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."

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

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.

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

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.

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

Lunch

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

"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."

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

"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

The Frog

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

"It can sometimes take a month for them to get used to their cage," Jack says, the new frog, neon green and shiny, an iridescent jewel, rests adjacent, nested in a giant 10 quart jar. Frogs.

Moored on a kitchen stool, Jack leans an elbow on the white countertop. He flip-flips through one of a thousand animal magazines, pauses, looks up, squints, recites animal facts as I drink down my nightly water.

"I guess that makes sense," I say, "if they come from a different part of the world."

"Yeah," he nods. Snagged by a burgeoning paragraph, he doesn't look up. "Hmm," he says, pauses, "This time," he cocks his head, "I want to get one that looks like the other gender."

"Yeah?" I say, "Since you don't know which gender you have now?"

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

"Um-hm." Surfing a sea of animal facts, he pauses again, cresting a wave, me blurred to scenery.

"Hmm," I fill the space with the hum of listening to invisible details transferred from page to child. I drink my water, soft lamp light a circle around us.

"And," he suddenly says, his eyes orbs of intensity, "this time I want to pay for the frog myself."

"Yeah?" I say.

"I don't like feeling helpless 'cause everything is being provided for me," he says.

"Huh. Makes sense," I say. Freedom, a fruit at the top of the tree, he reaches up to pluck it off.

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

Wedged in the fraction of seconds between memories, I recall him waiting to help me from the car at church, the whole study group gathered for a meal. 

I keep meaning to bring a little bit, he had said. Yeah? I had frowned. I saw they have a little basket for people to help pay for the meal, he had said. I had nodded, blathered something unmemorable and felt a radiant circle of provision and safety encompass me.

Provision, sacrifice. 

Masculinity, he bears the mark.

Photo cred: Urban Rose Photo

Gratitude:

6580. Jack barbecues burgers for Craig and me. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays this loyal courier from the swift completion of good cheer and kind service. 

6581. We share many consecutive nights hand sewing Christmas ornaments and enjoying the turning plot of an audiobook. The final count of ornaments breaks fifty. 

6582. The children plan a baking day complete with shopping list and baking itinerary.

6583. We begin to stagger the children's bedtimes. The older tier enjoys new found freedom and friendship. Pleasant conversation makes bedtime illusive.

6584. Jane reads an advent storybook to the littles. They pine for it each day.

6585. Craig takes me on a date.

6586. "I finally understand what people mean when they say church family," Jane says as we trundle in the house Sunday noon. "I always just thought that they didn't really have a very good family, but now I see it's different."

6586. Our maturing family moves like the chords of a hymn resounding through the Christmastide.

Bunny

Photo credit: Urban Rose Photo

"I like your bunny," I say. Diagonal on the trundle bed, Betsy stretches, grins and squints her eyes, face blushed with sleep. 

"This bunny eats people," she says, her stretch winding down, now sober eyes blink-blinking.

"No, it doesn't," I say, a perpetual fear of man-eating rodents arched in her eyebrows. She pets guard bunny's flopping ears.

"You can have this," she says. She pauses, lifts bun-bun to me.

"Ohhh," I sigh. 

"Don't pull on the ears," she says. She lays bunny in her lap and strokes the ears, "or they will be broken."

"Uh-huh," I stare, Betsy's pale green eyes round, earnest. She turns bunny and points.

"Because they are tied on. Here. The ears."

Photo credit: Urban Rose Photo

"Oh," I say, "yes."

"Jack made it for me."

Her eyes there, and my hands just reach on their own. She places bunny in them. I smile at the stumpy body, round head, voluminous ears. I stroke the ears and gaze at bunny. 

"And then he rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth," she says. "I love you forever. I like you for always. As long as I'm living my. baby. you'll. be." The words loll into the room. I stare at bunny then at her. 

"Yup," I say. 

"Emma said that to me last night," she says.

"Yup," I say, and in the long moment I recall I've never read that book to Betsy. Not once. Just Emma. And there on the trundle bed, a universe blooms and spills between us, tender affection handed down from Emma, down from Jack, down, down, down to me. There I am holding bunny and the whole entire world in my hand.

Photo credit: Urban Rose Photo

A Chorus of Tulips

Prayer unfolds over a black table, kitchen tabletop.
Furrowed in prayer, we trace soul-thin places plowed long,
harrowed wide. We cradle the sadnesses with prayer.

In soft chorus, the palms of my children reach,
reach over the table's expanse, and touch warmth
to hands and forearms, fingers and elbows.

Eyes squinched shut, we pray,
the safety net of comfort catching us.

Please help Daddy to find a job, Lucy prays. We know
it all depends on you,
Jesus,

the wide table of heaven there between us.

Jack In The Garden

"Jack is watering your plants," Myra says, a hamburger bun splayed in front of her, ranch and ketchup heaping and generous.

"He takes such good care of me," I say. I picture the seventy holes he dug, post-hole-digger mastered and nimble in his hands, and how all I had to do was tuck my tomato plants into the ground and smooth the dirt over their roots and long stems.

"He does?" she says.

"Yep," I say, "taking care of all my plant needs." I layer bacon, onions, mushrooms, bbq, and mustard on my bun.

"Sounds like he's going to be a good dad some day," she says.

"Yep."

"Taking care of his wife," she say.

"Um hmm," we smile at the rightness of a man providing for his family. Even at eight, Myra understands.

Gratitude:

6571. My cousin stops by, a rare visit punctuated by children playing tag through the yard, the two of us laughing, and pleasant treasures of honey, asparagus, and tomato plants.

6572. A dearest friend visits and among more children chatter and play, we talk and pray, more riches untold.

6573. My parents join us for dinner -- bbq burgers, salads, round-robin visiting, relaxing, and lingering -- nourishment in many forms.

6574. A dear neighbor invites a couple of kids to work in her yard and sends them home with a meal for the whole family. Tetrazzini, delicious.

6575. Lucy turns ten, peace and contentment her continuing mark on this world.

6576. Craig and the children continue to stitch our yard into a harmonious union of lawn and gardens. We predict we will grow 150 tomatoes this year.

6577. So many friends, family, and new customers visit the greenhouse business. We enjoy every single one.

6578. Lucy and I learn the principle algorithms to solve a rubix cube. We laugh and laugh when I tell a neighbor that I can now solve five sides of the cube, just have to figure out the sixth one.

6579. A hot spring day punctuates Mother's Day and best of all we enjoy the summation of all the days we've grown love between us. For my children, my mother, and my mother-in-law, I am so very grateful.

Myra's Birthday

"Can you put whip cream on mine?" Joe nudges a steel bowl, almond whip cream stiff and fluffy, the Kitchen Aid still on the counter. 

"Hmm," I say. He pushes his pancake a little closer. "Whelp, I can." Long swivel spoon, I circle the bowl, foamy white gathering on the end. "I can put on LOTS," I say, "but just 'cause you asked. Don't YOU do that. Ok?" He nods. He's all nods.

"Ohhhhh, that's LOTS," he says. I plop two blobs, shake the spoon a little and another drip slides off.

"Yup," I say, pancake buried.

"I'm gonna take my girl on a date today," Craig says.

"Mmm, good idea," I say, Craig blinking at Myra, shy eight-year-old eyes blinking back. He balances syrup and cream and eats another bite, smile and mooning eyes full like that cream.

"Ok!" Betsy chirps, joy garbled around pancake and a great herculean effort to swa-swallow that bite down. "I can go!" she chimes still swa-swallowing the tail end of that bite.

Craig shakes his head, smiles. Myra grins. And a smile slides across my face. Confidence blooming, twice and thrice, strikes gong reverberation. 

Gratitude:

6561. The plant sale opens, a smashing success.

6562. The children walk the neighborhood streets to deliver flyers. Confidence grows. Stress gives birth to ability. They speak for themselves and their business.

6563. Jane gives her first Toastmasters speech. Her confidence grows. The teacher encourages that the inevitable anxiety IS the goal. It's the only way to master public speaking.

6564. We celebrate Myra, sweet, light-hearted, deep-hearted Myra. She is a gift too big to appraise.

6565. I find the truth, that difficult conversations bring life, to be, well, true.

6566. We continue to teach the children that the most mature person in the room will do the most unfair tasks and without recognition. 

6567. I lament that the house has not gotten tidier this week, but rejoice at all the yard and plant sale work that is complete. I set my mind to embrace the extra tasks that lace through the next week.

6568. I think with anticipation about the children's next art lesson.

6569. I find a few moments to play piano.

6570. We land Sunday night with a promise to ourselves to get more sleep and find the weaving thread of contentment the hang the next week on.

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.

These Times

"Wasn't that neat seeing a fast-forward video of a dandelion last night?" I say.  Fresh up the front drive, morning run in our wake, Jane and I visit, sun soft on our cheeks.

"Yeah," she says. It was." She pauses as if "was" were large and round. "Though I have to admit," she says, "to having a chronic dislike of dandelions."

"Hah," I say. "I know what you mean." And like that we are through the front door, the house quiet for encircling nine, warm light skittering across the hardwood floors. The morning turned past noon, I herald everyone in.

"We have to leave by 1:00," I say. Everyone pulls hard on the oars of time to row, row us all ready and set to leave.

"Joe's hair needs a little bit of guidance," Jane calls, hand cupped around her mouth, eyebrows and cheeks drawn up in bow. I snicker, but swept in the twirl-wind of gathering seven children into the car and off to Toastmasters, I forget about Joe's masterful hair.

"Oh," I say when the speech teacher pauses and admires the high-in-front doo. "That's self-made hair," I say.

"Yep," he says. A masterpiece.

Gratitude:

6543. We take a vacation to the ocean. So much family surrounding us, twenty-seven of us, we savor the relationships, roam the beach, and play and make worship together. Magnificent. We store up the memories like special treasures.

6544. Our greenhouse plants continue to grow-grow-grow into lush specimens.

6545. We settle into the comfort and routines of home like the chorus a song sung a hundred times. We determine to enjoy it as much as the sea, each thing in its time.

Chess

"Look, I can take two of your pieces," Joe says. A leisure Sunday afternoon, Joe and I play chess. The big brown table a fortress beneath us, I lean, lean an elbow out to the middle.

"Huh," I say my bishop and rook now both kitty-corner to his pawn. "I guess your right," I say.

"Only gonna be able to move one of them," he says.

"Huh," I say. A little bit of knowledge and suddenly strategy arises from nothing. The awakening of the mind is such a grand affair. And in this case it cost me my bishop. Brilliant.

Gratitude:

6533. Resurrection Day came again with all the celebration and humility that it brings.

6534. Joe turned SIX. I relish his generous spirit.

6535. Coleslaw, the best coleslaw, the world over -- red cabbage, sweet onion, fists of basil, and lemon avocado mayo dressing. We eat it with pulled pork. Then the pulled pork runs out so we start eating it on nachos. Then the nachos run out so it's just chips and still transcendent.

6536. Fresh groceries, the kind that fill up a paper sack and they have to double bag it. Lemons and cabbage and basil and mustard and ginger ale and cheddar and oranges and a mechanical pencil and lead. Perfection.

6537. The children have another art lesson and continue to progress in their artwork.

6538. The older four kids join a Toastmasters club. The first meeting leaves them chattering with excitement.

6539. Two beautiful baby wraps come to live at our house.

6540. I make elderberry syrup and turmeric golden milk from scratch.

6541. Craig and I squeeze in a date. We arrive at the movie theatre to find the film started 30 minutes ago. We have a mid-afternoon lunch together instead.

6542. The days gradually grow warmer if still wet. Signs of spring appear. Tiny green cotyledons poke through the ground and begin the new cycle of gardening. The yearly liturgy of seasons lulls us with it's familiar face.

Eraser

"Hey, what is this?" I say. I pluck a white cube-ish eraser, pea-sized from a pile in Lucy's pencil box.

"Oh," Jack says, nose, for the moment, no longer in his math book.

"What?" I say. "What is it?"

"I think that's the eraser that Lucy put in the vice," he says.

"What?" I say.

"She thought it would just compact and then go back, but it broke into a million of pieces."

"Ahhhhh," I say. "Huh." And so it is, another mystery solved. I nod, then shake my head. "Makes sense," I say. Sense, that pile of eraser pieces, saved in a pencil box, that's usually how it finds me too. And good Lord, who knew it would crush like that?

Gratitude:

6526. The children recover from a bout of croup.

6527. Jack and Joe continue to learn endurance, preserving, and resilience through wrestling.

6528. Chicken soup with rice made from scratch.

6529. News of dear friends pregnant.

6530. I pass notes with a dear friend from decades past.

6531. The greenhouse plants continue to get stronger and bigger.

6532. We visit long over Sunday dinner and enjoy the voices of all the children.