My 9 year old cleans our dining room table. He takes pride in his work, telling me it's his favorite chore. I hand him the cloth, soaked and squeezed with soap and water, watch his long arms move in lines and circles.
He cleans this sticky, dirty table with a smile on his face. He knows it makes his mother happy.
I sit here now with thank you notes and books and half-eaten apples, vestiges of pre-bedtime rituals and the small bits of work I barely accomplish during a Wiggles encore. The dishwasher churns and groans. The ceiling fan lifts the edges of paper, laying them down again. Softly, in rhythm.
A moment of domestic peace.
Toddler sleeping, children at karate, and the thank you notes... lined with simple, inadequate words offering up immeasurable gratitude. People, so many people, who believe and pray and give so we can go. Who lift us up when we fall and show us the way when we are lost.
How can I say thank you for being Jesus to me, to us, to our children? How can I say thank you to the boy who serves his mama?
Blue swirls on the page. Kisses and prayers before bed.
Oh, thank you.