A Callus and a Kindness

To Lauren

The last few weeks have been tough ones around the coop and I’m so proud of how you’ve handled the sudden loss of our two hens, including your sweet Lily.  Perhaps it’s because we’re fresh off the passing of your great-grandmother and all the conversations we’ve had about leaving the labors of life and entering the joys of rest are still at the front of your mind.  Maybe it’s because you and your brothers are still prenticing the jagged and indiscriminate edges of death, not fully aware of how deep a mourning lament can lacerate the heart.  In any case, you’ve dealt with the unexpected deaths of two chickens, something I’ve been trying to prepare you for since we brought home those fuzzy handfuls on your 7th birthday, far more gracefully than I expected.  

I know it happens.  Often.  Sometimes after a period of warning and worrying and sometimes inexplicably just an hour after you last saw them scratching happily in the straw.  Growing up on the farm, I don’t have any memories of chickens up-and-dying except for those “third year” cycles when the layers were winding down their production and we set about the second phase of their serviceable life.   Butchering season is a part of farm life.   It’s a cycle of raising to raze, always done with a quiet reverence and gratitude, as a farmer understands that someone must have the arm strength to lift the curtain and heart strength to lower it as each act draws down.  

Grandpa gently scolded me when I told him that we had named our chicks.  “Remember, Jen.  They have scales on their legs.”  It was his way of cautioning that it would add a burden to the letting go when the time came.  Of course, he was right.  And of course, I went ahead and named my Barred Rocks anyway.  Willa and Guinivere after 2 of my literary heroes. And you named your Wyandottes Lacey and Lily because you like to call things by pretty names.  And the boys picked Gloria and Rebecca and Penny and Charlotte.  And we all lived happily ever after until Willa and Lacey crowed and you had your first taste of letting go.  

That was hard, but there was comfort in knowing that the roos were going to good homes and we dealt with those disappointments by giving extra treats to our remaining girls.  Lily quickly became the sweetheart of the coop, demuring to bully Charlotte, offering a wing of protection to Gloria when she found herself at the bottom of the pecking order.  Even allowing us to strap her into a harness and walk her about the yard on a leash. She was the perfect hen for you because she was such a reflection of your spirit.  Sweet and easy-going.  Never pushing to the front of the line but letting others go ahead of you.  A whatever makes you happy, Mom kind of attitude.  

Perhaps that’s why I was so crestfallen when I went to the coop last week and found Lily dead, a mere 5 days after Penny also met a sudden and unexpected end.  No signs of trauma or illness.  No breaches in the fencing where a fox or raccoon might have entered the yard.  Just another hen to bury and another child’s heart to bruise.  

I called Grammy the night after Penny died to tell her the news and her words were reflective and sensible.  She told me of the time when we had taken in two newborn calves whose mothers had abandoned them at the farm next door.  Mr. Douglas was helping Grandpa load the bellowing youngsters into the farm truck for the short drive up the hill while Grammy stood with Mrs. Douglas at the barn door, bemoaning the plight of the young orphans.  As she complained about the sorrow of it all, Dorothy righted her perspective.  “Yes, Carol.  But better a loss in the barn than a loss in the house.”  I vaguely remember Mrs. Douglas with her bun of graying hair wrapped hastily at the nape of her neck and I can imagine her giving a young farmer’s wife that sage advice.  Yes, better an empty nest box than an empty place at the table.  Even in this world of boutique chicken husbandry, there must be a callus that keeps the heart in check.  

Less than a week later, I made another call to tell Grammy that, astonishingly, a second hen had died.  We’d gone 18 months without as much as a sneeze and now 2 girls were gone in the span of a hand.  I choked back tears when I had to tell her that it was gentle Lily and she asked how you were taking the news.  

“Good as can be expected, I suppose.  I just feel so bad.  First her rooster and now her only hen.”  There was far more indignation crowding out my words than I had realized.  

Grammy asked if she could talk with you and I called you to the room, thinking you would hear the same story about Mrs. Douglas and the calves and how we have to maintain the balance of emotions when engaging in the duties of raising farm animals.  

But Grammy had another story to share, one I hadn’t heard before.  And because of the wonders of FaceTime, the three of us sat together on our couches 100 miles apart and I learned why Grammy always thinks of her grandfather when she sees a patch of daffodils.  

*****

“Lauren, dear, I’m so sorry to hear that your Lily died.  She really was a special hen, wasn’t she?”  You nodded and I glanced over to see if the tears were returning.  

“I remember seeing the video of you walking her around the yard on that leash and the funny pictures of you reading to her in the garden, too.  I’m sure it’s very hard to think of her being gone now, isn’t it?”  

With that question, there was no more holding back the sorrow and it slipped down your cheek before you could wipe it away.  

“I remember feeling sad many times after I lost a special pet, too.  When I was a little girl, my grandfather always buried our pets at one edge of the backyard.  I can still remember the corn crib and then the start of the forest further back.  I bet your mom knows the spot.”  

You looked up at me and I nodded.  (I was tempted to tell you that there was also a big cage with 2 raccoons named Pierre and Nanette right there, too, but that’s a tale for another telling.)  

Grammy continued.  “And do you know what my grandpa always did to mark the place where he had buried the animal?”  

You shook your head but mentioned that we had placed large slices of the fallen oak tree on top of the graves that we dug behind the fence.  

“Well, my grandpa would place a big rock on top to mark them, too.  But before that, he would put some daffodil bulbs in the dirt and cover them up.  That way, the next spring, there would be a bright spot in the yard and it helped us to remember the happy times we had with our pets instead of the sadness of their death.”  

Grammy paused for a moment to let you consider the possibility that there might be a time when you could remember Lily without feeling the heaviness of loss.  What a perfect story to lift your spirits!  And what an important example of the tenderness that must undergird even an old farmer’s heart.

Grammy continued.  “And you know, by the time I was all grown up, there was a long row of daffodils along that whole side of the yard.  Every spring, it was the most beautiful place on the farm.”  

Glancing over at you, I caught the slightest upward turn at the corner of your lips and I knew that we’d be looking through the bulb catalog soon. You’ve endured a little hardening and now you can hem it in with plans to color the dark.     

I’m writing this story down in hopes that someday you’ll see the gift, this forwarding of our lives.  In this instance, a recollection of two old farmers, long time departed, who still teach wisdom about the callus and the kindness needed for life on the land.   
Love you, Mom

First Farms : Grandpa's dance

To Matt, Josh & Lauren:

Your Grammy has a phrase she repeats anytime I launch into another of my farmgirl-inspired pursuits.  Whether it’s going through the scrap lumber at Home Depot to build a bean trellis or completely freaking out your Daddy with a glass aquarium full of Monarch caterpillars on the kitchen counter each June, she just rolls her eyes and says, “You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.”  

And she’s right.  I’ve lived here in the south-eastern PA suburbs now for nearly 15 years.  But my country roots still run deep and it doesn’t take more than a quick glance around the house to see where they’ve crept back up to the surface.  The seeds we plant every spring and the recipes I’m teaching you how to bake; the barbed wire wreath that hangs in the family room and the hand-stitched quilts I lay on your beds during the coldest winter spells; the birds we watch in the dining room nestbox and the bees we admire as they pollinate along the sunflower fence.  All of these touchstones, and so many, many more, can be traced back to some element of my years on the farm.  

Farms, actually.    

You see, I was such a very blessed baby because on the day I was born, there were 3 farms in our family.  The two near Curwensville had largely been put to pasture by the time I came along.  Great-Grandma Louise Durandetta and Great-Grandma Jennie Long, both long widowed, still lived in their weathered houses that creaked and leaned like an old farmer’s knees after a long day in the field.  By the time I could walk through them, the barns were mostly empty expect for the beef cows that Great Uncle Alex fed in the bottom level at Grandma Durandetta’s place.  

The third farm was a 2-hour drive west to the outskirts of Grove City, PA.  Grammy grew up there (yes, that’s where Daddy and I went to college and met) and I spent many happy stretches of summer on the Frisk farm when she would take Uncle Jason and me back home for a visit.  That farm was still busy and full of animals of every shape and size throughout my whole childhood.  Grandpa Frisk was forever coming home from the swap meet with a new goat or pen of roller pigeons.  There were cows and roosters and peacocks and endless dogs and cats.  I rode my first pony, Cocoa, there when I was just a toddler and I can remember feeling enthralled by the rows of purple and blue ribbons that Great-Grandpa Harry Frisk had won for showing his quarterhorses.  

Now you might think that having 3 farms to visit was a pretty good way to spend a childhood.  But your Grammy and Grandpa wanted just a little more for their children.  After all, visiting a farm is like licking the spoon after mom’s done mixing the cake batter.  Growing up on a farm is like getting to eat the whole cake.  And so in 1978, when I was just halfway through my 4th year and Uncle Jason wasn’t quite a year old yet, we moved from our little house on Filbert Street in Curwensville to our very own farm on a winding country road that didn’t even have a name.  We had 65 acres and a big barn and a spring house and a wide front porch and an old pear tree all to ourselves.   Oh, what a slice of heaven it was!  And so began the years of me having my cake and eating it, too.  

For the next 18 years, I explored every inch of those fields and hewn boards until the last year of college when Daddy came with a diamond and swept me off to our little apartment in the suburbs of Pittsburgh.  It might have marked the end of my living on the farm, but not the end of my loving the farm life. Even in our cramped spaces, I always found ways to keep those roots alive.  Little things like planting the gebera seeds from Grammy's garden to big things like finally convincing Daddy that we really could have chickens in our cul-de-sac backyard.  

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m very content with the little town you’re growing up in.  Perkasie is a wonderful place to call home and a perfect distance between the bright blare of the city and the quiet rustle of dried corn stalks.  In many ways, you’re going to live an even better life than I did because you’ll have a sure footing in both these worlds.   It took me awhile to adjust, but I’m very comfortable now living on a street of 1/2 acre yards and Wednesday morning trash collection.  However, there’s simply no getting the country out of me and so there are many years ahead for telling you about the dark, spooky root cellar where Grammy used to hide our Christmas presents or Grandpa Frisk’s bear skin rug that used to give me nightmares when I dreamed it was coming back to life.  I haven’t yet told you about the fun we used to have with the party line phone at Grandma Long’s house or the gobs and gobs of Concord grapes we used to pick in Grandma Durandetta’s side yard each fall.  

I often wonder, Would I really pick up and move to a farm now, if given the chance?  Could I jump at the opportunity to give you the same rich experiences that I delighted in for nearly 2 decades?  The answer is a surprising and saddening “probably not.”  (Daddy is heaving a sigh of relief as he reads that.)  As much as I would absolutely love to raise bona fide farmkids, I know it’s not a life that’s so carelessly chosen.  And I think we can safely say that your Daddy would never be happy in bib overalls and muck boots!   But rather than lamenting that my children won’t have the same deeply rooted country life that I did, I’ve decided to do what every good mother does from time to time:  pull out the pen and start reminiscing up a cake so that you’ll have plenty of spoons to lick.  

Where shall I start?  Perhaps at the beginning...  

First Farms:  Neno & Louise Durandetta

I have two early memories of farm life, mostly fuzzy snippets of memories really, as I must have been just a preschooler at the time of each.  

In the first, I'm with my Grandpa Wayne Durandetta at his mother's barn which was just a short walk down the lane from his house on Bloomington Hill. (We pass those houses when we’re headed up to go fishing at the Dam.)  Though the farm was largely retired by then, my great-uncle still kept a herd of cows there and since the barn was a stone's throw from Grandpa's house, he regularly went down to feed them.  On this particular day, Grandpa allowed me to follow him onto the barn floor and watch him push the hay flakes down to the cattle stanchions below. I can still hear the lowing and cud-chewing sounds as the cows worked through their feed but I was too afraid to get close enough to the chutes to actually see them.  I do remember watching Grandpa straddle the holes in the floor as he dropped the hay down into what seemed a hundred foot abyss.  I watched with my heart pounding as he leaped from one beam to the next with the pitchfork in his grasp and thought how he must surely be the bravest man in the world.  

Grandpa and his brother, Alex, were well acquainted with that barn and every pasture and dell on the wide expanse of their land.  Decades earlier when they were just teenagers, they had convinced their father, Neno, to buy the farm for them so that they could work it after school.  (Uncle Alex did go on to have a dairy farm of his own.  Grandpa went on to be a teacher and eventually a school administrator.)   Both Neno and Louise had immigrated from Italy in the late 1800s and Neno made his living, as did many Northern Italians who settled in central PA, in the stone quarries.  So sandstone runs through the Durandetta bloodline, much more so than grain.  But Grandpa and his brother saw an opportunity to carve out an honest life on a good piece of land and eventually Neno joined them when the quarry work became too taxing.

Neno died much too young in 1949, just shy of his 60th birthday.  Grandma Louise went on to live another 30 years after that, relying on her determined and independent will to see her through the widow’s ache and the advancing pallium of old age.  

It was near the end of that old age when I went with my Grandpa up on the barn floor to watch him feed the cows.  And although I have dozens of clear memories of time spent in Grandma Louise’s house and around the yard, I only have that single memory of being in the barn.  

This past summer, during our visit back to the mountains, I called up my Dad’s cousin who has lived on the farm since Grandma Louise passed away.  Yes, he said, I was more than welcome to come visit and spend as much time walking around the property as I’d like. And so I set off with your Grammy in tow on an unseasonably cool, bright July afternoon to see if it might be possible to wind back a moment, to discover if it was a real memory or just a memory of a story or a photograph, as so many of our earliest recollections really are.  

We pulled up to the bottom of the barn bridge and walked up the grassy slope to the heavy wooden doors.  One side had been blown off during a winter storm and was fixed tight.  Together we tugged on the other side and it creaked as the pulleys scraped across the metal track at the top, eventually giving way enough for us to walk through.  

In my memory, the hay chutes were to the left, along the loft wall.  I was surprised and confused when I realized that the floor was solid and there were no holes to speak of.  I peered over the half wall, thinking they might be further back, but the floor was covered with a full layer of loose hay. No evidence of chutes there either.  I moved to the right side wall and checked there, but that side of the floor was empty except for a few rusty oil drums and an old riding mower that was parked along the loft wall.  For a moment, I despaired that perhaps my sure memory of watching Grandpa’s brazen dance along the barn beams had been nothing but a figment of a child’s wild dreaming.  

And then I caught sight of the pitchfork.

It was stabbed into a stack of hay at the back of the barn floor.  I walked toward it and suddenly, there were the chutes, just as I had remembered seeing them some 35 years before.  There were more than I remember, perhaps a dozen running along the back wall of the barn.  It was simultaneously thrilling and paralyzing to stand at the edge of those holes.  I felt small again and fearful even though I could see to the bottom, a drop of less than 10 feet.  Still formidable but not the crevasse I had imagined as a child.  I took a step onto the beam that Grandpa had so elegantly bounded onto and found that my feet felt like cement.  Grammy had to come over and give me her hand before I could manage to step back onto the plank floor.  

We spent an hour or so walking through the different parts of the barn.  There were other familiar nooks like a trap door and granary bins and I was delighted to see barn swallows and their mud nests up close again.  (They were one of my favorites on our own farm as they used to sit on the telephone wire outside my bedroom window and chatter me awake in the morning.)  I took dozens of pictures and wished there were a way to capture the aroma...a tumaceous mixture of hay and manure and age.  No matter how old I grow, I know that my brain will always recognize that singular smell.  (And I consider it a pity that your own noses get pinched whenever we drive past a freshly fertilized field.)  

Perhaps next summer I’ll take you down to Grandma Louise’s farm.  Cousin Glen said we were welcome anytime.  I have lots more corners I want to revisit and we could check to see if the snakes are still living among the orange tiger lilies.  But that’s a tale for another telling...

Letting Go Days

September snuck in last weekend while I was busy sorting through the fall clothing bins, determining which shirts no longer covered their assigned tummies and which pants failed to hide an acceptable margin of ankle and sock.  It crept in unnoticed somewhere between the flurry of pencil box assembly and the hourly stalking of the school website as 3 anxious children and 1 eager mother waited on a teacher’s name that would set the next nine months in motion. 

It was a good summer.  Great, actually.  Yet different.  Full of late-waking days when I’d come downstairs to find the kids eating Cheerios in the living room while watching old Looney Tune shows.  And late-lingering nights of pressing marshmallows onto sticks around the campfire at Grammy’s house or watching from the comfort of a nearby bench as our now-tall-enough offspring rode the boardwalk rides by themselves.   They went tubing in the bay and strode into the breakers with their boogie boards, this year without a single request for us to accompany them into the water.   They cast their own lines when fishing with Grandpa at the lake and at the riding stables, raced to climb on a giant Fresian mare that gave me pause, without so much as a blink.  

The difference, I’ve come to realize as I look back over the last few months, is that I’m a lot less necessary in ways I’ve been very necessary before.  And isn’t it funny that I feel both happy and sad about that realization?  Happy that I can reclaim a little of the space in my brain and body that has been designated to 24/7  child rearing for the last 8 years.  And sad that the sweet clinging leaves of this season are already starting to yellow.  As a mother of triplets, I’ve always quietly grieved the fleet passing of each stage, knowing that I wouldn’t have the chance to revisit or revise it on a second swing through. And that’s why I relish the moments when just a little bit of neediness resurfaces. 

This was also the summer of learning to ride our bikes.  Without the training wheels.  I say that with a cringe because not too many 8 year-olds haven’t checked that off their can-do lists.  And it was getting kind of embarrassing to have 3 in the same house who still rode around on glorified tricycles.  Which is why I insisted that by the time the school bus pulled up, we would be self-sufficient on our bikes.  

We nearly reached our goal.  2 of the kids mastered their skills within a week.  I was actually surprised at how quickly they picked it up and how few scrapes were required before they could confidently ride around the cul-de-sac on their own.  But anyone who has spent any amount of time with our family knows which child has yet to spread his wings down the street. In typical fashion, Josh must figure everything out in his head long before he decides to transfer that knowledge to his body.  It’s been that way from the day we brought him home in a flailing blue bundle.  I imagine it will likely be that way as we’re packing him up for college. 

On that covert September day, sunny and blue-skied with the sound of cricket white noise fanning about the yard, I decided to give it one more try. Perhaps like a baby wren who spends days at the edge of the nest and then suddenly and simply flies away, Josh might also simply pedal off as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do.  I cajoled him outside with the promise of a popsicle should he make a strong effort on his bike, agreeing to keep a constant hand on his shoulder as we circled around the end of the street.  As he took those tentative strides on the pedals and wobbled too close to the mailboxes across the street, he looked back, eyes wide and worried that my hand wasn’t where I had promised it would be.  Dragging his feet along the pavement, he brought the bike to an inelegant stop.  

“Mom, is your hand on me?  I’m not ready for the letting go day.”  His eyes searched mine for assurance, unwilling to make another attempt until he fully trusted that I would be his safety net. 

“Yes, sweetheart.  My hand is on your shoulder.  I’ll help you to keep going straight.”  I had to resist the urge to make a ridiculous scene by scooping him into my arms like I would have when, as a toddler, he melted my heart every time he asked, "Mommy, will you always be wif me?"  

I settled instead for a deep inhale of happiness, realizing that my time as necessary presence in their lives hadn’t wound so far down.  We pedaled on for a few more minutes and ended with a confident smile at the top of the driveway.  Josh ran off to pick his popsicle and I lingered behind.  Perhaps the next time I’d set my third fledgling free.  

It’s hard business, this letting go.  And practice makes me anything but perfect.  It doesn’t matter if it’s off the diving board or off to a friend’s house for a sleepover.  It doesn’t even matter if it’s something right here at home within the boundaries of my purview. Seeing them pour their own milk or make their own beds is a simultaneously thrilling and wounding experience for me, one which I must daily choose to treat as a treasured privilege.  

And so the letting go days come faster and faster.  This year there was no hesitating at the drop off line on the first day of school and I’m no longer allowed to walk the ballplayer to the field.  A quick hug through the van door is the new threshold for goodbyes.  I’m quite sure they’ll never know what balm their goodnight hugs and kisses are these days.  

As I work through this ebb and flow job of mothering, there’s one day that anchors me to peace.  And it’s actually a day that I’ll never have to face.  Because no matter how much raising up is accomplished, no matter how much turning loose  has to be accepted, there will never come a day when they’re on their own.  I might be a thousand miles and an insurmountable mountain away, but their Heavenly Father will have never taken His hand off their shoulder.  They’ll never look back in fear and not find His sure grip on the framework of their lives.  He will be guiding and shielding and quickening their every move, trailblazing the straight way forward as they learn to pedal deeper into His ever-present love.  Mom may not be with them, but Dad always will be.  

And that’s what eases my mother’s heart these September days...knowing that I’m not letting go of my most precious gifts but rather daily delivering them into even greater Hands than my own. Hands that know how to develop the incredible talents they posses and cross their paths with the extraordinary experiences He has planned.  He alone knows what magnificent lives they are designed to lead and the amazing people they are to become.  

I can say these things with confidence as I, too, still often look back and see His hand right there where He promised it would be, the gentle and tireless upholder of all my days.          

     

The LORD is the one who is going ahead of you. 

He will be with you. 

He won't abandon you or leave you. 

So don't be afraid or terrified.

- Deuteronomy 31:8

The Comfort of Rust

Once a season, when the gardens are producing at full tilt and the blooms are at their showiest, I usually take a walk with my camera and snap pictures of each pretty flower, each delicate tendril and each piece of fruit that is destined for our summer salad bowl.  I love to capture those vibrant colors and hearty pickings.  For a gardener, having that little digital brag book makes the thankless months of toiling in freezing and soggy weather worth it.  

As I was going for my annual stroll, snapping pictures of bright lilies and hairy tomato vines, I realized that although I relish capturing the beauty of a squash blossom, it would be gone hours later, folded by the heat of the sun.  And the magenta petunias would succumb to the beetles within a day.  And even the perfectly twirled cucumber tendril would straighten into a strand of mundane greenery by the next morning.  

As much as I enjoy them, their season lasts but a wink and soon it will be on to the fall’s pulling up and tearing down in preparation for the shriveling creep into winter slumber.   

But alongside the thrill of blazing color and stunning intricacy, there is another side to my gardens.  A side that’s easily overlooked.  Not terribly eye-catching.  Won’t win a photo contest and never finds itself in a frame on the wall.  But it’s the part of the garden that comforts me the most.  Anchors me through the drab, waiting months of early spring and late fall.  Casts a smile across my face as I think of the long line of green thumbs I come from and the newest rank of gardeners I’m working to grow. 

The side of my gardens that comforts me most is covered with rust.  Weathered to weary gray.  Acquiesced to a mantle of moss or a ring of flaking paint.  It’s the side of the gardens that doesn’t flare luminous like a firework on a heavy July night, but rather pulls in a deep sigh and stands firm through another season of raining and blistering and freezing.  It’s the side of my gardens that I know will be there, no matter how far behind I fall as I strain to weed and fertilize and prune the aesthetic, as each year it adds another ring to its bandwidth of senescence.   

So instead of a usual post that highlights the prettiest blossoms and freshest fruits, I’m putting the spotlight instead on the underbelly of my garden, the part that, in many ways, brings me the greatest joy and comforts me to my roots.  

 

The climbing beans are working their way up the teepees that Mom and I built when I first started gardening. 

This pitchfork from my Grandpa Frisk's farm is now used to toss straw into the chicken coop.

These stakes belonged to my grandfather-in-law, Pop Atkinson,  and were used in his city garden.

I love the old cages that Pop Atkinson used with his tomatoes.  I have 8 of them
and wish I could find more. 

I drove over 4 hours to buy this old tub that I found online.  It's now a mint and annual container.  

  This is the groundhog trap I use to battle various garden intruders.
Grandpa Frisk used it for years on the farm in western PA.  

This wheel  is from an old wooden wheelbarrow that I was given last spring by an elderly family member.
I love the hammered metal's patina.  

This milk can came from my Grandpa Frisk's farm.
The lid still has the farm's delivery route number painted on top of it.  

I found this old door at an architectural salvage yard.   It's now a potting table on the side of the shed.
It's hinged so it can fold down during the winter and then prop up for use in the spring.  

I also bought this old screen door at the salvage yard with the idea of turning it into a morning glory trellis.
Like a lot of projects around the yard, it's still waiting patiently to be tackled.

This John Deere thermometer hangs on the chicken coop.
It came from my Grandpa Frisk's coop where I first remember gathering eggs. 

This was my grandfather's milking stool.
Now it's used by the kids when they visit with the hens.

This pile of wood came from a tree that we cut down to make room for the coop.
It's been waiting nearly two years now for someone to come and chop it up.  

He has made everything beautiful in its time. – Ecclesiastes 3:11

Grass

It’s 2:30 AM and you fell asleep again on the couch because the dog was whining and you can’t block out her cries like I can.  And you finally woke up and came to bed and apparently a dog howling won’t wake me, but the soft rustles of the sheets being pulled back are enough to make me bolt upright and bristle about insanely late hours as I squint at the clock and throw myself back to the mattress in a huff.  I’ll have to take your word for it because I don’t remember any of it.  But allegedly that’s how I react when you come to bed in the wee hours of the morning.

It’s 5:15AM and you’re shaking me awake, a very risky move considering how I treated you just hours before.  But you were having a dream that the chickens were clucking and then you realized that they really ARE clucking.  Loudly.  In the middle of the pre-dawn hours.  And your heart is pounding so hard because if you woke up then surely the neighbors did, too, and whatever sailor’s mouth response I might give is worth it if I can get them to stop.  NOW.  

It’s 6:45AM and the kids are dressed and ready to head down for breakfast  but they have to have their daily snuggle with you in bed and it used to be manageable when they were toddlers but now they’re small mastodons and our queen-sized bed groans when they lumber in with the delicacy of a wrecking ball.  There’s a 50/50 chance that you’ll take a shot to your gut as they squirm and knee their way into the crooks of your arms, all while you’re trying to squeeze in a few more minutes of sleep before I begin the Mother Yodel at 7AM. 

It’s 7:45AM and I’ve yodeled and urged and harangued the herd upstairs for toothbrushing and haircombing and it’s my turn for the 3 minute sprinkle that we call our showers these days.  Even though you’re still half-dozing, trying to get a total of 5 or so hours of good sleep, you’re on duty and it’s your job to keep each child separate from the others while they rotate through the bathroom and the cats, er, children know you’re not up to the challenge and they immediately begin their scratching and hissing and general clamoring and I can hear them in the shower and because I know you’re still dozing I have to yell at them through the walls to SEPARATE! and BRUSH BUT DON’T FLUSH (while I’m in the sprinkle because it will scald me) and GET YOUR SHOES ON!  And as I’m yelling I hear you scrambling down the hall to re-establish dominion over the herd so when I emerge with my wet hair and wild eyes I won’t have to holler like a sailor again.  

It’s 10:30AM and I’m upstairs cleaning the kitchen and I’ve reached the limit of where I can stretch my arm on the top of the fridge to wipe off the thick layer of dust that has collected back there so I call down to your office to see if you’re available to come up and finish the job because I know if I don’t ask you when the thought is immediately in my mind, it will be another six months until I remember and then there will be an even deeper layer of dust for you to wipe up.  And I try to explain as you walk up the stairs with pursed lips and fixed pupils that although it seems like I’m being unreasonable by asking you to do this favor in the middle of your work day, in reality I’m actually taking your allergies into account because wiping off one inch of dust is surely less troublesome than wiping off two, right?    

It’s 1:00PM and we’re standing at the kitchen counter, meeting over a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that I slapped together in 30 seconds because I forgot to make you lunch.  Again.  For the third time this week.  Yesterday’s soccer game got canceled because of the rain and you’re going to be in north Jersey for work on the night it’s rescheduled so we’re flipping through our iPhone and Blackberry to see if we can somehow figure out a way for one parent to get three children to sporting events that span two counties and it’s just not possible.  So you offer to bump the jiu jitsu lesson to Saturday morning which is the only time slot this week that looks like it might be good for mowing the grass and Lord knows the grass will need to be mowed after all this rain and so we tap the new plan into our calendars and wipe the crumbs off the countertop and head off in separate directions for the rest of the afternoon.  

It’s 3:15PM and I’m calling you from the Kohl’s parking lot to see if you can squeeze a quick trip to the bus stop in before your conference call so the kids don’t have to walk up the hill alone.  It looks like rain and I’m at least 20 minutes away and I’m calling in hopes that you’ll be able to break away from your computer for a few minutes to fill in for me because I just don’t think I’m going to make it back in time.  And while you’re at it, can you check to see if I remembered to dry the baseball uniform and remind the kids to start their homework right away because we only have half an hour before we have to leave again for the fields?   OK, thanks.  I owe you one. Or two or ten.

It’s 4:30PM and I’m hollering down the stairs to let you know that I left a hotdog on a plate in the fridge for you and there’s some leftover macaroni and cheese, too, in a bowl on the bottom shelf by the lettuce.  I’m leaving for the ball fields and the other two are eating their hotdogs and they need to do their after-school chores before they play outside and don’t forget that it’s shower night for both of them so they should start that by 6:00 or there won’t be enough hot water for the third one when he gets home from his game.  Oh, and the cat threw up under the dining room table.  Can you clean that up when you come up for your hotdog?  

It’s 7:15PM and as I pull in the driveway I can see that you’re mowing the grass because the shed door is open and both side gates are, too, and as I unpack the van and send the mud-caked child up for his shower, I see you striding through the back yard with the mower cutting through the thick grass ahead of you.  I know you well enough to know that you checked the weather app and saw a big enough window between the storm clouds and decided that you could squeeze in at least the back yard before the next bands of rain arrived.  You look up and see that we’re home and you give a wave and a smile and I wave and smile back and then hurry inside to see which child needs my attention during the bedtime hour.

It’s 10:00PM and the sun has been down for over an hour and the children have been sleeping for almost that long and I hear the leaf blower finally rattle to an end and the garage doors are closing and I know that you managed to squeeze in the back, front and side yards tonight because you only leaf blow when you have to clean off the sidewalks and porch and you’ll be tremendously happy now that you won’t have to mow on Saturday afternoon.  And I hear you come in from the garage and the thump of your lawn sneakers hitting the floor means that you’re going to start a load of laundry right now so I holler down the hallway to throw the baseball uniform in with your grass-stained socks and you holler back that you already did.  And I open the fridge to heat up your hotdog and mac-n-cheese because I know you didn’t take the time to eat it before you went outside and I pour a glass of mint ice-tea and cut up a few lemon slices to drop in the glass because this week, I actually remembered to buy some.  And you holler from upstairs to ask if I have any gardening clothes that need to be washed and I tell you to grab the old jeans and tshirt that are laying across the back of the rocking chair and I open a bag of chips and pull out a sleeve of Oreos because you like salty and I need sweet.  

It’s 10:30PM and you’re fresh from the shower and the washing machine stopped running so I go and bump it with my hip and it starts running again and I pull up a chair at the table and we talk about the day that’s done and the day that’s almost here and I joke about how you missed your chance to escape while you were mowing.  I tease that you could have just kept walking down the street like you were headed off in search of greener grass to mow and how no one would’ve blamed you for needing a break.

It’s 10:35PM and you put down your glass of tea and the eyes that meet mine are quite serious and intent and you reach over and put your hand on top of mine and say 6 words that halt the minute hand’s march.  

But this IS the greener grass.   

And my heart stutters and the worry and guilt that have been lurking at the edges of my soul are evicted and breathing feels good again and I can’t believe how dandled and indulged I am, how blessed I am, how incredibly loved I am.  I can’t believe how easily you bend because when I try to bend I usually snap and everyone runs from the whiplash.  But you bend with such grace and I’m wordless at the words you’ve hung in front of me like a great glowing sun that takes a raindrop and breaks it into a rainbow.  And I turn my hand upward and lace my fingers with yours and we spend a few minutes just soaking in the quiet and then I hear the clock ticking and look up to see how much time I have before I begin my transformation into a prickly sailor once again.

It’s 10:45PM and I rinse the dishes and get out the peanut butter to make the children’s sandwiches and I set out the homework folders by their backpacks and stick a post-it note by the coffee pot so I remember to thaw the hamburg in the morning.  You go down to your office to finish up a few emails for work and you holler up the stairs that you don’t need a sandwich tomorrow because you’re meeting a customer for lunch and I’m thankful for that because I don’t think I have any ham left in the fridge.  I feel my legs begin to ache and that’s the sign that I need to head upstairs and wrap up the day so I call down to let you know that I’m going to bed and if you could put the wet clothes in the dryer when the washer stops spinning that would be great.  I switch off the kitchen light but turn back to tell you one more thing before I go upstairs.  

I’m sorry in advance if I yell at you in my sleep when you come to bed.  Ignore whatever I say.  Because I love you.  I really do. 

And you call back, I love you more, and I’m supposed to reply, I love you most, because we’ve been saying that for the last 18 years but this night I let you have the last word because it’s right to fasten it there.  

It’s 11:45PM and I’ve checked my email and Facebook and Pinterest for the last time and I’m weary and sapped but I smile as my feet turn down the hallway to the bedroom and I think that David had it right when he wrote the 23rd Psalm.  The Lord is our shepherd and we do have everything we need and He really does provide a place of rest in the green grass ... this greenest grass we’ll know 'til the other side of Heaven.   

Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup.  

You have made my lot secure.  

The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places.

Surely, I have a delightful inheritance.  

Psalm 16:5-6