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.

Dates

"Mom," Myra says, "it may have sounded like I was talking harsh to you, but I wasn't." She blinks earnest eyes. "I was just trying to not talk to you with rubber lips like you've been telling me to."

"Ohhhhh," I say. Rubber lips, where you apologize expressionless, noodle limp lips. "That's good, Myra," I say. The end of her apology all grins and giggles, we sit there on the big sleigh bed. We blink into each other's eyes. "You didn't sound harsh," I say.

"Good," she says. It's a date. Every end-of-apology is a date, the sinews of love drawn up tighter.


***

"Jesus," Joe prays, "help me to not be scared in the dark."

The two of us sit in the suburban, the traveling cafe, another end-of-date, there in the front seat, just Joe and me. And just like usual we pray, gather up life worries and hold them up-up high to God.

"'Cause you know I am scared," he says. "We love you, Jesus. Amen."

"Amen," I say. And in that little eddie of moment, that cove where the prayer just sort of recoils, we sit, a slosh of silence washed over us. Then, "Yup," I say, unconscious acknowledgement the simple goodness, prayer. "Yup."

He nods.

And then the afternoon swallows up this tiny moment with the normal pace of normal living as if it's gentle cadence had not just paused to part the universe.

Gratitude:

6397. Prayer. We pray together.

6398. I get a new sweater.

6399. I make wool pants for George out of thrifted sweaters.

6400. Another dear family with seven kids invites us to dinner. Such goodness there. So much fellowship and gladness.

6401. Dad comes Saturday morning to help us with the kitchen. And my brother. And Craig's brother. Again. And still. We all band together, work-work-work until this project is drawn up in completion. All the help and advice is kindness to us. A gift. We are humbled and grateful.

6402. We slide into Sunday, a late, late night for me. Still, tomorrow awaiting my faithfulness in small things, small things that actually define us, I find myself landing grateful and ready for endurance. I pray that the mercy of God makes me patient and kind when I am tired and cranky. I picture this strength and realize I honestly desire it. This, what riches.

Almost Home

"So what can I pray for for you?" I say. The glow of two miles flushed on our faces, Jane and I make the turn onto our street.

"Well," she says, "kind and gentle, to be kind and gentle."

"Me too," I say. "Jesus," I pray right there, eyes open, the gentle cadence of our steps marking witness to our words, "I pray that you would do this thing inside of Jane and inside of me. Please grow up this fruit of your Spirit inside of us. Please help us to be gentle and kind."

The steps mark out a lull there between us, a gentle meter to hold our words, netlike, invisible, as comforting as a heartbeat.

"Yes, Jesus," she finally says. "I pray you help me to be gentle and kind and not be like: You were mean to me so SMACK on-the-side-of-the-head, I'm gonna be mean to you because you must LIKE it. I'll show you what it's like. Help me not to do that. Help me to be gentle and to be kind. I love you, Jesus. Amen."

"Amen," I say.

We walk up the steep, steep driveway, let the slackening pace carry us, coast us home. We slide in. My arms encircle her almost-woman-self.

"Love you," I say. A kiss planted on the top of her head, I memorize this slow and conscious turning toward each other, the miraculous wings of independence fluttering there behind her.





Gratitude:

6251. A dear friend surprises me with a box of the most lovely, resplendent, hand-me-downs. It's such a big box, I can't believe she mailed it. Joe splits his face in half with a smile.

6252. Dear sisters-in-law continue reach open arms to me, bless me with their children, and their love.

6253. Yarn, brown sweater yarn finds its way to our home.

6254. I exchange texts with a soul sister until we can meet up for reals and compare notes on the world.

6255. My small group of 16 years has a mini-reunion.

6256. My mom and I exchange writing, Buoyed along on words and images, meter and lyric, we compare our measurements of the long, long circle of the horizon. We smooth out renderings of life and pass them back and forth.

6257. Myra turns 7. The miracle of 7 unfolds there before our eyes all red hair and easy smile. I pull up a dusty seven year old inside of me, shake her off, and try her on for size. Yup, still carefree and light-footed. Makes for a lovely date with Myra.

6258. Summer comes racing in, hot enough to pinken cheeks, and fill the greenhouse with life-giving humidity. It's been long in coming. I just want to sit super still and soak it all up.

6259. I feel the anticipation of my children taking flight over the next decade. There before me, I set my heart to this new way of being, this careful opening of my hands to let the children become adults. Terrifying and exhilarating.

6260. I count the continual presence of Craig next to me a great joy and comfort.

Fruit

"Lord, thank you that we had lots of opportunities to show love today," Jack prays. "And I pray that we will have lots of opportunities tomorrow. We love you. Amen."

"Jesus," Lucy says, "thank you that we had lots of opportunities to show love tonight at dinner. And thank-you that we can see you working. Amen."

See you working. Prayer circles. One by one we practice; we worship. Let's pray for the fruit of the spirit, Craig had said. So we start with love.

Like the laying out of cobblestones, roads appear before us.

***

"Did you know that this morning at church when I was worshipping, Daddy was looking at me?" Myra says. "And I was looking at Daddy?" Daddy the teacher, Myra the student. Earnest eyes on rollicking shoulders, she lifts her arms.

"That's sweet" I say.

"That was when I was up by the stage," she says, her arms up, up to the sky.

A father's love. She watches Daddy to see Jesus. We all do.

Gratitude:

5501. Daisy fabric for baby trousers and blanket. Yellow-yellow daisies.

5502. A lap quilt for Joe in a patchwork of blues.

5503. Pins! Fresh, sharp, unbent straight pins -- luxury.

5504. Lucy lays out her pinwheel quilt. Craig helps her find the perfect arrangement.

5505. Craig bleaches the sink while marshaling an all out cleaning effort with the kids.

5506. I resume running, a beloved old friend.

5507. Betsy makes rolling over a regular habit, her body all muscled and limber.

5508. Every day, multiple times Jack peppers me with the same exact question: Wanna go look at the garden with me, Mom? It just changes so much every single day. He cultivates those plants like the souls of people.

5509. Barbecued burgers and hotdogs. Pickles, dill pickles. Potato chips and salad. Summer treats.

5510. We grow another week in our love for the Lord. Worship, it's the one thing we really want to get right. And everything, isn't everything worship?

Myra

"Sometimes something tickles on me, and do you know what it is?" Myra chirps.

"What?" I say, the the adult world punctured by her felicity.

"Nothing." She nods. Happy discovery dispensed, she hiccups past a sack of sweet potatoes, Joey trailing behind like a synchronizes swimmer.

Later, we pray before bed.

"Please help the baby be healthy and whole," Myra prays. "And please help her to go and be a friend to me. Amen." Her quiet submission lilts lightly across the other prayers. The stillness of a request, the un-presumption, the quiet wait -- here we all wait.

Gratitude:

5639. "Maybe the fruit flies should fly to Costco 'cause there's a lot of food there," Myra says.

5640. I talk my mom into sewing a baby quilt for the new baby. Pinks and greens, old fashioned flowers, a soft cloud of a back, it's perfect.

5641. The Tuesday Girls take communion together.

5642. Craig trades his old phone in for an iPod touch so I can text for free.

5643. Craig and the kids pick buckets of Italian plums, then Craig and I can them.

5644. Rotisserie chicken wraps and Asian slaw, turn into chicken soup for a week.

5645. Lucy loses her first tooth.

5646. A vintage round frame -- my mom brings over an old wedding photo of Craig and me, perches it on the piano.

5646. The children slack off on several school subjects and then learn the good lesson of catching up during their free time.

5647. Many evenings find us dessert-less, and then Craig bring home cinnamon rolls. Bliss.

Prayers

"Mom, can you do prayers with me?" Lucy nuzzles her face against my side. Drips of dishwater slide down my arm. I wad a fresh towel in my hands, mop dribbles up my forearm.

"Sure," I say. I lean down and whisper through the curtain of her long hair. "Jesus, I pray you bless Lucy and protect her while she sleeps." She presses her head to my lips. I whisper on, a substance like water between us.

"Jesus, please help me not have bad dreams," she says. And even if I do, please help me not to forget about you," she nudges her closed eyes against me. "Even if they feel real," she adds.

I hug her, her small frame leaned full into me. "Ok, go get in bed." She pads off down the hall on the balls of her feet.

Morning comes and along with it chores, summer work. We rake out the girth of our closets, snag missing socks, rumpled t-shirts, rogue papers, stubs of pencils. We separate the sheep and the goats. We smooth and fold and stack the long arms of winter clothes, toss out the holed knees of jeans. We pack away the sloughed off skin of winter, and form tiny stacks of summer clothes in our drawers.

"See, you have to have space around each stack or you won't keep it neat," I say. They nod more as thank-you than agreement.

Dusk settles, dinner dishes clatter to the sink, and Lu nestles her face up under my elbow.

"Prayers?" she says.

"Sure." There in the veil of her hair we whisper hope in our savior.

"Jesus," she prays, "please make angels sit on my bed. And make it so even if it feels like I'm there in a dream, I know you're there. Amen."

"Amen." A hug and a nudge and she half down the hall, prayer trailed in a wake behind her.

There in the crest, I note an empty space of strength around us, a circlet of neatness, submission. A simple bowing down. There before the sink, we bow down to our Lord.





Gratitude:

5442. "It's really sad when adults grow," Lucy says, "'cause then they have to go give all the clothes that they used to be wearing to someone else."

5443. A friend passes hand-me-downs to us.

5444. We start the season of summer barbecues. Rain marks the first one. Holed up inside, the kids trolly through picnic games and the adults visit late into the evening.

5445. Myra and Lu take a break from cleaning. "What are you two doing?" I say. "I'm a dog," Myra says. Lucy nods. "You are supposed to be cleaning," I say. Everyone stares.

5446. Raw sugar, white balsamic vinegar, a fabric ruler, the staples replenish.

5447. My aunt sends me an e-mail on gardening. We catch up electronically.

5448. Jane and I go on a date of errands. I remember again, she's one of my favorite people to visit with.

5449. Craig and I go on a date. We by rice, 25 lbs.

5450. Joe sits by me at church. He reaches his pudgy hand inside mine. We hold hands.

5451. Cerissa and I sit on her front lawn and watch the cousins bike ride up and down the block. Sirens of laughter and squeals of enjoyment, the night slips in silent beneath our feet.

5452. Summer finds us ready for a season of cleaning and discipline, freedom really. We prepare to be free.

Zee Company

"Mom, we're called the Zee Company because we're catching soooo many BEES," Lucy pants. She holds up an empty salsa jar, yellow jacket squirming near the lip.

"Wow." I arch my eyebrows, nod, toss a lone flip-flop onto a bluff of shoes marooned at the back door. "Looks good, " I say.

"Yeah, we catched soooo many BEES." She initiates the nightly epic, a libretto of battles and intrigue,  jars and jars and more jars of bees captured. "SO many, Mom."

"We only just caught seriously bald-face hornets," Jack joins in. He whisks by, a peanut butter jar under one arm.

"Momma, can I have a drink?" Myra lopes into the kitchen. She wrestles open the third drawer on the left. I scuff dried oatmeal off a dish, then toss it in the dishwasher, again. Myra plucks a beryl blue bowl from the cacophony in the drawer. "Mom, can I have a drink," she says, bowl clutched to her chest.

"Yes." I frown at three spoons and a butter knife, dishwasher dregs dried and flaking off. I toss them back in the dishwasher. I glance at Myra. She blinks, grins as if her limbs were noodle-numb. Our eyes sync.

"Um, you may not use a bowl," I say. "Get a cup."

Blink-blink, "Oh. Ok."

The evening skitters on, sleep, finally, like a stone gliding over the water.

The next day, already in motion when I roust my tired self and woo her to wake, tumbles forward under my feet: an avalanche of moments. They clatter together like the engine of a porsche, perfect precision, music. I hold my breath, exhale, savor the adrenaline of spending myself.

"Mom. Mom," Myra charges, "I'm gonna draw a picture of you snugglin' with me." She waves a white sheet of paper like a victory flag. "It's gonna be perfect," she says. "I'm gonna work at my workstation."

We nod in tandem, me, silent for all the words tied up inside, breathless, mute, anchored there at the farm table with me. Her blue eyes alight and flutter, earnest orbs, love.

If a swagger can be completely void of vanity and instead just fullness of heart, a swelling with each step -- she swaggers off as if the motion of the day were inside and spilling out at each stride.

I trace the stride with my eyes, memorize the happy purity, the wholeheartedness. Like a stocking snagged from toe to top, I am undone. The knots slacken. The day contracts and fractures my relentless pace.

Gratitude:

4814. Joe starts walking.

4815. Purple running jersey. Need I say more?

4816. Barn spider, belly bigger than the old steely marbles.

4817. Cucumber grape salad with coconuts and pecans.

4818. Art lessons. The kids draw cinnamon-sugar donuts.

4819. Purple yarn.

4820. Almond filled croissants.

4821. Miss Jamie. We pray for Miss Jamie. She wakes up from her brain bleed and begins recovery.

4822. Sign language, and the garden.

4823. The children balk at regular chores, so we skip Saturday recreation and host a family work day. The children cry with anticipation. They sulk. They blame. They sandbag. And they finally rise to the occasion. On wings of endurance, the day soars. And though they miss lunch, they miraculously thank Jesus for the wonderful day working together.

4824. Another chalkboard. Craig makes our schoolroom complete with another green chalkboard. Then he hauls out an old vanity and bumper pool table that never really fit quite right.

4825. A friend offers him tickets to the WSU game. Seats on the 40 yard line, Craig and a buddy take theirs sons to the game.

4826. I fetch some canning jars downstairs and return to find Joe eating out of the butter dish.

4827. Peach rum sauce, boiled and candied to perfection.

4828. I visit with an acquaintance, but shrink inside when she talks down to her husband. I wonder what I should say to her.

4829. I peek in on Lucy. She hums while she dresses her babies.

4830. "I like your face when you smile like that," Myra says and points to a photo of me.

4831. She chooses a blutterfly sticker for her chore chart.

4832. "Jesus, please make us love you more every year, every season, every month, every week, every day, every hour, every minute, every second. Amen," Jane prays before bed.

4833. "Jesus, please help Mrs. Short's cancer to get healed. And, please help us to be able to tell other people about God," Lucy prays. "Amen."

Lucy

"Do you know what is my favorite part?" Lucy scritch-scratches colors on a sheet of paper. She peels the cerulean blue a bit more.

"What?" I say.

"The part that is burning that God made for the Devil," she says. Sprawled tummy-down on the rug, a shoebox of crayons sidled up next to her, Lu rubs blues and reds into the lumpy soft paper, a smudge of yellow, a swipe of orange.

"Hell?" I frown. Settled into the old black couch, Joe under an arm, feet propped on the coffee table, I watch Lucy.

"Yeah." She scruffs out more flaxen yellow, scarlet, tangerine. They warble and twist, a collision of hues. I wonder about her bad dreams, the scary people that say they will cut off her toes, the ones that chase her until she wakes up and comes to me in the middle of the night -- to pray.

"I hope Great-Grampa turns to Jesus before we all go dead," she blurts. "Because when we die, Jesus will check our hearts to see if we love God, and if we don't, we are on the Devil's team."

I watch her stroke more blue onto that paper. "Yep." I wonder if she's remembering how I had said Hell is made for the Devil and his angels.

She pauses, glances at me from the corner of her eye. "Can you not be loud for a minute?"

Lost in my thoughts, I draw Joe a little closer, gaze at Lu. She tucks her chin, squeezes shut her eyes. Seconds unroll.

"Ok. You can be loud now. I was praying for someone to turn to God." She smooths on more cerulean. "For Great-Grampa." She bobbles her head, raises her brows, "Maybe God is talking to Great-Grampa. Right. Now."

I nod, picture Grampa back in Montana, middle of the morning, that big library of a house.

The soft rustle of crayons on paper on carpet lulls with each stroke. Shush-shush. Lucy holds the crayon all wrong, brushes on more apricot and golden sand yellow.  Shush-shush-shush. She cocks her head, chews her lip.

"Do you think I should cut out this part that is God and hug him?" She jab a corner of the paper.

Hug him. "Sure."

"Or the Bible?" she says and pokes another corner. She looks up, contemplates out the picture window, the miles of green, staccatos of orange zinnia, an old gray fence.

"You might hug the Bible," I say.

"Yeah." She nods, brushes her finger over the crayon wax. "Buh-Buh-Bible," she says and fiddles on more cerise.

Bible, God, Hell, it all weaves together. And so we talk theology and try to figure out how to hug God.

Gratitude:

3586. "Is there anything else I can do to please you now that I cleared the table?" Jane rings in the new week.

3587. "When you're done do you want to study the grasshopper?" Jack asks at breakfast.

3588. "My next grasshopper I want to call Grass Gordon," Jack chatters. "They're real eaters. They're mostly eating all the time. Lucy, what's 1 + 2? I need you to know 'cause that's how many grasshoppers we have."

3589. "I just like to feed them and hold them and take care of them," he says.

3590. "I have slepten with one of the grasshoppers," he confesses. "I just put him under the covers. That's how much I like them."

3591. Craig takes an afternoon golfing with my dad.

3592. A grasshopper escapes in the house. "I was just trying to hold him," Lucy explains.

3593. "Mom, are you an optimist or a pessimist?" Jack asks.

3594. "Wobber, wobber, I see the wobber," Myra shouts at a cat in the garden,"by the 'matoes."

3595. Tuesday at Mom's. The weekly rhythm. Taco soup and cheddar cheese, prayer. A fermata. We miss the girls that can't come.

3596. "Mommy, wanna know what we do?" Lucy asks. "We tell the truth, that's what we do."

3597. Lucy watches me put on mascara, "What does that do? Make your eyes smell good?"

3598. "Ugh. Myra spilled my coffee," I grouse. "Well, that will take the pee smell out of the house," Jane consoles.

3599. We gather in prayer for a dear friend in unending pain, a medical mystery. Craig prays. The children watch and copy, make paper airplane notes, and carry in their hearts the image of their father on bended knee.

3600. We enjoy the treat of family pictures. Up in the woods amongst vintage furniture, antique trunks, couches, an old pick-up truck, quilts, glassy pond, love unfurls, the life of our party. Rose captures the love.

3601. We carpool on the mini-roadtrip to our photo shoot. Chit-chat, pizza, Pepsi, and every seat of the suburban filled.

3602. Buckets in hand we plod home from the plum orchard, laden.

3603. Dinner on the farm topped off with swatsbin pie all anise sweet.

3604. I practice more lessons on patience -- poorly. I compare notes with Mom. We zero in on the antidote: prayer. Pray for more patience. So simple. And since love is patient, it's really like praying for love.

3605. "Laugh," Myra commands. "Mom, laugh. Ha-ha-ha," she demonstrates, "Mom laugh. Watch me." Joe stops nursing to watch the spectacle.

3606. Craig's brother brings over fresh deer sausage to share with us.

3607. "Since my grasshopper wasn't even moving at nap time today, that probably means he was napping," Lucy fills me in. "My little child, my grasshopper child," she says.

3608. My little child. I pray to nourish my little children this week. And I pray to bless and serve my husband.