Sunday, January 23, 2011


Dinner. We pass around a skillet of eggs, a bowl of olives. The children put olives on all their fingers.

"Let's play Acts of Service/Words of Love," someone says, and we volley around the table. One child emptied the dishwasher; another put their laundry away. Daddy made dinner.

"My words of love," Jane says, "are for Momma." She tilts her head, "I love that she takes care of us even when it's really hard." She carves off a corner of egg, but forgets to eat it, waves her fork at me, "Okay Momma, it's your turn."

She smiles. I lean on an elbow, let the moment run long. ...even when it's hard. Suddenly none of it's hard.

The evening laces up into jammies and toothbrushes, bean bags, a game of Sequence. We grab each strand and weave. Such a good life.


528. A book of research on sleep and praise and lying.

529. Flowers from a friend. Orange, red, yellow. Chocolate, a card.

530. A borrowed pattern, and Libby's gentle strength in adversity.

531. Snaps, plastic snaps. Who knew they were such fun?!

532. Husband who insists on buying me snaps.

533. Little boy who hangs on my shoulders and tangles his fingers in my hair.

534. An all wool blazer, size 16, shrunk and felted to boy-size.

535. Wool soakers for the big kids instead of pull-ups, and Lucy's insistence that she'll wear hers all day long.

546. How Jack hums in my ear.

547. "I like that scarf with your shirt," husband says. "The orange and the blue look so nice together." Being seen.

548. "I want on your lap," Lulie curled like a cat when I read.

549. Jane and Math. "Don't use up all your free time between the problems," I say. How she still makes it down for story time.

550. Occam's Razor - all things equal, the theory with the least assumptions is the most correct. Elegant.

551. Lucy's blankie loved to a scruffy wad.

552. Cooks Illustrated hand-me-downs and a steak dinner on the farm, homemade french fries, crisp salad, cherry pie, blackberry pie.

553. Pete and Rosie, taco soup, brownies, a few rounds of Would You Rather.

554. How Craig putters away at trim and door jambs to make the house look finished.

555. A new phrase, "Think about the kind of person you want to be." And how even the littlest things make a big difference.

556. A fixed tooth.

557. Knitting with Momma.

558. Blue sky today.

holy     experience


Goat said...

Even when it is hard. Especially when it is hard. A template for steadfastness. Never giving up. Pushing through. Deciding to do the right thing when you'd rather not.

The thing that is different about you is that you recognize you are being watched. All the time. And not just by God. You recognize that you are their template. You recognize the importance of the job, the powerful influence you wield.

And for all the successes and failures, you reap great love.

Jennifer said...

WOW! What an evening. Where did that "game" idea come from?

ali @ an ordinary mom said...

"I want your lap"- Precious!

Craig and Bethany said...

Jennifer, my husband invented the game. :)

The first person says one thing they did that day to serve others. Then they share something they love about a person at the table. The person they share words of love about goes next. At the end, the last person says love about the one who went first.

It started because Craig shows love mostly with acts of service. I do words of love. It's a happy intersection. Glad you liked it!

And Goat, this reaping of love is such hard good work. Thanks for the encouragement. I still watch to see how you do it.

jeana said...

love that game. your words never fail to touch me.

Heather said...

533. Little boy who hangs on my shoulders and tangles his fingers in my hair.
OH, I just have to do a post on Oliver being my hair sylist... everyday. Thanks for the reminder :)

How did that baby of yours get so big while you weren't blogging much? :)

I love how you said, suddenly, it wasn't hard anymore. So true.
You always echo my heart.

Adina Schenkenberger said...

I'm busy, but had to make time to breeze through your blog today. I'm glad I did.