Family

Merry Christmas. xxoo

discovered while tidying the bookshelves.

We managed to slip out of town to the beach house and have enjoyed a few warm and sunny days, but now a cold front is rolling on in. At the ready are Playmobil sets, plastic Civil War soldiers, vintage Hardy Boys hardcovers, two decks of playing cards, and a variety of other wet weather beach house staples. I have good chocolate and a good book on hand, and am snuggled underneath a fleece blanket, so I say let the weather come.

Alastair and Jacqui were once “the church sound guy and his worship singer wife” to me, little more than strangers. In fact the first real conversation I had with Alastair went something like this: Alastair, standing in front of me, a microphone stand between us: “Sing louder.” Me: “I can’t.” Alastair: *sigh* Slowly we became good friends, and now ten years later, Alastair and Jacqui are as close to my heart as family. They invited us over for dinner this past Saturday evening. The meal Alastair cooked was just incredibly delicious and satisfying, and our conversation was comfortable, as it should be between old friends. Isn’t it a wonder and a gift that today’s stranger can become a sister or brother ten years on?

I’m hoping to begin this book with the little ones as soon as we’ve settled into our new dinner–>cleanup–>schoolwork–>bedtime routine.

She gets an unreal amount of attention when she rolls around in public wearing these skate/shoe thingies. Every comment she overhears from a little one (Mama, HOW is that girl skating on her SHOES??) makes her smile wide. The floors at IKEA are the bestest of all.

I hear giggles mixed with serious discussion drifting up the stairs to my sick bed. I haul myself to standing, hobble to my camera, and tiptoe down the open stairs to see exactly how this day of their summer vacation is starting.

It was slippery outside this morning, too slippery to run. I made maple oatmeal scones instead. We sipped coffee and read about dinosaurs, then I retreated to the home office to begin my day.

A sign hangs at the beginning of the long driveway, but I only catch the first word, Woods, white painted letters on dark pine. We pass fenced pastures dotted with small barns and stands of tall trees, only tufts of orange and brown leaves left at their very tops, their bodies spare streaks below. The horses lift their heads as we pass. We park under an old maple and haul folding chairs, blankets, and backpacks holding flashlights and sweatshirts past the farm house and into the back yard where the gathering has started. ...

When we are here there is no hurrying and no herding and no lunch-packing, no prying small hands off of my body, no pushes toward the school door, no blue eyes full of longing to be home. We walk along the bay bottom at low tide and dig, and we poke at slimy things with long sticks. We pick up the hermit crabs, and we talk about how we love our visits to the beach, and we don’t talk about the times in between. We are different people when we are here.