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.

Candy

"It woooould be kind of nice to break the burden of candy," Jane says.

There at the kitchen table, I lean on an elbow. One child pounds piano scales; another sketches flowers; Joe brushes crumbles of brown sugar from tabletop to palm; Myra leans around his shoulder; but I stare directly at Jane. Those blue eyes, that white face, I just look right at her.

"What do you mean?" I say.

"Oh," she says, "like when you have candy, just thinking and thinking, I hope, I hope I get CANDY. I just want CANDY." She moves her head opposite each shoulder as if marking time. "And you think, Let's try to be nice to each other so we can have CANDY. Wait, you're making me mad: PUNCH." She pops an air-punch at an imaginary person.

"I know what you mean," I chuckle, candy, the siren allure.

"It's kind of nice to just share it and be done with it," she says. A pleasant smile, she's stilled her bobbing head. The whole world a tide around us, we smile, soft and happy into each other's eyes.

"Yeah, it is." I say. There like stones in a river, we part the water's of time, force it to move around us. I take in her face. She takes in mine, all the while searching for something. Someone pulls my elbow for attention, but I look just a moment longer. Tiny crinkles form at the corners of her eyes. Loyalty and affection weave a net around us.

Gratitude:

5949. Shampoo, new shampoo!

5450. We trim Lucy's hair.

5451. A fresh mascara waiting in the wings.

5452. Dinner with Craig's parents.

5453. Hairpins, new ones that haven't swiveled-sideways.

5454. Mom brushes my hair out. Luxury.

5454. Jack and I plant cucumber plants together.

5455. We attend another gallery opening as a family. The children spot the elements of art in the work.

5456. I accidentally sleep in when Betsy wakes up late. An extra hour of sleep fuels me with inexplicable energy.

5457. "These pawns are actually powerful," Myra says as she holds a pawn up for us to see.

5458. "I see a move," she says. Sure enough. "Dada, can take you with his rook," she says to me.

5459. Jane learns how to run the espresso machine.

5460. Our small group starts summer barbecues.

5461. Lucy's contact falls out twice, and we rescue it both times.

5462. I mark the beginning of summertime fun by running through the sprinkler with the kids.

5463. As another week draws to a close, I find myself taking longer to enjoy the moments. A whole world of demands, but I find myself living deliberately.