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.

The TENT

"Joe," I say, "Joe, come here."

"Yeah?" He trollops around a peninsula of kitchen cupboards.

"We have to stick together today," I say. I pat the table bench next to me, a small safety zone separate from general mischief. "To HELP each other," I say.

"Weeeelllll," he says, "can I play with Betsy in the sunroom?"

"What are you doing in there?"

"Throwing an ant in a spiderweb." He mimics my raised eyebrows, furrows his brow. "But the web is INSIDE," he adds.

"Well," I sigh, "where is it?"

"By the door. Can I?" he says.

"Ahmmm. Ok."

Later he trollies past the kitchen, orange diaper bucket in hand.

"WHat are you DOing?" I say.

"Making a TENT," he says.

"With the DIAPER PAIL?" I say once again burrowing a furrowed brow into his blinking eyes.

"I don't want Betsy to BREAK the TENT," he says over-anunciating "break" and "tent". I blink. He blinks. "Maaaaaybe I will use a stool," he says and tromps off.

Later a clatter in the pantry. "What is that sound?" I call from the table.

"The oatmeal bucket," he says.

"Oh," I say.

"I keep needing BUCKETS," he says.

"For WHAT?" I say.

"For the TENT."

"Might have to switch to something ELSE," I say. He stares. I blink. The oatmeal bucket two feet tall and still slung over one arm, he blinks.

"Maaaaybe a stack of blankets instead," he says.

"Is this to keep Betsy out?" I say.

"I already have THAT," he says.

"Sounds like a lot to clean up," I say, my eyebrows creeping up my forehead again.

"I like," he sways. "I like," he frowns. "I don't CARE," he finally says. We grin an informal truce. The tent burgeons in the sunroom. Coverlets, quilts, blankies, two black stools, an empty bucket, and a rocking chair flesh out the tent.

I carry on with chores. He builds, then cleans. Something like work unfolds betweens us. We ride it like a trolly car, satisfaction like a lunchbox on the seat between us.

Gratitude:

5984. A long week, Craig gone some of it, the kids and I band together. The house feels so empty when he's gone.

5985. In the void, the children and I talk and talk and talk. We map and frame their small worlds, memorize the important principles.

5986. We watch most of the Republican Convention and talk and talk and talk. Jane notes all the moves. I watch how she sees the move behind the move and generally assess the trajectory of ideas with accuracy.

5987. We find a feed of the convention without all the commentary and talking heads that tell you how to think. Just the speeches, please. Together, we make our own opinions. Everyone joins in. It's like a party.

5988. I find a recipe and make sourdough tortillas.

5989. The basement floods with a thunderstorm gully washer. I come face to face with how Craig shines in house emergencies and I, well, don't.

5990. We clean up the best we can, set up a fan, and heave a huge sigh.

5991. "Ya know," Joe says, "garbage-mans actually have HOMES." He watches the garbage truck with religious devotion and dreams of being a garbage-man one day.

5992. The baby kicks and kicks and kicks up a storm. Small reassurances.

5993. I sometimes help with dinner prep; otherwise the children make and clean up dinner.

5994. Many days I look outback to see Betsy marshaling a mass of blankets, babies, and stuffed animals, with Joe and Myra.

5995. The responsibilities of life swirl around us. Each day they feel both heavier and lighter. The yoke is easy, and the burden is light. I'm beginning to see how this is true.

5996. Each day we work to bow our hearts to our Savior, and each day our love for Him grows.

Oh

"Joey, it's pretty clear you peed your pants," I say.

Just in from sledding, snow pants and boots a pile at the door, Joe blinks. "I didn't mean to," he says.

"What happened?," I say. He stops and looks down, pulls a damp circle away from his skin, looks at me, looks back at the wet mark.

"Oh," he says.

"Oh," I say.

"I was outside," he grimaces, "and I said, Myra let's go inside. And she said, Let's make a snowball first. And so we did, and then I peed."

"Oh," I say.

"I maybe better take a shower," he says.

"Yeah."

"Ok." He trots off all forty pounds of his unflappable self.

"Walk, Betsy, walk," he says later. Slung in his arms, he holds her around the waist and tries to work each foot with the other hand. "Walk, Betsy," says.

She tumbles. He grabs her blankie, covers his face. "Betsy, where is I?" he says. She coos, paws the blanket and his face. "Mom, Betsy laughs at me, 'cause I hide from her," he says. "Betsy, where is I? BETSY, where is I? ROAR!"

They laugh, good-natured and fully there. Self-possessed, they laugh, engage each other. No other without barriers, they laugh. No screens, no texts, e-mails, or twinkling tone alerts, just them, they laugh.

Face to face, it moves the soul in a way no screen ever can.

Gratitude:

5723. The children begin knitting and selling dishcloths.

5724. New yarn for the new projects. I get a new skein too.

5723. Family dinner, this one ends with homemade peppermint patties and laughter.

5724. We contine to make progress teaching the kids to clean up after themselves and be prompt. We watch them discover extra time and energy under this cloak.

5724. Friends join us for dinner. We feast over creamy tomato basil soup and handmade cupcakes.

5725. The kids forfeit game night dawdling over dinner dishes. Weeping and gnashing of teeth, then then they create another game night by careful planning on Saturday.

5726. Craig and I work on organizing the main accounting/everything desk at our house. Progress by increments, but it's stunning.

5727. We plan another week of hard work and satisfying results. Diligence in the ordinary -- we train our minds to measure our character and treasure by this.

How

"Momma," Myra says, "I love it so much that I began to smile at it," a sweater, algae green, for Myra.

"I actually started two of them for you," I say.

"I want the green one,"she says.

"They're BOTH green," I say.

"OH," she says. "Knit, momma, KNIT," she catches her breath and gathers her shoulders, a grin lolling across her face. "Were you gonna knit when you were done with your breakfast anyway?" she says.

"Yep," I say.

"Oh GOOD," she says. She clasps her hands below her chin, earnestness embodied. "Oh good."

"Mom," she says later, "did you know I actually CAN play Settlers of Catan?"

"What? How?" I say.

"Because I have been WATCHING,"she says.

"Oh," I say.

"A couple days ago, Jane and I were playing, and she had TWO points, and I had THREE," she squeaks. She squeezes me around the middle and buries a smile in my belly.

"Wow, good job," I say.

Watching. She's been watching. Passive observation takes flight. The summation of so many unnotable moments, the simple monotone of daily life, and suddenly skills unfurl.

The girl knows how. Quiet watching and the mind gestates. Suddenly there it is, newborn and unblinking: ideas, earnest as the morning, gaze back at us.

The womb gives birth, the mind the greatest womb of all.

Gratitude:

5699. Pizza family dinner.

5700. Sledding and a bonfire in the snow.

5701. Frost everywhere, down the tips of every pine needle, the sky blue and crisp as ice.

5702. We ring in the new year counting down and shouting at zero: Happy New Year!

5703. Pinochle.

5704. The children collect coins memorizing each with a new magnifying glass.

5705. Joey totes around his own personal coin box in perfect mimic of the older kids.

5706. Jane and I start a project with tiny jars.

5707. I enjoy a new wooden bowl for my knitting projects.

5708. I try two new knitting stitches on each of the green sweaters.

5709. Craig and I secretly order new gloves for the kids. Now that they've suffered many weeks with mismatched leftovers, new gloves have real value.

5710. Lucy starts leafing through the books of sock people we have. She masters a knitting pattern by heart and then innovates with it. She learns to make things and then make more things.

5711. We prepare for another session of school. Work an old familiar companion waits to link arms with us. We grab on with both hands and prepare to make special bonds with each other.

Hors d'oeuvres

"I've gotta do my job now." Joe says. Atop a stool, one knee on the countertop, he stacks coffee cups. Jack hands him a dinner plate, and he sets it in another clean stack. Work, its a bedrock.

Myra clears the dishes to help Jane. And I spoon pepper jelly over a cube of cream cheese. Sunday afternoon turns quietly like a babe in the womb. Children finish chores, and we gather in the kitchen.

"I'm so glad you set the timer for me," Jane says, "'cause I could have taken four minutes or TWENTY minutes to finish my job, so yeah." She nods. Around a countertop now peppered with hors d'oeuvres, she smears sweet potatoes on a thumbnail cracker.

"You are describing freedom the way the Bible does," I say.

"Oh, you have something on your shoulder," she says. She pats a white smudge across my shoulder blade. It disappears. "It looks like flour," she says.

"Huh, it does, thanks," I say. "Yeah, the things the Bible tells us to do actually LEAD us to freedom," I say, "like with your job. Get the work done and you are FREE."

"Yeah," she says.

We nibble hors d'oeuvres. Dilly beans and sweet potatoes, cream cheese and pepper jelly, olives, cheeses, bbq sauce, mustard.

You can have some of whatever you want, I'd said. Just don't go hog wild. And remember if something is expensive, don't eat too much of it. Tranquility ensued. Generosity envelopes us. Our appetites obey our wills. Work tempers our passions and improves our pleasures.

Gratitude:

5676. Strips of fabric. I get the gift of new fabric for a quilt in rich blues and warm yellows.

5677. We get a new bread maker. And we make friends with the couple who sells it to us.

5678. Some friends in the Russian community invite us to a birthday party. I taste the best handmade cake of my life. Seven layers of cake, six layers of frosting, paper thin perfection, I can never go back.

5679. A Christmas sweater, the official verdict is in, one sweater has been named my official Christmas sweater.

5680. "I sent Myra into brush her teeth again since she was eating gummy bears in bed," Craig says as we sit down to rest.

5682. Some of the children catch a cold, then I do. We trace the familiar pattern of sickness turning into health, comfort.

5683. And we trace the old familiar pattern of messiness turning into order. We make the Herculean effort day after day, force ourselves to strengthen that muscle.

5684. We find humor an old friend. We laugh and let tight bonds become stronger.

5685. We rejoice again, Christmas is coming.

Dishes

"I kind of like the books that are harder," I say. Evening dishes and Jane and I talk literature.

"Yeah," she says, she with bowl in one hand, me with a wrung out rag draped mid-air.  "It's not really fun unless you have to work for it," she says.

"Yeah," I say. I stroke the counters with the limp rag. I nod in time with the circles. Bits and toast crumbs lodge in the hot pink weave. She knit the rag for me this past Christmas.

"Sort of like on summer break," she says, "where the first week is fine and then you're like wasting away." We lull like foam between waves of surf.

"Yes," I say, "just like that."

We laugh and lull, then take notice of a smudged plate left out, a dirty fork skid to rest by the coffee maker, gunk in the bottom of the sink. We imitate work, but really it's just a carrier for conversation. We catch the crest of the next wave. Work and love intermingle.

Gratitude:

5629. I knit a baby bootie. When I run out of yarn on the second boot, Mom has extra I can use.

5630. Yarn with ribbon in it.

5631. A new water bottle.

5632. A pillowcase for the body pillow, soft as kitten fur.

5633. Craig raises the greenhouse. "This is really pleasant in here," Lu says.

5634. Hand-me-down quilting magazines.

5635. Jack wrestles his first tournament of the 2015 year.

5636. I start reading RC Sproul's Essential Truths of the Christian Faith.

5637. A neighbor gives us a surplus of steel cut oats and extra hand soap.

5638. Joey takes up vacuuming as a pastime and hobby, the only real "machinery" he can get his hands on.

5639. The children continue to help out with the chores that make our house run smoothly.

5640. Wonderful, Merciful Savior redone by Michael W. Smith.

5641. We trace the glory of God through another week. Our hearts well up in adoration.

Work

"Can you start getting out whatever you want me to make next?" Jane says. Running shorts and a slick shirt, she teeters her shoulders, anticipation jockeyed between them. I sigh, summer heat draped over me and the whole the living room.

"Uh-huh," I say.

"I'm just in the mood to bake," she says. She never really stops moving. "I don't have any money 'cause I lost my penny," she seesaws her head. "I just have my whistle and my pocket knife." She thrusts a hand in her pocket, then drags it out closed. "See?" she unfurls fingers, a tube-whistle and a black stone, sharp on one edge.

"Huh," I say. I nod in time to the rhythm ping-ponged between her shoulders, something happier than the heat demands.

"If I bake something, then I can give it as gifts, even though I don't have money," she says. She gives a hop as if the rhythm settled to her knees. Her face unflappable, I finally relent.

"Ok," I say. I lean forward into a front somersault of standing in the heat. She grins.

Coconut mocha brownies, brown sugar cookies, fresh bread, the children turn their free time into hobbies.

Gratitude:

5482. "Mom, can I have a ziplock baggie?" Lucy holds up a partially constructed quilt top. "Sure, to put your stuff in kind of like Grammie does?" I say. "Yeah," she says, "I actually kinda like being like her."

5483. Barley feta salad, Tuesday girls, and Olivia comes.

5484. I reconnect with a local business owner closing up shop.

5485. Bookshelves!! Craig buys me a new bookshelf.

5486. Dad, Dan, and Craig mastermind the whole house around the new shelf. Then they muscle everything into place. Two engineers and a farm boy, they make it fit perfectly.

5487. We edit the game closet, pare it down to our favorites.

5488. Lucy goes on a date with her grammie and then her gramma.

5489. Barley salad with black beans, we have a picnic out back. Jack and Lu make cookies for dessert.

5490. I finally settle on the perfect summer uniform: striped sundresses. Each one feels perfect.

5491. Mom helps me pick out the perfect raspberry fabric to make armrests for the red plaid couch.

5492. Myra finds me before bed. Bad dreams. "Jesus," she prays, "can you just save me, and I'll call on your name? Amen."

5493. Our ASL teacher stops by bearing gifts.

5494. We visit the farm, share a meal. "Go, I'll bbq burgers," Craig's dad says. We take the four-wheeler around the back fields, miles of land a cloak around us.

5495. Craig finds Jack fully dressed and sleeping on the edge of Jane's bed when he goes to wake her for early morning volunteering. He relents, takes Jack too.

5496. Toothbrush and orange colored pencil, Joe sidles up to brush my hair.

5497. I organize the schoolroom for a new year. "I just can't wait for school to start," Jane says. "It's like we're done with our work by breakfast right now. I just want some good work to do."

5498. And so it is, we continue to learn to love work.