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.

Jesus

"Joe-Joe, have you ever seen Jesus?" Myra says. The car quiet between Christmas songs, Myra and Joe talk.

"Yeah," Joe says. Craig pauses the music.

"What did he LOOK like?" Myra whispers.

"Hairy," he says.

"Oh," she says. She pauses, "I think I could run as fast as this car or maybe even faster." She swings her arms.

"Yeah, I'm gonna go to heaven with out dying," Joe says.

"I bet I could go even faster. Look, I could go this fast," Myra says.

"Oh," he says, "yeah."

Craig rounds the corner to the nursing home. The suburban slides sideways. He rallies the engine. Tires spin, and we slurry up the road.

Christmas Day night and we visit Great-Grammie. She cries when she sees us. Joy. We linger, warm cafeteria lights soft around our large family. Residents gather for dinner. The children take turns hugging Great-Grammie again and again. Love, unselfconscious and full as the wings of a great bird, alights on their faces. For a short time our ages disappear, just a gathering of children, innocent, pure, nothing to offer but love.


"Have you ever seen Jesus?" I ask Joe later.

"No," he says, "I mean, yeah."

"You did?"

"Uh, yeah," he says, "when I was DEAD." He nods, tilts his head conspiratorially. I raise my eyebrows; he shrugs. "Then I comed back up to you," he offers.

"Oh," I say.

"You SAW Jesus? When?"

"Um, maybe on Christmas," he says.

"Was it a dream?" I say.

"One time," he says.

"What happened?" I say.

"Jesus had me take a nap with God," he says. He gesture shrugs, a nod of adult mannerisms.

"Oh," I say. He grins, trundles off.

Take a nap with God, simple, light as a down feather. Peace settles, soundless as feathers falling from the sky, quiet as snow. And I see now what Joe does. He trusts. God. Is. Good. Invisible as air, there it is.

Gratitude:

5696. We celebrate Christmas again and again with family. We act out love as the story of Jesus, memorize all the notes and turns.

5697. We exchange gifts. We give. I watch the children explode in rapture when family opens the gifts they give.

5698. We receive far more than we deserve. Gratitude, bliss,  and humility enfold us.

A Circle

Urban Rose Photo

"You should draw a circle around it," Craig says.

"I don't want to," I say, phone cradled to my ear. I look at a sore on my hand, shake my head. "I want to look pretty tonight and not have a big black circle on my hand," I say.

"Well, if you want to know for sure if it's getting worse..." he says.

"I know," I say, "I just don't want to." Coffee in the microwave, I flick the door closed and press 30 seconds.

"Ok, well..." he says.

We visit over loose ends, Christmas party planning. The timer beeps. I grab my coffee, hang up the phone.

"You'll always be pretty," Jack says. He taps my elbow, silent eavesdropper.

"Aw, thanks Jack," I say.

"No, seriously," he says. "You'll ALWAYS be pretty."

Urban Rose Photo

I stop, slow to look right into his eyes. "Thanks, honey."

"And even if you weren't," he shakes his head, "you'd still be pretty on the inside, and that's what really counts."

"That's true," I say. "That's what God cares about."

"That's what God sees," he says.

I carry his words inside, like a banner. I bend my identity around them, the truth. And I feel a tiny wave of shame at implying true beauty is so fragile.





Gratitude:

5695. The birth of our savior, Christ the Lord -- we celebrate with my family. God's gift encircles us.

Urban Rose Photo

Joe

"That's a nice shirt, Joey," I say. He clatters cowboy boots over the hardwood floors.

"Yeah," he says, "'cause it doesn't have pee on it."

"Pee, oh," I say

"Yeah," he says.

****

"Betsy shouldn't have that," Joe says. I pull toast from the toaster. He pulls a discarded jammie shirt from Betsy, her delicate fingers laced around the tag.

"It's ok," I say. " She can't choke on that."

"Mom," he says, "it's ok if she EATS it," he says. "I don't care, 'cause we have a GREAT washer. And a GREAT dryer."

"Oh," I say.

"So, yeah," he says.

****

"Ugh, I'm tired of picking this stuff up," I say. Joe had dressed himself. I grab a wadded blob and fashion it into a shirt -- shake, fold, toss it in the drawer.

"I'm tired of you making me obey," Joe says. He tilts his head, nods, shoulder cocked up to his ear.

"What?" I say.

"I'm tired of you making me OBEY," he says.

"Oh," I say. "Well that's my job."

"Yeah." he says.

"Yeah," I say.

A truce ensues, the kind that requires lots of testing. He obeys. I dictate, that constant grasp for approval always there just above his eyebrow. As we play the counterpoint, boundaries result, and happiness, a sense that all is right with the world.

And so it is. Fortitude and mirth result. We laugh and carry on, me firmly at the helm, him learning the high seas. Simple acts of submission grow him strong for adversity.

Gratitude:

5686. I Christmas shop with each of the kids. We find simple gifts, wrap them with great love.

5687. New measuring spoons, specially tagged as mine (a notation for the many cooks in our kitchen).

5688. Egg nog.

5689. Betsy takes a liking to plain raw oatmeal soaked in just plain ol' water.

5690. "Mom, you're my favorite woman," Jack says.

5691. I start using my homemade apple cider vinegar.

5692. We have a fried chicken dinner on the farm with Craig's family.

5693. We visit his 100 year old Grammie. I watch him with her, his face resplendent with love.

5694. A good book, a fire in the fireplace, small delights fill our storehouse.

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.

Revelation

"Oswald Chanbers says that obedience is what makes scripture make sense," I say. The night cold, ink black, we drive to Grammie's house. Thanksgiving. Fog hovers around the car. And we talk.

"Yeah," Craig says.

"Chambers says sometimes you read a scripture 365 times, but it's not until that 366th time that because of some obedience in your life, the meaning unlocks, and it makes sense to you," I say.

"Sometimes it makes sense to me the first time," Jane says from the seat behind me. Rum steamer in hand she cups the mug to her mouth, sips.

"Or maybe," I say, "your conscience is so sharpened to direct you to obedience that it makes sense the first time." A tray of sweet potatoes slides on the console between Craig and me. I steady it with my hand.

"Like if I do something wrong," Jane says, "I can't BEAR to listen to Revelation."

"Yeah," I say.

"So we should put that on every night?" Craig laughs.

"You can," Jane says. We snicker. She softens.

"That's a good thing, Jane," I say, "a very good thing."

A troubled conscience is a very good thing. How much worse to be comfortable with evil?

We read some things in the Bible three hundred and sixty-five times and they mean nothing to us, then all of a sudden we see what God means, because in some particular we have obeyed God, and instantly His nature is opened up. ~Oswald Chambers





Gratitude:

5685. We gather with family for Thanksgiving. We each labor in our arenas of responsibility. Progress by small marks takes shape, another year gone by. We each share what we are thankful for. Universes of thought unfold.

5686. We find small moments of laughter in the midst of a messy house.

5687. We share treats, desserts and hors d'oeuvres, relationships weave between shared blessings.

5688. We continue to challenge our children to show grace to each other. We continue to flesh out gravity defying grace, love totally divorced from performance. It's like walking on water.

5689. We make peppermint patties from scratch.

5670. Craig gives me a package of gourmet hot chocolate.

5671. We invent an hors d'oeuvres: sharp cheddar, mashed sweet potato, and a dilly bean stacked on a cracker.

5672. We find contentment a welcome guest sitting there on our door step, down our hallways, stretched over the walls, and beneath the rugs, slipped snug between the sheets. The more we sacrifice, the more we love each other.

5673. We nearly finish a pot of burned soup, when I relent and throw out the last bit. The new pot of chicken soup tastes sweeter and saltier and richer than ever before.

5674. We pull each of the children a little closer and enjoy their shining faces.

5675. We prepare our hearts for the Christmas season.

The Seat

"Her hand did get kind of caught in the seat," Jack says.

It's 8:45 pm, the children tumbled from dinner table to bed, toothbrushes scuttled through the nightly round.

Betsy won't nurse. She cries and cries. And cries. I think her arm feels weird.

"Did one of you try to pick Betsy up and have her get hurt?" I say. I roust children one at a time, groggy and bleary eyed.

"It was when I was folding down the seat in the car," Jack sobs. He's a cataract of tears. "I just thought she was ok," he says.

"Oh, no," I say.

Inconsolable. Jack. Betsy.

So we trounce to the ER -- nurses with kind faces, doctors with concerned eyes. We wait, and wait. And wait. Betsy gives startling and robust protest to the doctor exam. And we wait. And wait. An x-ray. And wait.

And then, nothing. There, in a black plastic chair, Betsy flaps and flaps that arm. She flaps like bird and grins. The arm is perfect. The doctor comes back.

"No fracture," she says.

"Nope," I say.

So we drive home. Home.

"I love you, Jack," I say. "Even if something terrible did happen to Betsy, I'd still. love. you."

Tears squeeze out of his eyes. He holds me in a bear hug.

"I love you no. matter. what."

Motherhood shatters in complexity. Danger and security hold hands. Immovable and moving mountains, there we stand. The universe parts around us.





Gratitude:

5674. Betsy's arm is whole and strong.

5675. Craig ferries us through the ER with the ease of a pilot.

5676. We find many of the people there go to our church.

5677. I revisit the truth: I affect nothing. God affects everything. My dependence on him nourishes me.

5678. I work to ease my ebbing stress and subsequent headache.

5679. We endure a storm with hurricane force gusts. We lose power for 18 hours, but none of our food spoils. We stay warm by the fireplace.

5680. The storm passes, and I witness the destruction. Neighbors along my morning run have left houses crushed by fallen trees. Other pines lean wildly over power lines. Some completely block roads. Traffic lights don't work.

5681. People come together. Camaraderie ensues. More than 60% of the area without power three days later, we come together. We offer and open our homes. We talk. A special bond of shared pain brings us closer than ever. Even strangers are neighbors in a new way.

5682. My in-laws come for lunch. Even though I burn the soup, everyone eats it.

5683. Even in adversity, we find hope right there beside us -- especially, in adversity.

5684. Thanksgiving awaits. A grateful heart. We make this our treasure, our goal, our reality.