Multitude Mondays: For the One Who Labors in Love

They wrote thank-you notes to Daddy this morning; turned plain old slabs of construction paper into garlands of gratitude.

Their words were simple and sweet, offerings of thanks to the one who labors day after day without complaint. 

And as they hunched intently over their cards, I pondered that summer’s moment when I’d realized anew the grace of him, the immeasurable gift of a hard-working man…

That was the day we’d packed a  breakfastof fresh pastries and juice and had headed to our farmer boy’s favorite park.

We’d munched on donut holes and old-fashioned cinnamon rolls, long johns and raspberry tarts.

And we’d opened the Word right there around the picnic table and we’d read it slow and sweet like the frosting drizzle on my baby girls’ chin.

 My big boy had stretched his long body across the bench of the picnic table that morning, had turned his face to the streams of sun and closed his eyes in silent contentment.

We’d left him there, savoring summer, while we’d chased butterflies and played ball tag and sung camp songs at the top of our lungs from inside the little playhouse that looked like a log cabin. We’d shed our shoes and buried our bare toes in the playground sand; had soared the swings and dangled from the monkey bars. We’d found dinosaurs in the changing shapes of the morning clouds and had listened to the clomping of horses’ hoofs as trail trekkers set out for their morning rides.

We’d consumed more donuts and told knock-knock jokes as if stupid humor were going out of style.  
And even that big boy lazing in the sun had laughed at his little brother’s original jokes.

It was the perfect summer’s day.

And then that little brother whose lips were laced with donut-hole powder and the faint orange shadow of a bottled breakfast beverage had exhaled a wistful sigh and shrugged his slender shoulders and put voice to the one imperfection…

 “I wish Daddy were here.”

The others had murmured in agreement, and we’d all grown quiet thinking about the one we were missing, the one who had left the house in his blue scrubs long before any of us had climbed from bed.

I’d let myself miss him, too, as I’d gathered the left-over donuts and stuffed the remains back into our blue and white striped bakery bags.

The old bitterness was threatening to choke me when Lizzy had  grabbed her little brother’s hand and spoken the truth I’d failed to consider.

 “But, Josh, if Daddy were here right now, Mommy couldn’t be.”

My five-year-old had  bit his lip and tried to make sense of his sibling’s words.

And I had swallowed hard and done the same.

Josh had raised one eyebrow and wrinkled up nose; then peered at his curly-haired sis with a cock-eyed glance. 

Lizzy had ruffled her little brother’s sweaty head and explained, “You see, buddy, Daddy goes to work every day so Mommy doesn’t have to.” 

I’d decided not to mention the mountains of laundry I level each day or the toilets I scrub or the dishes I scour. 

Instead, I gave Josh a conspiratorial wink and stuck out my tongue as a marvelous reminder of this great life we share.

And I let him fling his arms around my neck and nuzzle me with a sticky kiss while his sisters had moaned and clutched their throats in dramatic protest of our mushiness.

When was the last time I’d thanked him?

My littlest boy had hollered my name and challenged me with a sing-song dare, “Bet you can’t catch me, Mom!”

So, I’d abandoned my spot on the picnic table and raced to the playground to chase my brown-haired boy.

And with each step, I’d breathed a prayer of thanks for the sand beneath my toes, the racing children just beyond my reach, and the faithful feet that go to work each day so I don’t have to!

Thank you, Rob. I LOVE YOU.

The Overflow: May the favor of the Lord our God rest on us; establish the work of our hands for us— yes, establish the work of our hands. -Psalm 90:17

Counting my gifts on this Labor Day…

1374. A husband who goes to work so I don’t have to!

1375. Being present for my four at the school day’s end— listening to their tales- laughing at their antics. Savoring the pleasure of their homecoming.

1376. Sitting on the beach with Crystal at sunset- kids splashing in the water, sun dancing on the blue…. the beauty of Plan B.

1377. Regan’s  return!! Games in the yard, chatter around the dinner table, the joy of reconnection.

1378. A Sabbath table filled with doodles- crayon prayers and praises

1379. Streaks of glowing neon in the backyard—kids covered in glow-sticks playing capture the flag– cousin fun on a hot summer’s night.

1380. Finding God in the small stuff.

1381. The hum of the dishwasher in the late hours of night… the promise of clean plates, fresh starts in the morning.

1382. Maggie’s ballerina dance in the middle of her bedroom.

 Linking again in community with Ann and these lovely grace seekers:  l.l. for on, in, and around mondays, laura for playdates with god, ruth at the better mom, and jen for soli deo gloria