Small Scribbles

I like Barbie movies becaus thay are relistik, Claire writes for a language arts lesson. I correct spelling and ask, "Realistic? Why?" "They do real things." "Yeah, like fly," says John. "Hush. I really want to know what Claire thinks. What about the love parts, Claire? Are the love parts realistic?" "Yeah. One saves the other and after he does the saving he gets to keep her." Hmm. And this, "Mary was about our John's age when she had Jesus? You can have babies when you are a teenager? Wow! I can't wait!" This from Faith who has her whole heart set on a house filled top to bottom with children...a mom waiting to happen. "Well," she plans, "when I'm about seventeen, I'm going to Wal-Mart to find a boy who is nice to people and if I like him, he'll be my husband and I can hurry up and be a mom." These are the children we are entrusted with. These we must shape into suitable life partners. ...

They’re frayed with a gash above the hem and pockets that bulge out, those cargo shorts that Stuart was wearing on a day when we were going out. “Are you going to wear those?” “Yes.” “But they're so ratty.” “OK. I’ll change 'em.” And he did. He changed into blue shorts with pockets that bulge out. “Are you going to wear those?” “Yes. I need to.” “But there are bleach spots on the front. They’re not very good shape. You have nicer shorts.” “I know.” He changed, back into the first pair of shorts, and we went out the door. Why couldn't he wear one of his better pairs? We’re going to spend all day together. I just love to look at him but, OH, those shorts. We walked and held hands and the children shed, shed their hats and water bottles and sunglasses. The pockets in the cargo shorts made room for these things as the children dropped them or handed them to their Papa. We walked. Single file. Mama in back, four goslings in the middle, Papa in front with a little one in his arms...

We were reading John 6 this morning and we came to the part where Jesus asked his disciples, "You do not want to leave me too, do you?" Peter responded, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We believe and know that you are the Holy One of God." The kids were impressed with Peter's answer. "How come Peter's like that, Mama? How can he be so awesome sometimes and so stupid at other times? The power has been blinking on and off at our house for the past week and this is what I drew on for an explanation. "Well, it's kind of like the power around here. You know how everything is running fine and then the power blinks off and a few minutes later it comes back on? Peter is kind of like that. He has great faith but sometimes, under pressure, his faith shuts down for a little while. But the thing about Peter is that his faith, just like our power, always returns." A few hours later the power went off giving the children ...

Her children rise up and call her blessed. Yeah, right. Maybe someone else's children do that. Not mine, and I wish they would stop rising so darn early. That would be a blessing. The thoughts that churned in this mother's heart when it beat stronger and surer a half decade ago when I was up to my eyeballs in diapers and sippy cups. Today is Mother's Day. To celebrate, Claire drew me a card on a piece of notebook paper in church where she was informed by today's sermon that it is a significant day. Happy mothers Day, Mama! A bouquet of flowers drawn underneath. For lunch, we hit the McDonald's drive through (where the cashier wished me a Happy Mother's Day) and then went to Lowe's for home improvement materials (where an employee operating a fork truck said the same). It has been a great day. I do mean this. Around here, every day is Mother's day. Not the saccharine, stress-inducing, sainted, card-bestowing, mother-worshipping kind of day. Thank go...

Charlie snuck out to the forbidden boxes in the garage, the ones holding the off-season clothes, the shoes, and his favorite, the boot box. "Charlie, put those back! You don't need them!" He lifted his serious chocolate eyes to my stern face, "But I do need them, Mom." And I gave in until he peeled them off his feet and slam dunked them down in the back hall. Then I pounced and returned them righteously to their allotted storage box. We played this sneaking/pouncing game for weeks. Charlie won. The garage is a long way from the shoe shelf in the back hall. Plus, Charlie was right; he did need those boots. Turns out they are an integral part of his vivid imagination. Charlie as Boromir . Charlie as Paddington Bear. Charlie as The Knight Whose Boots Always Squeak Yellow boots are for bunnies too. This is Charlie's newest stuffed animal, Peter. No, not Peter Rabbit. Peter Jackson . So how 'bout you? Do you have a kid with a vivid imagination and a great pr...

Stuart is in and out these days. New job. Lots of travel. I am intentional about enjoying the time while it passes instead of counting the minutes. We look for shooting stars, go to the movies, camp in the backyard. Six of us in a four man tent. I read aloud by flashlight and a moth flutters to the light. Faith flutters to the moth, tripping over heads and legs, a hypnotic look in her eye. She falls down laughing. We laugh too. And the next morning, we sit in a row, new Bibles in our laps, highlighters in hand outlining the Roman road . Good for the kids to know the verses that define their faith. But the reason for this? Next week we are to take these shiny Bibles and hit the streets during the church hour... ring doorbells and flash highlighted words at unsuspecting residents. A sneaky plan. Who would suspect a Baptist at their door on a Sunday during the church hour? We shift in our chairs and squirm through the altar call and bolt for the door at the last amen. The weather decl...

A hot breeze blows in the shade under the maple tree where I sand away the stain and varnish from Stuart's boyhood bed. Bits blow and stick and soon I'm covered with reddish dust. It's a good day for dust. I work and listen for the sound of Stuart's tires in the driveway. Dread hearing tires. Dread where they will take me in an hour. Charlie chatters while I sand. His words come dimly. "How old is this bed, Mama?" I push away black cloud. "It's old, Charlie. It was your papa's bed when he was a boy." "How old is your car?" "Old as far as cars go. About as old as Lauren." I sand until tires crunch gravel and then I put the bed back in the garage and rinse off dust and switch shorts for dress. The tires carry us away. And too soon I stand in front of the husk of a girl. Young, not old. Younger than our car. A smidge younger than Lauren. A beautiful, beautiful girl... in spirit and in body. I hold her Mama hard and the tears ...