Dinner

Courtesy of Urban Rose Photo.

"My act of service," Jane says, "was taking care of extra bowls at lunch." She leans on an elbow, spoon slack in a pool of black beans. "And my words of love," she says, "are for Momma." She tucks her chin, "I love that you make us obey you."

I watch the shy top of her eyes, an easy smile slung across her face. "Jane, I'm so proud of you. Why do you say that?" I hold her eyes like a bird in my hand that lilting ribbon of a smile slack and serious.

She rounds her eyes, arches her eyebrows. "So that we can learn to obey authorities," she says, "like God and Daddy and the people that are over you." She plucks her spoon and scoops up shining pebbles of beans. She presses them to the roof of her mouth like chocolate.

I let the moment flutter, a ribbon in the wind, watch her carry on as if she'd traced the simple A B C of penmanship. The day wound up into a tight bobbin of a night, I catch my breath at the clarity.





Gratitude:

3789. Tuesday-girls iron out Thanksgiving plans.

3790. A checker-plaid button-down -- rosy red and iced teal.

3791. "Mom," Lucy announces, "we can pick our nose. We just can't eat the thing that is in our nose."

3792. I find another friend loves God's word. We visit while my children build block towers for her baby boy to topple.

Courtesy of Urban Rose Photo.

3793. Olivia comes to dinner. I am blessed by her laugh, her earnest questions, the lull of conversation a gentle breeze through the leaves of the house, her presence pleasure. Friendship encircles us.

3794. A migraine -- pain explosion. "Lord help me through the pain," I pray. Hours later I arise weak and well. In the kitchen, to the gentle shush of crayons on paper, Lucy sings again and again, "Not my will but Your will. Not my will but Your will. Not my will but Your will." Her words the ticking clock at my back, wash me with strength.

Courtesy of Urban Rose Photo.

3795. A red sweater, soft, so soft.

3796. I visit with Mom, the low-tide of the headache washes out. I fall again to bed and rest.

3797. Sophie and dinner, the exchange of friendship and faith, we wash it down with apples and cinnamon, coffee and boardgames. The 16 years difference in our age melts to level ground, peers, and the lovely, lovely result: friends.

3798. Craig takes Jane to the annual Turkey Shoot.

Courtesy of Urban Rose Photo.

3799. "Mom, I have some information you may want to know," Jane announces earlier this week. "Myra coughed and it made a noise like puke."

3800. Pictures from Rosie.

3800. Dinner on the farm.

3801. Craig continues the gentle and unending tug of leadership that first drew me to him.

Courtesy of Urban Rose Photo.

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