Husband

"What's my husband gonna be like?" Jane leans on an elbow over a bowl of oatmeal. I slide scrambled eggs onto my toast.

"You should look for someone like your daddy," I say and rotate a triangular egg onto square toast.

"But what's he gonna be like?" Her spoon tings against the bowl. She tilts her head.

"Well," I prop one toast on the edge of my plate, pick up the other, "you can't know what he's gonna be like, but you can start praying for him." I reach for the plum jam and spin the silver lid. "I started praying for Daddy when I was just a little girl."

She wrinkles her forehead, "How little?" I notice how narrow her shoulder look in that jersey t-shirt, her careless mop of curls.

"I don't remember. Pretty little." We smile. I pop the lid off the jam. She carves a bite of oatmeal. The day carries on as if another pearl has not slid on an invisible string.

Then it's Sunday and I shout and grumble that we're late again. I jab the make-up puff at my cheeks and lean over the white bathroom counter, frown.

Lucy wanders in to use the toilet. There at my elbow, I hardly notice. Blue polka-dot and hand-me-down, she twirls her skirt. And then I hear, snippets of rolling monologue, her three-year-old shrug, "It's like you don't want to go to church." She flushes the potty.

The trip-trop of her black shoes and there I am, alone.

We haul to church, furrow still between my eyes.

And then we come to rest like toys left out. We swing our legs in the back chairs of the sanctuary, squeeze shut our eyes, worship. I peek at Jane. She doesn't notice, but there balanced on her knees, a paper. Half sheet crumpled and white: I've learned that Jesus is good. He takes care of us.

I press my eyes shut, gather the words, droplets of dew on a string.

He is good. He takes care of us. Someone like her father.

Gratitude:

2040. Jack's observation, "The Devil is really powerful, but God is more powerful-er."

2041. How Myra thinks every book is a Bible.

2042. How Jane graduates to a young reader's Bible and tells me, "I love this Bible."

2043. How Lucy points to the blind man lowered through the roof to Jesus and says, "Is this how it will look in heaven?"

2044. Her running monologue as I sit next to her, "Jesus is God's son. And we love Jesus. And Jesus died for us."

2045. Her furrowed brow, "Do you think God has our last name?" And, "Maybe when we get there we can ask him what his middle name and last name are."

2046. How when I hug Jack he stands on tip toe and kisses my chin.

2045. How he leans on my shoulder, "I just really like talking to you."

2046. And when I ask him his favorite thing about Daddy, he doesn't even pause, "How he goes to work for us."

2047. How even a boy sees the provision.

2048. How when I ask if the washer is done he says, "You don't have to do it. I'll do it for you."

2049. Jane's prayer, "Jesus, thank-you for making us righteous. And help us to be righteous-er. Amen."

2050. How Jane continues on her Bible, "I kind of like that it's not a picture Bible 'cause then it has more details, and the other kids won't take it."

2051. Her sigh during laundry, "I'm practicing patience right now. It's not very easy."

2052. How she grins when I hand her a grocery sack of little booklets from Great-Grammie, "I know what we could do with these. We could give one to all the kids and they could write things that they enjoy in life in it."

2053. Lucy, her book in hand, "How do you write, I like that Mom snuggle me sometimes?"

2054. And how she calls, "Mommy, watch this!" and then jumps up and down and clucks her tongue.

2055. Jack with his booklet, "You can write names in here if you want as long as you don't write them in cursive." And his serious eyes, "Then you can take it to the hospital with you."

2056. Visiting with Jane during naps.

2057. A phone call from Great-Grampa.

2058. Prime rib stew and the hands that made it.

2059. Blackberry pie.

2060. Myra flying in the swing while Jane pushes her to the sky.

2061. Ginger cat cookies.

2062. Swimsuits for the girls.

2063. Raspberry jam.

2064. Bags of frozen fruit.

2065. A mug with a lid.

2066. Refried black beans.

2067. Dark chocolate.

2068. How Jack passes potatoes to Myra to pass to me to cut so even she can help.

2069. How when Craig vacuums dirt off the floor Myra claps her hand and shouts, "Clean!"

2070. Baby inside with hiccups.

2071. Myra outside barefoot chasing the chickens.

2072. A slow day where cousins play freeze tag and soccer, dig worms for the chickens and rally youngest to oldest.

2073. The presence of each of our children, a stamp on each day.

2074. Indulging in extra cuddles and kisses and blessings for each one.

2075. Being under the protection and leadership of such a good man.

Wings

"Do you think we'll have legs in heaven?" Jane pulls a flannel quilt up on one shoulder, sidles down under it's wings. "Legs to walk," she says.

"I think so." I elbow over the bunk rail, stand tip-toe on the bottom bed. "What do you think?"

She sways curls over jammied shoulders. "Nope. Wings. Wings to fly." She captures my eyes. "In heaven we won't need to walk. We'll just fly."

"Hmm. Fly." I snug the flannel in tight around her six-year-old self. Of course, we'll just fly.

I pad bare feet down the hall. Christmas words circle back soft in my ear, You're the best part of my day, husband says. And, You make everything make sense, I say. And it does.

Between flying in heaven and husband's words, Christmas unfolds, another Christmas, down the hallway and into the evening. Christmastide.

Gratitude:

448. Husband.

449. Child-wrapped presents, lots of tape.

450. Gelatin, radiant, sprayed kitchen-aid-mixer style all over the kitchen.

451. Rapturous grins the children try to hide.

452. Peppermint marshmallows.

453. More wrapping paper than ever and tape and markers and scissors and an assembly line the kids set up that manages to cover every lumpy present with paper and tape of some sort.

454. Janie's reminders, "You guys remember, Christmas is really about GIVING gifts."

455. A clock. The clock. One that chimes and makes Great-Grammie cry.

456. Open arms that welcome us, that hold the door between trips to the car, and carry our children 'round piggy-back.

457. Gifts. So many gifts of love. And the uncanny feeling that someone has read your mind.

458. Being truly, genuinely, completely, utterly surprised.

459. How the children laughed and played and played and laughed and no one begged to open presents.

460. And the gifts, every one, love made flesh.

461. Alice in Wonderland. Reading to the children. How they snuggle bumped under my elbows and chin and press in close to see the words and stare into space to picture the story.

462. Books, books, books galore! The classics. Peter Pan, Les Miserables, Oliver Twist, Gulliver's Travels.

463. Janie learning to sew.

464. How Lulie explains that she doesn't have to wear patches anymore now that she's two when I forget to patch her for a day.

465. The way red nail polish chips off and leaves white nails underneath.

466. A full pot of stew, three loaves of banana bread, and a tidy kitchen.

467. Time off with husband and how even if the house gets messy we just step careful and be together and make time go slow.

468. How even though little Rose has a fever she cuddles extra long and smiles when I kiss her feet.

469. Sleep.

Poem

You are my light
in the dark,
my beacon
on a hill,
the only one
I want
to come
home to.

A poem.
From husband.

The words encircle us,
loop and spiral,
wheel and whirl.

Our world orbits the poem-words
gravity between us.
I memorize small lines
at his eyes,
and rest
in the crook
of his arm.





Gratitude:

397. Chicken soup with rice -- my first try.

398. Hot chocolate with vanilla beans and cream.

399. Vanilla beans.

400. Lulie's wide eyes when I explain that the public toilet won't flush her down, although I did one time hear about someone that accidentally flushed their keys down. And her serious blink and, "Holy moley."

401. How Janie trolleys everyone in for naps on Saturday -- their giddy grins irrepressible from the broken open binkie-bin from storage, the one they stole binkies from and hid under all their pillows.

402. Patient children who forgive me when I shout about the banana on Lulie's dress right before we leave for church.

403. The miracle, we pull into church 1 min. early.

404. The amazing, awesome, good deal we find on a computer that turns out to be stolen and how we don't buy it. How doing the right thing is always, well, the right thing.

405. Husband, who says, "I'm not worried, things just always seem to work out for me."

406. The confidence I borrow from him.

407. The continual ebb and flow of children and laundry through the house.

408. How Rosie humors the children trying binkie after binkie, old relics of Janie's babyhood.

409. How we sing carols down the halls of a nursing home in town.

410. The children gathered elbow-deep in fabric to cut bookmarks before I even get up in the morning -- bookmarks for the nursing home. And how they press the gifts into Ron's hand quietly after Happy Birthday and a hug.

411. Ron with a wide smile and a wooden cane and the woman who cannot speak but sang along to the carols.

412. How Lulie hugs my leg and peeks around at the residents.

413. How our children drew names for Christmas this year, the giddy secret-name bubbling on the tip of their tongues.

414. Jack's whisperer each morning to me in bed, "Momma, I made you a present, do you want to open it?" More bookmarks.

415. Prayer with my parents and how my dad is such a man of integrity even at great personal cost.

416. Penzy spices.

417. How my mom is always kind. A dignity giver.

418. Dinners on the farm, cousins, fresh potatoes from the cellar, beets, sweet potatoes, turkey sent home in a baggie for later. Arms-wide-open generosity. In-laws become parents to me.

419. Sledding children before farm dinner.

420. Oranges. And how Jack can't resist eating his like an apple when I step into the kitchen.

421. Another night's sleep and everyone well.