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

Force

"You can't force people," Jane says. Her long curls shawled around thin shoulders, she sketches.

Exercises. Each child practices. Jane and Jack sketch. Lucy pounds scales. Myra holds Betsy. Joe recites fragments of Ozymandias as he balances breakfast dishes to the kitchen. Enveloped in morning work, world politics intersect conversation. A presidential debate, and Jane's tracing free will beyond beyond chores, beyond theology.

We review the contenders, but her main question: Why don't people DO what's right?

You can't force people.

"It's like a lot of things with Christ," I say, "he just presents the truth and lets us choose." I sip my coffee. "He never forces us." I say. The washer lud-thuds in the background. Jane zigs a few zags on bumpy line of  zigzags. Encircled in the navy stripes of her shirt, she chews the idea.

"It's like truthfulness is it's own defense," she says.

"Huh, yup," I say. She hardly looks up. Three quarter length sleeves and navy stripes, I watch her

Truthfulness is it's own defense. And it's own antidote. Speak it at any time and freedom will follow.

We slip the idea into our pocket like a smooth stone and carry on.





Gratitude:

5660. "If you want to play Trouble, Momma, I will," Joe says, "Do you want to play Trouble?" he says. Yes. Yes, I do.

5661. "Just a minute," I say. "One minute is like A THOUSAND minutes," he says.

5662. I discover migraines are a possible side effect of the vein procedure I had. At least I'm not so worried about the headaches I've been having.

5663. Thrift store finds, clothes for Jane, the backing for a quilt.

5664. Fresh shampoo, vitamins, and medicine.

5665. A new belt for Craig, black, simple, perfect.

5666. We learn to make pizza as a family and make it every night for a week.

5667. "Why does our conscience lead us with fear?" Jane asks me. "Because it is afraid of what we might lose." I say. "It steers us from evil, but it's God's goodness that draws us to him."

5668. Betsy starts calling me MOMMA, loud, clear, and with expressive eyebrows.

5669. "Mom, look how big of muscles I have," Joe says, his arms contorted in an almost flex.

5670. I make a new counter cleaner that smells just like a lemon San Pelligrino.

5671. I finally throw out the last garden bouquet, dried to a crisp, brownish on the countertop.

5672. Joe accidentally crushes half a carton of eggs in an unfortunate fall "helping" Myra make eggs for me.

5673. We find baby blue cowboy boots second hand. Jane and I share them.

5674. I continue to turn to the great grace and mercy in Christ. Perfect love -- this miracle encircles me.