A Man

First, they pull the grass. Daddy chops off long sideways roots of quack grass that reach into the garden. The children trail behind and gather armloads of clumpy sod, pile it in the wheelbarrow.

Jane pokes a fresh clump with her toe, "I think I need a MAN'S help." She looks around, and then gives the clod a little kick.

Daddy hacks another clean swipe at the garden's edge. He pauses, "Hey Jack, anytime someone says they need a MAN'S help, you should help them right away."

"Oh. Okay." He grabs Janie's clod and tosses it into the wheelbarrow. Jane grins.

Off to the left, another clump of grass, "I think I need a MAN," she looks around for Jack, "because I don't want to bend down and pick that up." She tries not to smile and raises her eyebrows. He slogs it into the wheelbarrow.






At the end of the garden they race back to Daddy. He saws open bags of coffee grounds and scatters long black stripes over the dirt. They wriggle their toes in it.

As daylight wanes we gather garden trowels and buckets, a pair of old blue gloves, and go inside. Jane pauses at the door, "Jack, I think I need a MAN. Will you close the door after Lulie comes in?"

"Yeah, I will." With a sideways grin he turns to wait for little sis, that same long-suffering streak of his father a badge of honor.

Real Gentle

Jack finds me out on the couch. I squeeze my eyes shut and sigh. Nap's over.

"Momma." I sit up and wedge a pillow in my back. He sidles up next to me.

"Hi, bud." We sit and stare into space, snuggle. I check my watch. We stare some more.

He nuzzles his face to me and squeezes my arm, "I'll hold you really gentle," he says, "because I know you have a baby in your tummy." He looks up, "I won't forget."

"I know," we smile and then sit some more.





Five more days. Wonder if she'll come on time.

Secrets

"Sweetheart come here, what did He tell you today?"

In the morning my children trundle breakfast bowls into the dishwasher and race to the black couch. They pass Bibles from lap to lap until everyone has the one with their favorite pictures. When they read it's a jumble. Jack sings Zachaeus, Lulie shouts, "Dat bad," and pounds her favorite picture of Goliath. Jane shushes them both between stories. Sometimes they lull into quiet whispers.

Then they find secret places to pray.

Jack crawls under the wardrobe. Janie squeezes into a small shelf on a nightstand. Lulie toddles down the hallway.




Later they tell me about prayer.

"He told me when I think about something I wanna do that's bad not to do it," Jane says. "I said, 'Will you help me?' and He said, 'YES.'"

Jack squeezes my hand. "I said, 'Thank-you for dying for me SO MUCH,'" he whispers, "and He said, 'I love to die for you SO MUCH.'"

I find Lulie down the hall calling, "I love you, God. I love you, GOD."




And we call in the day with secrets of love.

I love you, God.


***


Thankfulness:

4. baby rolling in my belly

5. ribs numb, spread wide to encircle the child

6. husband who makes breakfast oatmeal

7. twenty minutes of bare feet before I pull on maternity support hose, again

8. maternity support hose

9. my doctor, the who came middle of the night to deliver Lulu

10. a still moment before children pad down the hallway into the morning

Sorrrryyyy, Momma

Anyone else had a few days like this?


"You can't hide from God things," Jack negotiates a mouthful of oatmeal, "Yeah, because He knows what you have done." With a pause and a swallow, "He sees it INSIDE you."

Morning light shines across our table as the boy shovels in more gruel. Inside of me. I probably look all scribbled green. Green and no guile. I suppose like Lulie I'm pigtails and green tummy to God. And sorrrryyyy. Most days I still can't believe he forgives me over and over and OVER for all my faults. For not being perfect. I'm not perfect. I sigh.

The morning settles around us in breakfast bowls and puddles of milk. And as grace swoops down, I breathe in the slow moments. Children chatter, one helps Lulie scoop bites. Even as I sigh, I long to obey this God. He forgives me.

Manure.

Manure. Our children can hardly believe their ears, "Cow POOP?!" Jack squints one eye. Janie laughs, "In the GARDEN?"

Daddy distributes 20 bags across our back vegetable garden. He empties them in big black strokes.

"Hey Daddy," Jane eyes the remaining sacks, "how do you think they get the cows to poop in the bags?"

A miracle, I suppose. Any takers?

Follow Me

"Momma, you can say, 'Follow me,'" Jack says, "because I will follow you all the days of your life." He tilts his head, grins. Follow me. My boy leans on one elbow and crunches another bite of cereal. I swallow more coffee.




Later, I watch them trounce through damp morning grass and clamor up rocks. They pull dandelions, squish spiders, trowel their fingers in the stream. They follow each other. One plops a pine cone in the water, and all three lay tummy down on the bridge, watch it float by. Another finds a dead bee, all fuzz and wings, well, one wing anyway. We save it to show Daddy.

Without meaning to they step into the day, all wet grass and muddy trails, tilting their heads like their mother and grinning like their father.

"Everyone when he is fully trained will be like his teacher."
~Luke 6:40

Follow me. Sort of takes my breath away.

My Jane

"Hey Momma, I don't really know what God thinks of you talking that way."

Oh yeah.

Anyone else have to reign in their tongue lately?






Thankfulness:

1. Little one holding littler one's hand across the street.

2. Half cup of coffee.

3. Mussy curls, pigtails, smudgy feet.