Every day is different

Every day is different. Today I was up before the rest. Cal's cold woke me. Made baked oatmeal (it's Susan's first day home) and cleaned the kitchen. In the morning light it shows all the kids missed the night before. I also copied the words of "Come, We That Love the Lord"* on the chalkboard in the kitchen.** Peter was the next one up, almost a half hour later. Then Cal came down, showered and dressed and weak from his cold. We shared breakfast and he emptied the dishwasher as I made a bean/cheese spread for a bagel lunch today and we talked. Finally woke the daughties at 9. (Kilby was already in the shower.) We had family worship at 9:40 with twenty minutes left at the end of it before kids would arrive for children's choir. So Susan, Cal, and I got together with our calendars to try and map out some sense to this spring. Susan has opportunity to make muchos dolares this spring playing accompaniment for the Dade Christian School choir and their many performances and competitions. Cal has a couple of speaking engagements. Kids have tournaments for speech/debate. Spring break. DiPrimas visit. Etc. Etc. (When do we rest?)

But now the choir is long gone. After our planning session, which Susan had to leave for choir, I listened to Becky's interp of the Scarlet Pimpernel, greeted the choir kid moms, talked with Karen Weinstock a little, and returned to Susan's room to glue up a few more rows of tile on the niche in her bathroom. Pam called to go over schedules, after which I talked scheduling with Peter and Kilby. We all stopped for lunch together at the dining room table where Susan told us all about the Theune wedding she played for two weeks ago. And now I'm at the computer to make arrangements for our trip to St. Olaf in three weeks. I stopped for more light, opening the blind by my bed. I stopped also to make the bed. And then I thought how every day is full and every day is different.

I am thankful for much work. I am thankful for ability to organize and execute, such as it is in my "dotage". I am thankful for this sunny, hazy, cool February day. Most days I don't get a chance to record what we did or what I learned or what I thought. But they are all mostly full and mostly good. Today is Gloria Byrne's birthday and Mary Lou's 54th anniversary. It is Berta's birthday. The day is half over. I have bills to pay and more tiles to glue. God is good.


*I have a silly game I have begun in earnest. The first thing I see on waking is the digital clock. If it says 5:22, then hymn #522 is the one I read from the Trinity Hymnal, reflecting on that message for the day. Today it was 7:00. Hymn #700 is "Come, We That Love the Lord". And what a marvelous message is in that song--that eternity, for us, has begun. And think about our temporal world as Emmanuel's land--He walked here. He lived here. For us.

Come, we that love the Lord, and let our joys be known; join in a song with sweet accord, and thus surround the throne.

Let those refuse to sing who never knew our God; but children of the heavenly King may speak their joys abroad.

The men of grace have found glory begun below; celestial fruits on earthly ground from faith and hope may grow.

The hill of Zion yields a thousand sacred sweets before we reach the heavenly fields, or walk the golden streets.

Then let our songs abound, and every tear be dry; we're marching through Emmanuel's ground, to fairer worlds on high.

**The large window-facing panel of the kitchen island was not made out of maple as the rest of the kitchen cabinets. And in the years that the wood has darkened, the panel has also darkened, but to an ugly purplish beige. Following Heather Finn's example of using blackboard paint on a cupboard door in her kitchen, I have painted the whole panel (about 3' x 5'), decorating the sides with the same trim design I used on a painting in 1983. Now we can post the catechism question of the week, or a verse we want to memorize. It looks great along with all the black appliances in the kitchen. Perhaps someday a picture will get added to this post.