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.

Lulie

Middle children.

They always turn out great.

Wednesday.

Totally regretting, "Sure honey, go ahead and try to make lunch," the jelly explosion.

"How did you get jelly EVERYWHERE?"

"I don't really know," he purses lips, wrinkles forehead, "I wasn't really watching." Decidedly. I plop the jelly knife in the sink, break out the wet-wipes.

Now the boy's cutting a little-sucker-thing the baby can bite on out of scrap fabric. "Can you sew this for Rosie, Momma?" He flits at my elbow. I sigh, crooked edges, shining blue eyes. "Momma?"

Janie whispers in my ear her that she'll make a whip for the cousins. "They'll LOVE it," she says. Lulie unloads the freezer ice machine, toddles in, an ice cube frozen to her lip.

They wave by in shifts. "Now we have all the whips that we'll need," one of them says. "Can we use the pins? When will you sew them, Momma."

The world swings like a ball on a string.

All that Christmas spirit. Sigh. I almost missed it.

Piano

"Awesome. Awesome, oh awesome!" Lulie gushes and pokes her fingers into my big red hymnal. I coax chords and melodies from my old piano. The children fight over a little spool-stool at my side.

Lulie edges over my elbow, feathers through the fat side of the hymnal, "Dat don't have pictures in it," she twaddles, both eyebrows up, she turns, "so be. careful." She nods and thunks the hymnal back to place, then sways dulcet.

Holy, Holy, Holy gathers around my untuned voice. Lulie's top-not of curls flops in harmony.







Gratitude:

368. The sea. The great, big, wide ocean.

369. Wind blown faces and hair damp with ocean mist.

370. The layers and layers of friendship between my family and me. The remarkable strength of love over time.

371. Parents who are married. In-laws who are married. Siblings who are married. Aunts and uncles all married still. Grandparents and the immovable standard: to death do us part. The weight of this history, a footprint as big as the sun.

372. Our 16 hour drive back from the ocean. The adventure and thrift shops and coffee. The fun.

373. Five kids and three adults all splashed into a hot tub and their insistence that they were swimming in the ocean.

374. Claire. Olivia. Sophie.

375. The miracle of Claire turned woman pressing her stride in the world.

376. Our CLEAN house, the one sister-in-law and brother-in-law and kids made sparkle for us, the one we stumbled into at four minutes before midnight, bleary from road trip. How even the wet pants and soggy children seemed sweet after that.

377. My piano. And the piano dolly and three brothers and husband that wrestled my sweet beast into the living room.

378. How the children try to fly off the hearth when I play.

379. How Thanksgiving was like a dream this year wrapped in the ocean.

380. How Lucy favored my uncle and shared all the toys she stole out of cousins suitcases with him. And his generous heart, his quick mind, his gentleness with the children.

381. The way my aunt can embody peace and steadfastness and still laugh uproariously.

382. How Jack practically moved into cousins' family. The buzz of 5 little boys.

383. How identical twins can be so splendidly different. Did I mention Olivia's is taller and wants to work with animals? Sophie wants to be a pastry chef and help the poor. Such vivid dreams.

384. A blusterous game of Balderdash, and how I am completely awful at acronyms.

385. A green and orange hat knit in the round.

386. A husband so content I haven't a Christmas gift idea at all.

387. The 22 dozen cookies husband and I rolled out for half the night. How we had to use a curly piece of firmica in the middle of the living room rug so we wouldn't ruin the dining table with the pizza cutter.

388. Anise seeds.

389. Anise oil.

390. Children who blur all attempts at a family photo with their laughing and jokes.

391. Sister-in-law who tells me to make a cranky day good.

392. Six layer dip and salty tortillas.

393. Salami and cheddar.

394. A second Thanksgiving dinner with MORE family. {sigh} Such riches. Such. Riches.

395. The gathering up in preparation for Christmas. The liturgy of, no, to myself and, yes, to others. How giving ends in contentment.

396. Pockets full of seashells.

Holiday at the Sea

"When we walk Jesus goes with us," Jack says.

And so he did. To the sea and back.




Many thanks to Auntie, Uncle, and cousins.

Morning Prayer

"God is here wit us," Lucy says and squinches herself under the wardrobe. I nurse the babe. Lulie crawls under with the dust-bunnies and Jack's stray bullets. I stroke Rosie's red baby hair. The morning eases in.







"And help everyone lub you," Lulie twaddles.

Prayer drifts up from the wardrobe. Janie's words come back to me, "Momma, I love everything you do just because I love you." And I'm there again as she gathers blankie up in long six-year-old arms, squeezes the love out of it. "I just don't even care what it's made of," she says. "I just love it because it's made by you."






Made by you. I stroke Rosie's cheek. Jane's words turn kaleidoscope, encircle me. I don't even care what you're made of, I just love you because you're made. by. God.

Made by God. Tread lightly.




Gratitude:

347. Mountains of clean laundry. Even the dirty load shoved straight in the dryer by eager little boy hands.

348. Jane's gentle words, "Think about what's gonna last forever here, Momma," as I yank a small hill of laundry from the dryer.

349. Six extra hands to ease cookies from mixing bowl to baking sheet to oven.

350. Cinnamon. Penzey's Cinnamon. Sweet, sweet cinnamon.

351. New niece, Rockie Amelia, safely delivered, her shock of velvet brown hair and how my brother practiced swaddling her for me, her mother's peaceful smile c-section not withstanding.

352. Lucy's eye appointment this week. The gift of an expert -- knowledge, discernment, eye-to-eye confidence.

353. Rosie gaining weight. And how she pokes her belly up in the air to the people she wants to pick her up.

354. Good running shoes.

355. Holy, Holy, Holy -- the hymn the children shout for at breakfast.

356. Jack's assessment, "A queen, Janie, is a WIFE."

357. Mango salsa chicken.

358. Banana quinoa pudding, lots of cinnamon.

359. Lentil soup with husband's parents.

360. Pulverized treat bags the children fill with water and smash out back.

361. A new headband.

362. Gray woolen boots.

363. Thanksgiving. Family. Blood relations. And the communion of saints.

364. A house full to bursting with all the family-ness.

365. Strength under control, meekness, parents who embody meekness.

366. Good, good food.

367. A warm rice bag for my feet seasoned with rosemary.

Hush

"Jack-Gordon," I say, "hush." Little boy throws a fuzzy duck up at the ceiling, plucks its orange legs out of the air.

"Ok." He flops ducky side to side, "Quack-quack. Quack-quack." He makes him fly and bomb, "Quack-quack. Quack-quack."

"Hush," I cuddle Rosie a little closer. Unflappable girl nurses away.

"Quack-quack. Quack-quack."

"Gordon, you said you would hush."

"Oh," he waggles ducky wings.

"What did you think I meant?"

He tilts his head, "I didn't know what you meant." He zooms ducky into the school cabinet. "But I did know I love Momma. That what I meant."

"Oh. Hush means quiet."

He totters scruffy duck into the step-stool, buries him in blankies, snaps the step closed. "There." He thumps little boy feet through the kitchen, trundles down stairs.

"... in all that he does he PROSPERS," Lulie recites from the table between mouthfuls of boiled beans.

I hear the swell of little boy feet pound back upstairs. He rounds the corner, an encyclopedia of snakes tucked under one arm. "This should be quiet," he splays the book open belly down on the rug and reads the pictures.