"There was someone at the pool," Lucy says, "who was wearing a swimsuit that wasn't very private." She sidles up under my elbow. I pull my eyes from the computer and see her nod in time with the words. She tilts her head.
There at my elbow, warm hands, she strokes my arm. "That's because no one taught them to be private," I say, "and cover up their special places." Her eyes round plums, she blinks at me, stares. She mimics the flat line of my eyebrows.
"Probably it won't be as special for when they get married," she concludes and watches the arc of my eyebrows to see if she's right. A small exchange, the landscape of the face communicating all.
"Yep." We blink our eyes in agreement. "That's true."
We map the world according to what is special.
3727. We endure the pukin' flu. Miraculously only three of seven get it.
3728. "My tummy actually hurts a little too," Lucy warns, "but not that much," she adds and pulls through strong and healthy.
3729. "Ahhh, no," Myra trots into the kitchen, "Daddy don't want coffee. I'll have it though."
3730. "I have been wearing my jammies all day," Jack observes. "How'd it feel?" I ask. "WARM."
3731. "So what do you want to be when you grow up?" I smile to Myra. "Fine." she says.
3732. "Jude's FUNNY," she narrates about her cousin, "and KIND."
3733. "Do REAL monkeys open their own bananas?" Lucy wants to know.
3734. A seminar, a crusade, an old fashioned revival, my Mom returns safe and fresh from a tiny village in the countryside of Kenya.
3735. I marvel at the tsunami of encouragement and friendship I found missing while she was gone.
3736. Lucy speculates that if you do bad things and are really, REALLY sorry and you are a JEW, Jesus will let you into heaven. I tell her that's not true. "But if you are a Jew and you love Jesus, He will," she says. "Then you are messianic." Thanks Chuck Missler.
3737. My dad compliments my outfit so I wear it two days in a row.
3738. Friday night, I dislodge my temporary crown, our dentist out of town. Over the phone, he tells me how to cement it back.
3739. Sister-in-law invites the kids and me over for Sunday pizza while Craig works.
3740. I knit another 20 rounds on my hexagonal blanket.
3741. October Baby.
3742. Coffee ice cream in little glass bowls scooped full.
3743. Another week, five children, a wonderful husband, and a Savior to hold me.