh," I say. We stare at the package, bigger than an egg, smaller than a teapot. "Hmm," I say.

"It's mine," she says.

"Oh," I say. Conversations spelling out her soon birthday play fast forward through my mind. "Ohhhh," I say. "Hmm, I see."

Felicity blooms across her face. And I scrawl BETSY across the top of the gold package.

Gratitude:

6467. Fresh measuring cups.

6468. Spices and fancy Hawaiian salt.

6469. A visiting baby wrap made of silk and sparkles.

6470. Betsy sidles up to me at breakfast, pets my well worn sweater and fondles one of the many "pills" on it. "I like the bugs on this," she says.

6470. Craig organizes our closet and room.

6471. A teapot big enough to boil water for many.

6472. Puritan prayers, a book of them. I read them like manna from heaven. No words can describe their nourishment.

6473. The children continue to learn and grow together.

6474. We continue to organize our home.

6475. Sunday finds me stilled with peace.

Bananas

"I already ate all my bananas," Joe says. Jammie clad minus the t-shirt, bare chested boy lopes into the living room and drapes himself over an arm of the couch.

"A-all of them?" I say, the ones he bought himself.

"Yeah," he says. I wipe a dried coffee spot off the counter.

"How many where there?" I say.

"Eight."

"Eight? Since yesterday?"

"In TWO days," he says.

"In 12 hours," I say, washcloth slack.

"Yeah," he says.

"Well, how do you feel?" I say.

"Great." He grins, now sitting upright on the faded red couch arm.

"Very nourished," I say.

"Yeah," he says. "I just need two more dollars."

"To buy more bananas?" I say,  my eyebrows rounding upward,

"Yeah," he nods, the responsible accountant nod.

"Wow," I say.

And so it is nonchalance and small talk unfold in gargantuan swaths.

Gratitude:

6460. Joe continues to unfold in full blown boyhood.

6461. Betsy demands a stool in front of the stove. Jack rebuffs then refuses. "Betsy is as stubborn as Balaam's donkey," Jack whispers under his breath. And yet the two find a duet of sorts as Jack prepares dinner.

6462. My new devotionals for this new year arrive. I promptly sit down and read to catch up. Nourishment fills my soul.

6463. I plan an overnight with Jane. We whisk away to house sit for a night and fill the time with chatting, the leisure discussion that unfolds between a woman and her almost woman daughter. This is a pleasure I had not fully pictured. So. Good.

6464. Jane steps into the role of no-longer-child with so much grace.

6465. Jack continues to prep and prepare meals and desserts. I feel like I live with a chef.

6466. Craig replaces the bathroom toilet when plunging, snaking, and heaven forbid, reaching his arm down the mouth of the toilet, can no longer cure its ills. He replaces it with a champion promising to flush up to 18 golfballs at once, should we ever have the need. Brilliant.

6466. I continue to teach myself to reach for contentment. Projects linger and progress at the slow steady rate of things that actually get finished. I let this be music to my ears and harmonize with its strains.

Air

"Whelp, it's the 22nd of December, huh," I say.

"Yep," Jane nods, the two of us planted on a stool and a five gallon bucket, kitchen island under our elbows.

"Wow," I say. "What a hard year."

"Yeah," she says.

"Huh." We stare across the long swath of kitchen now finished, almost. A camaraderie of burdens shared, we watch, detached fascination between us. Lucy and Myra pour flour into the breadmaker. Strains of Peace on earth, good will toward men waft up the stairs. Twenty seventeen unfurls like a sigh dissipating, leaving us pulling for the fresh air of a new year to our lungs.

"But," Jane says, "we can stand to meet 2018."

"Yep," I say. "Huh."

And so it is. We stand.

May the love of Christ carry you like an ark through the waters of this new year.