Bird in the Hand

I begin by stating the obvious: I need to write.

I continue by stating the reality: I have no words.

I have thoughts. I have reflections. I have inspirations. I have themes. I even have notes.

(Never before have I made notes. Kim Roth, I blame the Moleskines on my 30th.)

But I have no words.

What I do have tonight, what I can name, are thanks. I have thanks.

That I am home tonight. Because four trips in two months equals a challenging amount of days to spend away from your home. And I am happy to be here. Even if housekeeping will not be here tomorrow to make my bed and bring me clean towels and mini shampoos.

That there are three more kids who call me Aunnie running around the compound. (Well, maybe just two. The middle Jones still routinely asks me who I am.) And Liv gets all giddy about "the cousins". I know they are ridiculously out of their norm. Is ridiculously a strong enough word? But I am so crazy happy they are here for this time.

That, for all the difficult decisions I have to make each day, grace is there. And sometimes, logic shows up, too. And they reinforce each other.

That I made a superior batch of chocolate chip cookies tonight.

That my gutters are clean. It seems trivial, yes, but YOU try being a homeowner who's afraid of heights! (My thanks to Jim Crabill. He's a good man. Also I pay him in cookies and meatloaf.)

That long weekends exist.

That best friends call on Thursday nights.

That C.S. Lewis wrote Chronicles of Narnia.

And that's that. We're heading out of a straight six weeks of regional calamity into a weekend of memoriam. Of honor. Of thanks.

So.

Thanks.