His Last Gift.

The usual calm after the storm had taken over Happy House yesterday.

Children played - fascinated with their newest toys.

Parents closed sleepy eyes and lazily flopped around the house picking at

leftovers. We had a few hours in between festivities.

We all seemed to breathe a collective and appreciative sigh for Christmas. For

each other. For Santa. For the leftovers calling to us from the kitchen.

But, the sun broke through the clouds in mid afternoon and the weather

became, simply put, too nice not to be outside.

Without thinking much about it, I said to the family -

"His last gift

is waiting for us in the back woods.."

And without further ado, the children

raced to that locale.... never asking who "He" is, and never asking what the gift could possibly be. They just took themselves there and the Hubs and I slowly followed.

Dec balanced, listened to a red-tailed hawk and used his new bow and arrow to aim and concentrate.

Nonie pointed her toes, transformed herself into an outdoor ballerina, and performed for restless squirrels and birds happening all around her.

Together, as the setting sun sparkled on the lake in the distance, we all discovered that

His Last Gift was waiting for us in the back woods.

And as I sat on the old stone wall cradling my camera, I lifted my eyes to the sun and marveled that our cup spilleth over on days like today. And, every day, really.

How could we possibly be given more, when we already have so much?

Perhaps a big part of being truly thankful, is taking the time to inventory all that we have for which we could be (and should be) giving thanks.

And how are our children not asking where the gift is right now - do they know that it is them?

And when I opened my eyes - I saw this. My angel. My beautiful Christmas angel.

I believe that our offspring somehow know what I'm just discovering as I sit here on the old stone wall basking in soul-warming Christmas sunshine:

His Last Gift,

is really

His Lasting Gift.

Of course they know this.

Of course I believe in His Last Gift,

and in so much more.

merry everything.

10 Giving Thanks.

When there are 10 giving thanks at the homestead on thanksgiving...

T's pumpkin snowman looks to the drive and wonders where all the cars are.

And when we gather round the fire, we're all close enough to feel some of the warmth.

The cousins are controllable, quiet even -

And there is no Marky standing guard over the turkey plate.

And "who's missing?!? something's missing..." rattles in our heads... Our hearts.

And there is elbow room at the table, with conversations that are audible.

With just 10, there is room in the dishwasher for dessert AND dinner plates.

I can't recall the last time that has happened.

The dogs don't dodge oil splatters back by the pool, and they miss hanging with the boys amidst the fried turkey excitement/chaos.

There is no mention of hat parties - no pinatas are hung. But a few times, people do comment on how "small the group is this year...".

There was no line at the buffet!

In fact, the three cousins present ate dessert in the shadows of photos - pics of the missing four cousins.

There's the turkey plate Marky - see? No one dropped it.

When it is just 10 of us giving thanks together at thanksgiving,

the food tastes delicious, of course,

but none of us can shake the fact that

2/3 of the clan is missing.

And 2/3 of the clan is missed.

count your blessings

My days are strange. I find glitter in the radiator vents. I eat my turkey sandwich at 9:30 when my kids go to art. I clean up bloody nose-drippings off the floor.  I laugh it off when my student points to the word "Mass" and says that the last three letters make a bad word. Does your six year old know that? Or have I just done an amazing job teaching phonics?
But today I looked out on my domain and my heart smiled.
I felt it.
There they all sat. Engulfed in their work as I sat with three girls for a reading group.

I know that I am not doing this alone.
I count my blessings.

I come home to a dog wagging his tail to see me. Even though I leave him for maybe a little longer than I should. He's been sitting on the love seat all day. I can see his butt imprint. I set it up all cozy for him (shhh). He's kicked the blanket off - straight to the source. He's sassy. I like that.

I have health and a bit of wealth that is maybe not as monetary as might be nice but it fills me up. It looks like parents and sisters and brothers. In-laws and out. Nieces and nephews.

Spending my day with 6 and 7 year olds help me remember the fundamentals. The really simple things. The pleases and thank you's. Your welcomes and I'm sorry's.  The wants and needs.

I know I have much more than I need.

And I count my blessings.

Bitty babies and cheese fondue.

I think this is withdrawl.

The time after a weekend filled to the brim with all those people you love the most and want to hug the most.
And then you leave.
And you can't.
Hug them.
But you can still love them.

And you can remember that these kids have the most exclusive club going.


And these kids want to be where the action is.


And this kid's cheeks were sent from the heavens to be filled with smooches.

And cheese fondue is always the answer.

Every moment...

How does one even remember the moments not captured in a picture?

Years from now I want to remember what this looked like, and the image in my brain is all I will have.

With a belly full of sweet and savory food I sat on Maddy's bedroom floor and watched her play her violin. I got to listen to her navigate through a new song "it is just the most beautiful song" she warned me before she started.

And it was. I watched her, 21 years my junior, in wonder. How do you commit yourself to remembering these small moments? She is not even *MINE* and I want to remember this simple thing. Her stripes and her pigtails and her fingers moving over the strings. Living in the moment for this song and this place and these people.

It was a magical day. The sun shone and thanksgiving came early because good grief I am thankful for the things that are mine, and not, today.