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.

Tomatoes

"I hope Grammie had a good time," I say, a row of tomatoes nestled in my elbow and lined up along my forearm. I squint at the countertop.
Jane paws the red checkered dishcloth looped on the oven door, dries her hands. "I think she did," she says.

I crouch, lean toward the counter, ease the soft spheres. They thump as they bobble off my arm.

"When she thought we weren't looking," Jane says, "I could see that she was smiling."

"Oh, that's good." I scoot the juicy globes back toward the butcher block, their shiny skin grips the surface.

"I think she was trying to set the boundaries," Jane says, "but I thought the smile was good."

"Huh," I nod. I separate the harvest into colors: red, black, green with pink streaks, yellow.

I replay in my mind the time I gave a friend a green tomato, one just streaked, orangish-pink-perfect. I had cradled six or eight tomatoes for her in the hem of my shirt. The children had orbited, tumbled cherries in between the fist sized fruits. They had tugged my elbow and tap-tapped my shoulder, poked and prodded. How they tried not to interrupt. Then finally, "Are you giving her one of your favorite ones?" broke free.

Favorite. Yes. We give our favorites. Grammie, down in the schoolroom, gives art lessons. I, in the garden, give sun-ripe tomatoes. Along the way, the children trace the exchanges, memorize the details, internalize the green tomato and the smile when no one was looking.

Every moment bears weight, every breath, inertia.

Gratitude:

4790. "Mom, should I get my water wings and fly?" Myra asks while we pack for a weekend at the lake.

4791. Rosie's invites us for a weekend with her family.

4792. We all go tubing, skipper across the water, squealing, screaming, even Myra though reluctantly. Joe cruises on the boat.

4793. "I'm only doing it because you are making me," Jack narrates as he boards the tube for the first time this year. He turns to me later, "Some things, I'm really glad when you make me do 'em," he says. "Grandad always helped me know which things were going to be like that," I say. We smile.

4794. I watch the many decades of love play between my parents as we slide across the lake.

4795. Dad and I take our annual end-of-summer run. I soak up his wisdom.

4796. We eat hand-patter-out barbecued cheese burgers and a Mt. Everest of kabobs.

4797. We fellowship with family, a cadre of Christians. Refreshment. Strength. Love. Extended family. Our roots run deep. We marvel at the weaving of our Christian faith through all.

4798. The children work like crazy to finish the same amount of school work in a shorter work week.

4799. Tomato basil bisque with sausage.

4800. A Hanna Anderson dress for Myra out of the blue.

4801. We resume the regular Bible study routine for small group, dig deep with warrior prayer and study.

4802. Grammie starts art lessons for the grandkids.

4803. "Your heart is even whiter than this," Lucy points at the cord on the kitchen mixer. "Yep. Shining," I say. "So bright you have to close your eyes," she says. I nod, her repentance complete after getting in trouble.

4804. The kids write a play. The Enemy Of The Bible: Pride. It stars Nebuchadnezzar and three Hebrew boys.

4805. We go to the fair with dear family friends.

4806. Craig preforms another wedding.

4807. "Jesus, help me not see my schoolwork as a burden," Jane prays. "And Jesus, help me to act like an adult. Amen."

4808. We pick golden plums up on the mountain.

4809.Craig's mom makes us a farm meal: potpie, yellow watermelon, blackberry cobbler. Great-grammie joins us with Aunt Carole visiting from Montana.

4810. "Mom, I need a wet wipe," Myra calls, "'Cause Joe eated all of Lucy's tomatoes, and it getted all over him's clothes." She blinks. "It made a big mess of tomato juice."

4811. We rile the house looking for at least one of Joey's sippers and finally find two. We crisscross apologies and settle into their hammock strength.

4812. All the children pray for Lucy's eye appointment to go well tomorrow, the solidarity of the moment like a smooth stone in my pocket.

4813. I observe my parents, Craig's parents, marriages woven through the splendid and the heartbreaking, a rendering of joy. I pray for that kind of solidarity to bear us up, carry us on wings. To Jesus be the glory.