lives. When they were small, we’d all go together. Lee and I would split the kids. One twin, Lee, Gracie, me, the other twin. It saved a lot of fighting.
When the kids got older, I’d leave for church twenty minutes or so before the rest of the family. I’d sit in our pew and just be. I didn’t verbalize a prayer, or make requests. I just sat with God. I’d think of everything I was thankful for. I’d count my blessings. And I’d just enjoy those few moments of quiet communion.
Then Lee and the kids would arrive and slide into the pew. We sat between kids. Our strategy didn’t always work. Still, I didn’t mind. I had those quiet moments before they arrived to sustain me.
And I missed them.
Then I remembered one terrible time as I sat by myself in a pew, not communing, but commanding. Begging. Bartering.
God had ignored me and I hadn’t talked to him since.
But maybe it was time to start.
The words of that song played over and over again as I walked Angus back home. “It satisfies my longing, as nothing else can do.”
The next day, I knew my one-thing before I left for the bar. I was a bit nervous, wondering if seeing Sam outside the bar, outside of Monday—first on our picnic, then at the party—would change anything, though at this point I was pretty sure it wouldn’t. Mondays were magic.
Sam smiled as I walked in and he started drawing my Guinness.
I sat on my barstool and simply enjoyed the moment of quiet.
Drawing a Guinness isn’t quite the same as pouring any other brew. It’s an art form, and it takes a few minutes.
But I used that time to simply enjoy the quiet murmurs of the bar.
The people talking.
Glasses clinking.
Joanie the waitress, bustling about, delivering food, taking orders.
Jerry at the end of the bar, sipping his Guinness.
Sam came to the end of the bar with a beautiful glass of Guinness and said the words, “One thing.”
Picnics and parties hadn’t changed anything. It was Monday, this was Sam, and I knew my one-thing.
“Gracie believed in Santa Claus . . .”
“Mom, it’s so embarrassing.” Connie was not a morning person. Today, she stomped into the kitchen and sat down at her empty cereal bowl. She poured a healthy amount of cereal from the Cheerios box and smothered it in milk.
Gracie followed close on her heels and said, “Morning, Mom.”
“What’s so embarrassing?” Lexie had found that Connie managed her tribulations better if she had a chance to vent. She’d decided that her job was as Mom the venting precipitator.
“Gracie.” Connie’s voice was filled with big-sister disgust. She used the same tone when complaining about Conner’s room, which frequently was in danger of being condemned by the health department. “Mom, she was talking about Santa yesterday and Julie overheard her. Do you know how embarrassing that was for me?”
As a fourth grader, Connie had reached the upper tier of the elementary school, and Gracie, as a third grader, was embarrassing when she simply breathed.
“Now, Connie—” Lexie started.
Connie interrupted her by leaning across the table and shouting, “There is no such thing as Santa. Mom and Dad buy all the presents.”
Gracie didn’t look the least bit dismayed as she ate her cereal.
Lee walked into the kitchen, and Connie saw a new place to vent frustration. “Dad, tell Gracie there’s no Santa.”
“There’s no Santa,” he echoed.
Lexie kicked him softly. “Lee, we agreed—”
“We agreed that we’d let the kids discover the truth on their own, but it sounds as if Gracie’s discovered the truth. She’s just ignoring it. She’s eight, Lex. That’s old enough to accept the way things are. Life’s not always the way we want it.”
“Gracie, honey, I’m sorry . . .” Lexie said softly.
Rather than look dismayed, Gracie smiled and patted her hand. “It’s okay, Mom. I know there’s no real Santa. Remember that little girl in the book you read me? That newspaperguy told her
When the kids got older, I’d leave for church twenty minutes or so before the rest of the family. I’d sit in our pew and just be. I didn’t verbalize a prayer, or make requests. I just sat with God. I’d think of everything I was thankful for. I’d count my blessings. And I’d just enjoy those few moments of quiet communion.
Then Lee and the kids would arrive and slide into the pew. We sat between kids. Our strategy didn’t always work. Still, I didn’t mind. I had those quiet moments before they arrived to sustain me.
And I missed them.
Then I remembered one terrible time as I sat by myself in a pew, not communing, but commanding. Begging. Bartering.
God had ignored me and I hadn’t talked to him since.
But maybe it was time to start.
The words of that song played over and over again as I walked Angus back home. “It satisfies my longing, as nothing else can do.”
The next day, I knew my one-thing before I left for the bar. I was a bit nervous, wondering if seeing Sam outside the bar, outside of Monday—first on our picnic, then at the party—would change anything, though at this point I was pretty sure it wouldn’t. Mondays were magic.
Sam smiled as I walked in and he started drawing my Guinness.
I sat on my barstool and simply enjoyed the moment of quiet.
Drawing a Guinness isn’t quite the same as pouring any other brew. It’s an art form, and it takes a few minutes.
But I used that time to simply enjoy the quiet murmurs of the bar.
The people talking.
Glasses clinking.
Joanie the waitress, bustling about, delivering food, taking orders.
Jerry at the end of the bar, sipping his Guinness.
Sam came to the end of the bar with a beautiful glass of Guinness and said the words, “One thing.”
Picnics and parties hadn’t changed anything. It was Monday, this was Sam, and I knew my one-thing.
“Gracie believed in Santa Claus . . .”
“Mom, it’s so embarrassing.” Connie was not a morning person. Today, she stomped into the kitchen and sat down at her empty cereal bowl. She poured a healthy amount of cereal from the Cheerios box and smothered it in milk.
Gracie followed close on her heels and said, “Morning, Mom.”
“What’s so embarrassing?” Lexie had found that Connie managed her tribulations better if she had a chance to vent. She’d decided that her job was as Mom the venting precipitator.
“Gracie.” Connie’s voice was filled with big-sister disgust. She used the same tone when complaining about Conner’s room, which frequently was in danger of being condemned by the health department. “Mom, she was talking about Santa yesterday and Julie overheard her. Do you know how embarrassing that was for me?”
As a fourth grader, Connie had reached the upper tier of the elementary school, and Gracie, as a third grader, was embarrassing when she simply breathed.
“Now, Connie—” Lexie started.
Connie interrupted her by leaning across the table and shouting, “There is no such thing as Santa. Mom and Dad buy all the presents.”
Gracie didn’t look the least bit dismayed as she ate her cereal.
Lee walked into the kitchen, and Connie saw a new place to vent frustration. “Dad, tell Gracie there’s no Santa.”
“There’s no Santa,” he echoed.
Lexie kicked him softly. “Lee, we agreed—”
“We agreed that we’d let the kids discover the truth on their own, but it sounds as if Gracie’s discovered the truth. She’s just ignoring it. She’s eight, Lex. That’s old enough to accept the way things are. Life’s not always the way we want it.”
“Gracie, honey, I’m sorry . . .” Lexie said softly.
Rather than look dismayed, Gracie smiled and patted her hand. “It’s okay, Mom. I know there’s no real Santa. Remember that little girl in the book you read me? That newspaperguy told her
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