Sample

"You guys can have the fish sticks sample if you want," I say.

The Costco hustle, Jane, Jack, and I round the back corner. A bag of carrots slides into two bags of celery, the cart barely holding down all four wheels, a bonanza of samples on all the end-caps in sight. I never say yes to samples, but just the three of us, well, ok.

"Oh, OK," they chime. We sidle through line. Without meaning to I calculate the varying sizes of fish stick chunks and, like the three-year-old version of myself, hope they get a big one. All the while I replay in my mind parmesan-and-coconut-milk, parmesan-and-coconut-milk, the last two shopping things.

"Here, have a chimichanga too," I say, one fat sample left, a blob of cheese dripping out a triangle corner. And I scan-scan-scan. Where is the parmesan? I whisper, the sample all but forgotten. I pause and chew the corner of my mouth. Hmm, there. I nudge the cart and pause, Jack in the way, then turn to navigate the other way.

"That was the the most wonderful thing," the sample lady says. And for the surprise and joy in her eyes, I stop and stare, smile blooming over my face.

"Oh," I say riding the wake of bright-hearted happiness. And as I blink-blink the five ticks it takes to make a smile I replay Jack to my left, a glad, "Jane, do want to split it?" and her, "Sure," and the unrehearsed bite that left more than half, the seamless pass-off, the, "Thanks, Jack," and the casualness of kindness as if it were normal.

"Wonderful," she says again.

"Yes," I say, slowed, humbled. I watch her face as we turn to go. "Have a great day," I say. She nods a affection between us, two strangers, but family for a moment.

Gratitude:

6507. We rearrange the house to make more room for projects and play. Less stuff means more elbow room. It's perfect.

6508. I continue my routine of weekly soup making. Gallons and gallons of soup ensue.

6509. Jack surprises me Sunday morning with the biggest loaf or challah bread I've ever seen. "I'll plan lunch," he says.

6510. Lucy makes stoneware cornbread browned to crisp golden brown perfection.

6511. We get gifted tickets to a Gonzaga girls' basketball game. We relish it complete with enthusiastic screaming to punctuate a close game and victory.

6512. Mom and I run errands together and share the burdens of life.

6513. Craig's mom gifts the girls with sweaters that Great-Grammie made. What a collection she had.

6514. The full week still a jumble in my mind, so much shoe-hored in and seven pairs of eyes blink-blinking at us, we take it in, offer our best, and lean full-hearted into the provision and goodness of God. Peace ensues.

Dinner Guests

"Every time we have people over it's like we clean, clean, clean and organize and everything just spills out into a huge mess," I say.

"Yeah," Jack says.

From the passenger seat, he nods, sunlight skittering off the suburban hood into our eyes, the both of us picturing a blooming spectacle of crumpled laundry, toys and miscellaneous paper, pencils, pennies, socks, and sand pulled from the closets and beneath the beds, a fragile castle of organization toppled out the doorway, down the hall and yawning into the living room.

"It's like we pulllllllll eeeeeeeverything out and it's this gigantic mess and then we bring it up, up, up to a higher level," I say.

"Yup," he says.

"And then we just do it again next time," I say.

"Until one day we are just dusting the furniture before people come," he says.

"Hah," I say, "YES," the mirth of that faraway moment, gut splitting hilarity spilled across the front seat. "Yes," I say, the new Jerusalem of entertaining. Once again the bond of work shared draws us closer.

Gratitude:

6498. Dear friends come and surround us with fellowship. Everyone settles into the gentle pace of serving food, mouthfuls of soup swallowed between pulling oceans of conversation, reclining and the leisure of many elbows around a small table. All the while, the tidiness of a home cared for disappears, shrunk down to the simple goodness of air.

6499. A dear friend turns 30. A surprise party, all the children help, prepare cards, decorate. Such nourishing work, our hands made stronger, our friendships deeper.

6500. Thrifting provides new sweaters with tiny holes we sew up and a set of small mason jars, glasses for the children.

6501. Jack flips pancakes for the whole crew Saturday morning so for once Craig can lean an elbow on the island and visit with the children over pancake breakfast.

6502. We stay long after church to play with friends and visit. The goodness of life passes between us.

6503. A simple exchange and we finally have the perfect teapot, the kind that can manage a tiny trickle of water into a pour-over coffee stand.

6504. The children continue to practice their art lessons.

6505. A dear weaver from the US shows me great kindness. I take note of how kindness gives birth to kindness, the momentum always to become how we've been treated, every act a pebble in a pond.

6506. Sunday unfolds as if it were many hours longer that the usual 24 with children slipping into bed early and the week taking flight on the quiet wings of rest.

When We Got There

"And when we got there," Jack says, "he was showing me around the house, even though I've already see it before."

He chomps oatmeal, late night fuel after an evening with friends. I lean on the kitchen island.

"Yeah?" I say.

"I think he was trying to get out of doing the cleaning chores," Jack says, "'cause, yeah."

"Been there, done that?" I say, a grin ticklish at the corner of my mouth.

"Yeah," he smiles, a nod wagging his head.

"Hah," I say.

"It's easiest to see your own problems in someone else," he says.

"Yep," I say. So true. I'm an expert on those ones.

Gratitude:

6491. A loom. A hand loom. Wow, what a gift. A dearest friend gifts us a beautiful loom already warped and ready for weaving. Jane spends hours coaxing weft into warp, humbled and filled with resplendent joy at the gift.

6492. Another dear friend passes on a treasure trove of homeschool supplies. She and family drop by one day unannounced, the house asunder with the spindrift of life and school and remodeling, a spectacle.  But everyone just grins and visits and embraces the humanity of it.

6493. A beautiful teapot, the whistling kind with a narrow spout and shiny silver belly sits on our range, queen of the pour over coffee, queen of my morning breakfast.

6494. Craig takes Jane, Lucy, Myra, and Betsy to a father/daughter dance. The boys and I leisure the evening away with another family attending the dance.

6495. Jack greets me Sunday morning, another corner of the house organized and beautified.

6496. I cuddle with Myra before bed this evening, the tiredness of the week melting into the couch.

6497. I picture school with the kids tomorrow and joy fills me. So many small disciplines and I get to share in the formation of them. Like the comforting rhythm of a morning run, I set my heart to their pulse.

Fajita Soup

"Did Dad tell you to buy that?" Joe says.

A four gallon kettle of soup bubbling on the stovetop, I chug-a-lug frozen corn straight from the package into the pot.

"No," I say. "I knew to buy it -- to put in the soup."

"'Cause you have a mind of your own," he says.

"Yup," I say, a chuckle held steady with the corn.

"You DO," he says again.

"Um hm," I pinch off the corn bag to save half for later, then muscle a too short spatula through the gruel, the corn slowly spiraling into the soup.

"But Jane's hair really DOES have a mind of IT'S own," Joe says.

"Hah," I say. "It DOES." I pause to gaze past the kettle's rim. We smile and nod. He rhymes ideas, one thing like another, like another, and another. And I make soup. Thus we build the foundation of so many days.

Gratitude:

6485. Jack and Lucy tidy the family room and organize the library before I'm up and out of bed Sunday morning.

6486. We study the habits of tidy people and begin to map out some grounding principles.

6487. Betsy turns THREE. The day unfolds like a gigantic promotion. Every meal, every gift, every hug/smile/kiss, that shiny red birthday plate, her grin spreads as wide as the horizon.

6487. We celebrate Craig's birthday complete with homemade pizza and chocolate bundt cake made by the children, then followed by documentary night. Feature film: Army Ants.

6488. Jack and Lucy read obsessively on gardens, and every tangental topic, preparation for our annual plant sale.

6489. Life takes on the quiet stride of late winter. These are the work days, the gentle repetition of days that spell out the mindset for the year. Habits gestate right beneath our noses and learning gathers into more learning and effortless thought until it is a cornerstone we're standing on instead of some far off goal.

6490. And thus, we're poised to leap, clothed in habits made stronger by practice.