Reformation Day

"It's Reformation Day. Happy Reformation Day everybody!" Bluster and cheer, my words trumpet up the stairs and scatter across the oak floor. Jane and Lu poke their heads around the top stair.

I jetty up the wooden steps, each footfall a hollow thump. "Hey, Happy Reformation Day!" The unlikely marriage of loud and cheerful the children stare, then grin.

"What's that mean?" Jane jaunts, "that the house smells like bleach?" Teehee, we titter and sniggle.

Later, apportioned at the north end of the old black couch, knees snaggled up, Bible propped on top, Jane unravels more of Revelation. I dump moppy pools from breakfast bowls, scrape oatmeal off with my fingernails, squirt blue Dawn in the frying pan, suds off oil.

"I want to tell you something I just noticed here," Jane lilts and traces the page's face. "God," she pokes a word I can't see, "like a fake god, isn't capitalized."

I lean back from the sink and face her directly, memorize her all folded up like a ladder there on the couch. "Yup." I lean back, slide another square white bowl into the dishwasher, "It's true."

So I slog more dishes from sink to washer, suited up in the fatigues of motherhood. Reformation Day, fake gods, capitalization, here, on the front lines we wage the war of knowledge. I mostly just watch, put the props in place, bear wittiness -- watch the holy unfold.

Gratitude:

3744. "Mommy, you drippy-drippy," Myra pats my wet running jersey.

3745. "Mom," Lucy shakes off a polka-dot cupcake liner, "I might wash this off when I'm done and put it on for a hat."

3746. Tuesday-girls. Sisters-in-law gather at Mom's. Prayer, we link arms afresh, and I realize how alone I've felt.

3747. We pray before school. "Jesus, please speak to us and help us to think about you all day," Lucy prays.

3748. "No, we're not going to play with that today," I pluck the screeching recorder out of Myra's hands. Jane wrinkles her chin. "That is the best I have see you handle that," she nods.

3749. Winter chili, cheddar, popcorn, peach crisp, apple pie, round-robin conversation and laughs: another Reformation Day comes and goes.

3750. I tell Jack that people steal crocodile eggs and hatch them in zoos. "Yeah, people do weird things these days," he says.

3751. Mom and I finally unroll enough skeins of conversation to catch up. I trace her footsteps half around the globe and memorize her clear eyes and rainless voice, the gentle lull of listening.

3752. Rotisserie chicken, sweet potato fries, cranberry salad, chuckles, chortles, fractures of laughter, Christmas music, conversation like the circle of a ferris wheel, almond cake: friends, Jesus, thank-you for friends.

3753. A sorely needed night on the farm we unspool the evening in conversation and winter soup, a spread of which I brought nothing to except myself: the gift of family, I drink it in.

3754. "I peed in my bed," Myra confesses. "What?" I blink. "Yeah, I peed," she nods. "What?" I persist. "You still loving me," she grins.

3755. "I tooted," Myra announces at the table, "Bless you!"

3756. A Christmas sweater! O glory, a Christmas sweater that I plan to wear all season. Let the celebration begin.

3757. We trundle out of the car this morning. "I don't go to church to learn about Jesus," Jane tells Lucy. "I learn about Jesus every day. I go to church to teach others about Jesus."

3758. "I didn't look, but your judgement is always good," Jane says when I ask if she wants more garbanzos in her bowl.

3759. "Jesus, help us to know you and love you more every day," Lucy prays.

3760. "Want to scratch my pillow and make a funny noise?" Jack offers.

3761. "Mommy, your coat's on backwards," Myra persists, her green stretch pants inside out and backwards.

3761. Craig brings home ten pounds of apples and his old easy smile.

3762. I remind myself how what a prize I have in him.

Special

"There was someone at the pool," Lucy says, "who was wearing a swimsuit that wasn't very private." She sidles up under my elbow. I pull my eyes from the computer and see her nod in time with the words. She tilts her head.

There at my elbow, warm hands, she strokes my arm. "That's because no one taught them to be private," I say, "and cover up their special places." Her eyes round plums, she blinks at me, stares. She mimics the flat line of my eyebrows.

"Probably it won't be as special for when they get married," she concludes and watches the arc of my eyebrows to see if she's right. A small exchange, the landscape of the face communicating all.

"Yep." We blink our eyes in agreement. "That's true."

So simple.

We map the world according to what is special.

Gratitude:

3727. We endure the pukin' flu. Miraculously only three of seven get it.

3728. "My tummy actually hurts a little too," Lucy warns, "but not that much," she adds and pulls through strong and healthy.

3729. "Ahhh, no," Myra trots into the kitchen, "Daddy don't want coffee. I'll have it though."

3730. "I have been wearing my jammies all day," Jack observes. "How'd it feel?" I ask. "WARM."

3731. "So what do you want to be when you grow up?" I smile to Myra. "Fine." she says.

3732. "Jude's FUNNY," she narrates about her cousin, "and KIND."

3733. "Do REAL monkeys open their own bananas?" Lucy wants to know.

3734. A seminar, a crusade, an old fashioned revival, my Mom returns safe and fresh from a tiny village in the countryside of Kenya.

3735. I marvel at the tsunami of encouragement and friendship I found missing while she was gone.

3736. Lucy speculates that if you do bad things and are really, REALLY sorry and you are a JEW, Jesus will let you into heaven. I tell her that's not true. "But if you are a Jew and you love Jesus, He will," she says. "Then you are messianic." Thanks Chuck Missler.

3737. My dad compliments my outfit so I wear it two days in a row.

3738. Friday night, I dislodge my temporary crown, our dentist out of town. Over the phone, he tells me how to cement it back.

3739. Sister-in-law invites the kids and me over for Sunday pizza while Craig works.

3740. I knit another 20 rounds on my hexagonal blanket.

3741. October Baby.

3742. Coffee ice cream in little glass bowls scooped full.

3743. Another week, five children, a wonderful husband, and a Savior to hold me.

Names

"Why do you think the people in line were calling each other names?" Jane queries, knitting sprawled on her lap in the backseat.

I shift the car to park. The night cold and moist, we hesitate for a moment. "I don't know. I didn't really notice," I say. "What were they calling each other?"

"Well," she see-saws, "things like fatty and, and -- um, like I-don't-like-you." She gropes for an approximation.

I glance at the house, porch light incandescent, the evening sky obsidian. "Some people think that's ok," I pause. The words lop out like a pile of logs. "I think it's disrespectful to God," I add, "'cause He made us."

"Oh." We let this set for examination. She knits to the end of the row. I make a note in my journal.

And then, as if on cue, she winds scarf and yarn down into a ball, spears it with the knitting needles. I tug a bag from the passenger seat, socks and leggings a lump at the bottom. We trundle into the oatmeal and cinnamon breath of home, a little more knowledge added to the collection.

Gratitude:

3709. "There's a little thing in Pastor Will's class that when you put money in, it makes it go up into Africa," Lucy tells me.

3710. "Everything in the Bible is REAL," she says.

3711. "It's hard to break colored pencils," she confesses later, "but I can break crayons."

3712. My mother sends updates from Kenya each day. I am humbled, down-on-my-knees awestruck by the power and love of Jesus to save. Thousands come to the Crusade. More than a thousand turn to Jesus.

3713. A sister-in-law joins me for laundry and coffee. We look over her beautiful photos and share art and life.

3714. A new friend comes for granola and tea. I am blessed by the sweetness of her love for the Bible, the reverence, the joy.

3715. My dad parses out what he's learning while Mom's away in Kenya and shares it with me.

3716. I worry all week over a doctor appointment that goes well.

3717. I dread visiting the dentist to have a crown re-done. Suddenly it's over, and I'm grateful for the good care.

3718. Jack scrambles to clear his breakfast dishes when I mention it need to be done.

3719. "Boogers, boogers," Myra croons at my elbow, "I like boogers."

3720. We attend a birthday party of where friends feel like family.

3721. Craig's mom drops by to say hi.

3722. My dad calls for tips on pie making.

3723. Jane and I take a date. I try to be more fun.

3724. We enjoy Sunday lunch with new friends.

3725. "So you think that this trouble would all go away if I just tried to be more fun?" I clatter down the stairs and poke my head around the corner. Craig nods. I grin. Ok.

3726. Another week skitters to motion, and I get to start by being more fun.

***We just received word that the youngest son of a dear friend in Kenya has died of Malaria. Please join us in prayer for them.

Carrots

"Want me to wash TWO carrots," Jack lopes into the kitchen, "in case you want one on our date?" Smudgy fingers, he holds up two tail ends of carrots, soil smirched on knees and elbows, smutched across his forehead. Carrot harvest.

"Sure."

He scrubs the little nubs with an old vegetable brush. He swipes them dry, holds them up. "Look, it looks like a cross." He palms them, shoves the orange jewels down to the bottom of his pocket. Then we leave, and the pocket swallows his whole hand while he digs them out.

"Here ya, go Mom." He rubs a piece of lint off the tangerine root.

I crunch the coral sugar root, candy down my throat. "Mmm. I can't believe how good these are. Thanks, Jack."

We sail off. "What I did," he says, "is I sneaked some coupons for ice cream in my wallet in case we might want some."

I smile. We gaze out our respective windows, me the windshield, he the backseat window. "Oh. Thanks." Matter-of-fact, we let he moment unroll as if these things didn't need a lot of fuss.

"Mommy, how much are the drinks at Starbucks?"

"A lot." I prop my arms over the steering wheel, marvel at the quiet between each sentence, at the simple cadence of conversation.

"How much?" I can feel the arch of his eyebrows behind me.

"Some of them four dollars," I say.

"Oh," he nods, "I've got seven dollars. And forty cents. And a couple of pennies."

We let that rest as if the matter were settled. Seven dollars. Forty cents. A couple of pennies. Enough.

And so it is, the boy heart rises to be like his father and provide.

Gratitude:

3672. "Lets have a drawing contest and see who can draw the best bee's nest," Jack tolls.

3673. "You peed in them? Again? Your pants? Go. get. them. I want to see the pee." I frown and watch Myra trot down the hall. "When you say that," Jane shakes her head, "what scares me is that she runs to her room, not the washer."

3674. "Mom, I need to show you something in here that I think is poopy," Lucy calls from the bedroom.

3675. "I like Joe's toes," Myra says and squeezes a baby toe.

3676. "How 'bout every Saturday is Organization Day," Jane offers.

3677. Myra wipes her face with the kitchen rag. "Ma," she says, "I'm, getting the boogers out a my eye."

3678. We eat heirloom tomato salad, fresh mozzarella, and blackberry pie at Mom's. We sip coffee and pray for her trip to Kenya, the crusade, the people.

3679. Almond chocolate bark.

3680. Our children learn the first question you ask when you meet a new kid: Is you mom home so my mom can meet her?

3681. We continue to study Revelation: the title deed of the earth, the scroll, the Lamb as He had been slain, Ruth, Boaz, the kinsman redeemer. "This is sort of weird," Janie says, "how it all fits together piece to piece to piece."

3682. "I don't really like clothes," Lucy confesses. "I just like going naked."

3683. Jane interrupts homework. "Mommy, would you turn Pandora on 'cause Jack's singing is -- annoying. Unfortunately his singing is not as good as the people on Pandora."

3684. "I got faster at math," she says. "Yesterday I could only do one of these problems in one breath. Now I can do one and a half."

3685. "This one's my dagger," Myra says and stabs the air with a teal blue 19 gauge knitting needle.

3686. "Joey kind a poops like animals," Jack nods, "'cause he poops wherever he is." He pokes Joe's baby belly. "But when he's older he won't."

3687. "Our family does not want crumbs on the floor," I punctuate with a frown. Lucy widens her eyes. "But the Devil does?" she says. "My clean up my mess," Myra adds.

3688. A neighbor brings over hand-me-down shoes for Myra.

3689. Pizza pie, a rainbow of salads, peach pie, laughter to make your cheeks ache.

3690. Finally, we completely organize all the kids' drawers. "Thank-you that we have enough clothes that we could even make a mess," Jane prays. "I know that in some countries that would not be possible."

3691. The kids reflect on Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. "I think you shouldn't dress up like a boy," Jane says. "You shouldn't fight if you don't know what end of a sword you are using," Lucy adds. "I think you shouldn't steal stuff unless you ask," Jack says.

3692. "I was gonna sword fight with knotting needles with Jack," Jane confesses, "and thought, I probably should be working."

3693. We have our Thursday Writer's Workshop. "The word combination that you want to be a sentence isn't a sentence because it doesn't have a verb," Jane says.

3694. We circle up for the vice-presidential debate.

3695. "I understood very little," Jane comments on the debate, "but I could tell just by the way he was talking, he is very confident."

3696. "Mom, "Lucy croons, "can I pick Joe up into my arms and hold him up and when I feel like I'm gonna drop him, put him back on the ground?"

3697. "I love you bigger than the sky," I tell Myra. "I love you bigger than a mouse," she replies, "really big one mouse."

3698. Jack explains the fall of man, "Like this is half of the lie: Your eyes will be opened and you will be like God. Your eyes will be opened but not like God."

3699. "You already spilled two times" I tell Myra. "One, two. Two times." Her face lights up, "Hold my horses, mom?"

3700. Lucy slaps our hefty dinner table. "If everybody helped," she says, "we probably could tip this table over."

3701. "Hey Jack," I overhear in the kitchen, "can you help me with the milk? Thanks. That was a test. You got an A+ on it."

3702. Burgers and Canasta with Pete and Rosie.

3703. "Hey Momma, wanna get up? I made you eggs," Jane greets me this morning.

3704. "Sorry. Forgive me pinch you?" Myra says to Lucy.

3705. I finish grades for progress reports.

3706. My mother safely lands in Nairobi, Kenya with the Spring of Hope team. Now en route to Adiedo, I pray of the coming seminar and crusade.

3707. I reflect on God's provision through my husband and swell with gratitude for his hard work.

3708. I ruminate on the obvious: There is enough time in each day for the things Jesus wants me to do. I just have to determine what those are.