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.