"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.
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