Sighting Day

"So what has God been teaching you lately, Jane?" Starbucks, a cacophony around us, I toss out questions. Today Janie turns eight. I study her face.

With a green straw, she sculpts a bluff of whip cream on a pink Italian soda. She cocks her head, peers up and to the right, past me, past the black sunshade on the floor-to-ceiling windows. She blinks, smiles just only at the corner of her mouth. "To be kind," she finally says, "to others, when they are in the wrong." She licks whip cream off the end of her straw.

"Yes," I say and nod. I sip my creamy black americano, "yes."

"And when I am in the wrong," she wrinkles her forehead, leans back in her chair, "to not just make it look like the other  person is wrong. You actually have to confess." She jabs her straw through the drift of cream and quaffs raspberry soda.

I let the "kind" comment settle in around me. You actually have to confess. Confess, yes this is true. Confession leads to intimacy. I turn this over and over as we volley conversation between soda and coffee, lemon bread and cream cheese danish -- confession leads to intimacy, like now, here, at Starbucks.

Then it's Sunday and we're all a-skitter to church, all six of us jabbed and lobbed into the suburban, Craig already off early before us. I wheel 'round the corner onto a four-lane oneway street.

"Jack," Lulie chimes from the back-back seat, "God can run faster than you."

"God," Jack retorts, "can run faster than anyone."

"Or, or, OR," Lulie tolls, pealing over Jack before he can finish, "God can make YOU run as fast as HIM."

"Yeah. God's the only magic man in the world," Jack replies.

"Yeah."

Magic man. Confession, magic. And so it is, I watch for signs of confession and magic, of God. I tremble at how many times we see Him.

Gratitude:

3331. "Mom look! Mom, LOOK," Myra holds up an unpopped popcorn kernel, "a roly-poly."

3332. "Hi, sweetie," I whisper in Myra's ear. And "Hi, sweetie," she whispers back.

3333. "Mom, I am so annoying at that rabbit," Lucy tells me before we catch him. "Aren't you so annoying at that rabbit?"

3334. Jane scrubs the kitchen sink and waits to see if I will notice.

3335. The kids fill our wading pool and then let it warm in the sun all morning. "This is about how warm Grammie's pool was but five times warmer," Janie gushes.

3336. We scamper down to the neighborhood pool with cousins and laugh and splash and visit the night away.

3337. Jane turns eight.

3338. Family from both sides gathers for a big birthday barbecue. We celebrate these past eight years with Jane, the treasure that she is, and the huge heritage of a good, good family.

3339. Lucy helps me pick out an outfit for the day then comments, "Do you think your tummy's getting back to normal even though it's still sort of big?"

3340. We finally catch the rabbit in our trap. Craig releases him down by the golf course.

3341. I roast eight pounds of carrots on the grill.

3342. Dear friends invite us for a barbecue. We eat a whole mountain of chicken drumsticks seasoned and turned to golden perfection and visit long into the night.

3343. Jane receives a winter nightgown, red plaid socked away in the closest for the dead of winter.

3344. Jack and Jane train for the SpoKenya Run.

3345. Jane makes the cut and we run the race together. We practice pacing and endurance, grow our muscle memory of what pacing and endurance feel like.

3346. Jack and the rest of the crew cheer big at the finish line. Then we all eat drippy ice cream cones together.

3347. Toasted pecans, cooled, two dark chocolate chips piggybacked on top.

3348. We experience the obvious collaboration between leftover cheesecake and toasted pecans.

3349. We share lunch with friends at our favorite burrito place.

3350. Jane comments after church, "It's really obvious who did the family homework when kids try to answer questions during class."

3351. I enjoy more conversation and advice from my mom, the fun of talking, the continual exchange of ideas, the invaluable: years of experience ahead of me.

3352. Baby Joe grows pudgier each day. He gives me long I-love-you blinks when we gaze at each other.

3353. Craig takes the whole bunch of us to lunch after SpoKenya Run. We push little cafe tables together in a group and encircle them with our family. We nourish ourselves on piquant food and good memories. The moments pass while we notice each one.

Eyelashes

"I'm wondering, at the store," Janie asks, "why do they have eyelashes?" She nuzzles her mop of curls on my shoulder. We cuddle on the couch, a pile of laundry, pushed to one side.

I wrinkle my chin, eyelashes? Oh, the fake ones next to the nail polish. "Did you think they cut them off or pulled them out of a person?"

"Uh huh," she nods.

"Ya know how your baby doll has eyelashes?" She nods again. "Someone made them, like those."

"Oh." We rest our feet on the coffee table, toes pointed up.

I blink. "People that have really little eyelashes," I add, "get them and glue them on." She watches my face as if I were a documentary. "Long eyelashes are considered pretty."

"Oh." She squeezes closer to me.

"Do you think they're pretty?" I ask.

She frowns, "Uh, not really."

"Probably never really thought about it, huh?"

"Not really," she shakes her head. "It's not not-pretty, and it's not pretty." Eyebrows raised, she shrugs, "It's nothing."

"Huh."

She turns, faces my green eyes, "Do you think it's pretty?"

I hesitate. And then, "Yeah, I like long lashes."

"Do you like to look at people with long lashes?" she probes.

"Yeah. I think long lashes are pretty."

"Oh."

The moment trails off. A simple exchange. The ironing out of an idea. She squints and tries to see it -- where the lashes fit in.

So we excavate a little more -- a little more each day. And at every turn, she watches, weighs, searches my every move, patient for clues.

Later we pray the night in.

"Thank-you that Daddy teaches us every good thing," Janie lilts, "and that he works so hard at work so he can take care of us and we all don't have to die. Amen."

While I breathe in their prayers, I marvel at weight we wield.

Gratitude:

1110. How Jack crawls up next to me when I nap on the couch.

1111. How Lucy tries to wrestle Jane's running shoes on to baby Rose.

1112. How Jane and I run the whole SpoKenya Run together, all 4 miles of it.

1113. How she hated it when people passed her and how she furrowed her brow and spindled elbows and ankles to motion when I commented, "Ya can't say you ran the whole thing unless you actually jog the whole time - even if it's slow."

1114. This girl's will of steel. And how when I bump against it, Craig reminds me, lead, lead, LEAD her. His encouragement, she really does want to please you, just keep leading.

1115. How at the beginning of the race Auntie Libby asks Jane, "So, what's your goal?" And how Janie shrugs, and thinks, decides, "I want to run the last part of the race fast."

1116. And how I tumble that goal around my head for the next day and think, lead, lead Bethany. A goal. So simple.

1117. Jane's prayer, "And help us to love you. And thank-you for the SpoKenya Run. Help me to do a good job. Amen."

1118. Jack's, "And like Jane said, help her to win the SpoKenya Run. Amen."

1119. Baby fingers wrinkled as prunes.

1120. How I urge the children, "Think about what kind of person you want to be," when they misbehave. And while we discipline and talk and pray, they gradually get it. Think about what kind of person I want to BE. Me too.

1121. Craig back from work away from home, and how we chorus back and forth, "It's so good to have you home."

1122. Janie's assessment, "Daddy, the days you were home were good, but the days you weren't home, it felt like something was missing." So true.

1123. The weight of a Godly father.

1124. How my father still casts a long shadow in our life. How you never stop watching them.

1123. Jane officially 7.

1124. Family gathered to celebrate.

1125. A swim with cousins.

1126. A swim with friends.

1127. The children's bald-faced trust in me when I teach them to swim.

1128. Armfuls of lettuce delivered fresh from the farm by Craig's mom.

1129. Our chickies a month old and friendly.

1130. Dinner washed down with mouthfuls of cherries.

1131. My momma home safe.

1132. Hand-me-downs.

1133. BBQ with friends and all the love that went into those burgers patted flat and grilled up.

1134. A two and a half hour nap enfolded in soft sheets.

1135. The love of our children and husband's faith in me as their mother.