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

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.

Tokens of Love

"You're looking so grown up, Momma." Jane scoots over between our breakfast bowls and pats my shoulder.

Jack nods, "You're lookin' just so grown up."



"Your eyes are green." Jack stares at my face when I tuck him into bed. "I love them," he says. Before I can smile, he pulls my face down, kisses the tip my nose.

Green eyes and all grown up.

Prospectin'

Jane and Jack prospect the yard. An old sprinkler joint from the repair bin, last year's gooseberry netting, cardboard, branches, leaves, a hand trowel, the occasional marble or bead or smooth stone, they gather treasure.




Lulie knows the game. Dirt and all.




I squeeze into a child-sized picnic seat and warm my face in the sun. "I'm exhausted."

"Hey Momma," Janie looks up, "ask God, if you want to be tough." I watch her eyes, smooth lakes of blue. "Have you asked Him?"

Oh. Nope. I was just gonna suffer through. Silly me.

Jack

"Watch out," Jack calls, "there's a berry strong person coming up the stairs."

Goggles on, baby bottle and hack saw in tow, he pokes his head in the kitchen, "We're playing DOCTOR." He raises both eyebrows, "I'm the DOCTOR." Still for only a moment, he rounds the corner off to work. No doubt Jane or Lulie awaits his miracle cure.

Between peanut butter sandwiches, floors to sweep, dishes and laundry and piles of story books, the day lilts by. Jack asks if we can call the new baby Babe-the-Blue-Ox. He offers to lend Lulie his toothbrush.

When I tuck him into bed I lean down eye to eye with this boy. He brushes stray hairs from my face, presses my cheeks between small hands. I watch those blue eyes. "Who are you gonna be someday, Jack?"

He smooths my hair, pauses. "I'm gonna be like Daddy someday."

Of course, Daddy. I see it there guileless and unflappable.

I remember how Janie called out this morning, "Look, I'm dressed," and raised both shoulders. And as I stare now at my boy I still hear his remark, "Mmm. You're pretty, Jane."

Yes, like Daddy.

Good Guys

"Momma," Janie tilts a mess of curls to one side, "do you know for sure we're gonna turn out to be good guys?"

Good guys. She pictures Daddy and me. I pause, reach for another slice of bread, spread out peanut butter to the corners. I remember how I lugged Lulie out of the pantry a week ago, peeled back her pretty eyelid frantic to find a tiny contact lens, how I combed the house with a flashlight and my bad eyes. I looked and looked and sobbed, shouted for everyone to get their jammies on already. The invisible lens takes a month to replace. I can still feel the sinus headache I had when we left for the doctor the next day.

And even so, Lulie passed the vision test, with the wrong contact. Passed.

I wonder if I passed my test. Of faith.

Children learn foremost by passive observation. Ken Ortiz's words ring in my ears, take my breath away.

Surgery

January 13. Surgery. A pinpoint incision in the new year. Each day closer. A long tether of faith pulls me, encircles the fear I expect. Cataract surgery. On Lulie.

"The hearing ear and the seeing eye
the LORD has made them both."

I'm finding submission more and more like the deep breath of an athlete.


Ready or not





here we come.

Janie pats my shoulder, "Momma." I'm half-listening. "Momma, I'm trying to be patient with you." She's on tip-toe, "Momma, I'm trying to be patient with you. I don't know if I can, but I'm trying to." She circles me like a tether ball.

"Momma?"

Janie grabs my hand, "Can you read me a story?" A pile of books at the bottom of the stairs. A hand to hold.

A leash of love.

It's a ...

GIRL!

Turns out all this time the good Lord's been growing a sweet little baby GIRL in my belly! And all along I was CERTAIN: It's a BOY. Ha-ha, a splendid surprise. One more GIRL. So there you have it, another little sack of sugar to add to our line up. Blessing upon blessings.





And a little button nose too!

Any tips for a house full of girls? Neither Craig nor I had ANY sisters growing up! Hee-hee.

Surgery

The Children's Hospital. They have fish everywhere. Murals, sculptures, aquariums, floor tiles. Fish. Every room has fish. Except the testing room. A vision test, a VEP brain test, computers, electrodes, one major breakdown-fit, and a lot of data.

At a time like that don't you just love graphs? I do. Plot the points and trace the curve. There's not a lot of guess work. The bad eye can't keep up. There's really only one answer.

Surgery. In January or February one of the best surgeons in our nation will remove the lens of a tiny eye, Lulie's. He won't replace it. Her eye is too small, still growing. In the months after we will teach a one-and-a-half-year-old to wear a contact lens. She'll patch until she's eight.

And then, perhaps perfect vision.





And after all isn't that what He's offering? Vision. What a gift.

The Good Life

Lulie likes my Bible.

Janie bursts into the sun-room. I'm playing piano. "Your music is so JOYFUL, Momma!" She grins. "It's fine when you don't play. But it is so joy filled when you do."





The table a jumble of color crayons and fat pencils, smudgy paper, Jack stops. "Momma, I love you so much, real bad." He says this every day. Today he adds, "'I love you real bad,' means I love you in the whole world what it means."

As the sun goes down I watch him stare through our back window. "You are the sweetest thing in the world, bud."

He hardly turns. "Yeah," he says, "God think so. That berry good."

A Decade

The man who lassos the moon again and again.






His arms reach as wide as the sky and as deep as the sea.






He leaves for work each day in a chorus, "Stay, Daddy! Daddy, can you stay home?" We wave until he is out of sight.

He makes our boy want to be a man, all courage and muscle. And our girls beg for lullaby in his arms. Daddy's long shadow encircles us with safety. And a view. Oh my. The whole world is good triumphing evil.

No wonder, a decade ago, this husband-man of mine parted the sea of possibilities.

Here's to ten years since we met!

Baby

3.44 cm and growing. Another little one. Ten weeks and a tiny pomegranate seed of baby has sprouted already to strawberry size. Heart pulsing 160 beats per minute, all the hope and possibility of a person unfurls. Arms, legs, hands, feet. Lead violin sounds high A and in a small concert hall just behind my belly button, the symphony begins. That drum of a heart beats on strong and clear, a metronome of life. The whole body encircles it.






Janie and Jack swear they can already feel the little kicks.

Favorite name: Snoopy.

Confession

She's perched on the top bunk. Her blue eyes roam the ceiling as if an answer were tucked between the wooden boards.

"Jane." She avoids my eyes. "Is there anything else you need to tell me?" I stare. My eyebrows form an impenetrable fortress. She's breathing in and out like a road racer. "Jane." I bark it out sharper than I expect.

She hugs the ladder and fidgets, all elbows. Then suddenly, like a pop-tent collapsing, she claps her hands, covers her eyes, and bursts into a whisper, "Dear God, please give me the strength to say it. Amen."

As I exhale, the room seems small. Even as she wrestles the truth out like a long splinter, inside I shrink down to the size of a penny. Courage unfolds and I am undone by a thimble-full of confession.

Now, I Won't Get Dead

"Now, I won't get dead," Jack announces. "Like some people get dead, I won't get dead." Faith and fact the same to him, he raises both eyebrows, "THAT a good point."

My Dad's kitty died. Just sort of disappeared for all Jack knew. No one noticed. And still, I told him. "Honey, the kitty's dead." In a fumbling sort of hopeful way the story of Jesus and dying, sin and salvation tumbled out. A miracle unspooled there on the bed all gossamer and delicate.

"Do you want to pray about it?" He stares at me. I want to repeat it. I wait.

"Well..." he eyes the ceiling, "that mean I will die?" It's as if he's never considered this. "You pray for me."

In a counterpoint of mother and child we weave ideas. Grace and wickedness, fresh as the dawn, brush against each other. In the afternoon sun my man-child becomes a child of God. I want to hold my breath and not rumple those first understandings. I'm swamped in the simplicity: God died. For me.

"God DIED for me!" When in doubt he shouts. And the whole room shatters into a million tiny slips of ideas like chaff blown away.

Got Your Back

It was a scritchy-scratchy, thistle of a morning.

"Momma, you just said that you don't like Daddy's sense of humor." Her eyebrows are arched. I can hear it without even turning around. "Is that really what you want to say." The frame freezes. I see a smile tease at the corner of Daddy's mouth. "How would you like it if someone said that to you?"

I sigh.

The apology was spectacular. Daddy said he thought we'd entered a parallel universe. Don't ya wish you could grab on to that apology so fast every time!?

Greatheart

It's the suds I see as I pass our bathroom. Mustache-man looks up. "One more," he swishes and spits a glug of bubbles into the sink.

"Honey, are you washing your mouth out with soap?"

Nod. He's already sucking in another swig from a red cereal bowl. It's the frog one with big buggy eyes. He swishes another shot and vaguely aims at the sink. Spit.

"Is that because I said being naughty makes your heart dirty?"

He grabs a rumpled hand towel, grins. "Now my clean."

After scrubbing all the marker off his hands, greathearted one tries to make his heart clean.

Adiedo, Kenya - May 2009

So sorry to keep ya'all waiting on Kenya pics. These are snap shots of the village. Adiedo. No running water. Just rain. Until the dry season.

















Dirt floors. Blossoms on the path. A "shower" round back.

















And water collectors.

















I probably run enough water down the drain just waiting for it to get hot or cold to fill an army of these.
























A standard grain silo. The opening up top lets a small child in to retrieve grain.

















Home.

And faith that depends on God. Prayers. Prayers the size of a dirt floor and muddy pond of drinking water, the size and shape of a child's cries and graves for loved ones. And still they pray. Somewhere in their rich voices and straight backs, devotion emerges. The counterpoint of God answers them with the thunder of His presence.

I am impoverished praying small prayers to a small God, my two dimensional cut-out doll version. My kids forget their manners and ask God for the world. They pray He will heal our friends' baby, the one still in her mommy's tummy. They pray God will make this world well and help the cardboard-sign-guy by the road and help our neighbor's grandchild not have a tumor. They pray Lucy's eye will get better and Great-Grampa will know Jesus. They pray as if God will show up. As if he already has.

When have we prayed like that?! When is the last time we prayed for something so great, so embarrassingly huge that it truly depended on God. In the end our kids judge the size of our God by the size of our prayers. Makes me want to pray forever. I can't imagine God's intimidated. Probably delighted.