Indomitable Spirit

She almost electrocuted herself this week that after she pinned herself under a printing press. This one seems poised for action.




Gratitude:

290. The moon-shaped bruise on Lulie's chin -- all that's left after Janie muscled the press off her sister.

291. Jane's careful blink-blink at me when I tell her, "You're earning trust, honey."

292. Jack's nuzzle in my face when I say I'm not mad, puzzle pieces forgotten.

293. The smudgy outfit Myra wore to church.

294. The crew of kids that pulled me past breakfast bowls and into the car this morning, drippy nose and head cold not withstanding.

295. The carpet husband unfurled in the basement for me, the re-roll and cut to fit part included.

296. His gravity defying will to keep doing nice things for me.

297. Our warm fire and popcorn-picnic.

298. How the children cheered when I suggested dilly beans.

299. Another puzzle. Yup. 500 pieces of the Rocky Mountains reflected in a mountain stream.

300. How the children find puzzle pieces for each other to put in. "Here Lulie, you can push this one in."

301. Sudafed. The real stuff.

302. Baby who nurses well and can say a whole sentence in an eye-blink.

303. A good, good life full of all the important things. The way good things make you feel rested inside even when you're exhausted.

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.

Boy Talk

"Watch ya thinking?" I ask.

Jack pops a pretzel in his mouth, crunches it. "Nuffin."

"Wow. Nothing?" I raise my eyebrows, "HOW do you do THAT?"

"I dunno. Just," he shakes his head, opens both eyes wide, "like this," little boy stares at a plant across the room, crunches another pretzel.

"That's all? Just like that?"

He pauses, cocks his head, "Momma," he says, "ya have to not talk."

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, "Oh."

I pass him another pretzel, pick one with lots of salt. We crunch them together and watch my house plant grow.

Older

"I'm just a good running and jumping boy," Jack slaps his knee, stomps a cowboy boot. He clack-clacks up and down the hallway, jumps and stomps, "Running and jumping boy is here," he says and flops onto the couch.

"Jack, shhhh, the baby is nursing," little boy trundles into the kitchen. Daddy flips a pancake and grabs his elbow, "Shhhhh," he says.

"O. K." He tip-tiptoes back on the hardwood, opens both eyes WIDE. "Can I kiss her, Momma?" He pokes her toes, gentle, and strains in loudest whisper, "Can I KISS her?"

I smile, whisper, "When she's done." He tiptoes back to flip pancakes.







Dinner. 14 pancakes, baseball size. Just for me. I love pancakes.

"Thank-you, Momma," Janie says, "Thank-you so much!" I hand her the whip cream, "I just love doing that," she pokes the cream spout, "because it makes me feel older. It's just like pushing on that and the whip cream comes out, makes me feel older." I pass the cinnamon and we shake a puff on top.

Every day, a little older.

Lullaby

"I wanna see Jesus hanging on the cross," she sings. "I wanna see Jesus hanging on the cross." I sneak down the hallway, step around squeaky boards. I hear it again, "I wanna see Jesus hanging on the cross." From the top bunk she sings in the dark.

"Watch ya singing?"

"Oh, just that I want to see Jesus hanging on the cross."

"Why is that?"

"I'm just singing it like a song."

"Pretty amazing what he did for us, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I love you, Janie."

"I love you, Momma."

"I'm glad you're my daughter."

The night trails off and I hold onto her song.

Wild Boy

"So," I say, "now, what are you going to do?" I grab his little hand. He wiggles, looks at the ceiling. Dinner guests mill around. "Jack-Gordon?" I raise my eyebrows. "Gordon?"

He seesaws between feet, grins, "I'll NOT be wild," he says.

"What?"

"I'll NOT be wild."

"No," I shake my head. "No, that's wrong. You have to be LOVING. BE loving to your sisters." I lean in, blink at him.

He shakes that mop of a head, slaps his hands together. "I'll BE love," he shouts, slaps his hands again and announces to dinner guests, "I'll BE love." Before I can corral all that love. His manners explode into whoops and gallops. The evening slips away and children scream merriment through the house.




Gratitude:

272. Whoop-hollers and wild redheaded son.

273. Janie on the look-out for brother and sis while they make riot-fun with friends.

274. Her fierce spirit quick to correction -- most times. Her furrowed-brow determination to harness all that will into obedience.

275. Chocolate mustaches.

276. Mountains of popcorn and grapes, the clatter of cups and cousins.

277. Black beans and coconut milk.

278. Salt.

279. Lulie fully dressed, diaper changed -- by herself!

280. Rosie-posie kicking baby feet, pounding the floor to pull me from chores.

281. Rain boots, red like summer poppies in the grey rain.

282. Climbing to bed early to steal more sleep from the night.

283. The fullness of a whole night's sleep inside of me.

284. The soft blanket husband bought me for the winter.

285. Yup. Another puzzle. 1000 pieces of lightening strikes.

286. Train tracks and leggos gathered into bins and toy box.

287. A book in the mail. The green color and book smell.

288. Grammar.

289. That Lucy only cut up her own clothes this time in a tangle with Mommy-scissors.

Relentless

"So what do you love about your life?" Coffee and a date. A big red couch and cinnamon roll.

"You and the kids," he turns. Blue eyes capture me. "I'd do anything for you guys."


Later, 11:00 pm and we argue the night out long. I cross my arms, mascara smears down my cheeks.

"Bethany," he says, "Kyle cheated me at cards FOR YEARS since he was five years older, and I owed him all those wishes," Craig raises his eyebrows, "I still didn't give up." He stares at me, "I still kept trying to WIN. I don't give up," he makes his eyes round, "Even if I have to be just be your servant, I'll never stop trying to love you."

Never stop trying to love you. Never give up.

We dig in our heels and make the frayed ends of days turn into love.




Gratitude:

255. Husband, stubborn as the day is long.

256. Black grapes.

257. Husband's words to me, I'd rather have a messy house and have you care about people.

258. Janie's obedience, I don't want to, but I'll obey you, Momma.

259. Fellowship with Cerissa on Sundays. And how she teaches her sons they are protectors.

260. A new baby in the family due for Thanksgiving.

261. Her eager parents.

262. Littlest brother grown man who hunts puzzles for us in his spare time, you know, gives us all his doubles while he races to collect more than us.

263. Sleep. The putting down of the important to sleep. Rest. And prayer that God will grow our small offerings into great miracles.

264. Another puzzle spilled out on the coffee table, the edge pieces separated out. And, how the pieces snap together snug.

265. Loyalty. Husband's family that will love you forever. Period.

266. And my parents who will love us forever. Forever.

267. How they both find ways to like us too. Little kindnesses.

268. Husband's shoes unlaced and in the middle of the floor, him home.

269. A camera for Janie to practice pictures on.

270. Vines of cherry tomatoes picked just before frost.

271. Cold mornings, sunny days.