Birthday

"My birthday is in one week," Myra says. The two of us lilt through the kitchen groggy with sleep but breakfast at hand. "I was like, it's in seven days, wait, that's ONE week," she says.

"Yep," I say. "You're at seven and then suddenly down to ONE."

"Yeah," she nods. I gather the third cup and the eighth cup measures, head to the oatmeal cupboard, then circle back to pluck an oatmeal bowl from a waining stack.

"Is there anything special you want or are interested in?" I say.

"Hmmm," she looks to the left. Her eyes roam the ceiling. "Ummm," she says. "There is actually one thing."

"What?"

"I was wondering if you could read us one of those Bibles with the pictures in it," she says.

"Oh," I say, "Yes, yes, I will."

The ribbon leash of a birthday gift flutters away, and I'm left with a red-headed wisp.

"You can read a story and then we can worship together," she says. Not cute or self-aggrandizing, it's like she's forgotten herself encircled in the satin liturgy of morning devotions gone by.

Gratitude:

6546. Joe, Betsy, and I spend a morning lingering with friends. We iron Monday morning smooth with fellowship, deep, deep friendship.

6547. Oxtails. Cooking with friends. A dear friend teaches me to cook oxtail. It's like a bell that cannot be unrung. The children rave it's their favorite soup.

6548. A neighbor surprises us with a plate of gingersnaps.

6549. Craig continues to slave away on the kitchen remodel.

6550. A new pair of pants in linen.

6551. "I remember when Jack and Lucy and I used to work out," Myra says. "Yeah? What'd you do?" I say. "Oh, just sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups, and walk around the yard with bricks in our backpacks."

6552. "Daddy can have five cookies if he wants 'cause he's a grown-up," Betsy says.

6553. Jane gets a chance to babysit.

6554. The children excavate all manner of landscaping debris from the backyard to have a dinner picnic with my parents.

6555. The plants in the greenhouse grow larger and lusher, a real garden paradise.

6556. We while away an afternoon down on the farm.

6557. Jack and his buddy pour over a cooking subscription. He comes home and promptly bakes a loaf of artisan bread.

6558. "I cut you choose," he says of the slices of fresh bread. When I linger long finishing chores he whisks by me, "I took a bite our of this one, so the other piece is bigger now," he says, impish grin splaying his face.

6559. The week rounds out with an afternoon of rest. We drink in its deep waters. As evening turns to night, I remember my Saturday's prayer was for a sabbath.

6560. We set our hearts to be glad at the work of the week.