The CUT

Janie hates it.

I have a cut on my forehead. Nice red scab, prominent placement.

She STARES at the cut, squinches up her nose, "I don't like that cut. Momma."

I keep knitting. "Momma, I just really don't like that cut." Pause. Knit-knit. Now louder, "I don't like your cut, Mom."

Sigh, squint, "Honey, how would you like it if I said, 'I don't like your face'?"

She stares. "What if I said, 'Janie, I just REALLY don't like your face. I don't like it. Eww, yuck!' How would that make you feel?"

Pause. Grin. "I would just say, 'Well don't look at it.'" No bite, pure solution, glad she can help.

And there I am the silly one thinking that a cut or any such thing could make someone not pretty.

A Cathedral

Janie leans in close. Her breath is all warm dew in my ear. "I love you, God."

And then later she whispers, "Hi, God," to me.

"Oh, honey, I'm not God."

Sideways look, "No, God is inside of you."

A Day in Pieces

Jack leaves piles all over the house. Sometimes it is orange peels other times mismatched socks. Then there is the occasional Cheerio-blankie-pillow tower or train-track-Leggo-fruit salad. We seem to have finally ousted the rouge cheese cube. I hope.

















"I give Lulu meat. Lulu want meat." Well, he's nothing if not generous. I turn my back for a second and Jack gently shovels new flavors into Lucy's mouth. Lentil sausage soups is a big hit.
























Janie is helpful. "I know what customers are. It's a thing that looks like a person, but it's just a fake thing that they killed." Ha-ha, ever feel that way?

This morning she mentioned, "When I think people aren't watching me I think, 'It's a good idea to disobey because then they won't spank me.'" Well, no sense in mincing words.

Church Day

Janie brought chap stick to bed last night. She moisturized her entire face with it. Jack covered both hands and patches of the sheets, probably parts of his jammies too. It's surprising how far one of those little tubes will go. Daddy took it away, but ours still had lots of life left in it.

This morning before church Jack rubbed lotion on his shirt. Then after procuring a new red sweater, promptly got his head stuck under the wardrobe. Enter Jaws-of-Life-Momma. He only cried a little during the extraction rescue. Then he was covered in lint. No problem, brush it off.

Next, Lulie had apparently started her own lint collection in the folds of her chin. Oh, horror of horrors, it was STINKY. Yes, given the right contidions sweet little Lulie's neck can actually transform into a science experiment. Ugh!

After four or five tries, a bath, a large pile of clothes, at least one child in a winter coat, shoes and matching sock on all, milk mustaches still intact, the children and I leave for church. It's only been maybe 90 minutes of hard-core getting ready. I smudged the milk off their faces in the car, and I think everyone had clean clothes on, but lets not look too closely.

It's a wonderful life.

Simple

"When you sin does your body change a little bit?" she wants to know. Janie likes to hear the forbidden fruit story. Adam, Eve, the serpent, the fruit - over and over and over.

And then, "Mommy, the flood that God sent, did it touch the sky?" Every detail, exact, precise, weighed and measured and touching the sky. There she is picturing it all. I'm sure the tallest ladder or biggest building could surely touch the sky. Maybe even standing up on our roof we could reach that high.

She slurps milk and soggy cereal, from a Snoopy bowl. Dribbles collect on her chin. "God loves me," she announces, "because he wanted a person like me." It's almost presumption. I watch her suck down the dregs. She tilts her head, grins, doesn't seem to be posing for her mind's eye. She's probably wondering how big God actually is. For her it's just so normal the milk dribbles, the grin, the flood that touches the sky, a God that wants her, a creator that made her just to like her. Simple.


















And then, "God's teaching me not to lie. He's saying 'Janie, I'm gonna give you treasure in heaven, but I'm first gonna teach you not to lie.'"


















So, I keep asking, "What's he teaching you now?"

She says, "I can't tell until I read my Bible and have my special drink and listen for a bit."


















Listen.

Simple.

Lala-lu-la

Lucy watches Jack.

"God made me, la-la-la. God made me, la-lala..." Head tilted, eyes closed. He sings.

Lucy stares.

Jack squints.

Lucy stares.

"Lala-lu-lala, Momma, momma, tru-la-la, my momma, um-ta-dum, de-ti-da, laaala..." He opens his eyes, "Like that song?"

Lucy stares. Blink. Grin.

His mouth tilts, "I lub you."

Sweeten Up

Mostly Janie answers when I call. Sometimes not.

Then the other day I asked, "Why didn't you answer?"

"Well, I was trying to sweeten myself up first."























I love praying with her. She doesn't shrink God down to manageable the way that I do. She'll up and say, "In the name of the LORD God of the angel armies, ready or not, just make us how you want us to be!" I couldn't say that without trying to be gutsy. She acts like it's as common sense as setting the table. Maybe she's right.

'Course she's not perfect, but oh, to fail and fall into grace. She'll say, "Jesus is cleaning my heart. I can't believe it feels so GOOD!" I used to think she wasn't sorry when she'd disobey. But now I see a small quarter turn toward joy, toward being made better, as if regret is a mere formality in the work of repentance. The whole moment of failure gets swallowed up, and there I am wondering why I can't fail so well.