A Toast

"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

Grampa

"My dad kept his Model-T's in the garage. I must have been two."

His first memory. "What color were they?"

"Black. All the Model-T's were black," he says. "They didn't make colors until the Model-A." I see his little boy hands stuffed in pockets, bare feet in the garage.






The depression. "Kids wore canvas shoes back then. Converse. The girls wore pink ones, the boys, black." We trundle up a back path, dog and kids in tow. Lulie thumps by, pink converse laced up to the ankle. I picture Grampa's ten-year-old hands lacing up black ones.






Back in the cabin we settle in. Wide arm-chairs, a cup of coffee, "I drove her to her appointments," he says. His mother. Breast cancer.

"So it was pretty big when it came back?" Grampa was 21. I see his hands there on the steering wheel taking Momma to the city.

"It's not the size," he says.

"Just how far along it was?"

He strokes Paddy-dog. "The stage." Paddy closes her eyes. Afternoon sun warms her black coat and Grampa's hands. Doctor hands. "When I was practicing," he says, "sometimes we'd see something called a spontaneous remission. Never could explain it." Paddy nuzzles his hand, "Unless someone upstairs, was lookin' out for ya."

Upstairs. It hangs in the air. Someone upstairs. "Yup." Wish I could have met his mother.

Later he says Great-Uncle Alan went to the war, took a bullet at the Battle of the Bulge -- shattered his arm, wrist to elbow. A year later, he left the hospital, one arm forever shorter. He never played the clarinet or the piano again.






Grampa picks up rocks for the kids to try and skip. He rubs the dirt off, holds Paddy's leash, leans into the pistol holster across his shoulder. "Here you go, Jack." Little boy kerplunks it in the deep water.

Paddy-dog pulls us home, to the mountain cabin.






The days leaf by. A month away now, I miss Grampa. Wish we could sprawl the table with three games of solitaire and see who wins more. I'm hungry for more stories.

A good man is hard to find.

Grampa

"Jesus," Jane whispers, "please give me a patient heart." Pine trees and open meadows whiz past her window, "Every moment, patient." She stares, "Patient. Patient." A slash pile smolders gray smoke by the road, "Patient heart."

Sandwiched into our car we sail through Montana back country. Grampa smooths a list between thumb and finger. Garage sales. He mapped them out. One here, another there, or wait two roads back, did anyone see a sign stapled to the phone pole? Craig and Grampa parse out country roads, small town streets, unmarked dirt trails.

"We did NOT eat up all the gum," Jack frowns at Janie from the way back.

"Yes," she says, "We DID."

"NO. We DIDN'T."

"YES."

I lean over the baby seat and raise both eyebrows, "Janie. Stop."

Up front, Grampa unfurls a map. Worn folds gape open like little eyes. He runs fingers over the roads.

"But Momma, he's WRONG," Janie says.

"I know. Be stronger."

"But Momma, he's being a bad boy."

"I know," I say, "Be. Stronger."

"Oh."

Grampa assembles the map back into folds, presses the creases, closes worn spots. "Take a left." We trundle over railroad tracks and onto a dirt road. Stronger. I look at Grampa. Gray hair almost white. These past five years Gramma gone and he still makes maps and hunts garage sales. Five years, one next step and another. Another. And another.

I lean over the baby seat, squeeze Jane's hand. The car silent, we sit, wait. Another bend in the road, and patience builds. Strength begins.







Gratitude

125. Grampa. 89 years almost and still as straight and honest as the day is long.

126. A long car drive, a late night, and Grampa still awake when we all pull in.

127. Cedar and soap, the smell in my clothes when we get home from Grampa's cabin. I don't unpack, close the suitcase and hope that in the morning I can smell it again.

128. Red geraniums. Grampa plants them every year the way that Gramma did. Me too.

129. Shallow mountain ditch that the kids float. My piles of memories of when I was a kid.

129. Brownies.

130. Coffee.

131. Garlic, onion, blue cheese burgers that husband barbecued.

132. Grilled squash and onions, balsamic vinegar, olive oil.

133. Chocolate. Black chocolate.

134. Watermelon.

135. How a kiss or a band-aid heals all Lulie's owies.

136. How Jane can make tennies, jean skirt, gray leggings, and a big red flower all seem to go.

137. How the kids try to give me their money after payday like tokens of love, then settle for buying bananas when I give the money back.

138. A soft bed I fall into at night.

139. A strong husband who guards me 'til morning.

140. The gift of a morning run.

141. Teaching our children (and me) to keep a tidy house.

142. Thirty little girl toes painted pretty.

143. The colors we picked. Lulie pink for the bottle was pretty. Janie blue for the color was pretty. Me red for the twinkle in husband's eye made me want it.

144. The slow moments where Jack repeats the same question seven times, and I let the afternoon ease by, nothing better to do than listen and repeat. Or laugh again.

Jack

"Can I hold my little girlie?"

Towers of laundry surround me, "Ok."

He balances Rose over skinned knees, wedges one hand under her head. He tilts his head to match and whispers warm secrets to her. Between bricks of laundry I lean into their small world. "I will protect you," he croons and presses cheek to cheek.

She squeaks. He rocks. She chirps. He rocks some more and looks up, "She makes that noise because she LOVES me," he says. He lifts her tiny head and begins to sing, "My little Rose, my little little Rose, my baby Rose..." The turrets of laundry fade into the walls, and I watch to see the boy begin to be man.

A man.

The legacy continues. Thanks Daddy, Grandad, Grampa, and all the Greats, Uncles too, our men of renown.



Gratitude:

52. Little boy who hums at the table and eats deep bowls of oatmeal.

53. Five-year-old sister who pours and cooks oatmeal while I rest on the couch.

54. Eight azure eyes of my children that SEE.

55. A surgeon, all blue scrubs and gray hair, who saved Lucy's sight.

56. Popsicles, watermelon, grass clippings up to the knees, sprinklers, and sop-wet children.

57. My mother, the measure of a woman, friend to me all these years.

58. Husband, bean-sprout-counter who points to each newborn leaf for the children.

59. Slow paced days, little ones gathered underfoot.

60. Cookies, nuts and chocolate chunks, oat flour, real butter.

61. Tides of laundry that ebb and flow like sand over the house.

62. Husband who wades the tide and calls our home a life on the beach.

63. A heritage of man-strength passed down from father and father's father and his father on down the family tree. A legacy of manhood.

64. "Hold me, Momma," and Lulu clamors up my creaky chair, grabs me in a bear-hug.

Great-Grammie

95. She turned 95 this May.

We named our boy after her husband. Gordon. Such a man. Such a husband. Wish he were here. Even so, a daughter unfurls the yellow table cloth and we celebrate. Grammie wears a blue sweater made years ago; all that blue coaxed in to stripes and a curving collar to encircle her shoulders.







Over rosemary roasted chicken, we open cards. The great-grandchildren cipher out scrawlings. Grandsons give hosta and a daisy. Her children surround her. Grammie blesses each like the strains in an old hymn. Each verse rings sweeter than the last.

Every day Grammie prays for us. Every day like Daniel of old, she marks time by her prayers. There on old blue carpet, brilliant blue in the living room, she speaks our very names to the Lord in heaven. Her knees grow tired, but her voice is strong. Each day she comes again, bows in prayer. Each day she calls out blessing and healing as she waits for heaven. Such riches I've married into.

Dedication

Today, among family and friends we dedicated Myra Rose to the Lord. Our children smiled and waved to the crowded pews. Lulie chattered on in girlish delight and milled from hand to hand. Finally, Daddy tethered her grinning self to our side for the prayer. Jane, Jack, Lulie, grandparents and Great-Grammie, aunts and uncles, cousins, a baby in our arms -- such blessing near and far. As we stand before God and all, I smile wide. And, even with my eyes closed I feel Craig at my elbow, the best part. I know every step will be blessed. Lord, our daughter is yours.

Who knew on the one year anniversary of my half-marathon we'd dedicate our fourth child to the Lord? And to think in three short days my brother now leaves for Africa. Has it really been a year since Craig was there? I wonder what the next one-year-stride will bring.



Gratitude:

22. The bleating cry of my baby.

23. Dirt under two-year-old fingernails.

24. My belly sinking back to normal size.

25. Going barefoot.

26. Painting fingernails with daughters.

27. Tall glasses of water.

28. Stretchy swaddling blankies, bright colors.

29. The guileless blue of my husband's eyes.

30. Little boy who holds my hand so cars won't hit me.

Anniversary

So today marks a nine year anniversary. Nine years ago I married this man (the one on the right). Here he is in Africa, handsome from half around the world.

Africa. The whole thing reminds me of an IQ test we took years ago. Craig beat my score. An unfortunate and decisive victory. {Sigh} It's laughable now, a couple of measly points and I did the only logical thing a smart girl does. I FREAKED. For those of you who know him, Craig wins at EVERYTHING. He's amazing. :) Think we're competitive? Let's just say we even have blood pressure competitions seeing who can score the lowest blood pressure at the grocery store pharmacy. (Try it, just thinking about it will raise your blood pressure.)

So anyway, I moped around for a few days until finally a very sweet sister-in-law asked, "Do you want your husband LESS intelligent than you?" Haha, touche'. No wonder it is a delight to banter with this guy still nine years later. He keeps me guessing. And who can put a score on irrepressible optimism. Pure gold.

Africa? That was an outrageous idea. Crazy. Out of the question. Worse than an IQ test, another worthy freak out topic. And still I hear my brother's voice, "Well, what kind of a man do you want Jack to be seeing?" And imitating. A fearless one. Honorable and fearless.

The kids still talk on Africa. Yesterday, driving in the heat their giggles weave into the roar of wind blowing through the windows. Through the white noise Jack's voice surfaces, "But, WHY did Daddy go to Africa?" His voice hangs in the air.

Janie takes the reigns, "Because GOD told him to go to Africa!"

What a gift. He went because God told him to. It's as normal as water. God TOLD him to. How inadequate I feel. Or blessed. Spoiled.

Janie's chest swells with a smile. "'Cause God told him to!"

Clippings

Just wanted to say, thank-you to Momma and Mommy-in-law for making this possible. Look at what sweet grassy feet we've gone on and made. Trouncing through the fresh possibilities of our children I pray we grow them so well. Treasure beyond words. Thanks.

10 Years

10 years. 520 Sunday lessons. Thousands of children. Hundreds of volunteers. A man devoted to his Savior. Breathtaking. Thanks, Craig. I'm proud to be called your wife. Happy 10 year anniversary as a Children's Pastor.

Resurrection Clothes

My children wore their Easter clothes to a funeral today. Resurrection clothes, I guess. Plaid and flowers hand in hands we munched over stodgy spring grass up a neat sidewalk to the funeral home. Inside my children's wide eyes absorbed black ornate rugs, soft and deep as quicksand, solemn faces, and I suppose, the knees of a lot of suits. Janie carried our handwritten card as a matter of rank. Jack held my hand.

With friends and relations we marked the passing of a friend of a dear friend. While people shared, I realized the shadow of this man was far greater than the man himself. I was struck by the indelible mark he's left on lives close to him. Funny, if the lighting is right, we are so much more than the sum of our parts. Isn't influence like this, a shadow cast far out beyond our feeble attempts at greatness. It's almost as if it sneaks up on us, piled up in small gestures, simple moments around a table passing the potatoes and carrying on about deadlines and raises and dessert. Suddenly before we know it, there behind us is a shadow quotient of all those days ironed out in a perfect silhouette of character. I was honored to come today with my kids.

I savored up mismatched moments of Jack and Jane racing over the front lawn, a flurry of watercolor blue and chestnut brown tangled in a game of tag. Race to sidewalk, race to Momma, lob a Cheerio in Lulie's mouth, refrain from tagging to the ground. Base! One of them grabs my leg.

In the end I left, shadows trailing behind. Each day I pray my face will be warmed by the light of my Savior that my shadow may rise up and honor all it touches.

POP!

Taking a moment to marvel at the extravagant kindness of God, we welcome my nephew, Jude Dana, into this world. 8 lb. 14 oz., Monday, March 9, 2009. I'm sure Cerissa will share the richness of this boy and his brothers in the coming days here.

Love and kisses to all and also baby Gabe, Jude's new cousin, born just a few days before him. What lavish blessing.

For all you mommas out there, Janie wants to know: Is it really LOUD when babies POP out?

Please do tell!

Lulie Lu Hoo

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,























And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all...

~Emily Dickinson


My friend Rose Emily takes pictures of moments you've forgotten anyone is watching. You could probably tell from the pics on this post.
http://rfeuersteinphotography.blogspot.com/

Let's All Shout!

Here's a shout out to Daddy's Momma and Dad!
Yay!! Ya-Hoo, Yippie, Hooray for Gramma and Grampa!














Way we see it, anyone who can grow a super-hero as great as Daddy is definitely worth their salt. Hope we all turn out so well, we've got a legacy to carry on. Family, what a treat to be a part of something bigger and better that any one of us alone.














You can see that little Lulu is an excellent judge of character.

Great-Gramma

I remember my Gramma making this same expression sometimes when she was thinking. One more flash of the incredible heritage we have in family. As if the antithesis to society's decay, we pass on a little bit of who we are. And like Gramma's expression, it appears in moments of its own choosing, echoes of who we came from.



















What a great work of art to be a part of - the hilarity and delight of looking like our generations, but also the elegance of souls linked together through time.














Always in motion.

The Measure of a Man

Here he is, the man of the house, the world, the century! Yes, God picked Incredible Hulk as king of our mountain.















I don't know where he finds the energy to whip these chillin's into such a joyful ruckus each night as I am settling in to let the rigor of the day melt away.














I suppose anyone who inspires such unguarded admiration should be the one they'll picture when they think of God.




















This guy, even fishes out slivers.














And gives big kisses!

Tin Cup

This September we had the distinct privilege of visiting my Grampa in Montana. He sure is a spry young man for 87. We talked life and politics and left better than we came.

What a blessing.














The kids and I were really winded keeping up with him on the morning walk!














I used to swing between these same trees when I was a little girl.
Made me think of all the precious things we pass on to our children.
One day, like Grampa, we look back and have a legacy.
What a heritage we have!