Us Plus Four

Lead On

2012-02-12T20:47:00.000-08:00

"Momma, I'm sorry," Jane shakes her head. "Will you forgive me for trying to make it look like I'm working when I'm really just sandbagging?"

The living room a kaleidoscope of laundry and legos, dollies and dart guns, velcro shoes, rain boots, socks and tinker toys dispersed like tide, I sigh. I smile at her tilted head, curls askew. "Yeah, I forgive you."

And so it is, all the counterpoint of discipline and training and it comes to this: repentance. Suddenly, she's easy to lead. Fierce girl that she is, strength under control is greater strength yet.

Gratitude:

1900. Lucy's announcement, "If it's on the bottom right, that means it's in the middle."

1901. Family puttering around the table making breakfast together.

1902. How when I tell Jane that flattery will get you nowhere she asks, "Is flattery a street?"

1903. Family gathered for cousin's birthday, and how we laugh and visit, three conversations going at once, and land soft and tired for bed.

1904. Thai peanut sauce made from scratch.

1905. A trip to two grocery stores and home in less than an hour, a record to be sure.

1906. Jack crossing the street alone, off to fight nerf wars with the cousins.

1907. How he could jump off practically anything.

1908. Craig home safe from a conference away from home.

1909. Excavating the playroom into the new baby's and Jack's room, and all the help that went with it.

1910. Refurbishing cloth diapers in tiny sizes for new baby boy.

1911. The continued search for a one syllable boy name that Craig and I both love. (Any suggestions?)

1912. Jane's observation, "Daddy can make practically anyone laugh."

1913. How she wakes me this morning, "Momma, will you get up, I'm dressed and already ready for church."

1914. How when I tell Jack he's a nice boy he says, "You're a nice girl! Or woman."

1915. A road trip with the kids to run an errand.

1916. My huge belly and how all the quiet moments are filled with baby kicks and life moving inside.

1917. Learning the hard road of setting standards high and expecting the children to jump.

Prayers

2012-02-05T22:39:00.000-08:00

"God, help me to make nothing fair and love my neighbor as myself." Eyes squinched shut on bottom bunk, Jack pieces together the golden rule.

"Help us to do whatever you ask," Jane adds. "Thank-you that I get to have a big family."

Across the room, Lucy pulls her thumb out of her mouth. "Jesus, thank-you that everything impossible is for the Lord. Amen."

And amen.

Gratitude:

1882. Casual conversation with Lucy, "Jack said in the playroom, if I didn't clean he would pull my ponytail out. But he forgot."

1883. The gradual ebb and flow of keeping this house tidy.

1884. How Lucy plays with my hair when we read Bibles.

1885. How Myra kisses me on the nose at breakfast.

1886. Lucy's raised eyebrows and, "I'm reading my Bible silently."

1887. And her offhand commentary on Craig, "He's a sweet man, pretty sweet to me."

1888. Jane's insight, "Hey Momma, can I tell you something that's true? It actually kind of hurts when you fall on the ice."

1889. How Jack rests his hand on my shoulder when we read Bibles.

1890. Relaxing with old high school friends.

1891. Jack bounding down the stairs, "Jane, Let's go read to each other even though it's not a school day."

1892. Peach pie and blackberry pie made all in one day in case Craig wanted birthday pie for breakfast.

1893. How even on his birthday, he makes the day perfect for me.

1894. Two hours sleeping away a headache, straight through dinner.

1895. A kiwi green candle and thank-you notes with a with a red finch on the side.

1896. A superbowl party with chili and cornbread and children run blissfully tired.

1897. Hand-me-down cloth diapers, bright primary colors for baby boy.

1898. Hand-me-down crib and clothes.

1899. Maneuvering these tired days into moments where our children pray and for all the grace of God, our flaws fall back to the shadows.

The Tooth

2012-01-29T22:14:00.000-08:00

"Jack, supplies," Jane thunks a bowl of ice on the table, rectangular mirror and wash cloth in hand. "If you just sit here," she points to the kitchen bench, "I'll hold the mirror."

I plop a stick of butter into the Kitchen-Aid mixer, watch Jack reef on his loose tooth. "Wow, that looks like it hurts." He bends if forward, back, forward. I turn to Jane, "He's tough; that's what he is."

"He's a BOY," she adds, "that's what he is."

They rotate: ice, mirror, bend the tooth, mirror, ice, have Momma try. Jane flops the wash cloth on the table, leans on an elbow. I add brown sugar and eggs to the cookies, whirl the mixer.

And then, he pulls it out. We cheer. The children erupt, I smile, pat his back. And I watch over his shoulder. He holds it up, jagged white pebble, and whispers, "Look, a newborn baby."

Tenderness, folded like moth wings, unfurls. "Can I have a tooth holder," he says. So, I dig out an old baby food jar. The tooth rattles like a metronome inside.

"Jane, let's go downstairs and look at my tooth and do the puzzle," he shouts, and ragtag band of adoring sisters trot down stairs to look at his tooth.

Another moment, another milestone.

Gratitude:

1852. Up before six Tuesday morning and Jack's incredulous, "Momma, did you stay up ALL night?!"

1853. How before bed Jane kisses my hand and croons, "You're so sweet," then cuddles my it to her face.

1854. Lucy playing house, "Raise your hand if you're a marigold."

1855. How when Myra cries Lucy lulls, "Yes, my dear?"

1856. How when I tell Jack he can sit by me at lunch, he won't take a bite until I do.

1857. How at the first sign that tooth is loose he bursts, "Can we have a party when my tooth falls out?"

1858. How Jane clomps upstairs after half an hour, "I don't know why they think seeing teeth is so interesting."

1859. A tooth party with all the fixin's.

1860. New pants.

1861. How Lucy rotates a load of laundry when I mention it needs being done.

1862. How Jane makes name tags for place settings when we have company and makes a big card: Find Your Name.

1863. How Lucy copies her.

1864. How Myra eats the core of her apple.

1865. Lucy trying to sound grown-up, "Black widows like BANANAS."

1866. Jack at breakfast, "If you let me make toast, I'll let you HOLD my tooth."

1867. How when I ask Jane what God's teaching her, she pauses, and says, "He's reminding me not to get angry when people do things I don't like."

1868. How Lucy makes me a card, "It's just important to write Momma whole bunch of times."

1869. How she hugs her dolly and sing-songs, "I'm thinking you're getting cold." And how she turns to me, "I'm taking my baby on a date to the store."

1870. How Jack reads a book while he brushes his teeth.

1871. How when I return from getting my pregnancy rhogam shot, Jane bounds to the door, "How was your rabies shot, Momma?"

1872. Lucy's explanation, "Jane let me use this toothbrush."

1873. How Myra toddles over, lays her head on my shoulders.

1874. How Jane sets a coffee cup out for me, grinds the coffee.

1875. Three girls gathered around to watch me brew it.

1876. How Lucy rotates another load of laundry without me asking.

1877. Lentil chili and fresh bread on the farm.

1878. The kids' new game: Mad Tea Party. The cacophony that ensues.

1879. The insight from my mom that God put beauty here to comfort us.

1878. Jack's affection to Myra, "Hi, little mother duck."

1879. Lucy's question, "Mom, wanna know what study means? It means win the race."

1880. Better than playing house, "We're pretending Jack's Peter Pan, and I'm Captain Hook," Lucy says. "And Peter Pan always wins on me," says adds.

1881. The deliberation to slow these days, enjoy them as they come.

Math

2012-01-22T21:24:00.000-08:00

"Ok, about five more minutes, then you should be done." I poke my head out of the kitchen, raise my eyebrows to Jane.

She nods, cups a hand over four remaining math problems. She scratches another answer on her paper then pauses, "I try to hide it from you," she says, glances back at the paper, "but it's just like, you're no dummy."

I laugh. She grins then rotates her pencil for the perfect hold and scrawls out more answers.

From the kitchen I chop onions for stew. I think of how Myra tried to eat a penny a couple of days ago, hand cupped over her mouth.

Jane and her math, Myra and her penny, I turn the images like smooth stones in my pocket.

Later, schoolwork a stack next to the jar of sharpened pencils, stew heated to a simmer, Jane lingers in the kitchen. Conversation orbits around dirty dishes, smudgy cutting boards, the way the world works.

"Maybe you should pleasure read," I suggest.

Jane leans on the counter. I plop a dish in the sink. "I sometimes just pleasure read," she says, "because I know I can get away with not doing school work if I hurry and start reading."

"Oh. Well, I guess that probably works, doesn't it?"

She nods. I laugh.

We visit, make the afternoon long and wide, a place we can hold hands and explain the world.

Gratitude:

1819. How Lucy tries to help Myra be big like her. "Do this, Myra. Walk like a KANGAROO."

1820. How the story of David and Goliath collides with the topic of child birth and Lucy concludes, "I guess he just popped out ENORMOUS."

1821. How I corral Myra for bed and Craig warns me, "She may still have potatoes in her mouth -- although she did brush her teeth, twice."

1822. Lucy's raised eyebrows when she reports, "Jack said that if I peed on a towel in our room again he would give me the cold he caught."

1823. How Myra discovers fuzz between her toes and pulls all ten apart to check for more.

1824. The realization that she's been eating it.

1825. Jack's matter-of-fact, "You weight more than you used to," as he nods to my belly.

1826. How Lucy holds her baby doll up to the chalkboard and makes her write school stuff.

1827. Nearly a foot of fresh white snow.

1828. Myra decked out in diaper, hats, mittens, and cowboy boots vying to play in the snow.

1829. Lucy's assessment, "We played in the snow today for nine hours. Or five hours."

1830. Trying to figure out why kissing boo-boos really actually helps -- if the kiss actually lands exactly RIGHT on the boo-boo that is.

1831. How Lucy miraculously develops the skill of looking me in the eyes when she gets in trouble in Fred Meyer.

1832. How she tries to soothe Myra, "Myra, cool your jets off!"

1833. A new baby wrap for the new babe.

1834. Making a new friend and her kindness to our family.

1835. How kindness is contagious.

1836. How Jane wipes Myra's face after lunch.

1837. How Lucy prays at dinner, "God, thank-you that we have enough food to fill up our bodies."

1838. Her description, "Huh-HA. It's a bad word. It means YOU'RE WRONG."

1839. How Craig announces at breakfast that he felt the baby kick and Lucy's incredulous, "You have a baby in YOUR tummy?"

1840. Watching Myra try to whisper during school.

1841. How I listen to a Chapter 2 of Learn the Bible in 24 Hours, and Jane responds, "People are naughty from day one."

1842. How Lucy sings Holy, Holy, Holy in three-year-old soprano while she works a puzzle.

1843. How Myra makes an eight pretzel tower with her lunch.

1844. Homemade pizza and caesar salad with friends and how the children play games all night while we relax.

1845. Ice cream with peach rum sauce and an evening of reading by the fire with Craig.

1846. The sledding run he sculpted outback.

1847. A black baby for Lucy given with love, one that fits into to all her favorite baby jammies. "This one just popped out of my tummy," she says.

1847. Her admonition, "Be VERY quiet because my baby's to sleep in the stroller. He didn't sleep very well, and then I gave him a kiss and a hug, and he fell right asleep."

1848. Learning how to dye.

1849. Myra on my back shouting, "BOO!"

1850. Taking one thing at a time and feeling capable of at least that.

1851. Reading how the people of Israel said, "What is it?!" the first time they saw manna, and realizing I say that to most of the best blessings in my life.

Hold My Hand

2012-01-15T23:13:00.000-08:00

"Mom, MOM, wanna go check for eggs with me?!" Jack tumbles into the kitchen, a circus around my ankles.

I splash dinner's silverware into the sink, shake crumbs out of the rag, sigh at the cutting board, cheese grater, and avocado peels scattered on the counters.

"Sure." I measure out the word, blink into his blue eyes. Sloppy bowls from taco soup frame the kitchen. Still, I dry my hands, slip into shoes and red coat.

He tilts his head, "I like going," he says, "with people I love, so I want to go with you."

We step into the black night, winter air wet around our necks.

"Here, hold my hand," he encircles my cold fingers. "Just follow me," he pulls my hand over the frosty grass. "I don't want you to get lost," he says.

His shoulders square against the moonlight, we stroll to the henhouse, creak open the nesting box to peek for eggs. None, just straw.

And so he clunks it shut, gathers my hand, tugs us back, over the grass and into the house.

While I wipe smears of avocado off the kitchen table, slosh bowls from the sink, call for children to change into jammies, it all feels light, a comma between moments.

Gratitude:

1801. How Jane holds up a picture of Jack's, "The question," she says, "was how do you get salvation, and Jack tried to draw a picture of a person praying."

1802. How the children take the extension cord from their alarm clock and use it to plug in the toaster at the dining room table before I'm out of bed Monday.

1803. Jane from the backseat of the car, "The candy sometimes falls on the floor, and then throughout the year we find some of it and eat it."

1804. Lucy burping one of her baby dolls, "Mom, there was a spider in one of the strollers, and I killed it with my bare hand."

1805. Laundry done in shifts, everyone helping.

1806. Learning again the importance of eye contact with the people I love.

1807. Jack's determination, "I want to be a farmer when I grow up."

1808. Lucy's wide-eyed, "Did you see me DROOL?" when I tuck her into bed. And her matter of fact, "I still sleep pretty well when I drool."

1809. Frank conversations with the people I love.

1810. Stew and a table set for us, family gathered to enjoy it.

1811. Learning when to give small acts of service to our children as tokens of love.

1812. Saying no to small expenses that add up to a lot.

1813. Learning more how my mom thinks about the world and finding it change me.

1814. Jane's scrawling on the chalk board for Craig when he gets home: I love you, Daddy. Thanks for working so hard.

1815. Homemade pizza with cold Pepsi.

1816. Lucy's exclamation, "Mom, when I get in the other kids' bean bags, they whip a banana peel at me. And it's very FUN."

1817. My resolution to let banana peel-whipping be on the list of things I call now fun.

1818. An imperceptible shift toward being a little less sharp, a little more willing to let things go.

The Woman in Blue

2012-01-08T22:30:00.000-08:00

"She's being rude." Jane leans her face to my ear, gestures at a woman on stage.

I nod, furrow my brow. Myra snores on my lap. Jack flaps the sermon outline like a flag. Jane frowns at the woman in powder blue.

The woman in blue huffs and slouches next to her green purse. She makes her words sharp, her chin jutted -- a crisis of faith. A sketch. Jane measure out the woman's gestures, traces the arc of the her eyebrows, and cross of her arms, the staccato of anger.

Her story circles like a raven in flight. Jane watches the trajectory, her lips parted and brow furrowed. The story lilts in softly. Adults clap, nod.

The moment broken, I feel Jane at my shoulder. Oblivious to applause and grown-up nods, she leans to me, face in my ear. "She was the rudest person I have ever seen," Jane says.

On the way to the car she wants to know, "Was that woman just pretending? 'Cause that was so disrespectful."

"Yes, it was a sketch. She was trying to show us what happens when we believe a lie."

"Oh." She steps over a puddle. "I still don't really think it was a good idea to be so disrespectful up there."

The kids and and I trundle over parking lot gravel. I turn her words over in my mind and marvel at how the research is true. Kids internalize what's modeled. The model is the message.

And while I weave the pastor's sermon and woman's sketch together for her to see, it's just a footnote to her.

Gratitude:

1777. A gallery meeting, Jane and Jack quiet at my elbow, how they insist that they love coming.

1778. Jane in the tundra of spelling homework, "I don't know what's come over Jack, but he is being all SWEET."

1779. How Lucy assimilates whole pages of letters and shapes intent to do homework like Jane and Jack.

1780. Her serious voice, "Mom, I put my finger in my mouf, and it hurt. That was a good lesson."

1781. My insistence that the kids fold towels on the couch because I don't like to dry off with dirty towels and Jack's cheerful, "I can dry off with dirty towels no problem."

1782. How Jane and Jack spar over noise levels during school and Jane ends with, "I wanted to say, KNOCK IT OFF, but I knew I would get in trouble so instead I said, Jack I love you."

1783. How when I leave a note on the chalkboard for the kids before bed, they answer with a note in the morning.

1784. Jane resorting to, "I have to tell on you, BOY," when Jack steps on her last nerve.

1785. Taco soup with sausage and cajun seasoning.

1786. Jack's question during math, "What does, DON'T MAKE A PIG OF YOURSELF, mean?"

1787. And how he peeks around the corner at Jane doing spelling, "From time to time can I go see how Jane is doing and tell her GOOD JOB?"

1788. Lucy's conclusion, "Two plus two equals ORANGE."

1789. Jack trying out theology, "Lucy, you are NOT home." How they spar at the kitchen table over who is home and Jack trumps with, "No, HEAVEN is your HOME."

1790. Her follow-up, "Jack YOU can take care of my plate."

1791. How he does.

1792. Raspberry pie, the kind that Gramma makes and ends up in brilliant streaks on Myra's face.

1793. A whole freezer full of farm fresh meat.

1794. Jane's gratitude, "Dear God, thank-you for our family and how I like all the people for different reasons. Thanks that I get to have people that I love in my family. Amen."

1795. Jack's report, "I'm at least a little bit close to God everyday."

1796. The six of us gathered in my doctor's ultrasound room for another peek at sweet baby boy, 26 weeks now and doing well.

1797. Four boxes of hand-me-downs!!

1798. Jack's prayer, "God, thank-you that we have clothes so we can be modest."

1799. Learning the liturgy of going to bed early.

1800. The rest that ensues.

A Ton

2012-01-01T19:55:00.000-08:00

"When are we going to read Bibles?" Jack flops his blue Bible against the black leather couch. "Momma, when are we gonna read?"

I walk shoulder tight, balancing morning fog and taut headache. "I'm comin'."

The children plop like marbles next to Jack, bump and bobble, squeeze in, Bibles stacked on knees.

"Where am I gonna sit?"

They shuffle a narrow slit between Jack and Lucy, optimistic of my swelling body. The couch reshuffles around my landing.

"Ok." One at a time they pass me Bibles. I read. I string the words together, hope they sprout wings and carry the day.

We trundle through 1 Chronicles, the temple, King David, how he donated hundreds of tons of gold to build the temple. Donated. Whole tons of gold. I wonder if my piano weighs a ton. A hundred tons. I wonder how much a garbage truck weighs.

In the barrage of images I hardly notice David's charge, "How many of you are willing to set yourselves apart to the LORD today?" It's between paragraphs. I take a breath.

And before I read on Jack blurts, "I am!"

Jane choruses, "I am." And I hear it. They're following the threads. All I have to do is read.

Gratitude:

1762. How the children gather baby dolls and diaper bags, load them in the rocking chair, and Jane calls out, "Okay, everyone, start your motors." One by one, they punch start on their mechanical toothbrushes, pretend their car has a real hummin' motor.

1763. How Jack bombles past the computer desk, "Mom, you're doing a good job cleaning." We blink at each other. "If you were cleaning," he ammends.

1764. His confession, "I know grown-up-talk." And the explanation, "It's how to talk and like it."

1765. Jane's breakfast commentary, "When Lucy opened the door it sounded like a whole sea was rushing in."

1766. Jack's observation as he bounds in from the henhouse, "When cats run they spring up and down," eyes wide.

1767. A morning playing with cousins in the winter sun and grown-up visiting amongst mothering.

1768. How Jack pats his new Bible, "I like this Bible better than all my others even though it doesn't have pictures."

1769. Chocolate chip cookies baked with browned butter.

1770. How Lucy plugs an ear, shrieks, and calls, "Can you HEAR me?"

1771. How Jack offers to make my bed, wide grin and blink-blink of blue eyes.

1772. How I find his fake snake slither between the sheets that night.

1773. A pot of winter stew and the company that came with it.

1774. New Year's Eve with cousins run blissfully wild among adults and hors d'oeuvre and an early night's sleep.

1775. Jane's, "Come on guys, let's go downstairs and play house," when my neck and shoulders strain against the thumb-drum of the headache.

1776. A new year, 25 weeks into this pregnancy, and pressing on, rounding the 17th mile of this marathon.

Merry Christmas

2011-12-25T20:44:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

Gratitude:

1747. Jack's attempt at adult conversation, "Myra's such a little childhood."

1748. How Lucy calls Craig's spiky hair, spicy hair.

1749. Jane's confesses when we ask about Christmas grafitti scrawled on the dining room wall: MERRY CHRISTMAS with holly berries.

1750. How Lucy says she like her baby because it has happy eyes.

1751. Jane's response when I ask her to tidy up the bathroom, "Momma, I don't really want this to become a cleaning day."

1752. Lucy up early from nap, "Mom, my thumb hurts. I took off the hangnail carefully my own self."

1753. How Jane tires to talk politics, "Why won't they grab the bull by the horns?!"

1754. Her commentary on me making Christmas goodies, "Mom, you're actually cooking, like COOKING-cooking."

1755. How Myra pushes a recipe book off my lap and climbs up to snuggle.

1756. How Lucy taps my leg, "Momma, I want you to dance with me where you hold me."

1757. Jack with a handful of grapes, "Guess what I did? I presented treasures to Myra."

1758. How all our kids want to dip their Springerle cookies in my coffee.

1759. All the family and gifts gathered to celebrate Christmas down on the farm.

1760. The bliss of cousins wound up and full of cookies and nuts and cheese and candy canes.

1761. A movie and popcorn with husband.

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

Normal

2011-12-18T20:25:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

"And God," I squish my eyes shut, lean against the bunk bed, "please forgive me for being so cranky today." I sigh.

From the top bunk, "I couldn't tell you were cranky," Jane whispers.

A smile pulls the corners of my mouth, "I know you don't want me to treat these kids and Daddy that way," I pray. "I'm sorry, God."

The night rocks in quietly like a ship docked in still water. We snug covers around children's shoulders, kiss their warm foreheads.

I climb the ladder and smile at Jane. "Did you say you couldn't tell I was cranky today?"

"Huh uh," her voice like a songbird, "You were just your normal self."

I hug her, her warm cheek against mine. "I love you."

I trundle down the bunk ladder, step into the hall. My normal self. Am I cranky so often it's the normal-me or does she just see normal-me in all I do?

Like most days, I pray for grace to cover me.

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

Gratitude:

1732. How Lucy breaks up our writing lesson with a whispered, "Momma, you have stinky breath."

1733. How she mimics Jack sounding out words.

1734. Her charge to Jack, "Let's pretend we're RATS."

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

1735. A day of Christmas shopping, a new vest and Christmas clothes, the festive clomp of our feet on tile floors and camaraderie of looking together.

1736. Jack's examination of Daddy's Lincoln Log house, "How'd you DO that?" And Jane's spontaneous, "It's cause he's amazing." And Jack's, "You're TOO amazing Dad."

1737. How Myra keeps kissing the characters of the nativity on our hearth.

1738. Jane and Jack's chorus during dinner, "Dad, you're the smartest man in the world."

1739. Craig's appreciative, "Wow. THAT hit the spot," as he polishes of a plate of pot-stickers. And Lulie's, "Why'd you eat a SPOT?"

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

1740. Jane's continued infatuation with my growing belly, "Do you think people think you're fat or pregnant?" We stare at each other a moment. "Probably pregnant," she adds.

1741. The gathering of family to celebrate Christmas with my side. And how weaved between the gifts and fancy food: two days that unfurl like a long sigh.

1742. Playing Pit for the first time and laughing to tears in the playful banter.

1743. The full feeling of spending time with a people who love me for who I am, the weight of that anchor.

1744. Loving them the same.

1745. In the teetering excitement, Craig's question to Jane, "So, do we need a present for you?" And her confident, "No. I don't really need anything."

1746. How every gift is perfect in that moment.

Photo courtesy of Urban Rose Photography.

Spliced

2011-12-11T21:41:00.000-08:00

"Why does Emma and Jack get to do two pages of writing?" Lulie plops her three-year-old self next to me on the hearth, warm fire at our backs. She blinks her wide eyes.

"Do you want to do two pages?" I tilt my head.

She nods. "I already did one."

I curl my back so my blue jersey shirt pulls tight and warm against me. "Ok, you'll have to do another one," I say.

She nods her head, bobbling and serious. "I will," she says.

***

Later children gallop through the house. The kids hang on for dear life, piggyback on Jane. All bomble and chortle, they climb off the ottoman onto her back and thumb-drum the house full of squeal and gallop.

She dumps them in bed for naps and soft as a bunny pads back out to the living room.

"You just have to enjoy 'em when they're little," she says to me. She shakes her head, "Each year just feels like half a second." We nod in that grown-up way, let an adult moment pass between us.

Half a second. Grown-up moments spliced in between.

Gratitude:

1708. Nutmeg logs. Christmas cookies, little brown logs that taste like butter rum.

1709. Pulled pork and black beans Brazilian style, a whole week's worth.

1710. How Myra puts a pair of Lucy's unders on her baby doll.

1711. Janie's hands rough with callouses.

1712. Expressions of genuine respect from her. The growing ability to risk social awkwardness to show respect.

1713. How every time I'm pregnant I'm a little more aware that this body won't last forever and savor the moments.

1714. How when I go to bed upset at Craig, I remember all the ways he overlooks things I do and loves me anyway. How I'm not mad anymore.

1715. Knitting with my mom.

1716. Lucy's admission, "I was getting out of bed to be naughty," when the babysitter tells on her. Her sorry note.

1717. How Jane points to Jack riding piggyback, "There's a backseat driver!"

1718. How half through tidying the living room Lucy announces, "Jane and me are just enjoying the time we are laying here [on the ottoman while everyone else cleans]."

1719. How Jane opens the cottage cheese at dinner, furrows her brow and reads, "LOWFAT. There's not much fat in this. Guys, I'm sorry."

1720. Roasted nuts crackling as they cool.

1721. The snarl of wrapping paper spread across the living room. And how the kids keep wrapping up their toys to give to each other.

1722. When I ask why, Jack replies, "Well, we've got other ones. And I know Lucy will share. She's really nice."

1723. And how when I suggest we take away his remote control car if he's naughty he adds, "Well, good luck with that. It doesn't really belong to me anymore," before getting in trouble.

1724. Jane's, "You did a great job, bud," in response to Jacks masking tape encrusted wrap job.

1725. How when I fall into an afternoon nap down on the farm Craig's parents somehow fill in all the gaps and keep the world spinning.

1726. How Jane tries to talk politics, "I hope someone like Aunt Janey and Uncle James gets voted president when Obama gets voted out."

1727. Jack's conclusion, "Mom, sewing machines are REALLY expensive. They are like a thousand dollars, 'cause I know they're really expensive -- like a thousand or a hundred."

1728. How Myra tries to pull her red corduroy pants onto Madeline, the rag doll.

1729. Jack's joyous, "I heard an egg rolling around so I just reached under the chicken and grabbed it," as he bounds in from the hen house.

1730. How Craig surprises me with an early Christmas gift, and how I repeat over and over like a parrot, "I can't believe you did that!"

1731. Letting this Christmas season pass slow and even, full of presents wrapped with masking tape and cookies with finger pokes in the frosting.

Rooster

2011-12-04T20:25:00.000-08:00

"Mom, a rooster is in the nesting box," Jack calls all a-tumble into the living room, winter coat and boots molted by the back door. "Looked like it was grunting," he says out of the side of his mouth, eyebrows raised.

I fold a pair of blue jeans, watch him lilt around the room. "Oh," I say and add the jeans to a stack of folded laundry.

"I guess that rooster comb isn't a rooster," Janie adds and shakes out one of Myra's white undershirts, folds it into a square.

Jack jumps off the hearth for the bliss of it all. Jane gathers laundry piles and heads for the bedroom.

"What if the chickens actually lay a baby?" Jack whispers, a marionette puppet at my elbow. He makes his eyes wide and round.

"Oh, they can't do that, honey. They just lay eggs 'cause there's no rooster."

"But Momma, what if they accidentally lay together in that special way?" he persists hardly able to stifle a giggle, smile round in his cheeks.

"But if there's no rooster, they don't do that," I say.

He hops on one foot, makes lap through the kitchen, then trots back out to the henhouse for another look. Oh, the mirth of all these eggs.

Gratitude:

1685. How Myra says, "Yay," and hugs her head when we give her Greek olives.

1686. How Lucy holds her baby's finger to follow along with the words while she reads.

1687. Jane's comment, "I don't love love math, but I love arithmetic," her grin and teehee. "It's a grown-up joke," she says.

1688. How she tells us, "My favorite part about Christmas isn't getting the gifts. It's GIVING them." And the subsequent hours sewing away on her machine.

1689. How we decorate the tree and they want the backstory on every ornament.

1690. How so many are from my Gramma, and Jane determines, "She spoils you rotten, Momma."

1691. The children trying to make a compliment, "Mom, this tastes as good as store bought!"

1692. Jane's determination, "If you love Jesus, you can't love animals more than people."

1693. How Craig's parents treat the kids and I to a night out when Craig's out of town for a couple days.

1694. How the children whoop into laughter and a heap of wrestling chortling screams when Craig returns, a tornado of glee.

1695. How Myra climbs up and rests her head on my tummy when I fall asleep on the couch.

1696. An afternoon with dear friends, 10 children between us, miles and miles of history.

1697. Fresh eggs.

1698. How the children mop up their own messes, clean white hand towel not withstanding.

1699. Watching Myra Rosie try to sort laundry.

1700. Feta with charred pineapple sauce.

1701. Meyer lemon cookie thins.

1702. The continual tap-tap of baby limbs in my womb.

1703. Lulie's exclamation, "Momma, Momma -- we're playing where I'm a bear and they're shooting me." How Jane and Jack pound by hand cuffs, goggles, and nerf gun in tow. "Not with a REAL gun," Lulie adds.

1704. The kids tidying the living room before lunch. Jane's frown and, "Momma, I'm trying to work, but it's hard when a bunch of kids are acting like one-year-olds."

1705. And her assessment as she seams a bookmark, "This might kind of clash together, but it's just what I made."

1706. How when I ask her what God's been teaching her lately she says, "To not be angry when I do something wrong." And while I pause she adds, "'Cause when I do something wrong I just want to get all worked up."

1707. All that drive for perfection gradually, day by day, smoothed still by grace.

Thanksgiving

2011-11-28T00:35:00.000-08:00

"Are you wondering why I'm doing this?" Lucy pulls a long strand off her string cheese, flops it onto a pile of white wisps.

I lean an elbow on the mini card table between us, ease another bite of turkey soup into Myra's mouth, "Actually, I am," I say.

Lucy pulls another strand, pauses, raises her eyebrows, "It's 'cause I like it," she says.

Then she peels and pulls that whole stub of cheese until it transforms into a little white haystack. I watch. And like most of our Thanksgiving, moments unfold, miraculous, like white little haystacks.

Gratitude:

1660. Thanksgiving at the ocean.

1661. Jane's assessment, "Seems like just yesterday Jack was a little BABY."

1662. Pumpkin squares left on my doorstep, perfect frosting.

1663. New earrings, a blue glass bead and a silver dangle.

1664. Jack's shout, "Daddy's a smarty pants." And Lucy's incredulous, "He's got smartie in his bottom?! Oh, SPORTY pants."

1665. Lucy's semi-annual eye exam and the good news: almost perfect vision!

1666. Jack instructing Lucy, "ER. That's how you spell hospital. It's only two words: E R."

1667. Thanksgiving meal, the table heavy with feast and how we talk and laugh, weave a few more turns in our heritage.

1668. How family travels long from the ends of the earth to meet at the beach.

1669. The open arms that greet us.

1670. The ruckus of cousins, hide-n-seek, fighting the bad guys, cars, trucks, crayons, a cardboard house, paper monsters, animal pillows, and all the merriment of toys given with love.

1671. Banter with grown-up cousins as they prepare for college interviews.

1672. Watching identical twins express passion, poise, and class in completely different ways.

1673. How the kids run down the beach in rain boots.

1674. A sneaker wave that gushes over our boots, the mirth and screams of surprise.

1675. Jane in a vest the color of sky.

1676. Her smile to Lucy, "I could tell by the tone, you were joking."

1677. Jack's determination, "Myra cannot have Swedish fish 'cause they're too rubbery."

1678. The kind eyes of my cousin who watches the kids so Craig and I can have a date.

1679. A fancy dinner out with my parents and uncle and aunt. The way they include us in their world, let us listen in on their lives, their wisdom.

1680. Balderdash and laughing to tears.

1681. Visiting until the wee hours of morning.

1682. Craig who drives the whole 12 hr trip home, how he turns the world upside down to make it good for me.

1683. How home, back in the real world, he paints circles of kindness around me. And how I find my faults show neon in his goodness, and I beg God to change me.

1684. How home settles like a sigh around my shoulders, and I'm happy for our life.

Amphibian

2011-11-20T20:01:00.000-08:00

"If Jesus had any sins, he would have had to die for HIS sins." I pull at a snarl of nachos, dislodge a chip. Lucy bites the corner of her peanut butter and jelly.

"And we would have to die for OUR sins on a CROSS," Lucy wrinkles her forhead, her cheeks round with sandwich, "and Myra would cry and cry on the cross." She pats little Myra's hand kitty-corner around the big black table.

"Well, you wouldn't necessarily die on a cross," I scoop up a diced avocado, "but you would go to Hell when you die and that's the part that would hurt."

Lucy tilts her head, "And Myra would cry and cry until they let her out." She nods and copies my matter-of-fact eyebrows.

"No, they never let you out. It lasts forever," I say.

She sways her shoulders, "Yeah, it lasts forever like amphibian."

"No, inphibian," Jane calls from the end of the table.

"INPHIBIAN," Jack shouts and jumps off the leather ottoman.

"Infinity," I say.

"Infinibin means forever and it never stops," Lucy recovers.

"Infinity."

"Infinity," she punctuates.

With that we eat lunches down to clean plates and scattered crumbs. The children dicker over what books to bring to the beach and what to eat for breakfast in the car.

I tread lightly, let the current carry us.

Gratitude:

1638. How Myra tries to give me a back rub.

1639. How she whispers, "Love," in my ear.

1640. How Lucy calls the salad dressing BRANCH all one dinner and points to the word, "Lighthouse," and sounds out, "Brrrraaaannch."

1641. How when I ask Jane to bring me my school plan book, Myra brings me my Bible.

1642. Jane's offhand comment as I cut sweet potatoes, "Mom, I gotta tell you something. You're the best mom I know of."

1643. Four children gathered around the oven to watch candied sweet potatoes bubble.

1644. First Tuesday in a month to gather with mom and sis-in-laws.

1645. Lucy's assessment, "The stars looked like little pieces of fire, but they didn't fall. And they didn't burn our eyes. They were really pretty."

1646. Myra sacked out in my lap while the older three work away at their schoolwork.

1647. Jane's observation, "Momma, time flaps its wings so fast." And Jack's, "Yeah, perhaps as fast as an American eagle."

1648. Lucy standing on tip-toe, "Mommy, even though you don't want me to grow so fast, I just go on and grow -- until I'm a grown-up."

1649. Youngest girl cousin a whole year old.

1650. How I pause at dinner dishes and see Jane sneaked away to twirl and hum to Christmas music.

1651. How she calls Craig's mom to see what we can bring for Thanksgiving.

1652. Early Thanksgiving with Craig's side, a feast to be sure, and laughter and sledding, knitting and talk over pie and coffee and how the day stretches and stretches on.

1653. How Lucy draws a picture of the baby inside of me: a bubble of sea-green and azure blue.

1654. Jane almost ready for bed, "I feel like I could only move as fast as a stone could move."

1655. Scrambled eggs and peppermint oreos.

1656. Jack's assessment, "I like learning about the world." And his full examination of our globe.

1657. How we hear Lucy whisper from the car's backseat, "Guys, let's NEVER do bad things."

1658. And her conclusion, "If Jesus didn't die on the cross, we're gonna have to go to Hell, all of us, even our DAD," eyebrows raised. "And," she adds, "it's gonna hurt really bad, and we can never get out, and all our teeth are going to fall out."

1659. The pressure, privilege of doling out a little more knowledge each day.

Dinner

2011-11-13T21:29:00.000-08:00

"I had a dream Obama came to our house for dinner." I flip a pot-sticker, Lucy perched at my elbow.

"Oh!" she stands straight on the black thimble stool.

"And we had to call him Mr. Obama," I say and flop another pot-sticker sideways.

"Did he really come?" she asks, eyebrows arched.

"No. It was just a dream." I rest the spatula on the edge of the pan, catch Lulie's blue eyes.

She furrows her brow, "If Obama came to our house," she says, "you could call him YUCKY Obama."

She purses her lips. I pause. "No. I would call him Mr. Obama." I carry on as if pot-stickers were the universe, flip and switch, brown each side. "Even though I don't like him," I add. "I would show him respect because he's in charge." We listen to the pop-pop of olive oil sizzle in the pan. "Would you do that?"

I blink, and she nods her head like a giant bell. "Yeah," she says, "I would do what you would do."

We nod, furrow our brow and turn the pot-stickers down to low.

Respect, an anchor.

Gratitude:

1611. How Lucy pats my face while we pray.

1612. How Myra Rosie wears a rubber band around like a silly band to copy the big kids.

1613. Jack's rally, "Let's go outside and play Billy Goat where I'm the billy goat."

1614. How Myra tries to put my hand in her mitten.

1615. How Lucy belts out, "Holy, holy, holy," while she gets dressed.

1616. Jack's prayer, "God, thank-you that I'm healthy and whole."

1617. How Myra giggles when I whisper, "I love you," in her ear.

1618. How she pulls my face to hers, eye to eye.

1619. How she wraps her baby in a blankie and whispers, "Shhhh."

1620. Finding Lucy in the yard wearing Jack's three-sizes-too-big shoes.

1621. How the kids collect bowls full of marigold seeds and sprinkle them gold over the garden. And their explanation, "We were pretending like it was Jesus' body and we were putting spices on it."

1622. Learning about lying and one child's comment, "I was wondering when everyone was going to find out I was lying." And the realization it's actually better when we do.

1623. How Myra hops in my chair, opens my chocolate bar, and takes a good sized sample when I'm gone a moment to discipline Lucy.

1624. Lucy's sing-song voice, "Jack, I've got a good idea for the house." And his reply, "I know, keep it clean."

1625. Her attempt at conversation with Janie, "Jane, are you a pig? I'm a pig."

1626. Learning about the wolf problem in Montana, how they've decimated wild and domestic game, pretty much wiped out local hunting, and Lucy's summation, "We waaaaant the animals so we can shoooot them."

1627. How Myra Rosie pulls my hand to her face after I rub her cheek. How she squishes our faces together when I rescue her from falling off the kitchen bench.

1628. "And then all the people criiiied out to the LORD," Lucy reading her Bible.

1629. Jane's matter of fact, "Did you know that it's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to go into the kingdom of heaven?"

1630. And her advice to Jack, "Slow and stead wins the race, Jack. Remember SLOW and STEADY wins the race, about the speed of walking."

1631. My Dad and Mom home safe from Africa. Family gathered to see them in at the airport.

1632. Having parents I'm proud of.

1633. Our living room rearranged, wool rug rolled out for the winter.

1634. Jane teaching the memory verse, "Wanna listen to it a few more times? 'Cause I could hear that you were sort of struggling."

1635. Her furrowed brow as I put on make-up, "Momma, I can't even tell when you wear make-up."

1636. Her sweaty curls and flushed cheeks after nap, "I love you more than the other kids," she says, "not 'cause I don't love them, but because you're my mommy."

1637. Learning more each day how to lead these children and follow my husband.

Coffee

2011-11-06T21:06:00.000-08:00

"Momma," Jane rests a hand on my shoulder, "maybe Jesus will do something nice and make the splitting headache go away."

I press fingers to forehead, "I hope so," I offer.

"Let's pray. Jesus," she starts, "please make Momma's splitting headache go away. Amen."

I sigh, let the words surround me. "Amen."

In gentle strokes the evening eases in. Headache ebbs by gradual degrees. Through the haze I see Jane's blue eyes blink back at me.

"Do you want me to turn the lights off?" she asks and scurries to pour a glass of milk next to the window's fading light.

I pack a scoop of coffee in the espresso basket, press it down. I feel Jane at my elbow, her curls long down her back.

Black and frothy sweet, espresso pours out the double spout. We watch it fill a tiny metal pitcher, meniscus bulging. Hands like feathers I swoop the mahogany shot into waiting coffee cup, a long foaming stream, perfect aim.

"I'm always amazed you don't spill that," Jane says.

"Yeah?" Our eyes glued the chestnut liquid, I add several sloshes of hot water.

"I love watching," she says. "I think it is so cool." And I hear it, the admiration. Even a simple slosh of coffee is perfection to her.

The weight of influence presses in tight around me.

Gratitude:

1582. Butternut squash fresh from farm cellar.

1583. Jane's whisper in my ear, "Momma, want me to make you eggs?" as I rise for the morning.

1584. How Rosie clamors up on the couch with Jane and Jack, desperate to do flashcards.

1585. Jane's smile, "I'm glad I gave that gum ball machine away."

1586. Jack's hug and nod as I kiss him goodnight before bed, "I know you need to get out to your husband," he says.

1587. Lucy's nose smudged with dirt when she comes in from playing outside.

1588. And how she assures me, "Momma, every year you're just looking more old." Her approving nod.

1589. How Jack unlocks and hold the door for me when I leave to meet some friends.

1590. Jane's description of my cooking, "Usually all your things are spectacular, you know."

1591. "And so they went to Bethlehem..." Lucy's sing-song voice from on the couch as she reads to a dolly perched in her lap.

1592. Jane fresh in from out back calls to the kids, "Wanna sing Rock-A-Bye Baby with me and the dulcimer?"

1593. Myra Rosie's sweet, "Ma-ma," when I go to hush the kids to sleep.

1594. Lucy's determination that grown-ups don't stay up late because, "They're tired, and they're scared they're gonna have a headache."

1595. How she cuddles her baby and follows me around, "Mom, my baby always wants to read Bible stories. You can read on right now if you want."

1596. Jack's exclamation, "Mom, LOOK, I can walk like a penguin!" red rubber band around his

ankles.

1597. Big news: our baby's a BOY.

1598. Lucy's explanation, "Our baby has a part we call a tail."

1599. The six of us circled around the ultrasound screen and my doctor's assessment, "I'm 'bout as sure that that's a BOY as I am that the sun's gonna rise tomorrow."

1600. Dinner at Jesse and Libby's -- the soup, the apples, carrots and cornbread, pear honey and the bond of family that encircles the spread.

1601. Rockie Amelia almost one, all blue eyes, wide smile, and her daddy's adoring gaze.

1602. Sudafed, a cup of coffee, a bowl of cereal, and how my cold's almost invisible for a few hours.

1603. How Jane makes applesauce oatmeal for all the kids, feeds Rosie, and recites Never Tease A Weasel for breakfast entertainment.

1604. A spur of the moment afternoon stroll with a dear friend and her twin boys.

1605. Jane's exhortation to Jack, "You have got to stop whining. I do not help kids that whine."

1606. How she tries to help when I have a headache, "You can just give us stuff already made, and you can have apples and peanut butter for dinner, if you want."

1607. How Jack closes up the chicken coop for the night and confidently adds, "I said, 'Jane, don't bring a flashlight 'cause I'm gonna lead you.'"

1608. Another morning volunteering with the kids.

1609. Learning again that it's easy to give in a public setting, but how it really means the most in the privacy of home when my head is throbbing and my children need me.

1610. The baptism of giving.

Sentences

2011-10-30T20:57:00.000-07:00

"You like it don't you?"

Jane, bent over a three ringed binder, looks up, pencil poised.

"You like it don't you?" I repeat.

"Uh huh. I like writing sentences," she says then tilts her head, "but I like writing stories more." I smile at how she pushes her pencil into the next sentence.

"No, " I pause, "you like being the kind of person that can get something done fast and enjoy it, don't you?"

She looks up, straight ahead, then then turns direct to my eyes. "I'm glad you disciplined me," she says and nods as if the end point of all the struggle were suddenly obvious and pleasant.

With that, her pencil already entangled in the next sentence, she gains something more precious than the work: strength.

Discipline gives us strength.

Gratitude:

1554. Lucy's prayer, "And God, please help us when we do something naughty to tell our mom and dad and not keep it a secret."

1555. Dinner with my brother and sweet sis-in-law, the six of us invited to their apartment for beef stew and Springbok puzzles, ginger snaps and all four kids playing ball with their doggies.

1556. Figuring out how to assemble the workforce in this house who makes most of the laundry.

1557. Jane's affectionate, "Jack is such a boy," as she looks out the window. "He's got a log [bat] up here and is whipping the ground." She grins, "He is such a BOY."

1558. How Rosie falls asleep on my shoulder and Jane comments, "That's so sweet. Shows that she trusts you enough to fall asleep on you."

1559. How at dinner she interrupts my thoughts with, "Lulie, I like your face. Your face is so pretty." I turn to see her holding Lulie's face between her hands.

1560. Eight solitary seeds, the remains of Jack's apple.

1561. How I listen to a sermon while I make dinner and Jane asks, "Momma, I was wondering if you could quit listening to that guy and just enjoy us like we enjoy you."

1562. And how we do; we rest and enjoy and get filled up being together.

1563. How when I say, "Time for lunch," Rosie starts pushing her hair to the table.

1564. A visit with my grampa in the Bitterroot Mountains of Montana.

1565. How we play cards late into the night in his cedar cabin, and he tells me stories like about when he and Gramma met -- how they rode bikes on their first date. And how he asked his friend if he thought Marge would ever go out with him again and that friend said, "Only way to find out is to ask." So he did. And she said she didn't want to go to the show he suggested, but how about that Metropolitan Art Show downtown? Details, the kind I can picture.

1567. How when I ask, Grampa comments without the least bit of hesitation, that he has no regrets in life.

1568. That he only ever remembers having one argument with Gramma in all those decades of marriage.

1569. How when we pack to visit Grampa, I catch Lucy strapping Myra Rose into her suitcase.

1570. The pleasant surprise that my uncle ends up at Grampa's cabin too, and we see him after years and years.

1571. How on the car ride home Jack demands, "Lulie why'd you poke me in the eye to wake me up?" and Janie pipes in, "She probably did it because she loves you so much and wanted to be with you."

1571. Rosie-Posie with her red curls in two of the stubbiest little ponytails you ever did see.

1572. How the kids and I volunteer in Craig's class, and Jack comments that the best part for him is being with Jane.

1573. Jack's proud announcement to one of our dear friends, "Halloween's the Devil's birthday."

1573. A fire in the fireplace, a good book, and a little girl waiting for me to come sit by the fire and read.

1574. The trickle of notes from my parents now in Ethiopia, their continued safety.

1575. A miracle, how I feel our baby move inside of me.

1576. An afternoon on the farm with family.

1577. How all the cousins play The Boxcar Children and Craig and his brother make us laugh until our sides hurt.

1578. How even though we can't stay for dinner, Craig's mom has soup waiting in the wings in case we might be hungry -- the epitome of a giving person.

1579. How my brother stops by after a meeting in our neck of the woods and has afternoon coffee with us. How it's just like old times.

1580. How I'm learning to give the next good thing in front of me.

1581. How it's almost always the right thing.

A Sweater

2011-10-23T21:04:00.000-07:00

"Lucy, maybe you should grab a sweater," pigtailed curls disappear through the kitchen. Lucy and three more sets of bare feet thump by.

"Daddy's outside," someone shouts.

As she rounds the corner, Lulie calls over her shoulder, "Mmm, I would like a sweater, but I will go without."

And as if the whole ocean could wash out in single wave, the house is silent for a moment. Daddy's home. The whole world tilts toward him.

Gratitude:

1524. Lucy's determination that you can't get out of Hell because they have guards watching.

1525. Her reiteration twice in one week that she actually feels better after she gets in trouble for doing something naughty.

1526. Janie's nod, "Yeah."

1527. Little glimpses into the silhouettes of their conscience.

1527. How Lucy wears a winter mitten to burp her babydoll.

1528. How Jane peeks over at Jack in school, "Is there any way you could be self-disciplined right now, and get your math out?" she asks. "'Cause I'm not in charge of that so..." She trails off.

1529. Jack's patience.

1530. How when I make my pregnant self a whole plate of nachos, Jane eyes them and smiles, "Momma, that just looks so good. I'm glad you get that."

1531. How as we read more of Huckleberry Finn Jane bursts into praying for him one night and Jack adds, "Jane, that was a really good prayer."

1532. Lucy saying, "God gave me two eyes," as she peels her eyepatch off.

1533. Teaching the kids how to make leaf rubbings and Jacks exclamation, "Look! I made mine the color of mold."

1534. Janie whisked away for an overnight Gramma date. And how she sits in the back of Gramma's car as if royalty while we all come to kiss her goodbye.

1535. How she's walking on air when she comes back.

1536. Lucy's, "We miss Jane. I just love her."

1537. How we happen upon Lucy's little treasure trove of ABC gum and throw it away.

1538. Correction: apparently it was everyone's little treasure trove.

1539. How Lucy sings, "Bless me God, bless me God..." as she works.

1540. How Jack strips the sheets off his bed and Lucy's bed to help out.

1541. The absolute BEST family pics ever. Thanks Rosie!!

1542. Jane's moss green sweatshirt and matching owl tee, the soft brown shirt with five-petaled flowers.

1543. How Craig takes the kids outside to dig carrots while I make dinner.

1544. The gentle sigh of Myra's breathing as she sleeps.

1545. Lucy's conclusion as she leans on a kitchen cutting board, "GOD gave us TWO cutting boards."

1546. How it's just a small and superficial blood clot behind my knee.

1547. How my parents aren't anywhere near Kenya's unstable northern border. How their trip in the southern part has been so fruitful.

1548. George. The little boy we sponsor in Kenya, and how my mom brought him a photo book from us, and hugs, and miles and miles of love. The smiling picture she took of him.

1549. Janie's "Thank-you, Daddy," when he rousts her before dawn to volunteer with him.

1550. Listening to a sermon by my brother on itunes.

1551. Dinner with sis-in-law, food made for me, and friendship that makes you feel normal again.

1552. Craig's exhortation: You gotta remember, whatever the situation, you can handle it. Otherwise God wouldn't have put you there.

1553. How every situation looks a little different that way.

Out

2011-10-16T20:46:00.000-07:00

"There's a girl in class that always says I'm out," Janie says from the back seat. "No matter how I hit the ball, even if I hit it perfect, she just says I'm out." Her feet bobble against my back.

"You should tell Daddy." I accelerate to forty-five and then ease up to four over the speed limit.

She watches pine trees swoop by. "No, I can put up with it," she offers. I lean slightly to frame her face in the rearview mirror.

"Why?" I say.

As if I asked her the color of the sky, she cadences out, "'Cause if I can put up with it, why get someone in trouble?"

And for a moment I see it, the long streaming trails of patience her father has cast across the sky all these years -- patience with me.

She leans an elbow on the armrest. We whiz past a reduced speed limit sign. I let off the gas, and we coast through a green light.

Patience. Long-suffering. No one does that anymore. I wonder how we all got so entitled.

Gratitude:

1492. Jane's quip, "In the car you can't talk about things you don't want me to know, 'cause I don't usually really talk. I'm just listening."

1493. How Jack grabs my hand in Costco, "But you're nice," he says. "You're slow, but you're nice." I look up to see our rabble disappear around the next isle.

1494. Coffee with my mom in a small window of time before she flies to Africa for a month.

1495. How Myra Rose opens up her mouth and points inside when she's hungry.

1496. Her devotion to teeth brushing and toothpaste, especially toothpaste.

1497. Jack's, "Momma how did you get to be such a good driver?" when we play the question game at dinner and Craig's ensuing belly laughs.

1498. Lucy's determination, "I want to wash our jammies once a year."

1499. Her raised eyebrows when she vies for my attention, "Can you see me in the little corner of your eye?"

1500. Craig's list of 10 things he admires about me. And how each one is completely me, not some version of me that I wish I was.

1501. How Lucy sings, "Blessing God, blessing god. Blessing God, blessing God..." in three year old soprano while she works a puzzle.

1502. How she says her baby doesn't poop.

1503. How she kisses me when I tell her to be quiet in church.

1504. How she smells like the fall wind when she bounds inside.

1505. How she switches to, "Strong and mighty, strong and mighty..." in high soprano. "I'm singing like in church," she says.

1506. Family pictures with Auntie Rosie and Uncle Peter.

1507. How we all settle into our regular selves and smile our real smiles for Aunt Rose. And how we laugh and laugh when Uncle Peter plays jester with non-breakable camera equipment. The fun of good company. A pack of lifesavers.

1508. Uncle Don's 80th birthday party and the kids first ever restaurant buffet.

1509 How Ellin watches over our youngsters like a mother hen.

1510. Two library books returned on time.

1511. The playroom tidy enough to see the sea foam rug.

1512. A new pair of shoes, handed down from a friend, goldish-silver with a big flower on top -- perfect for Myra Rose.

1513. A whole bunch of darning needles at an estate sale.

1514. Three new suitcases, $3 each, and how Craig refurbishes the green one when one of the kids pulls it through dog pooie.

1515. Sitting in church with Craig, an arm around each kid. How they listen a little more each time.

1516. Bacon and eggs, havarti cheese.

1517. Huckleberry Finn and Jane's dropped jaw as I read about his dad saying he'll whip Huck for going to school.

1518. Teaching the kids about little lies -- how the little, teeny, tiny lies are the tell sign of people you can't trust, how you should never lie to make yourself look better.

1519. Thrift shopping and estate saling, eating out and spending a whole day together just the six of us.

1520. How Jack picked all the tomatoes out of the garden for me.

1521. E-mail updates from my Dad and Mom in Africa.

1522. Janie's response when I burst into anger at something small, "God probably wants you acting this way, doesn't he? He probably does."

1523. The humility that follows.

Linchpin

2011-10-09T20:55:00.000-07:00

"These guys are orphans," I sweep toward a long brown hallway. The children follow my fingers -- two foot tall prints of black children in the mezzanine of a local gallery, their eyes so shiny I see the photographer's reflection in one, his red shirt.

"That means they don't have any parents," I crouch down next to Lucy. "Can you believe that?" Irises round and blue, she blinks at me like a marble turning over. I glance sideways and see Jane's furrowed brow, Jack's raised chin.

"What would you do if you didn't have any parents?" They stare at those lucent brown eyes. Opening night and the gallery bustles at our elbows, still they gander and stare.

Lucy turns, "They gonna have to learn to pray by their own selves," she says.

We nod. "Yup." Snippets and tails of adult conversation settle like dust on our shoulders. And we stare. "Do you think you could do that?"

Lucy raises the rudder of her eyebrows, opens her mouth like a sail, "Nooooo," she whispers, shakes her head, ponies wobble side to side.

I mimic her wide eyes, trace out the moment. To pray -- if only we could learn to pray. For a moment I see the linchpin of the whole operation.

Gratitude:

1450. Lucy's gratuity, "I don't mind if Rosie drools on my pillow. We can just wash it."

1451. And her prayer, "I pray that all the people at our house would love the food on our table and be healthy like us."

1452. A coral zinnia in a sea green bottle.

1453. Little brother and his wife for dinner and how no one minds that I catch the burgers on fire, except the screaming children, and how we visit late into the night.

1454. Jane's confession that she can fit through the small chicken door and down the ramp, "'Cause one time the other kids locked me in the chicken house and said, 'You can't get out; you're stuck in here,' but they forgot the other door was open. So, I just slid down the ramp."

1455. How we chase a big ol' black cat with a pink collar and tiny bell out of the chicken house.

1456. How Lucy calls, "Mom, look how I hold my baby," and tucks her under one arm and adds, "She likes me so much.

1457. Jack's reminder as I brew coffee and pour granola, "Mom, 'member, read your Bible first thing."

1458. Lucy all of three and overnight at Grampa and Gramma's for a date. Her decisive nod when I ask, "Are you sure?" And her incessant chatter over the highlights.

1459. All the details of a good date, mac-n-cheese, fries, a new bloomin' red shirt, stacks and stacks of stories, tractor pancakes, a cinnamon roll and candy for the road. And Grampa and Gramma's love.

1460. How when I hold the door for the entourage of her return, Craig's dad slips in to hold the door for me.

1461. How Craig's just like him.

1462. How Lucy whispers love in her babies ears and kisses their faces.

1463. Jane's offer, "I can crack the whip for ya, Mom."

1464. Her assessment, "Momma, Jack's starting to have that stubborn heart again where he won't let me correct him."

1465. How Lucy recites The Tiger by William Blake when I come to discipline her. As I come around the corner she chirps, "...and what dread hand, and what dread feet."

1466. Lucy in Jack's Spiderman nightshirt feeding Rosie frozen corn.

1467. A round of home baked cinnamon rolls when I return from my morning run.

1468. Jack's gentle, "It's okay if you burn 'em," when I make us plum toast for our date.

1469. How later he slips and enormous chartreuse ring on Rosie's finger and blinks into her blue eyes, "Wanna marry me, Rosie?"

1470. Rosie walking on wobbly legs.

1471. Just enough tufts of red hair on the tip-top of her head to make a teeny-tiny ponytail to match cousin Rockie.

1472. Lucy singing, 2-4-6-8-10-12-14... all the way to 20.

1473. How she stores chewed gum under her pillow, and it miraculously doesn't stick.

1474. That special moment when everyone in the family has clipped fingernails.

1475. Tuesday with my mom.

1476. More drawing class and time with the girls, a better-than-last-time self-portrait, and meeting Dad and Mom's house guest, the president of a nursing school in Kenya.

1477. Warm apple crisp with melty soft ice cream.

1478. Black grapes, crisp and juicy.

1479. Homemade cinnamon rolls rolled tight with spirals of cinnamon.

1480. A thousand piece puzzle of chalk sprawled on the coffee table.

1481. An invitation to the beach.

1482. Another ultrasound of our tiny baby, 13 wks, and how the tiny child rolls from back to tummy for our smiling eyes.

1483. How Craig fashions and attaches a nesting box to our hen house for the awaited first eggs.

1484. And how he teaches reading for me on Friday when I have a doctor appointment.

1485. A date! Craig and I go on a date, the kind of date where you walk in step all night, swing your arms, and feel light as a feather.

1486. Jane's note, Momma, I love that you teach me.

1487. Our big brown recliner that swallows me mid-afternoon on the days I'm too tired to even breathe.

1488. The gradual passing of seasons and how it mirrors the changing of my body with this baby inside.

1489. Learning every day to lead better with both discipline and love.

1490. How when Craig tells me to pray for more fruit of the Spirit it's actually and antidote to everything.

1491. Discovering that a lot of life's pat-answers that used to offend me are actually just sensible advice.

Storm

2011-10-02T20:55:00.000-07:00

"What sort of things was I saying when I was so mad this week?" I ask Craig.

He settles into the sunroom's brown recliner, heaves shoulders back, reclines, "That is a good question."

"You don't remember?"

He shakes his head.

"Huh."

And so it is. Amid slammed doors and crossed arms, stomping feet and furrowed brow, one image persists: Jack's voice heralded from the kitchen table.

In the building volcano of that morning, I staccato over hardwood floors, punctuate out irritation to pierce mountains.

And from the table he calls. "Momma, Momma," he calls, "I drew a picture for you. Did you know I drew a picture?" He calls, a trifling chirp in the back of my mind. "Momma, I drew a picture of Jesus dying on the cross for you."

The morning sways, a ship at sea. A sideways glance, Jack's drawing: all pencil scrawled, but little crayon-drops of blood on Jesus' hands and feet, his head. In small degrees we finally settle, pebbles at the bottom of the ocean.

Like surf rolling in, I build apology on apology, smooth our ragged shores.

It's three days later when I remember, Jack's call, Momma, I drew a picture for you, the eye of the storm.

Gratitude:

1420. A phrase still ringing in my ears, "Well, -- really, you wouldn't be having any problem at all if you were completely unselfish." (Thank-you, dear friend!)

1421. And our children's wide eyes when I tell them these words, "She was right. She is a good friend to me. I was having a problem this morning because I was selfish."

1422. The gift of a pizza.

1423. Women friends who listen and empathize and remind me, showing respect is more important than getting what I want.

1424. How once an argument is settled Craig forgets it as soundly as God -- except for all the funny parts that we laugh over for years.

1425. How he mimics my antics, caricature complete, but never criticizes me at all.

1426. My father's words years ago, they resurface when I need them, "Men interpret respect as love." And how it's so true, great marriages hinge on unquenchable respect.

1427. A whole day out with my mom, my birthday present.

1428. How Craig says, "I just tried to make everything easy for you. I'm so glad you got to go out with your mom."

1429. New silver flats and tiny socks.

1430. Material for aprons.

1431. Jane, head bowed in prayer when I come to discipline her for disobeying.

1432. How Jack hops on one foot as he clears the table.

1433. Jack tugging at my elbow, "If you would like some of my SweetTarts I would love to give you some."

1434. Jane's prayer when we notice a broken part on the window of Daddy's truck. "Jesus, please help the robbers notice that part and change their heart and say, 'I'm not gonna break in.' Amen."

1435. Lucy's rendition, "Please help the robbers stay away, and please help them to be okay when we kill them. Amen."

1436. How Craig fixes the offending part.

1437. How Lucy tots out, a dolly wrapped in a plastic sheet. "Mom," she whispers, "I got a newborn baby." How she pats the stiff sheet, "She's got her blankie." Another pat and frown, "It's kinda dusty."

1438. How I probe to see what Jane looks for in a friend. "The fruits of the Spirit," she says.

1439. How my mom helps me to wrestle our sunroom into open spaces and small tasks.

1440. The boxes we donate to charity. And how I panic as the attendant comes to unload the car but feel light and free as I drive away.

1441. The intimacy of working side by side through exhaustion and chocolate with another person.

1442. How my mom knows what things I'll actually miss in 30 years.

1443. And learning to see through her eyes, the landscape of several paces ahead.

1444. Her trip to Africa.

1445. A birthday party, and how the gathering of family is still good, better than ever, after all these years.

1446. Reading The Help aloud with Craig, the folds of a good story, and how we laugh out loud as we read.

1447. A whole cookie sheet of roasted almonds.

1448. All the mercies of friendship and love, that catch me when I fall, a safety net.

1449. And how after a whole week of hanging on by a thread, I finally see it: apparently a very strong thread.

Worship

2011-09-25T23:07:00.000-07:00

"Why do they do worship?" Jack whispers full-voice into my ear.

The lady next to us, all red lilies and black dress, looks straight ahead. I lean in, "It's a way to tell Jesus how much we appreciate him dying for us. Sort of like how we sing Happy Birthday to you to appreciate you." The congregation all on our feet, he stands on the chair next to me, crosses his arms.

"How long do they usually do worship?" he asks in shout-whisper. He washed me white as snow, the melody encircles the sanctuary. We sing.

"Oh, for a very long time," I whisper.

"Oh." He straightens up, wraps an arm around my shoulders. Another song unfurls. He rubs my back. His spine straight, shoulders broad, he's the silhouette of Craig, the gesture of a man. Though he taps out the songs' rhythms on my arm, lays his head on my shoulder, all I see is that flash of man.

For a moment I wonder why people want their sons socialized by peers.

Gratitude:

1379. Lulie, fresh garden tomato in hand, "I picked it because I thought it would be fweet."

1380. Jack's determination that yellow tomatoes float and red ones don't when he floods the sink to wash his tomatoes.

1381. Jane's response when I bumble over a bumpy parking lot, "We're special to God. I know he will take care of us."

1382. How Rosie flutters her eyelashes when I run my fingers through her red curls.

1383. Jane's question when I grumble over clothes left out, again, "Do you feel like I don't understand because I'm not like, 'ERRRRR!'" And how she adds, "I'm just calm when things happen."

1384. Her confession, "Wanna know why I ask you things two times sometimes? Because the second time you give me more details."

1385. How when I grouse and complain that she takes forever to get ready for bed she asks, "Can you ever brush your teeth too much?"

1386. Lulie's determination, "Mommy, I thought everyday we would wipe my face off," as I rush around to clear dinner.

1387. All the children shored up in green quilts and pillows listening to old time radio with Craig.

1388. Jane at the dinner table, "Jack, your ears are fabulously dirty. There's a lot of wax in there. It's yellow."

1389. And her cordial, "Before I go to lay down in bed, I just have to tell you one thing: You guys are such a blessing," as Craig and I smile, elbow deep canning pineapple salsa and plum jam.

1390. How Craig and I stop for plum toast, mozzarella cheese, and Greek olives, a late dinner amid laundry piles and mason jars.

1391. How Janie keeps asking how many pound of gas we put in the car because she can't remember gallons.

1392. How Jack feeds Rosie oatmeal with a toothpick.

1393. How Cerissa says, "Oh, that was nothing," when she watches my kids so I can exchange a vacuum.

1394. Picking plums in the orchard and how we have to outsmart the bees, and a sting.

1395. Five of us squeezed on Grampa's four-wheeler for the lumbering crawl up the mountain to the plums.

1396. Salmon grilled to balsamic and soy sauce perfection. And the midget watermelons and cantaloupe Craig's mom serves straight from the garden.

1397. How Lulie recites The Tiger by William Blake three times on the drive home from the farm.

1398. How I finally realize I should be intolerant of Rosie's sour attitude when I tell her NO.

1399. How much happier she is!

1400. How she signs SORRY and squeezes our faces together for a hug.

1401. How I stumble into a clearance sale on stylish jeans for the kids and me.

1402. How I made almost everything from scratch this week.

1403. How I tell the kids, "I love it when you guys come to church with me." And Lulie's matter-of-fact, "I know," she says, "You are a special girl, Mom."

1404. Realizing that this next season I will work harder than I ever have before and fall breathless and spent into bed each night -- and love it.

1405. The nugget of wisdom from our pastor this morning, "It takes no effort at all to be selfish or greedy or hypocritical."

1406. The handicapped man who hugs my hand and kisses it when I push his wheelchair out of church for him.

1407. Lulie's realization that she can't save plums under her pillow because they will get 'mooshed.

1408. How Jack offers me a plum he picked himself and grins as I take a bite, "Stout but good, huh?"

1409. Lulie's sing-songy lilt, "Jack is so fweet because he picked this for me." the plum in her hand.

1410. How Lucy picks a bowl of mint for Grammie and insists she wrap it up and take it home.

1411. Yellow cake with lime and powdered sugar.

1412. How Jack fishes out the sweetest pieces of caramel corn for Rosie.

1413. The Joy of Mathematics, a college course from Harvey Mudd that the sisters-in-law and Mom and I watch while we knit and shhhhh the children.

1414. How the kids sit and watch the first ten minutes before they shooo off to play.

1415. Jacks suggestion that if the baby's a girl we name her Laura, and if the baby's a boy we name him Hook.

1416. Dinner at a friends' house, taco soup and gray skies, and how a whole afternoon slips away in just a moment.

1417. Boston baked black bean with molasses and bacon.

1418. Psalm 95 in unison with the kids, O come let us sing to the LORD...

1419. Learning that discipline leads to freedom.

Work

2011-09-18T21:18:00.000-07:00

"I was really glad I had my flash light," Jane bobs into the bedroom, plaid nightgown and wide grin.

"Oh," I grimace, elbow deep in the nightly diaper change. "Why is that?" Rosie squirms. I frown for her to stay still.

"'Cause I couldn't see in the chicken house without it." She sways with her grin.

"What did you do when you looked in there?"

"We just looked in at them, " she continues, "Then we prayed."

"Oh." I snap Rosie's diaper and give her behind a little swat. She smiles. "What did you pray about?"

"Jesus please help these chickens have a good night," she says. "We love you. Amen," she lilts in sing-song voice.

"Alright," I gather the soiled diaper and miscellaneous wipes. "Well, good."

Later, bedtime prayers, and she adds, "Please, help the chickens to love you. And please, help them to start laying soon. Amen"

Amen. The little things, they all add up.

***

"My act of service was that I moved the high chair over to the table for Momma," Janie smiles then presses the top bun on her hamburger.

"Oh, you did!" A night spun crazy, harsh words on both sides, I never noticed.

"And my words of love are for Momma," she catches my eye from the opposite corner of the table. "I love how she teaches us school and makes us work hard so we can have that good feeling inside."

Good feeling. I lean on an elbow, the food blurred to bokeh. All that driving will to work them hard, and she sees it, the good feeling at the end. It all adds up. Suddenly every burden is feather-light.

Gratitude:

1342. Craig engrossed in a book, reading away all hours of the night and day.

1343. How the children spend an hour on GO FISH and self-mediation.

1344. How Lulie shouts, "OH, my baby POOPED," and all the kids rush to help with the pretend poop.

1345. Finding a fistful of garden beans someone socked away for later in the freezer.

1346. Lulie's prayer, "Please help we to have LOVE. In Jesus name, amen,

1347. Jane's valiant prayer that we will have a thousand babies (!) and Lulie's serious nod, "Then we will be able to play with a thousand babies."

1348. A quart of hummus blended fresh from simmered chickpeas and garlic.

1349. Trying to draw seashells with Mom and sisters-in-law, while the cousins bluster and gallivant and make all manner of fun.

1350. Egg salad sandwiches made with sweet curry and Mom's secret alchemy of spices.

1351. Plain salty potato chips.

1352. Dark chocolate passed around while we laugh over our seashell drawings.

1353. How Lucy puts her own patch on her eye each morning.

1354. The way one orange zinnia can suck down a whole vase of water in just a few days.

1355. How Jane fetches her Cinderella wash cloth for me when I run out of rags in the kitchen.

1356. How Rosie covers her eyes and prays, "Jesus, Jesus."

1357. Jack's assessment, "Mom, you're the Muffin Man that lives on Dreary Lane," when I make oatmeal yam muffins.

1358. How Craig's mom offers to make whatever we want for dinner. (Fried chicken, the full meal!) And chimes, "It's nothing I wouldn't do for anyone," when I gush all over with gratitude.

1359. Great-Grammie's cherry pie with toasted coconut on top.

1360. Jane's explanation, "No there aren't any chickens in these eggs because they take away the rooster so the chickens can't snuggle with him and have babies."

1361. Lulie's matter-of-fact, "Well, I will take care of him!" when I tell her Jack isn't old enough to volunteer in her class by himself. "Like if someone tries to punch him, I will tell a teacher," she adds.

1362. Learning the new normal of being pregnant this season.

1363. How the people at church take care of each other, a glut of generosity so big I cry.

1364. Sitting next to a dear friend at church.

1365. Salted almonds, dry roasted.

1366. Plum jam.

1367. How Jack prays almost every day that we will have just GREAT food. And how we try to get him to pray for other things, but all the while God does make our food just really, really, GREAT.

1368. A day at the fair with friends, all five walking hours of it.

1369. How Jack puts his hand on my shoulder and rubs my ear when he talks to me.

1370. Jane's plea, "Just remember, I'll be a big help," as Daddy gets ready to leave for the evening service. And how she turns to me, "Last time it was a no. Now it is a maybe, so it's getting a little warmer. I think maybe it's 50/50 now."

1371. And how as Craig grabs his keys to go he ask what I think. All I think of is how some of my favorite memories are when my dad took me to work with him.

1372. How he calls for Jane to get her shoes and climb in the car. Jack too.

1373. The girls' hair coiled in ringlets.

1374. How Rosie makes her eyes round as pennies and blows kisses when she really likes something.

1375. Craig's announcement, "Well, I found the source of the fruit flies. Lucy put a banana peel in the bathroom stool."

1376. Dishwasher emptied, loaded, and running. A gift from Craig.

1377. Another bucket of golden plums.

1378. Another week with my husband and children.

Afternoon

2011-09-11T21:57:00.000-07:00

"Little one, come here." I motion to Lucy, fresh as dew, up from her nap. She thumpity-thumps over golden hardwoods, plops in my lap. "You are such a pleasure," I whisper in her ear.

We rock, shoulder to shoulder. Her small voice mimes each swell, "Pleas-ure, pleas-ure..." She calls in the afternoon.

Later I blow a kiss to Jane. She catches it, her smile curving, and blows back a handful. The cogs of the day turn in tandem. Children and studies interweave; chore and play entwine.

"You children are such a pleasure," I call to them, each immeshed in the trailings of afternoon.

Jane smiles from the hearth, catches my eye, "Uh huh," she nods. "I bet."

And the day revolves on, one moment built on the next.

Gratitude:

1305. How Lucy loads a sack full of hand-towels to pack for a day of swimming.

1306. Friends who make a whole afternoon of burgers and their pool. And how with all the salads and peach pie we settle in to friendships gone back for years.

1307. Jane's growing understanding, "Jesus, thank-you for dying on the cross and making a bridge so we can come to you. Amen."

1308. Her logic, "Jesus, help Momma to get pregnant more often, so we can have a better family."

1309. How Jack furrows his brow and wrinkles his forehead on how to start a gratitude journal and then decides, "I'm really just actually thankful that you are my mom."

1310. How Lucy holds her baby while she does school work.

1311. Jane's assessment of the chickens, "At night I try to be gentle to unwind them, like ok, it's time to go to bed." She pauses, tilts her head. "They're basically just like kids," she adds.

1312. How Jack trots in from the hen house, "That one isn't mine," he reports, "'cause I checked before I gave it a HUG."

1313. Lulie's prayer, "And when Dad is gone help us to be grateful and not yell for him to come back."

1314. How Jane cries for half-an-hour when all plans to visit my mom and sis-in-laws fall through. And how she's not sour and petulant, just sad, completely sad.

1315. Thick autumn heat and how Jane and I linger on the swings out back. And how she tells me, as far as she's concerned, with babies, the more the better.

1316. More than two gallons of boiled apples Lynn brings up from the orchard and the pints and pints of apple butter, cinnamon everywhere, not a drop wasted.

1317. A whole bag of fresh corn on the cob, ears of all sizes.

1318. How it pops fresh off the cob.

1319. Fresh green beans snapped and ready to simmer.

1320. A bag of pink plums all rolling and bumbling sweet.

1321. Great-Grammie's shining face when Jane recites the first two stanzas of The Tiger by William Blake.

1322. Apple butter on buttery toast, orange overtones clear as bells.

1323. Scrambled eggs with mustard and parmesan.

1324. How Jane and I wrestle out big math ideas. "This is a hard thing to understand," I finally add. And she nods, "Uh-huh. I know 'cause I'm doing it."

1325. Reading a recent pregnancy magazine and concluding I just see the world totally different than they do.

1326. How Lucy says fweet instead of sweet.

1327. All the men and women who gave their lives to rescue people from the twin towers a decade now ago.

1328. Our whole family stilled in Sunday naps.

1329. A 23 quart pressure cooker Craig surprises me with and a recipe book of 400 recipes.

1330. How he makes me laugh until I can't even breath, breathless on all the mirth.

1331. How he prays, out loud , arm around me, when things get hard. And how a cloud always lifts as thick and invisible as my anger.

1332. The profound feeling of being protected.

1333. Making dinner with Craig's mom. How it's like standing on a grown-up's feet learning to dance.

1334. How we all rise early and volunteer as a family this morning, all six of us in the two-year-olds.

1335. How even Lucy, barely three, rises to the occasion.

1336. Golden plums, a whole bucketful. How Craig and Jane and Jack ride four-wheeler up the mountain to pick them in the old orchard. The red plums Lynn adds on top.

1337. How Rosie brushes her hair with Jane's big purple comb and fires Jack's pop-gun.

1338. Buckets and buckets of tomatoes hauled in from our garden.

1339. New Baby all of one inch, heart still beating. And how my tiny baby moves there on the ultrasound monitor. A miracle.

1340. How Craig and I visit over bowls towered with watermelon cubes, backs leaned against kitchen cupboards.

1341. How even the long parts of the day feel easy in those moments.

Errands

2011-09-04T21:55:00.000-07:00

"Momma, can I whisper something in your ear?" The hustle and bustle of Winn Co. Foods whirls at our elbows. Jane tugs on the shopping cart.

"Sure." I lean down, her warm breath in my ear.

"Those girls back there," she motions to a pair of junior high girls, one in red and black flannel pajama bottoms. The black haired one pokes her friend's hips and comments that they stick out more than hers. "Those girls have some very bad manners," Jane whispers.

"Yup," I nod. "I noticed that too."

I nudge the cart forward, and she continues in talk-whisper, "I would feel bad if I did that." She wrinkles her brow, "I think they need some attitude training."

Our evening errands spinning back to speed, I smile. She sees it, attitude. "Yup. I think so too," I say.

Gratitude:

1276. Lucy's announcement that her baby's name is Glory-To-God-In-The-Highest, and that actually both babies are named Glory-To-God-In-The-Highest.

1277. Jack's prayer, "Jesus please help New Baby grow just strong and mighty and whole. Strong. Mighty. Whole. Amen.

1278. Gallons of peaches sis-in-law and I can together.

1279. Lucy's announcement, "I dropped a cherry pit through there," as she points to a whole in the wall where the doorknob hits.

1280. Jack's conclusion that he's pretty sure it's gonna be a hundred years until he's my age.

1281. Jane's gratitude, "Thank-you for making this possible," to Craig. And how he sends both of us off for a girls' date out.

1282. Her observation, "Momma, Jack and Lucy have had such a little tiny bite of life. Like if there was a whole banana, it would just be a teeny tiny seed of it."

1283. Three new shirts.

1284. Egg salad sandwiches and a feast of salads and desert and company.

1285. How the children crowd on the couch around Grandad. How they cross their legs and fold their arms, lean in, copy him, watch for every detail.

1286. How Lucy is the spitting image of my gramma.

1287. How my momma and I spoon brown sugar peaches into glass saucers, top with whip cream, a puff of cinnamon, and conversation.

1288. My grampa with a clean bill of health. And how he beelines it to his cabin tucked in the Bitterroot Mountains. The wake of family that follows.

1289. How when Craig stops by to see his brother, he's out playing with his kids and the neighbors and their kids. How his brother takes the underdog's side.

1290. Great-Grammie home from the hospital. And how while she was there in the hospital she pressed the CALL NURSE button when visitors came so she could introduce the fine nurses to her granddaughter-in-law and great-granddaughter.

1291. Four gallons of apple sauce and how they are a whole afternoon of boiling and straining and visiting over apples with Craig's mom.

1292. How we picked them straight from the tree up in her orchard, a bustle of kids gathering bucketfuls.

1293. Craig leaned against a corner in the kitchen reading while I can the applesauce.

1294. How his mom makes whatever I add to a meal seem like the perfect thing.

1295. Corn on the cob. Butter. Salt.

1296. The flood of sadness when I realize the couple parked next to us at church is snorting cocaine in the parking lot before they go into church.

1297. How suddenly the freedom in knowing Christ is so deep and wide and full in comparison.

1298. Janie's full heart as she divides rainbow colored Gummy Sprees between siblings and cousins. How she hides Jack's and Lulie's on their pillows for them to find.

1299. How Jack gallops on one foot to wash his hands after he captures a moth in the house.

1300. The chatter of children's voices all evening long.

1301. How they trot in and don rain boots at the slightest hint of chill.

1302. A Sunday nap in a pool of sun. And how I linger long enough to stretch and doze and breathe slow and long.

1303. How when I want to shoo away the chaos and clatter of children I draw them close. And how each breath stacked on another teaches me that I do love this after all and once again endurance sets in, joy.

1304. Worth it -- the theme of my life. And how in the end every single sacrifice Christ asks me to make is so completely worth it.

A Pebble

2011-08-28T22:47:00.000-07:00

"Momma," Janie leans her chin out over the cutting board, "I'm wondering, how did the baby get in your tummy?" She tilts her head and squints.

I chop cucumber spears into tiny cubes and scoop them with my knife into a clear glass bowl. "You remember," I begin, "how I told you that when you're married and you lay together in a special way, Jesus takes a little bit of the mommy and a little bit of the daddy and puts a baby in the mommy's tummy?"

"Uh huh."

I scoop a handful of cherry tomatoes, pile them on the cutting board and slice them down the middle one by one, half, quarter, wobbly wedges. "It was like that."

She watches the wedges of tomato roll onto their flat sides before I sweep them together and swoop them into the bowl. "Do you and daddy know how to lay together in that special way?" She creases her forehead.

"Uh huh."

"Did you do it on purpose?"

"Yep." I scoop the last cherry tomato, toss it on top, and gather basil leaves into a mish-mash stack.

"Oh."

I chop the basil into thin strings of green then rotate the knife and whittle the basil down to tiny specks. Jane watches me crumble feta, sprinkle basil, and grind pepper. Cucumber and basil fill the kitchen.

"Jane," Jack calls from the back door. "Jane, wanna go outback and play?"

The moment fetters and slows, then plunks like a stone in a stream. "Ok," she says, and with that skips off, a whole pebble of new knowledge rolling around inside.

Gratitude:

1249. The cross sticker Lucy expels from her nose when I tell her, "BLOW," before I dab her bloody nose.

1250. Sister-in-law's grace when two of our children traipse over to ask forgiveness for lying to her.

1251. How a couple from our church celebrates their 20th wedding anniversary by smuggling Bibles into China.

1252. Picturing tomato bisque and rosemary artisan bread as art and worship, the creation of nourishment, instead of duty and long hours.

1253. Learning to draw: the one line drawing.

1254. A note from Jane: to mommy, I like everything about you. I would not want anything to change. from: Jane.

1255. Pulsing babe in my womb, 3.5 mm and heart beating. "It would take seven of your babies stacked end to end," my doctor says, "to make an inch."

1256. Jane's tight hug when I ask her, "You feel that good feeling you have inside right now? That's the reward for working hard. No one can take that away from you."

1257. The bounce of her curls as she skips out to play.

1258. How Craig blanches 40 lbs. of peaches out over the barbecue so that we don't make the house so hot canning.

1259. Quarts and quarts of peaches. And dilly beans.

1260. Craig's cheerful, "Chill out girl-scout," when I huff and puff over Lulie's sheets still in the wash.

1261. A fabric sidewalk.

1262. A floppy orange zinnia in an old tiny brown extract bottle.

1263. Blueberry pancakes, peaches on top with a cloud of whip cream.

1264. The long drive up north to my cousin's place, miles and miles of forest and farm.

1265. Laughing to tears with her while husbands visit and our children play long into the night.

1266. Fresh garlic.

1267. Pizzas made by hand, salad gathered from lush garden rows, huckleberry ice cream, walnut brownie chocolate ice cream, pink strawberry ice cream all made with cream fresh from the cow.

1268. How our mouths gape and eyes widen when we make to load children and head for home under a wild starry blanket of sky. How those stars, that Milky Way, really need no introduction when you see them for real.

1267. How Lucy sings, "And God can hold the whole world on two fingers or one." And how Jane adds, "Or he can even hold it on one fingernail, Lucy."

1268. How my brother explains the difference between fission and fusion and it's one of the most engaging conversations all week.

1269. Baked potato soup bubbled to creamy perfection and dinner with brother and sis-in-law and a whole rabble of our kids.

1270. How in all the joyful rumpus we carry on long trains of adult conversation woven in through and around the children's please, thank-you, and excuse me.

1271. My parents 35th wedding anniversary and how we still all watch them to see if the marriage template they gave us is really all it's cracked up to be. And it is.

1272. Lavender honey ice cream and the hands that made it.

1273. Good doctors who care for Jane and Lulie, limbs swollen with bug bites gone wild and who see to Great-Grammie's health as she recovers from infection in the hospital.

1274. How life is just a little more dear every time I set foot in a hospital.

1275. The growing peace and rest I have each day in my Savior.

Paper Airplanes

2011-08-21T23:16:00.000-07:00

"Dat is Jesus." Lucy points at a black woman as we walk into church. The woman's bald head and long tunic look out of place. She swings billowing full arms as she steps down the walk. One arm has mesh netting up to the elbow. Her tunic rustles in the hot summer air. She smiles oblivious to us.

"No," I fumble, "that's not Jesus." We whisk past them. I tug Lulie's hand. "But," I add, "however we treat other people is how we treat Jesus. So, I guess she sort of is Jesus." We swing arms, and Lucy presses a big silver disc to open the handicap door for us. In we go.

***

"So what's God been teaching you, Jack?" I glance at him in the rearview mirror. He watches passing cars, searches for the ice cream store.

"Nuffin'," he says, "'cause I can't hear him." He cranes his neck, looks down the road for a big red ice cream sign.

"Did you think you were going to hear him with your ears?" I ask.

"Yeah."

I signal right to switch lanes and ease in behind a black Honda. "God doesn't speak very often to our ears," I say, "but deep inside your heart where your feelings happen and ideas about right and wrong," I glance back at his blue eyes and red hair grown shaggy with summer sun, "if you listen there," I raise my brow, "sometimes God speaks in a still. small. quiet. whisper."

He wrinkles his forehead. "So I listen with my heart?"

"Yeah." I slow, round the corner, and glide in under the red ice cream sign.

"Oh."

We shift into park. "What do you think about that?"

"Like it," he says and nods.

I click the key to off. For the next hour we build an arsenal of paper planes there in the ice cream parlor. We lick vanilla and chocolate off our spoons and test fly airplanes over the checkered linoleum. Square ones, pointed ones, short and fat, one slides under a giant freezer.

With each crease of the paper and flick of my wrist, I teach him something I love: paper airplanes. As he mimics my hands and cocks his head, as he gives me licks of his ice cream and says, "Here Momma, you try it first," I wonder at how he detects my every whisper. He seems to even hear the breaths between.

As he sits at my elbow, the afternoon splays open, and I sit in a small window of time where he hears even the stillness and smallness of my voice. And so we fold another plane, loft our effort into the air, and pray it flies.

Gratitude:

1226. Fresh garden dill. And how it takes me right back two years ago canning dilly beans, the African children's choir here for a week.

1227. A bushell of beans from the farm delivered by hand and 10 fresh pints of dilly beans.

1227. The grace that comes when you realize the next season of your life will be different than you envisioned.

1228. How we study dermis and epidermis this week and Jack comments, "I tried pulling some of my hair out. I didn't really work that good."

1229. How Jane calls down a Target isle, "THink about the man you want to be!" when Jack grouses that he can't see from the cart.

1230. How I get home from running and step into a Nerf war. Bullets pelt me. Children thunder 'round the kitchen, Rosie strapped into Lulie's dolly stroller.

1231. How Rosie skitters around in the dolly stroller all squeals and waving arms.

1232. How Jack suggests we hang the paper airplanes with string from the ceiling.

1233. How Lulie declares, "I might be really BIG in heaven."

1234. How Jane eats cherry tomatoes whole, pops them open in her mouth and tells me, "No way to ruin a good tomato."

1235. Her plan of telling everyone about Jesus using a packet of cross stickers she earned.

1236. How when Lucy and Jack spill a tumbler of water on the computer desk, and I call out my dismay, Jane suggests, "Maybe Momma can lay in the recliner and we can all gather around her."

1237. How Jack says, "Guess what I was just doin'? Prayin' that the computer isn't wrecked."

1238. Sudafed for sinuses. Tylenol for headaches.

1239. Jack's help clearing the table and his, "I've got little legs, but I worked really fast," comment when I thank him for his help.

1240. How positively unrelentless parenting is. How it never, ever lets up. The ensuing endurance that emerges.

1241. Craig's advice via Bugs Bunny (and Teddy Roosevelt), "Speak softly, and carry a big stick." Learning to let consequences speak for themselves.

1242. Learning the art of apology again. And again.

1243. Craig's, "Well, the Nazis wouldn't have got one by you," when I blather on about politics.

1244. A nugget of wisdom: Learn to let your work be worship.

1245. French braids, dresses in sherbet stripes, boys in collared shirts, cousin pictures down on the farm with a wheelbarrow and wheat.

1246. Craig's dad another year older, his sons still certain he could take them.

1247. My momma's birthday and the fermata of love it leaves in my week, a friendship grown deeper with time.

1248. Craig's never-ending kindnesses to me, and how again and again he proves it true: A gentle answer really does turn away wrath.

Eggs

2011-08-14T20:40:00.000-07:00

"Momma, would you talk to Daddy that way in front of anyone?" Jane bonks a hard boiled egg on the counter, furrows her brow, and picks the shell away in pieces.

"No." We stand elbow to elbow. I smooth my fingers over the spongy white of my peeled egg. "I only talk about the things that really bother me in front of the people I trust."

"Oh." She steps over to the sink, swishes her egg clean in the water, feels for any debris left behind.

"I wouldn't want people to get the wrong idea," I add, "and think bad about Daddy when he's not. You know what I mean?"

"Uh-huh." She nods.

I rub my fingers over the prickly skin of a cucumber fresh from the garden. I slice it up the middle, quarter it into long spears. She bonks more eggs and picks them clean. I chop the cucumber into tiny cubes, hew chives, slice tomatoes, pineapple. The afternoon assembles itself into a salad and a row of hard boiled eggs. In my mind, I pour the whole conversation with Craig through a sieve of seven-year-old ears.

"Did you hear how I was being really ungrateful that Daddy was trying to talk to me?" I ask.

"Yeah." She makes her way to rinse another fresh peeled egg, slides it in next to the others. And though she hardly says a thing, I know she's ordering every word I say, lining them up like the fresh peeled eggs.

And so, when I hear Craig's flip flops cadence down the hardwoods, I call, "Hey, Craig!" And he comes, and I weave confession and gratitude into a blanket to catch us.

Gratitude:

1202. Lucy's wet footprints on the driveway.

1203. Purple polish on three-year-old toes.

1204. Lulie's prayer, "Jesus, I pray that you will help all the people not to die in Hell. And I pray that you will help Momma mot to die in Hell. And I pray that you will help all the kids not to die in Hell. Amen." And Daddy? He's already a saint to us.

1205. How Craig and I hold hands together to make our children maintain a baseline obedience. And how in the end we all end up enjoying each other as a result.

1206. How we read together before bed. "See the next one? It says, Shoe Salesman for God," I say. "That guy is a shoe salesman for God. He sells shoes." And how Jack rolls over on his pillow and comments, "Pretty big shoes."

1207. Learning to lead by asking questions not just issuing commands.

1208. Jane's prayer, "Jesus, I pray that Sophie would choose you -- if she hasn't thought to choose you that she would. And I pray that Olivia would choose you and Claire and their parents. And I pray that everyone would choose you. I pray that that person who is going around our neighborhood stealing things will choose you. Amen."

1209. How Jack finds a penny on the washer and asks, "Can I have it for my college money?"

1210. Craig's faith, "Well Lord, not our will, but your will." And the blanket of peace he pulls up under our chins.

1211. How Lucy grins at me with a fist full of mint. "Open your mouf," she says.

1212. How a rendition of The Firey Furnace ends with Lucy squeezed into the old fireplace, Sunday dress not withstanding, and how we somehow salvage the outfit and smudgy face.

1213. How when I look in on the chickens, I catch Jack drinking out of the hummingbird feeder before he's really gotten good at it.

1214. A new screen door.

1215. Lava rocks for making artisan bread.

1216. Jack's commentary to me, "Everyday I like you more and more and MORE. I can't believe how much I like you." He grins and hops and then pokes the air, "But I like GOD more than I like you."

1217. Jane's request, "Jesus, please help us to get as poor as we have to to help the Africans. Amen."

1218. My cousins come to visit from over the mountains and how the loop of family closes for a moment, and we enjoy our friendship.

1219. Cherries picked fresh off Great-Grammie's old tree. And how Craig's dad just backs the pick-up there under the tree and loads the buckets.

1220. A new book of memory work.

1221. Magazine with a recipe entitled: Blueberry French Toast Casserole.

1222. Niece who babysits for us. And how Jane tells us later, "Ellin told me that she doesn't really babysit for the money. She does it because she loves to babysit." And how it makes her worth a million bucks to us.

1223. Lunch out with my dad's office and friends of his and how all the family and friends weave such interesting conversation. How humbling it is to be around so many wise people who treat you like an equal.

1124. Craig's avocado sprouted and forming leaves.

1225. Learning to do the next good thing in front of me and not think too much about the rest.

A Letter

2011-08-07T23:22:00.000-07:00

"Jane, could you give this letter to Gramma for me?" I gather diapers and blankie as we unload at the farm.

"No. I don't want to."

From the front seat, I lean around the console. "What?"

"I don't want to." Her face flat, she stares at me.

"Come on Jane, can't you just help me out?"

"No Momma." She tilts her head, "I don't want to."

I furrow my brow and weigh my options. "Ok," I respond, emotions reigned flat. We'll just let this come back to bite, I think.

The day unfolds in long petals of moments there on the farm. The noon meal all fresh peas and garden berries, baked bread and fresh stew; the afternoon all naps and slumber, Craig and his dad sacked out on couch and recliner; children buried in the raspberry patch, red juice in the creases of their smiles, buckets bumbling with berries -- the moments batten and curl back.

Evening, bedtime. The children circle from dresser to tooth brush, potty and bed.

"Momma, can you come lay on my bed? I'm done first," Jack trumpets. "Can you come lay on my bed?"

"Sure." I hollar, my voice a'tumble over hardwood floors.

Tired bones sunk in bottom bunk, I sigh. Little boy leans up on an elbow. "Can you please just tell me Nebakanezar?" He makes his eyes huge. I sigh. "Not Daniel in the Lions' Den," he adds, "but The Firey Furnace." I smile another sigh still pulling in my throat.

Even so, another revolution of trial by fire and the boy eats it up. They all do, now quiet on their bunks.

"Momma, why do you lay on Jack's bed and Lulie's bed and keep going back and forth, but not on mine very much?" Janie from the top bunk.

I pause, let the question unfold, wide like a parachute. "Jane, do you remember when I asked you to take that letter to Gramma this morning," I pause, "and you wouldn't 'cause you didn't feel like it?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe I just didn't really feel like it."

"Oh." The moment pulls slack.

"Ya know there are two of us in this relationship. You can't just expect me to do everything."

Even as the words cast, long filaments of words, I see my dad. I hear how he would say, Come here, honey, and wrap his arm around my shoulder. And I wonder if I've ever felt he didn't want to be around me.

The night skitters on. I wipe counters and clean dishes, give Craig a haircut. As I snip and trim, I cogitate over that letter.

"If she's having a problem, at this point," I conclude, "I'm probably not leading very well. Don't ya think?"

"Noooo," he guffaws, and I laugh.

"But really?" I persist. "Really?"

"Yes," he coughs and grins, "You're not cutting a Z into the back of my hair now are you?"

We laugh, and I turn this over in my mind. I'm doing something wrong. What can it be?

Craig slips away to shower. I sweep and vacuum, furrow my brow. I slide the red footstool under our coffee table, then pad down hardwood floors to Janie's bunk. I scrabble up the ladder. She smiles a smile soft with sleep.

"I was thinking about it," I cuddle close, nose to nose, "I hope you learn to contribute to our relationship, but even if you don't I'll do everything so we can be close." I squint-smile, "That's what Jesus did for me."

"Oh."

We hug, and linger. I wonder if I have coffee breath. She laughs when I tell her I don't mind coffee breath because it reminds me of my dad. She doesn't mind it either.

"So why didn't you want to give that letter to Gramma for me?" For the first time I think to ask.

She blinks, "I was afraid that Gramma might think it was from me," she says. "And I thought about that special feeling when I give a letter to someone, and I thought," she says, "I wanted you to have that feeling."

"Oh." The day floods back, a sluice, a gush. "I thought you didn't want to because we were having a problem." I stammer.

She grins, "Oh!" and breaks into peals of laughter. They ripple the room, bell tower of grace.

Gratitude:

1173. How Rosie falls asleep at the lunch table, face smooshed on her sandwich.

1174. The rise and fall of my children's chests when they sleep.

1175. Great-Grammie's thank-you phone call for the thank-you note.

1176. A nugget of wisdom from John Piper: In marriage, the covenant sustains the love -- not the love, the covenant. Duty. Some people are turned off by duty, but that's the ground in which the flower grows.

1177. How Jane and Jack perch in front of the new coop. How we find Jack inside, and Jane explains, "I'm holding the door open, and Jack's pulling the chickens in."

1178. How Lucy calls somersaults, belly-flops.

1179. How good it feels to rub my eyes when I'm tired.

1180. Ibuprofen, a luxury -- how small aches and pains fall off like rough edges.

1181. Paul's continual reminders that our trials are our glory.

1182. How Jack tells me he's going to save and save his money. And how when I tell him he'll be rich, he pauses, "What does RICH mean?"

1183. The covenant of marriage: a promise. And making love, how it really does make love between us.

1184. Learning to meet my children's needs before they ask. The continual giving of myself.

1185. Garden first fruits picked and given.

1186. Burthdees in July -- a party at my parents. How we gather with salads and bread, meat on the grill, chocolate cake, lemon pie, and how we give and give and give.

1187. Jack's announcement from the back seat, "Mom and Dad, God is bigger than the world."

1188. How Jane parses out, "People don't always do what they say, but they do what they believe."

1189. Jack running behind Craig's daddy-lawnmower with his kid-size one.

1190. How Rosie hangs onto Jack's shoulders when he carries her.

1191. How Jane tells me that the little bumps on the back of my arm probably mean I'm getting old, and we laugh and laugh. "Probably," I say.

1192. How Rosie's main words are YES. THIS. and LOOK.

1193. Ghiradelli Gems. Ghir.a.dell.i Gems.

1194. How Lulie asks and asks for Janie's snake book, and I realize Jack gave her his favorite book for keeps.

1195. Jane's sleepy smile when I slip in to snuggle.

1196. How we peddle out a whole day in the care of Craig's parents and just relax.

1197. Jane's plea for more read aloud time, "Momma, how would you like it if you just got to sit and listen to stories about people who would die if they had to, to love Jesus? I like to just sit there and soak it in. Would you like that?"

1198. How Jack puts his hand on my arm when he talks. How he rubs my back when we pray.

1199. A little boy officially five now and the gathering of family that went with it.

1200. Tightening our budget. Learning the dance.

1201. How we are so happy right where we are.

On My Birthday

2011-08-01T00:12:00.000-07:00

"Is that a horse track?" Lulie points out the window, her pointer finger up by her cheek. Wide green lawn swoops by: the cemetery.

"No." I glance at the grid of marble headstones. "It's a cemetery. It's where they bury dead people." I rest my hands on the top of the steering wheel, "The whole ground is just full of dead people under the grass," I say.

"Oh."

I slow for a light at the corner. "Do you know what happens when you die?"

"No." She stares out the window, then grins at me.

"Your body gets so broken," I say, "that your spirit, the part that makes you, you, leaves. If you've asked Jesus to forgive your sins and live in your heart, he takes you home to heaven." I glance at the hot summer sky, "And you get a new body that can fly and do other things, because it will be like Jesus."

"Oh."

I glance both ways for traffic, and round the corner. "If you don't have Jesus, you go to Hell and burn in fire forever."

She furrows her brow, "We don't like that."

"Nope." I glance at her round face in the rearview mirror. "Do you want me to pull over, so we can pray that Jesus will forgive your sins and live in your heart?" I ask.

"Yeah," she nods.

I accelerate to the next block. "When will we stop?" she chirps as I round the corner and ease in next to an overgrown shrub.

"There." I lean into the door and hop out, pull Lulie's door open and grab her pudgy hands.

I find her eyes. "If you pray and ask Jesus," I say, "he will forgive all your sins. Do you want to?"

She bows her head, pulls her hands up by her cheeks. "Please forgive me my sins. Amen."

She looks up. "When they nailed Jesus on the cross," I raise my eyebrows, "it was like he was getting all the spankings in the world."

She arches her brow, "Jesus got spankings?"

"No. It hurt worse than spankings," I stare into her eyes. "They nailed him on the cross." She demonstrates where they pierced his hands and feet. She knows the story. "He was getting in trouble for you," I say, "so when you die you don't have to go to Hell. You can go to Heaven if you've had Jesus forgive you!"

"Oh."

"If you ask him, he'll come and live in your heart." I watch her face. "Do you want to ask him to live in your heart?"

Again she bows her head and tucks her hands at her cheek, "Jesus, please come live in my heart. Amen."

She looks up. We meet eyes. "Now," I say, "he's living in your heart!" I smile into her eyes. "All the angels in heaven are having a party because you get to live with them when you die!"

She blinks. "And they're having a party?"

"Yeah!"

I finally notice the summer hot blacktop radiating up my legs. We smile, and I hop back in front seat, whirl off. Errands suddenly small, I chauffeur a new citizen around in my back seat.

"So how does it feel," I query from the front, "to have Jesus in your heart?"

"She watches the houses skim by. "Just, just good," she answers. We let the moment stretch long. "All those dead people under the grass," she adds, "they went to Jesus and had a party wiff him."

I grin. "Only if they had Jesus forgive their sins," I add. Capitularies of belief snake through new muscle and pulse.

She nods. "Yeah."

And so it is, a new child born into the Kingdom. Faith and understanding grow each day.

Gratitude:

1136. Lulie's prayer for salvation.

1137. Her sing-songy, "You are hugging me, and I am hugging you. I am holding you, and you are holding me."

1138. Jane's date with my mom and how when Jane peppers her with questions about make-up, my mom explains it perfectly: Some women wear make-up so people will notice them, but we wear it as a way of showing respect, like dressing up.

1139. Uncle Peter and Auntie Rosie home safe from Ireland.

1140. Jack's observation, "Jane, if you put your head out the window and close your eyes while we're driving, it feels awesome."

1141. How when Lulie tries to snip baby Rosie's fingers off to see what would happen, it doesn't work.

1142. Yellow Clematis, dug fresh on the farm and hand delivered.

1143. Lulie's comment on setting the table, "I'm moving all the plates to enough room for the elbows we'll have.

1144. Jane's prayer, "Help us all to be long-suffering -- except for Dady because he already is long suffering and single-minded too. Amen."

1145. Morning runs with Jane. And her commentary on jogging, "It's kind of like I get a date with you every morning."

1146. How we pour over the race rag in search of a new race to run together.

1147. New running shoes for me!

1148. Pineapple upside-down cake, caramelized around the edges.

1149. Qdoba queso burrito, steak and mango salsa -- birthday lunch, knee to knee with husband, children at each elbow.

1150. How Jack dead-heads my marigolds and feeds them to the chickens, then pulls handfuls of yellow clover for them.

1151. A roof on the hen house. How Craig shingles it until a migraine hushes his labor and he rests.

1152. How Jack wants to call all the chickens Marigold. Or Poppy.

1153. Birthday cards, phone calls, and messages.

1154. Homemade Thai peanut sauce.

1155. How even though Rosie pukes all over the car seat two blocks from the chocolate store, nothing can stop Craig. He dashes in and emerges with 4 bars -- for my birthday. We drive home windows down and hope no one else smells the stench.

1156. The privilege of bathing and dressing Rose all fresh.

1157. How Craig fields the car seat.

1158. Coffee and chocolate, burnt sugar caramel chocolate, the kind that drips caramel down your fingers.

1159. Sleep.

1160. The foreign feeling of a whole week of full nights sleep. The obvious increase in my intelligence.

1161. Our children's prayers for drought relief in Kenya. How they don't understand when I say people will be dead by Christmas if no one helps. And so they pray.

1162. More sketches and drawing class, daisies and lilies splayed bold.

1163. A visit from my cousin and her four children. How she practically brings a whole farmer's market with her. Deep bedrock kindness, unmistakable, unquenchable.

1164. Pictures from Pete and Rose's wedding.

1165. How we settle and linger and tease the moments out long with family.

1166. How I learn what good, good men my brother are from spending time with their wives.

1167. My sis-in-law's new blog.

1168. How Jane carries a tiny bottle of water when we run in case she gets thirsty.

1169. How Craig's brother is a teacher so they conspire on chicken coop plans and projects all summer.

1170. Cards from my children, letters scrawled out like works of art.

1171. How I stumble across an old note jotted to myself two years ago. I ask Jane how she is going to change the world. "Have kids," she says as if it were as obvious as the sun in the sky.

1172. Me too. My greatest footprint in this next generation is with her. And Jack, and Lulie, and Rose. Influence untold, it's almost too big to see.

Eyelashes

2011-07-24T23:53:00.000-07:00

"I'm wondering, at the store," Janie asks, "why do they have eyelashes?" She nuzzles her mop of curls on my shoulder. We cuddle on the couch, a pile of laundry, pushed to one side.

I wrinkle my chin, eyelashes? Oh, the fake ones next to the nail polish. "Did you think they cut them off or pulled them out of a person?"

"Uh huh," she nods.

"Ya know how your baby doll has eyelashes?" She nods again. "Someone made them, like those."

"Oh." We rest our feet on the coffee table, toes pointed up.

I blink. "People that have really little eyelashes," I add, "get them and glue them on." She watches my face as if I were a documentary. "Long eyelashes are considered pretty."

"Oh." She squeezes closer to me.

"Do you think they're pretty?" I ask.

She frowns, "Uh, not really."

"Probably never really thought about it, huh?"

"Not really," she shakes her head. "It's not not-pretty, and it's not pretty." Eyebrows raised, she shrugs, "It's nothing."

"Huh."

She turns, faces my green eyes, "Do you think it's pretty?"

I hesitate. And then, "Yeah, I like long lashes."

"Do you like to look at people with long lashes?" she probes.

"Yeah. I think long lashes are pretty."

"Oh."

The moment trails off. A simple exchange. The ironing out of an idea. She squints and tries to see it -- where the lashes fit in.

So we excavate a little more -- a little more each day. And at every turn, she watches, weighs, searches my every move, patient for clues.

Later we pray the night in.

"Thank-you that Daddy teaches us every good thing," Janie lilts, "and that he works so hard at work so he can take care of us and we all don't have to die. Amen."

While I breathe in their prayers, I marvel at weight we wield.

Gratitude:

1110. How Jack crawls up next to me when I nap on the couch.

1111. How Lucy tries to wrestle Jane's running shoes on to baby Rose.

1112. How Jane and I run the whole SpoKenya Run together, all 4 miles of it.

1113. How she hated it when people passed her and how she furrowed her brow and spindled elbows and ankles to motion when I commented, "Ya can't say you ran the whole thing unless you actually jog the whole time - even if it's slow."

1114. This girl's will of steel. And how when I bump against it, Craig reminds me, lead, lead, LEAD her. His encouragement, she really does want to please you, just keep leading.

1115. How at the beginning of the race Auntie Libby asks Jane, "So, what's your goal?" And how Janie shrugs, and thinks, decides, "I want to run the last part of the race fast."

1116. And how I tumble that goal around my head for the next day and think, lead, lead Bethany. A goal. So simple.

1117. Jane's prayer, "And help us to love you. And thank-you for the SpoKenya Run. Help me to do a good job. Amen."

1118. Jack's, "And like Jane said, help her to win the SpoKenya Run. Amen."

1119. Baby fingers wrinkled as prunes.

1120. How I urge the children, "Think about what kind of person you want to be," when they misbehave. And while we discipline and talk and pray, they gradually get it. Think about what kind of person I want to BE. Me too.

1121. Craig back from work away from home, and how we chorus back and forth, "It's so good to have you home."

1122. Janie's assessment, "Daddy, the days you were home were good, but the days you weren't home, it felt like something was missing." So true.

1123. The weight of a Godly father.

1124. How my father still casts a long shadow in our life. How you never stop watching them.

1123. Jane officially 7.

1124. Family gathered to celebrate.

1125. A swim with cousins.

1126. A swim with friends.

1127. The children's bald-faced trust in me when I teach them to swim.

1128. Armfuls of lettuce delivered fresh from the farm by Craig's mom.

1129. Our chickies a month old and friendly.

1130. Dinner washed down with mouthfuls of cherries.

1131. My momma home safe.

1132. Hand-me-downs.

1133. BBQ with friends and all the love that went into those burgers patted flat and grilled up.

1134. A two and a half hour nap enfolded in soft sheets.

1135. The love of our children and husband's faith in me as their mother.

Practice

2011-07-17T23:56:00.000-07:00

"I might become a runner," Janie comments. We jog in step, my stride shrunk down to seven-year-old size.

"Oh."

"I have been wanting to since I was littler," she adds. "I just watch and think, that looks fun." She swings her elbows in time with the pad-pad of her feet.

"Yeah?"

"I try it," she remarks, "and think, it's not really my thing, but I watch you and you make it look so fun." We drum on, our feet in time.

"I didn't really like it at first either," I say. "But now I do. I do it as a way to practice long-suffering." I glance sideways at her gangly legs, springy step, "That way when I have to suffer to make things good for you, I'm not surprised that it feels like this."

"Oh."

We patter on, mark out two miles of strides. We huff and puff and sweat. Even the creases around my nose sweat. Her forehead beads up, braids flopping down her back. We make conversation, talk of races and dogs and lawns that need water. And we practice.

Gratitude:

1080. Silver strainer of fresh strawberries and Gramma's, "I've got a surprise for you inside."

1081. Eaten plump right out of the strainer, strawberries, a pile of green tops. Strawberry shortcake.

1082. Rosie signing MORE, and how she flaps her arms like a bird.

1083. Craig's almost-accident with the rototiller and his fully intact foot.

1084. A window for the hen house and Craig's scaled drawings.

1085. Grampa's almost-accident with the backhoe and the subsequent rush of affection for him.

1086. A traveling book saleswoman who stays for lunch and the polka-dot sweater we give her for the brisk day.

1087. Jane up at the crack of dawn to make breakfast. How she assembles oatmeal and cranberries, almonds, powdered milk. Her confident, "The milk tastes like popcorn," in order to get the children to drink her thick substitute for milk.

1088. Our children circled around the chicks, picture books in tow and how they take turns showing them the pictures.

1089. How Lulie tries to use a toothpick at dinner. Her broad smile and, "Could you please throw this away," as she flops its mangled form in my hand.

1090. Sun hats for the girls.

1091. Janie's confident,"I want to do the Spokenya Run," and her, undaunted, by the 4-miler as we train together.

1092. Her early birthday gift: new shoes, running shoes.

1093. Dish duty, a different child at each meal and how they help each other.

1094. A nugget of wisdom, that the best way to build trust is to make promises and keep them. A tool. An art form. A rubric.

1095. Jane's comment at the hardware store, "That was a farmer. I could tell 'cause his hands are big." And how I picture her Grampa and think she's right.

1096. A chicken magazine from Auntie.

1097. Drawing class, a bouquet of daisies and lilies, and how we all try to wrestle them to the page with bold lines.

1098. Great-Grampa ok after a fainting spell and how he laid down when it started so he wouldn't fall.

1099. How Jack and Lu take turns in the jog stroller and then ride on each other's laps when we train for our run.

1100. A cool evening swim at the pool, four children paddling around me.

1101. How Jack lofts an enormous dandelion umbrella up into the breeze. How he captures and lofts it again and again.

1102. Rainer cherries.

1103. Fresh lettuce.

1104. Basil leaves.

1105. My apology in the church parking lot to our four children, the part about me not leading well enough for us to be on time.

1106. Our children safe against Craig's chest as they sail Grampa's four-wheeler over miles of farmland and dirt roads. The thrill of wind and rain and summer blown through their hair.

1107. A man who makes even common dirt roads a thrill.

1108. The five of us anchored, expectant, secure.

1109. God's provision.

Eyes

2011-07-11T00:57:00.000-07:00

"Oh, it smells like Bethany's house," she says. "I like the smell of Bethany's house."

Her mother tells me, they were about to baptize her, lean her back in the sky blue baptismal, and Savannah remarks, it's like Bethany's house.

From the back I'd watched dark curls and closed eyes swoosh below the water. They pulled her up, and water purled down ringlet curls onto soaked orange shirt and shorts. My Jane had watched and cheered. I whistled.

In the flurry of towels and hugs, cheers and song, they whisk by. They linger just long enough to tell me, Bethany's house, it smelled like Bethany's house.

Savannah's smile drawn wide and long, her brown eyes hold me. In the moment before I turn and smile to her mother, I see it: steady strength, endurance. Like an agate hidden in plain view on a country road, I see it. She blinks, tucks her chin, and the morning spindles back to motion.

They whirl by, a promenade of felicitation, but all I see are those steady eyes.

Eyes. At night Lucy traces my eyes and eyebrows, eyelashes.

"That is soft," she murmurs, strokes my brow. She rubs her small finger temple to temple, smooths my eyebrows.

"I like this part," she remarks and brushes her finger over and over my eyelashes. "And this part too." She softens on a tuft of eyebrow.

Then, gentle as a petal, she dandles a perfect circle on my eyelid. I wait and she traces again and again that same ephemeral loop. I pause, eyelids flutter.

"I do it to me," she offers and closes her eyes. I watch her trace the bump of her contact with that same caress. Circle, circle, circle, as if to stroke sight and sleep into place, gentle as the dawn, she circles it.

I marvel at her complete submission -- submission to that contact, the continual patching, the flat world with no depth perception. And she circles it, circles me.

I close my eyes. "Do it again," I say.

She does.

Gratitude:

1052. How Lucy traces my eye.

1053. Savannah baptized.

1054. A trip to the pool with our four children and how when another girl wants to teach Janie to swim, Jane turns to me and whispers, "What do you want me to say?"

1055. Her submissive heart and burgeoning mind, a bliss of questions and lots and lots of time.

1056. Time with my mother talking and talking and mapping the world according to our friendship.

1057. How my mom and dad have found they like to bike together.

1058. Lots of conflict on many fronts and the sincere pleasure of watching Craig, completely impervious to public opinion -- kind, cordial, and fun, but impervious none the less.

1059. Being protected and provided for.

1060. An Independence Day BBQ with more salads than you could count and a bouquet of flags.

1061. Another BBQ just to eat up all the left overs.

1062. More swim lessons with Libby, the world's best swim instructor and pedagogy teacher.

1063. Rockie smiling and laughing at me.

1064. A whole day of slip-n-slide and blow-up pool and hoorah-hoorah play for the cousins while the grown-ups sip water with mint and eat corn salsa.

1065. Minted cucumbers.

1066. Learning first hand that truly, no matter how gourmet the bread recipe, if you forget to put the salt in, nothing will fix it.

1067. Salt.

1068. A new home for our dogs in Craig's home town with one of those salt-of-the-earth farmers.

1069. The nugget of wisdom that sometimes gentleness is more important than patience.

1070. My children getting to see people talk behind my back and then watch me respond.

1071. Daisies.

1072. How 120 grit sand paper, a little elbow grease, and 10 days can completely heal cracked heels.

1073. Reading a loud to the children an hour and a half past bedtime because the story was so thrilling.

1074. A phone call to my grampa.

1075. Chocolate covered pomegranate from Great-grammie.

1076. Six chickies still peeping away and plans for a chicken coop in the works.

1077. The epistles of Paul on repeat on my ipod.

1078. How since scripture is living and breathing it really does speak each time around.

1079. How I'm still surprised every time.

Confession

2011-07-03T22:58:00.000-07:00

"Ok, I have a question for you," Jane and I amble hand in hand. "I really want to know what you think, but it's kind of hard," I offer, "so don't feel like you have to answer right away." Our feet mark time on the street's blacktop.

"Ok," she says. We swing our arms, fingers entwined. We sip cool drinks in plastic cups and stroll home from the pool. Still wet in our swimsuits, the sun warms our skin.

"What have you been learning about God? What has he been teaching you lately?"

"Hmm. That is a hard question." Droplets of water form at the ends of our hair, drip down our backs.

"You don't have to answer right away."

A few strides, "Doing what you mean," she says, "not just what you say." Her drink wobbles sideways as we scuff in gravel at road's edge.

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes," she says, "I just want to do what you say and not what you mean 'cause then I think it is closer to my way." Her sentence unfurls, rests between us. "And I think I can't get in trouble 'cause I did what you said." We striddle under a huge pine. "But, that's not right."

Pine needles soft under foot, "Wow." We meander on, "That's a good one."

We glide hand in hand. I marvel at how we traipse to the pool, play chicken-airpane-rocket, motor-boat, share the tiny locker room shower, our long hot shower, how we wander home, drip-dry hand in hand, pace out a whole afternoon. We share time. Tentative and quiet, but in the end long streamers of sentences unroll between us. They flex and weave, interweave and entwine. Invisible sinew, tendons, tissue come forth, we weave corpuscles of love, gossamer fibers of affection. They interlace: a silken net to hem us in.

Gratitude:

1022. Sunlight on our black couch.

1023. Drawing lessons. Six of us around Mom's square dining table and how we laugh and try to sketch eggs.

1024. How Mom gives us our own sketch books and new pencils and tells us the secrets of drawing.

1025. Coconut bread.

1126. Sidewalk art.

1027. Cousin Erin, another chair around the table on Tuesday at Mom's and how it feels like she's always been there.

1028. Auntie Libby who braves the blusterous day to teach 5 cousins to swim. And how they shiver and shake and take turns with Libby. And how we nearly faint at how much they learn in just two days.

1029. Honey yogurt, plain avocado.

1030. Pork roast cooked to falling apart perfection.

1031. Barbecue sauce.

1032. Broccoli slaw, bleu cheese.

1033. A bucket of ice cream eaten right out of the carton there on the car console, just Jack and me: a date.

1034. 5 peeping chicks.

1035. Fresh eggs -- in November?

1036. Dinner with friends and how we have so many children between us that we need two full tables. And how they welcome us into their stride of life and fill and fill and fill us with love (and Hawaiian chicken sandwiches). How the children talk and talk of that late night of fun.

1037. Grappling tomato plants finally tall enough for staking.

1038. Netting for the strawberries and how the children crawl under it and pick berries with even the slightest blush of red. And how they pile them on oatmeal, how they save them for friends.

1039. Black bread made with potatoes and molasses, coffee and unsweetened chocolate.

1040. Lunch with a friend and how our children squirrel around a patio table to eat PBJ while she serves me field greens with feta and bacon and olive oil dressing inside. The may years of our friendship.

1041. Rosie up crying eight or ten times last night and how I drag my leadened body to her and pat her leg and shush and kiss and tuck blankie in tight.

1042. How us kids gather at the farm anytime someone whispers, fried chicken, and how this time it's a picnic outside and the children run so long and happy through the fields that Jack's eye's swell huge with allergies and we have to bring him down with Loratadine and a shower. How he comes home in one of Gramma's t-shirts and how still we sigh any time we think about that chicken.

1043. Visiting with the sis-in-law I see the least.

1044. How Craig and I stack towers of things to pass on to other people and how each thing breaks us free of our stuff.

1045. A confrontation at the pool and how all those years of my dad modeling strong, graceful confrontation circle back in a flash and everything turns out to be no problem.

1046. Getting to have Cerissa there with me and how she is one determined gal, poised and direct. One of those moments where you get a clear picture of who these people are that are on your team and are so glad.

1047. July -- a little hole in the year where I actually rest and relax and let the days pass in one long slur.

1048. Independence Day 1776.

1049. Warm wind through open windows and doors.

1050. How Lucy traces my face at night before bed.

1051. How Craig is absolutely immovable on matters of decision. And how all this stubbornness turns out to be the cornerstone on which we build everything. Immovable, what a virtue.

The Tank

2011-06-26T22:40:00.000-07:00

"So do you think I should get it?" I tilt my head, squinch my lips. Jane and Lulie sea-saw a red basket with black wheels back and forth, skitter between racks of clothing. Jack grabs at the basket's black handle. Rosie squeals from Craig's back.

"Craig? Craig, do you think I should get this?" I wave a steal colored tank his direction and frown at Janie mid-whirl with the red basket. "I want it but," I grimace, "it's kind of expensive." Jane yanks past Lulie. "Craig?"

"Yeah?" He glances my direction.

"Do you think I should get this?" I give the tank a shake.

Eyebrows raised, face a mock-grin, "You decide."

Sigh. Furrowed brow, "I like it," Lulie wails for the basket, "oh, but it does seem like a lot to pay. Craig?" I beg, "What should I do?"

The children squirrel that basket like a merry-go-round between out stretched hands and squeals and wild swipes to capture the handle. "Decide now," Craig annunciates the words with his lips and aims a stern eye at Jane who lets Big Red sail past and lodge under a row of dresses. Jack and Lu lunge for it.

"Craig?"

"Whatever you want, dear." He blinks.

I sigh, rub steal gray tank between thumb and forefinger. Janie's pigtail swings past my elbow. For a moment I see it, the trade: the steal gray tank or the sway of hand in hand, fingers laced and feet in step as we rollick from rack to isle, parking lot to car. Suddenly, the tank is just a tank and the day swells, larger than the moment, it pulses: now, now, it happens now, here in thrift store isle, here between husband and children and red wheeled basket, here.

And so the tank falls away, sloughed off like old skin. And I arrive in the nick of time, steps and fingers interlace. Thrift and fashion blow away, steel tank, chaff, just chaff in the wind.

Gratitude:

996. The smell of fresh sheets.

997. Music, a whole collection of new songs from my brother.

998. Baby Rose graduated to big-girl bunk bed.

999. Swim lessons from Auntie Libby.

1000. Sparring with son over the truth of his story only to find the far-fetched tale TRUE. His stout heart.

1001. BBQ with Pete and Rose.

1002. A visit to the engineering office all my brothers and dad work at, their camaraderie as we jaunt through each office.

1003. Chatting with Ceris while she tore armfuls of grass, dead sod out of her vegetable garden.

1004. Swimming with four children while Craig works late.

1005. An Itoh Peony, yellow and huge, from Craig.

1006. The Rose Show and Craig's mom flushed with excitement at all the people. The pleasure of being related to her.

1007. How Lucy pats me with her wide three-year-old hands when I whisper in her ear that she makes our family fun.

1008. How my mother navigates the world of the poor, careful to know them and empower them, not just blindly give. And her statement, "It occurred to me this morning that God, at times, could be looking at me and my prayer lists the way we look at the Kenyans holding out their lists to us."

1009. How I wonder all week if my relationship with God is just all lists. And how I start to wonder, do I even know what God's personality is like, what He is like? I feel like I'm learning to pray all over again for the first time.

1010. The garden weeded in shifts, at least partly weeded.

1011. Blueberries, fat, crisp, juicy.

1012. Sidewalk chalk. Huge scribble drawing, arrows and flowers and faces.

1013. A new book on the founding fathers of the United States, a glimpse into another world.

1014. The baby weaned.

1015. Chocolate chips, fat ones the size of pinto peans.

1016. How Janie is starting to have grown-up ideas about things like patience and perseverance.

1017. How Craig models these things ceaselessly.

1018. How our pastor preaches a little farther through the sermon on the mount each week.

1019. How Jane traced her hand today, cut it out, and wrote, I love Mom and Dad, on the palm.

1020. The steady realization these past 11 years that Craig loves sacrificially, lays down his life like Christ lays down His life for the church.

1021. How I am humbled beyond words.

Puzzles

2011-06-20T00:07:00.000-07:00

"So how many years do you think Daddy and Mommy have been married?" I cuddle Rosie in the crook of my elbow, rest my feet on the coffee table. Jack turns a puzzle piece, pokes and jabs and presses it at every angle. Then he reaches for another, fingers an azure triangle along one edge.

"How many years do you think Daddy and Mommy have been married?"

He blinks. A furrowed brow, "A hundred and fifty," he states, his fingers already on the next piece.

"Almost," I say. "Eleven."

"Oh."

He pauses as if my raised eyebrows and cheerful grin should evoke some significance. Unfettered by adult pleasantries he stares a second then reaches for another puzzle piece. He rotates, presses and pokes, discards, plucks another piece from the pile. Again. And again. And again.

We let the time flutter by in the soft brush of piece against piece. I watch him hunker over the coffee table, match and mismatch color and shape. He mimics Craig.

Every stroke the silhouette of his father, he sets aside a thin piece, grabs one with four long clover arms. He rotates, repeats, rotates, tosses it aside. The gentle toss aside and tussle for a new piece, it's a liturgy, a map, a stride in Daddy's footsteps. He could toss and tussle for hours. He does.

I'm captivated by the rhythm. A chunk of afternoon slips away as I watch boy pretend to be man there at the puzzle. Rotate, toss, tussle.

Eleven years. All these hundreds of puzzles stacked in our basement, hundreds of uneven boxes. thick cut, wonky shaped puzzle pieces in box after box, and now I see it: the gentle, unflappable,unquenchable force of rotate, toss, and tussle. It's the rhythm of our life. It's Craig. Eventually all pieces fit -- all eleven years worth.

Gratitude:

974. Craig. Eleven years. The solid weight of eleven years in our pocket.

975. How the whole day children pepper in and out from dates with Gramma and then we slip away, just the two of us downtown for dinner.

976. How Lulie tucks stray hairs behind my ear when we talk nose to nose. Her huge eyes and soft breath.

977. Peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches.

978. Salted chocolate.

979. Calibrachoa in coral red.

980. How Lulie's eye patch matched her Sunday dress perfectly today.

981. Discipline. Follow-through. The relentless, never-ending, ceaseless training, teaching, investing, loving. And how it grows love between us.

982. A nugget of wisdom at church today: happiness comes from being able to enjoy things without having to possess them.

983. A birthday party for my dad and brother and the round-robin dessert where we all say what we noticed about the birthday person this year. How our true riches always show, unmistakable, and how every single time I leave proud and humbled to be related to these people.

984. A dear friend's final changed to another day so she could come over with her girls and relax, let the kids whooped it up out back.

985. Pizza and at least three different desserts all at once with a flurry of friends and how when Jack fell in the hot tub fully clothed he made the best of it.

986. Fig basalmic creme.

987. Janie in a Sunday dress made mostly of pink tule.

988. How Craig is nearly impossible to offend.

989. The realization that I'm not.

990. Tuesdays at mom's with my sis-in-laws, the camaraderie and refreshment, the delicious food, the rollicking of cousins, the comparing notes and recipes and advice, the famly-ness of it.

991. Little boy who tip toes into my room this morning to ask, "Momma, when are you going to wake up?"

992. Rosie up on all fours and scouring the house for rocks and erasers, paper clips, marbles, and anything else small enough to hide in her mouth.

993. How our children are turning out to be people we like to be around.

994. A stack of puzzles left on my door step.

995. Tomorrow slated for sun.

Umbrella

2011-06-12T23:49:00.000-07:00

"Janie, Jane!" I bellow down hardwood halls. "Jane, where are you?"

She flits out on soft feet, pads into the living room.

"Honey, Jane, where were you?" I raise my eyebrows, slide a leggo to Rosie with my toe.

"I was hiding under the bed," she looks at my feet. I pause. "Because every time I looked at you," she says, "I just wanted to cry." A glance and she peers up through lashes long and dark.

My words, harsh boulders of words, roll back to me, sag my shoulders. For a crippled umbrella, a flop-armed, splayed on the lawn umbrella, I had crushed my children. I'd furrowed my brow, flung words like gravel, harsh and heavy over my shoulder. Oh, the weight of my will as I tilled and planted and foraged out the garden all in a huff -- she hid.

I suck air into my lungs, bend knee and meet eye, "Oh Jane, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have talked to you that way. Will you forgive me?"

Later, we bum it down on the farm. Lulie and I chariot out to fetch Great-Grammie for fried chicken and triple berry pie.

We unload in the driveway, and Jack encircles Great-Grammie with sun-browned arms. She kisses the crown of his head. We stroll inside.

Jack walks barefoot over gravel and calls after Great-Grammie, "You are just a precious, precious, precious girl," he says and grabs her at the waist. Into the old farm kitchen we go. All six, seven, eight, nine of us precious, precious, precious we go.

Gratitude:

947. Baby Rose who puckers her lips all pouty and pink for kisses and how she says, "Mmmm-uh," on cue.

948. Lulie who kisses the back of my neck when I carry her piggy-back.

949. Children who trounce through the house all morning quiet as a mice when I awake with a migraine.

950. Jack who somehow writes Janie's memory verse out in four-year-old script while I sleep, and then presents it, "I wrote Jane's verse so I can go to her class."

951. Jane who tells me every church class is just better than the last and how if she just had know about that next one she would have been wanting it since she was born.

952. My children's friends who visit and play and whoop it up in the yard while us mommas, sip coffee and visit, eat pretzels and work another sprawling Springbok puzzle on the living room table.

953. Pete and Rosie safe home from their Hawaii honeymoon.

954. Stunning, brilliant, outstanding pictures of their wedding posted by the photographer.

955. Farm fried chicken, broccoli salad, mashed potatoes, gravy, home-canned beans, tripple berry pie, romp and tromp through fields and gardens, and the never ending bond of family.

956. Garden pots planted.

957. A rosemary plant, a bush actually, to replace the dead one from two winters ago.

958. How we tiddle and twaddle and visit on and on over the wedding at Mom's.

959. Dinner with my parents and dear friends, and how we all slowed and lingered to break bread, share time together.

960. Nephews who apologize for killing their Momma's tomatoes, and how their momma hauls them over to our house, still clad in pajamas, to apologize to us too.

961. New plants!

962. Rockie's spica cast off and her rollicking and laughing and all the plans to take her swimming this summer.

963. How her daddy bought her a stripey green swimsuit.

964. Jane and Jack who still as angels with me at the gallery meeting.

965. A night out in my new wedding wedges. And how funny if feels to be completely taller that everyone at the table.

966. A slice of the darkest, thickest, most heaviest melt in you mouth chocolate pie with black crumble crust. And the fresh coffee and conversation we share with it.

967. How I try to poke fun of Craig and tell Janie that he's good a communicator because he has a big face. And how she furrows her brow and nods and says, "Yeah! You BOTH have big faces." And we laugh and laugh, and she feels so grown up, and we just laugh harder.

968. How when we ask Lulie if she wants to get chickens at our house someday, she nods and nods and declares, yes, we should go to Costco and get some chickens for Gramma to COOK. And how we all think it's a splendid idea.

969. The light feeling of a headache gone.

970. A baby watermelon.

971. A note on my coffee maker from Craig set there for me to find.

972. How in a flash he takes me back to the day we met.

973. How still this day is better yet. How every day, with the full weight of all this hard earned love is better and better than each day before.

A Toast

2011-06-05T23:48:00.000-07:00

"First let me just get one thing out of the way." All tuxedo and broad shoulders, father of the groom, balances microphone and notes. He slices the air with his hand, "The thing we're the most proud of with Peter and Rosie," he says, "is that they have relentlessly kept themselves pure until their wedding day." He pauses. "In this world, that's remarkable." Father of the groom gazes at each of us, smiles, eyes earnest. "And so what I'm saying," he sweeps the air, "in case you had any doubt, they have saved themselves for this day."

We laugh; we can't help it. Smiles pull and curl at the corner of our mouths as if drawn up by a relentless spring. Our cheeks round and red, we wait, glasses poised to toast. Bride and groom smile long and wide, wider than all. She sways her shoulders as if the day had rhythm all its own. For just a moment it does; her elbow touches his. They smile and beam and hold the crowd as if the sky itself were open, heavy with blessing. I notice how she leans her shoulder light on his chest and waits.

"I mean think about it," father of the groom continues, "how often does that happen?" He spreads his arms, "We'll just let that sink in for a minute." And it does, a marvel to behold. "You won't regret that," he says. "You'll never regret that the rest of your life." And we toast.

And we dance and dance and watch. We can't take our eyes off them. They capture us, joy irrepressible. We sneak peaks out of the corner of our eyes, try not to stare. While I caper and twirl, promenade and cavort, in heels and barefoot, I sneak closer and closer just to watch, to watch them unfurl the day.

923. Peter and Rosie married -- the promise, the purity, the joy, pure joy.

924. A new sister for me!

925. The sea of family who travel from near and far to celebrate with us and witness with us the birth of a new family.

926. How when I watch Pete and Rose, I see it, every good and perfect gift truly from above, and how it resounds from the hilltops -- worth it, worth it, worth it.

927. That my parents taught all of us kids to cherish purity.

928. It's lavish display at the wedding.

929. New shoes, wedges with gold shimmer.

930. How we dance and dance and Lulie keeps saying, "Dance faster, Momma. Dance faster."

931. Slow dance with husband.

932. How Lulie, the flower-girl, flops in the green grass half through the ceremony but still manages to exit with the bridesmaids and ring bearer on cue.

933. How each of my sister-in-laws is a perfect fit in the family. How I finally have sisters!

934. Shoe shopping and great, great shoe advice from one sister.

935. Rhubarb recipes from another.

936. A book of poems from still another.

937. How we linger with relatives new and old soak in our family.

938. How Janie gathers extra bubbles to make sure Jack and Lulie get some.

939. How Myra Rose sacks out on the dance floor, limp on my arms.

940. How Jack tells me all he really wanted at the wedding was for me to sit next to him.

941. How Craig's parents gather our children and feed them yummy wedding food.

942. An afternoon breeze that rolls in to cool the tuxedo clad men and guests.

943. Husband in a tuxedo.

944. Kissin' him.

945. How the girls and I all wore flowers in our hair.

946. The birth of a new family

Practice

2011-05-29T23:17:00.000-07:00

"Hi sun," Lulie presses her lips to the window screen. "How are you today?" she stands tip-toe, leans her elbows deep into the couch back. "Good?" she chirps, "Good. Bye-bye." She slides down all in one motion and bumbles bare feet thumpty-thump through the kitchen.

The neighbor's cherry tree litters our yard with white petals. The wind sweeps and kicks drifts of them over the grass. A few moments and Lulie trundles in, a petal soft between thumb and forefinger.

"Look, mom," she says, "look what I found outside." She turns fingertips up. "That," she says, almost a whisper, "that might be from a bird." She raises both eyebrows, pets it soft, blinks. And then with a sigh, skitters off to more play.

The day swirls on. Concentric rings of play surround me. I order and reorder an army of dishes into sink and dishwasher, crunch dark chocolate like a low trumbling drum between my teeth. Tides of laundry, garden planting, school papers, they roll in and settle like surf around my ankles.

I brew coffee. And watch husband wrestle our rumpus rototiller. His broad shoulders will it in wide swaths deep into the garden and press it end to end. Black dirt unrolls, unfurls. I press my toes in the grass, Rosie piggy-back, white coffee mug in hand. He reigns the thrum-drum of that wild beast of a tiller and muscles it out of the garden. I watch him make great tiresome tasks, small like a communion wafer.

"Sorry, I've been sort of Sour Sal today," I blurt. "Will you forgive me?"

"Yup," he chimes, pauses and then heaves that roto on to the lawn. I sigh, smile.

Off to the side, Janie pipes in, "I know he still loves you," she says, and then lobs a stray chunk of sod into the green bin.

Children trail Craig. He edges the garden, and they pull and pull long snakes of sod away. The sod pops and breaks and tussles dirt everywhere. Still, we work, dirt dusted in our hair and clothes, smudged black on our hands. We work until sun sets and do the only thing we know to do, copy -- we copy Craig.

Love slips in, the smell of fresh turned dirt.

Gratitude:

896. How Rosie smiles at the sound of my voice before she even opens her eyes.

897. Homemade Thai peanut sauce, limes squeezed with my own two hands, garlic crushed.

898. Big wings of lettuce and crisp tortilla chips dipped in it.

899. Two friends navigating the world of schooling their children.

900. Peanut butter and honey sandwiches shared.

901. Mason jar refilled with chocolate chips.

902. Friend who organizes my storage room into neat stacks as easy as riding a bike. How she turns work into art.

903. Pizza with big blots of sausage and wheels of onion, peels of pepperoni, cheese.

904. How Jane and Jack sneak out of bed and dress for church while Daddy's in the shower and then beg to go with him at 6:20 in the morning.

905. How he takes them with him.

906. Tortas de Aciete, essence of anise.

907. Two well child doctor visits. Clean bills of health.

908. Jane and Jack bobbing at my elbow, sweet and patient the whole doctor visit.

909. Rachelle's baby settled in a spica cast and how sister-in-law stops by to make it less scary with baby Rockie happy in hers.

910. A family outing to a play.

911. A visit over pizza and time spent with volunteers, the exchange of wisdom.

912. How we pray together.

913. The gradual accumulation of doing the right thing each day, how it adds up, how it compounds.

914. How Lulie keeps asking when we will brush off after I tell her we need to rush off to church.

915. How even when the wind fogs up her contact, she never complains.

916. Great-Grammie, now 96 years old, the weight and glory of almost a century.

917. How when the pastor says to thank the Lord for the ones that have been salt and light to you, I see my Dad and Mom in a million memories. Thank-.you, Jesus.

918. Little friend who wants to come over for lunch, the tenderness of friendship.

919. How I'm learning to do small things with great love.

920. A garden drawn up and ready to plant.

921. How mother-in-law stops by unexpectedly.

922. Janie's prayer, "Jesus, help us to just pour out the blessings you've given us on other people. Help us to give them everything they need. Like if they need silverware, help us to give them that, or whatever they need help us to give that and bless others." Yes. May it be so.

Mint

2011-05-22T22:46:00.000-07:00

Their bare feet pound in, a chorus of drums -- thump-thump, thump-bump. Wrinkled leaves in palms, they heap the first harvest of mint up on my cutting board. I mince it down, pile it onto our salad.

Craig barbecues. I unfurl green fists of salad in white bowls, set places. We encircle the table and say grace, eat. The mint, the smoky meat, greek olives, cucumber, a kaleidoscope of summer, we visit enswirled in smells.

I pass ketchup and mustard down the line, blop jalapeno yogurt on my plate. "Mmmm."

"Mmmm," Janie echoes, "having mint on my salad reminds me of summer."

"Mmm. Me too." I swallow in big mouthfuls. "So good."

We grin. Mint. Summer. And in a small skip of a moment, it dawns on me: she's big, grown, old enough for a smell to evoke a whole season. A mile post, another chink in the path, and then before I can even swallow time skips on.

Gratitude:

874. Lulie's eye doctor and how she scored perfect on the eye test.

875. Long drive to the big city and how we play Would You Rather, Kids' Edition.

876. The zoo! A whole half a day wandering the zoo. And how we all loved different animals.

877. Tea cookies. Lemon ginger creams.

878. Green grass, billowing rhubarb.

879. Honey yogurt.

880. Dried mangos.

881. How Jack suggests we do Sunday laundry after church and then does it.

882. Lulie's prayer, "And thank-you that you not stop loving us. Amen."

883. How Jane picks up after Jack and Lulie quiet and unnoticed, just for kindness.

884. How Rosie flaps her arms to the other kids when I get her up each morning.

885. A mountain of paper pots turned into six and a half flats of plants that husband hauls out to the sun every morning and back in at night.

886. The promise of a garden.

887. Momma e-mailin' to see how I'm doing.

888. A whole watermelon gobbled up save one small wedge.

889. Jack and Craig in new shirts -- wild plaid.

890. Fried chicken and spoiling-your-socks-off love on the farm.

891. A big bag of spinach.

892. Singing at the top of our lungs when we drive and how Lulie shouts, "HEY!" on all the wrong beat.

893. How my children melt under soft words of encouragement.

894. How Rosie folds her one-year-old hands when we pray.

895. Craig's cheerful advice, "Well if you want to be a better mom, just be a better wife." And how even though we giggle and laugh, it's so true.

Thanks, Momma, for the photo.

Birthday Party

2011-05-15T22:20:00.000-07:00

"That Dana and Susan, mmmm, their special," she says. Her voice rattles. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes smile. "Mmmm, that Dana, he always talks to me," Great-Grammie squints when she smiles. "And Susan, she held the baby for you."

The living room splayed in tissue wrap and dust from the feet of family, Craig's Grammie and I squint our eyes and take in the last moments, ride out the coattails of the evening. Another birthday and our whole big family gathers. Conversation spins like a giant ferris wheel. I marvel at the love between us.

"And, I told him I will pray for him," she nods.

"Oh, thank-you, Grammie, thank-you." I pat her arm.

Everyday she prays down her prayer list, stair steps into the day on angel wings. I watch her white hair all curls and wisp. She talks on with love for my parents, and as she weaves the words, I feel it, the underpinnings of love: the strength one generation passes to the next.

Gratitude:

856. A pink dress, white flowers and ruffles for Peter and Rose's wedding.

857. Silver flip-flops to match.

858. A bouquet of pretty clothes for girls.

859. Jack and Craig off fishing like men.

860. Myra Rose nuzzled into my neck.

861. A family date at the Costco deli and how we all share my almond rolled chocolate ice cream bar.

862. A wedding shower and how us sister-in-laws gather like friends.

863. How niece and nephew come early when they ride to church with us and dress the baby and feed the children and add many hands to our morning routine.

864. How we all trundle into church early for once.

865. Slow rain that drenches deep.

866. Rotisserie chicken, caesar salad, wild rice with caramelized onions, and dinner rolls: birthday dinner.

867. The salutation: you're the people who care about these kids the most, I'm so glad you could be here. Family.

868. Bare feet, fresh swept hardwood floors.

869. How Jane and I spend away a whole afternoon folding paper pots and sipping coffee and sweet-milk.

870. Lulie's declaration," I'm a WOMAN now because I'm BIGGER," eyebrows raised, chin tucked.

871. The gush of love I feel for my parents when Great-Grammie speaks such affection for them.

872. How husband rolls up the big living room rug and shines the floors for the party. And how he leaves our big dining table moored out in the living room just for a change, for me.

873. His strong arms and steady pace.