Debate

"I've actually thought of you for debate classes," I say. Taco soup scooped, scraped, and mopped up with bread from bowls, post-dinner lingers on.

"Really?" Jane says.

"Yeah. You're good at seeing all sides of a thing," I say.

"Oh," she says. Sour cream moored on a quilted center piece, glasses empty or half full, cookie bin bloomed open, time slows.

"You have to be able to see both sides and understand the other view as well or better than your own," I say. "And you have to understand why an intelligent person would choose it, but also what the flaws are so you can maximize them."

"Huh," she says. Joe gathers bowls around our elbows, stacks and clears the table.

"It's hard, but," I pause.

"How many easy things are worth while?" she says. "I mean really?"

"So true," I say.

Before we soldier dishes and into the dishwasher, we stop to watch old Reagan debates on youtube. So winsome. Intelligent and winsome. He seems to give value even to his adversaries.

***



"Who's that?" Joe says. Debate night. We congregate at six and take in the current political climate.

"Donald Trump," I say.

"Where's Ben Carson?" he says. He frowns, draws his voice up like a satchel. Three years old and he knows the team players.

"He's not coming," I say.

"Oh," he says, "Trump, there's Trump again. Why'd he come?" he says.

And so the conversations begin. Strategy unfolds, observations link arms until a clear picture emerges. We found our opinions on facts and ethics. Something immovable cures in our souls.

Gratitude:

5792. A hand-me-down cashmere sweater finds it's way to me.

5793. Eye patches.

5794. A new tube of mascara to replace the old flaking one.

5795. The children begin to voice political opinions. I note their unique bents synthesized into their analysis.

5796. I continue to enjoy a new found pleasure: tea. Green tea, chai tea, black tea, English, Irish, Asian, or Indian -- yum.

5797. A little sunshine and I make our first pasta salad of the year. A bit optimistic on the weather but the salad is delicious.

5798. Jack wrestles in a take-down-tournament. His endurance training pays off.

5799. A long week, but a good one, we slide into Sunday night ready for bed.

Marks

"God knows how to dig a hole to China," Joe says. He's on the potty. I'm waiting for him.

"What?" I say.

"God knows how to DIG a HOLE to China," he says.

"Oh," I say.

"Yeah," he says. ""Cause God knows EVERYTHING."

"Yep," I say.

"Bad guys CAN'T kill God," he says.

"Yeah?" I say.

"'Yeah, cause God is STRONGER than everyone," he says.

"Yup. Hurry up," I say. "We gotta go. Church has already started."

"Ooo-kay." We clip-clop into church a little late but right on topic.

****

"Mom and me are the only ones that can take care of Betsy," Joe tells Jane. "Not you or Jack or Lucy or Myra. Just ME and MOM."

"Oh," Jane says. A grin wiggles at the corner of her mouth. "Mom, Joe says you and him are the only ones that can take care of Betsy," she says.

"Oh," I say. His eyes serious and round, I smile into them. "Well, I guess when you babysit for me that's true," I say. Something of mirth softens around his eyes.

"Yeah," he says. Me-and-you-you-and-me, I can almost hear him say. We smile the special grin of inside knowledge.

****

"Hey Joe, go put these away," I say. The rest of us immersed in chores, I hand him a purple and a blue colored pencil. "They're NOT yours. Find out WHOSE they are."

"Oh. Okay." He trip-trops off in his boots.

"Are these yours?" He thrusts the pencils toward Jane.

"Yeah, thanks." She sets a trapezoidal rendering of Jack's pants on a leaning stack of laundry, then retrieves the pencils.

"Ohhhhhhh," Joe says. "YOU were lost-ing them. Whelp, Mom found them for you."

Bare chested, sweater and button-down shirt piled somewhere southwest of the kitchen, he's down to cowboy boots and jeans. It's almost confidence, or maybe that he hasn't yet learned to look over his own shoulder but, whatever it is, radiates from his bones, effortless.

I think of two burn marks on the utensil drawer where he figured out how to use a lighter all on his own. Two perfect black circles -- Craig was sure one of the big kids made them. O-kay, show us how, Craig had said. Not this one, not this on. Here, Joe had held up the navy blue bbq lighter. then struck it so we all could see.

He makes a mark everywhere he goes. We all do, little perfect circles of permanent marks.

Gratitude:

5782. I find the perfect teacup with custom fit tea strainer. It has a lid and everything. A special treat.

5783. Mason jars, the really, really short ones with the big wide mouth.

5784. Fresh coconut oil.

5785. Our small group of almost 20 years now meets for our monthly dinner. Fellowship, there is no substitute.

5786. Fajita taco soup.

6787. Fried chicken and time on the farm.

5788. Jack and I spend a morning running intervals. Competition is gas in his engine. We laugh together.

5789. "God thanks that we got to go to church today and volunteer," Jack prays. "And please help us not to be tired tomorrow and even if we aren't, help us not act like it. Amen."

5790. "I could just hug you for hours," he says and hugs me tight.

5791. Hours. The days spin by a kaleidoscope of moments. By deliberation we treasure them all.

Hymns

"Though I wander, though I wander," Joe hum-sings as he slogs a knife in the peanut butter jar. "Bind my wandering heart to thee. Though I wander, though I wander..." Three-year-old falsetto warps loops in the kitchen.

"Joe, don't use that peanut butter," I bungle. "It's Daddy's mousetrap peanut butter."

"Oh," he holds up the knife. "See?"

"Yeah." A glob blops to the floor. "Clean it up," I say.

"Oh." He clackety-clacks cowboy boots around the drip, nabs a paper towel and circles back.


****

"Christ the Lord is risen today," the radio blares. The sun lemon-yellow and warm for February, we travel, the all us on errands with Craig. It took half the day to get gone, but here we are hymns blaring, children fresh and joyous.

Heading straight into the sun, we turn, glide to a stop at the frozen yogurt store.

"We just have four more verses," Lucy pants. "Can we just wait?" A-----lle--lu-u-ia flows out of the radio tidal and full.

Craig turns to me. "Just four more," he says. He shrugs, a grin ribboned across his face.

I laugh. His grin breaks into a chuckle.

"Ok," I say.

"Ok," he says.

Music settles like dew in afternoon sun. We leave the car, faces alighted with the unmistakable and invisible: goodwill. We sing together and something happens. Christ is there with us. Small moments of adoration make us who we are.

Gratitude:

5769. A neighbor couple invites us to dinner. We spend an evening fellowshipping. Warm bonds form between us. They send us home with two bags of homemade pumpkin cookies. Watermelon, Joe calls them.

5770. The three older kids take turns joining my morning run. Three and a half miles, they keep up just fine.

5771. I injure my hip from turning to jabber with the kids so much during our runs. An easy weekend and I make a full recovery.

5772. The kids make Saturday pancakes.

5773. Cousins and Cerissa come for an afternoon of play. Coffee, tea, and play, I wonder why we don't do this more often.

5774. Joe finds a pencil grippie that works for him.

5775. My new tea pot comes. It works perfectly. Not even a tiny bit of loose tea escapes the mesh barrier.

5776. A warm bathrobe.

5777. I turn around to find Betsy standing in the highchair. Though previously buckled and secure, she has found a way around.

5778. We begin to teach the kids the value of money. We charge $0.05 rent on anything they leave laying out. Craig promises to take me out for dessert with any earnings.

5779. Jack starts planting his spring garden: multitudinous, rows of lettuce.

5780. After tracking mud in the house equally multitudinous times we arrange for all dirt transgressors to clean all floors on the main floor.

5781. We come to land in a new week with hope and goodwill growing up between us. Hard earned in both discipline and constant choice, we gradually reap the benefits. We like each other.

Yes

"Joe, would you clear off the table for me," I say.

"But I wanted to play you chess," he says.

"Well," I say, "just put everything else away."

"Ok."

I settle into auto pilot, check the girls dialing back a disagreement in the bedroom, then eat the remnants my lunch still beach on the pull-out cutting board.

"Crown him with many crowns, the Lamb upon his throne," Joe sings. He lines up chess pieces and sings. "Hark how the hea-ven-ly anthem drowns all music buuuut its own." He's up on the table, crouched over the chess board. He fishes a full set from the big black bowl.

"King," he says. He pauses, the black king. He gives it a shake and sets it in its square. "The king is in his castle," he says. "The KING is in his castle." He places piece by piece. Absent-minded, song effuses from him the scent of fresh cut grass.

"There," he sets the last white pawn. "This game is so good. I'm gonna be WHITE," he says.

He piles the other chess boards and the big black bowl, balances, then lumbers toward the stairs.

"Muscles," he says as he goes by. "SEE," he says. "Do you SEE my muscles?" he says. He wobbles and bobbles the Dr. Seusian stack, pauses. "Mom, can you carry this down?" he says.

"Just do it one at a time," I say. "Here," I pluck the bowl off the top.

"Um, ok."

He tritt-trots downstairs and back, then clucks his tongue as he waits in the sunroom for me to finish my work. He dives into a pile of decorative pillows shored up in the corner.

"Mom, Jonah is dead," he says. "Mom, did you know Jonah is dead?"

"Yep."

"How did Jonah get dead?" he says.

"He just got old."

"Oh, or MAYBE the fish..." he trails on. Sprites of commentary flit in every direction.

****


"Here, put this on." I nudge pj's across the floor to Joe. "And then," I start.

"And then I can have MILK?" he blusters.

"And then you can have some milk," I say. "I said you could so you can."

"Yeah," he says, "'cause you CAN'T change your mind."

"Well, I could change my mind," I say.

"But," he nods, raises one shoulder, "your 'yes' shall be 'yes' and your 'no' shall be 'no'."

"Yeah, I guess that's true." He scoops up the jammies, trots off. "Don't forget your pants," I call after him.

Your 'yes' shall be 'yes' and your 'no' shall be 'no'. He plucks it out of thin air. But, there it was the whole time, theology ever-present, the empty nothing holding all the air in the room.

Gratitude:

5760. Green tea. Chai tea. Craig and I get each other tea for Valentine's Day.

5762. Fleece lined leggings. They buffer the wet cold of almost-spring.

5763. Spaghetti noodles. They fill in the cracks in meal planning.

5764. World Magazine. I discover a late Christmas gift, perfect for election year.

5765. Jack wraps up one wrestling league to participate in another.

5766. Jane, Jack, and Lu but heads in conflict. They finally distill the solution: start the morning with Bible reading and prayer and return to it if necessary.

5767. The slow plod of winter-almost-over, Jack and I dream of our spring garden.

5768. As days gradually grow longer we set our minds to be diligent in the small things.

Lucy's Ball

"Lucy's ball got broken." Between thumb and forefinger Joe displays a green bouncy ball. A jagged rip now plied together with tape, he rotates his work.

"Oh," I say. "Who taped it?"

"It just got bounced so hard it went splat," he says. He wrinkles his forehead, blink-blink.

"Who taped it?" I say.

"Well," he lulls. "Uh, hm... it got bit." He hangs his chin, nods, droops the corner of his mouth down, down, down toward his chin. He flaps a hand as if conducting orchestra.

"Who taped it?" I say. "Did you?"

"Yeah." He talks in kid-bass, wells disappointment.

"Did you bite it?" I say.

"Um."

"Was it you?"

"Yeah." The truth culled out, he deflates to repentant puppy, his peripheral vision fixed on my eyes. Something like relief, like a long, long exhale, comes lose, unravels, a whole skein piled there between us.

"Ah," I say. He waits. I let him. He squirms. "Go potty," I finally say. "We'll talk about this more when you get back."

"Okay," he bursts all symphony and trumpets. All that tape and he couldn't stop himself. The truth whiled itself out, as if a creature all it's own. It's tenacious that way, big enough to fill the sky, small enough to slip in my pocket. It's the third party in every conversation just waiting to be a skein of relieve between us.





Gratitude:

5749. A Call To Prayer by J.C. Ryle. I'm halfway through it. It's the best book on prayer I've ever read.

5750. Popcorn and ginger ale.

5751. We celebrate Craig's birthday at home with board games and snacks.

5752. Noodles Alfredo, salad, open-faced corned beef sandwiches, family dinner takes a delicious turn. The best part is just being together.

5753. Friends invite us over for salmon. The whole big crew of us, but the night slips away effortless like water. Ten o'clock we head home full of joy.

5754. Dinner on the farm is always good. We enjoy Saturday lunch with Craig's family. The slow pace refreshes.

5755. Joey figures out how to fry eggs all on his own. Mirth unbridled, he cooks four panfuls before I realize and reign him in.

5756. We watch the Super Bowl together. Joe betrays our love of politics when he keeps calling the big game The Debate.

5757. Betsy continues to cruise along furniture and finagle her way to just about anywhere. Her use of sigh language explodes.

5758. Craig and I finally see the new Star Wars movie.

5759. The weather gradually changes, a little less bitter cold, less dank, more rain, less snow. We set our sights on a spring garden and our hearts on the future.

Pillars

"Betsy's frowning at me so I frowned at her," Joe calls. From the table, he shovels eggs into his mouth and furrows his brow at Bess.

"Why?" I say. I chop sweet potatoes like the slow click of a metronome.

"'Cause she frowned at ME," he says.

"Aren't you supposed to me older and more mature?" I say.

"No."

"What?"

"I mean, yeah I am OLDER." He shovels in another bite mirth replacing frown.



****

"Oh, we're going to go down a hill." Myra squeals. "This is the funnest thing E-VER."

"Yeah," Joe says. A loping hill at our front, we sail to Jack's wrestling match, top speed.

"See those stripes on the road?" Myra narrates. "Daddy says PEOPLE actually come and paint those."

"Oh," he says awe following the crest of her voice. We arrive just in time to congratulate Jack. A win.









****

"Mom," Jack taps my shoulder. Home again, he points at Joe. Toast generous with jelly, Joe spreads a swath with the center of a butter knife, hand awkward and novice. I widen my eyes; he flash-glances up.

"No. More," I mouth to him. He slacks the knife back in the jelly jar.

"Um," he looks at me. "I'll put that back," he says, and in one motion, plucks a sloppy berry off the toast. He plops it in the jar. It catches the knife handle and rolls slow-mo down the blade face. He makes a second swipe, lobs the berry center rim. He licks finger and thumb. "There," he says.

"Oh," I say. I mentally note the recalcitrant strawberry in the KIDS' jelly. "O-kay," I say.  He grins ripe with obedience. I nod, trace it's silhouette there on the knife blade.



****

"Myra CAN'T change her mind," Joe says. Ever-present commentator, he clunks my elbow as I type.

"Yeah?" I say.

"Yeah, you CAN''T change your mind," he says.

"Oh," I say. "You mean like lie?"

"Yeah," now shimmied up the back of my chair, he leans his head on my shoulder. "The Bible says Your yes shall be YES, and your no shall be NO," he says.

"That's true," I say. He sits on one of the desk's pullout boards then dismounts with the ease the Tin Man. He clatters off, his YES and NO still there with me.

Pillars of faith begin to form. Maturity and mirth, obedience and truth, he gathers them up one at a time, memorizes them until they are so close, so familiar, they are air.

Gratitude:

5740. Jack wrestles silver at a tournament. A pin and a technical loss included, he leaves with the sheen of something older imbedded in his face.

5741. Betsy turns one. A year with this child, and our family is complex and lovely so as we never could have imagined.

5742. A friend from college drops me a line. We catch up, exchange writing. Wonderful memories surface. Our lives interweave in separate but pleasant ways.

5743. Cabbage for sauerkraut, olive oil, a new Bible, the Lord brings nourishing staples.

5744. I near the knitting end [finally] of Myra's green tunic, just the linen stitch border at the hem.

5745. Jane goes on a date with Gramma.

5746. Asiago cheese bread.

5747. Lucy and I go to her eye appointment together. I find the eye exercises they have her do, targeted and rigorous. We laugh over Lucy's dogged determination. Unexpected conversations come up with the people there. Our lives overlap.

5748. I continue to discipline myself to sleep more, pray more, and read more. Small increments, surgical adjustments, discipline carves her good work across our lives.

Conditions

"Joe-Joe, can you put your pants away?" Jane cleans up dishes, neatens the living room, folds laundry in origami stacks. Apple-pie order, she straightens, folds, and tucks away.

"YOU take care of it," Joe says, "It's in YOUR area."

"Hey Mom, Joey won't take care of his pants," she heralds.

"Whaaahh," Joe grunts. There peeked around the fridge, he frowns, casts his will across the kitchen. "Uhhhhghhh," he summons.

"Go ahead, " I say.  He pauses, stares. I squint. "Go ahead, scream and yell. See if you can change her mind."

He strangles a whine, blinks, eyelids a squeegee over the iris. He pokes bottom lip out as I stare into pool of eyes.

"It's ok," Jane-At-My-Elbow nods, raises her eyebrows. "Don't worry," she says. It's not that easy to change my mind."

"I know," I say. Blue cashmere sweater shrunk and thrifted, just her size, casts a cloak of womanhood, her shoulders almost as tall as mine.

Don't worry. Something of a transfer begins. Strength rises, and I let go, bit by bit. Like flying a kite, I watch the conditions, then I wait to see if she rises.





Gratitude:

5728. Betsy starts walking along furniture, tentative, determined.

5729. I find two dolls at a thrift shop. They look exactly like real babies. Next day I find them looking out the window while the kids do chores.

5730. "Jesus conquered the grave. Jesus conquered the grave," Joe sings. He carries a briefcase of color crayon reminiscent of Paddington Bear.

5731. "Myra is never gonna turn into a boy," Joe says.

5732. A friend invites our huge family to dinner. "Have you ever been making soup and had it turn out to be so much more than you thought?" she says. "I should have known when it said 12 cups of corn." We laugh and share a lovely evening. "I just want it to be and easy night for you," she says.

5733. I start reading Pride and Prejudice again and serendipitously find a translation of Aristotle's Poetics and Rhetoric. I'll give it a try.

5734. Lucy asks me to pray for her eye. "It's not that I'm really worried about it," she trails off. "I just sort of always feel like, well, you know." We pray together.

5735. We gather as families with our small group of many years, decades. That same life blood of shared faith pulses. Humility and love encircle us.

5736. Face cream. Simple, sweet, and smooth -- yet so easy to miss.

5737. I continue incremental progress on a special project: a log cabin quilt.

5738. "Dadda, Dadda," Betsy says and tugs the buttons on Craig's shirt.

5739. A rainy week, sun breaks interspersed, we almost think of spring. The moments pass soft underfoot. We slow to notice.