Oatmeal

"Joe, Jooooe, make me oatmeal," Betsy hollers up the stairs. "Joe," she staccatos the air, "make. me. oatmeal else I'll TELL on you." Her bare feet pad on the wooden stairs, They pat-pat across the wide kitchen all hardwood floor and nothing else yet, not even cupboards.

A promenade of feet, bare feet, stocking feet, tromping feet, and Joe pokes his head around the basement stairwell.

"Hi, Mom," he says.

"Hey," I say from the couch under the kitchen. "Better make Betsy oatmeal," I say.

"Yeah," he says a half-grin pulling half his face skyward. He purses his lips and ducks into an unfinished bathroom turned temporary kitchen. A clattering of bowls, the soft snow of oatmeal, hot faucet water, the crinkle of a cranberry bag yawned open and he emerges.

"Hey," I say, nod.

"Hey," he says, nod and same half-smile.

"Thanks."

"Yup." He plants a bowl at the coffee table next to mine. Betsy sidles up to my knees and scoops warm bites of still runny oatmeal to her mouth.

"That's my oatmeal," she says.

The morning unspools like this.

Then, it's lunch and everyone washes up outside, dishes unfinished, an economy of bread crumbs piled on the cutting board littered across the makeshift kitchen. I keep meaning to call the kids in to polish the kitchen, but the afternoon yawns itself open and swallows the middle of the day. Somewhere well past two, I head downstairs. I stop.

"How did you get so FILTHY?" I say. Halfway down the stairs, Myra carrying Betsy, two dirt brown faces blink up at me.

"Um," Myra says. Betsy blinks, her arm slung around Myra's neck.

"HOW did you get so FILTHY?" I say.

"Um, playing outside?" Myra says. They blink, astonishment and mirth awash their faces.

"Oh," I say as I notice dirt embedded in Betsy's thankfully already brown dress. But those blinking eyes, "Oh," I say.

They trundle down the stairs and for all the outrageous dirt covering their bodies I forget about the kitchen. By the time I gaze out the picture window, I see a hole the size of a riding lawnmower in the middle of the old carrot bed.

"Oh," I say. "Oh."

Yup, that's life right now. From oatmeal at the coffee table, to bread crumbles sleeted across the kitchen, to a hole birthed across the carrot bed, signs and wonder are everywhere. I shake my head. I hope I can memorize all the terrain before everything changes and we finally finish this kitchen remodel.

Gratitude:

6374. I make a pot of tomato basil soup in the little bathroom kitchen. It tastes like God himself made it for all the beans and rice we have been eating.

6375. Dear friends invite us the the birthday party of their little girl. A meal shared, a mile-post marked, and the communion of friendship surrounds us. And all that food made from scratch, so abundant and nourishing, the words of encouragement shared between us, it was an event that was more than all the parts.

6376. A neighbor brings us asian pears from the tree in her yard.

6377. Jane and I have late night conversations four out of five nights. It starts with math homework, but we could talk all night in that quiet end of day pool of time.

6378. Craig continues to spend every waking moment puzzling together the kitchen remodel. I note again his steady persistence, nothing flashy, nothing even to really notice most days, but I see it's the foundation the whole house is built on. Good old fashioned dependability is underrated.

6379. I get an afternoon with my Mom before she heads to see her dad. We measure the universe with our words and compare long streamers of questions turning them over and over and over until we've both memorized everything we want to know. In the process crumbles of knowledge land in our laps. We gobble them up nourishment filling us both.

6380. Even though I get a headache and feel desperately ill for a day, the week seems good. Craig holds everything together, the children fill in the gaps, and everyone knows how to make something good for someone smaller than them.

Work

"I'm gonna tell you something that motivates me," Jack says.

Across the tiny kitchen, I look up from a bowl half filled with fried oatmeal, scissors and a dried banana paused in my hands, teapot bubbling at my elbow, tug-tugging my immovable attention toward a poised pour-over coffee filter awaiting the water.

"Oh?" I say.

"Us working side by side," he says. His eyes squint reflexively, affection drawn up in the apples of his cheeks.

"Yeah?" I say. He nods, a half smile pulled gently from the corners of his mouth. "Hmmm. Me too," I say.

We nod, a half nod, a quiet acknowledgement like a stone rolled gently into the pond so as not to break the glassy surface. Then, we work, that special bond of creating order out of disorder. It's more like dancing, like playing piano with both hands than the 1-2-3-4 daily grind of chores.

****



"Wow, it just feels like we are drowning in all this," I find myself saying.

Now in the Niagara Falls of a kitchen remodel, whole walls torn down, floors peeled back, cupboards splintered and removed, dust-drywall-and-insulation mixed with crumbs from the toaster the kids hauled back into the kitchen for breakfast -- there I stand, hard deadlines a police state upheaving the whole house.

There at the front door, just heading home, a long day trailing after us, Daniel nods.

I nod. "Thanks so much for your help," I say. He and the whole extended family, the big rescuing army had been pouring over plans, wielding coils of wire, outlet plates, hammers, tool belts, saws, a shop vac, sledge hammers, nails, screws, drills, I'm speechless. Thank-you, thank-you, thank...

"Yup," he says. "You bet." He nods again, that same smile drawn up in happy nonchalance. "You're in good hands with Craig," he says.

Hmmm, good hands. Yes. And the simple statement frames the whole day, frames the whole house, laces through the walls like wiring. Fishes and loaves multiply before my eyes, provision arrives when we most need it and can least supply it. Speechless gratitude, humble adoration of Christ ensues.

It's a lozenge of hope, soothes the throat, the heart, and drips glucose into the blood.

Gratitude:

6246. Family comes to help us tear apart and re-mantle our home.

6247. Betsy sprains her ankle; Jack gets pink eye; Lucy gets food poisoning; and still, somewhere, strength appears to carry us through.

6248. Then lunch arrives. Yup, un-beckoned, it appears in picnic form. All the fixin's, lunch jests at block party, then everyone returns to the work.


6249. Each time we almost catch our breath something else happens, something else lunges through the fray and grabs us by the neck and squeezes. Then somehow, even so, we take a deep breath and step through to the other side.

6250. The house is a cacophony of miscellaneous demo, reconstruction, supplies, tools, and regular life. The kids begin wearing safety glasses and earplugs like stocking caps and gloves in the winter.

6251. In the middle of it all, the post office looses a package I mailed to Mexico. Then, as if by miracle, PayPal offers a refund to replace the missing package.

6252. We attend a conference at church. Each day Mom and I pool resources to make a yummy grown-up lunch then discuss the pros and cons of each session in detail. The children listen and join in.

6253. Salted chocolate.

6254. Betsy's supposed to get her splint off tomorrow.

6255. I resolve to enjoy this season. So many permanent memories concentrated in one season, I set my mind to make them good -- not tidy, or easy, or maybe even fun, but good.

First

"Feels weird being served first," Jane says. Jack's birthday and a tower of pancakes circles the table, Jane first.

"Well, that's probably good," I say. "It should feel weird."

"I usually just shoot for the middle," she says.

Off to her left and just louder than an evening breeze, "The first shall be last, and the last shall be first," Jack says.

"Well, you'll be in the middle in heaven then," I laugh.

"Even if I'm last, at least I'll be in heaven," she lilts.

"Haha, so true," I say.

So it is, joking and banter takes on new nuance. Subtlety weaves the fabric of days.

Gratitude:

6237. The kitchen remodel begins. Demolition starts. And we sell the old big desk. A lovely couple from Switzerland takes it. Such sweet people I don't mind seeing it go, much.

6238. A neighbor brings us homemade banana bread cupcakes to celebrate the summer birthdays in our family.

6239. Family and neighbors stop by to contribute brawn and/or expertise to the remodel.

6240. The children while away hot summer hours flying kites with cousins, riding bikes, and splashing down the slip 'n slide. Finally the afternoons feel sufficiently long, like real summer days.

6241. The children continue to impress me with their ability to cook for themselves while we are busy working hard. Jane proves her stripes on the grill barbecuing burgers for the family.

6242. Joe recovers from a bee sting.

6243. I work through a bout of mastitis. Misery. Finally gone.

6244. I finish the autobiography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer. My abhorrence of evil and earth shattering adoration of Christ and his goodness ensues.

6245. At each turn God brings people into our path who love Him. Even the most unlikely places find us surrounded by those who carry His Spirit. I find this a great kindness.