Ask

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

"Usually when I can't find something, I just automatically pray," Myra says. "I did that with my writing book." She flattens her lips. "Then I found it." Her eyebrows arc pulling the corners of her mouth up.

"Hmm. Yep," I say. The kitchen a flurry, children popping popcorn, some gathering bowls and salt and melting butter, I pause. "God takes care of us," I say. She follows me like a kite tethered around my elbow.

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

"God knows what we need," she says. "We just have to ask."

"Yep," I say. "Where is the good salt?" I ask.

The swirl and clatter of whriley-pop spluttering, iron skillet scraped across stovetop, butter bubbling, popcorn bowl clanging, white Corelle bowls jangling, the stack lean-leaning -- salt? No one notices. So I stop.

"What was it you were looking for, again?" I say, Myra still bobbing at my elbow, memorizing me.

"Oh," she says, "when I prayed I was looking for my writing book, and another time I was looking for my shoe, and lots of other things too, but I can't remember."

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

"Oh," I say and memorize the ease of her sentences laid down like rail track, perfectly strait transport, and her moon-face telling me the story of God, self-evident, perfect God. We just have to ask, framed by rapturous acceptance of the lost shoe and the lost book and the lost everything, every one a doorway where God may appear.





Gratitude:

6597. "Mom," Myra says, "do you think I could stay outside a little bit longer? We are in the middle of a baseball game, and I got to second base on my first try. And, and, I was sooooo wishing..."

6598. Spring arrives. Moist soil and winter-fermented leaves permeate the air.

6599. The children play ball.

6600. "Kindergarten, first, and second grade," Jane says, "are really just about learning a work ethic. Pretty much everything else can be learned at any time."

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6601. We plant and transplant. Craig completes the second greenhouse. It's double the size of our first, plus some. Everyone helps.

 6602. The children shovel 1050 gallons of horse manure for a friend.

6603. I begin reading Dietrich Bonhoeffer's The Cost Of Discipleship.

6604. "I think it's amazing that the creator wants to actually know us not just what we can do," Jack says.

6605. We complete another year of wrestling.

6606. The children go fishing with Craig.

6607. Joe turns seven.

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6608. "Sometimes in the morning," Betsy whispers to Myra, "Daddy takes his shirt off and he as FEATHERS in his armpits."

6609. Spring settles in. We perch in it's branches.

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Lunch

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"How'd you like sitting by Grammie in church?" I say.

Sunday lunch stair-stepped across the table, Joe's button-down shirt checkered orange and azure, rumpled jeans, he licks jelly off his thumb.

"I liked it," he says.

"Hmm," I say. "There's one thing you have to do if you sit by Grammie."

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

"What?"

"Try to sing the words on the songs." He blinks, something like instinct holding his gaze. "Some of the words you don't know, but when you figure them out, sing."

"Ooookay," he says. "What I think is boring is just standing there during worship." He flattens the corners of his mouth, nonchalance, a sideways glance, feigns expertise.

"Well, that means you're not worshipping," I say.

"Oh." A knit brown, he squints, wills logic to materialize.

Jane frowns. Her apron, a splay of flouncing flowers and 1950, a kitchen aid mixer whirling atop the counter, she screws up the corner of her mouth.

"Do you think it's boring going on a date with Mom?" she says. She peers around the whirl of bagel dough.

"No."

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"Worship is like going on a date with God," she shrugs. Her braid, thick as a sunflower trunk, drapes over her shoulder.

"Yeah," I blurt. Sense permeates. Logic burgeons.

"Oh," Joe says. Another lick, he pops the whole thumb in his mouth, that last smudge of raspberry jelly punctuating a feather inkling that he should sing in church.

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

Gratitude:

6594. "I can't believe you were trying to read a book while playing your scales," I laugh at Jane. "Well, I had actually read almost an entire Nancy Drew book before you noticed," she says.

6595. "Thanks so much for telling Joe how worship is like a date with God," I say. "Truth be told, I was just trying so hard not to be annoyed that he was saying the most important time of the whole week was boring," Jane says.

6596. Life settles into a lull finally, now mid February. Snow drifts more than knee deep, temperatures gridlocked beneath freezing, the sky riotous blue, we drink it in.

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

The Tree

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

"Adam and Eve could have sinned at any time," I say, "because they were free."

"Ohhhh," the children nod, breakfast unfinished around morning Bible study, oatmeal lumped over bowl rims.

"Free to do good and free to do evil." Freedom, that long radius swaths, swings wide, cuts deep, furrows, pulverizes, winnows down grains of thought to one thing: choice, raw and fibrous.

"Huh." Squinting eyes, freedom's propeller blades take shape, that awful thrust, exhilarating power, sound barrier shattering.

"The tree was just a warning," I say, "a way to spell danger." How else could God prove he wasn't controlling us? That awe-ful affidavit, proof before a notary public: We. Are. Free. Declaration under oath, freedom.

A collective inhale, the air thin, pulling from adjacent rooms, we squint, peep through the mind's portal, magnificent, horrendous, air-tight, nourishing choice. The verification gavel sounds.

"God actually does take care of us," Joe resounds, finality across his forehead, thumb strumming gold-rimmed pages of his Bible. I stare. Understanding pressed between his boyish grin run slack and the more-times-than-I-can-count he's been in trouble this week, he nods. I soften.

"He really does," I say. Submission slips in as if tipping his hat. Respect settles between us, a lingering exhale, the beginning of a new breath.

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

Gratitude:

6587. The handsome gray in Craig's hair.

6588. The myriad of knitting projects constellating our home.

6589. A giant pot of stew seasoned with herbs and spices akin to alchemy.

6590. The gentle unfolding of winter days.

6591. The family affair of a free alumni basketball game at my alma mater.

6592. Delicious meals of green beans and quinoa, coffee and cookies, tortilla chips and baked parmesan.

6593. Everyday filled with blessing. We let them ensconce us, recognition bringing them to life.

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo