late-summer jewels

goldenrod pollen

Fall comes, and the goldenrod pollen settles on our table.

We try to find a routine: walking in the damp, cool mornings. Assembling lunch lickety-split before I dash back to work. Bumping shoulders in the kitchen as we make dinner together again after a long long hiatus. Playing games—old favorites like cribbage and Carcassonne—and trying to outwit each other.


Watching the tomatoes, those late-summer jewels, dwindle to one, then none.

Lying in bed and breathing deeply, practicing for labor—he coaxing my muscles to ease, me learning how to let my shoulders soften and sink into our wonderful bed. Pulling his hand to my belly, cupping it over the spot she’s most active, feeling her tumble and prod and learn her own little limbs and limits. Chuckling at her antics. Trying to sear these wordless minutes into my memory.

half a flat of tomatoes

Asking the Lord for answers to our questions. Our one question, really, the one I wake to every morning, the one I circle back to in prayer. Why?

Why why why? Over and over demanding to know. Resorting to all caps in my journal to make sure God pays attention. Ending in tears more often than not.

just one green zebra tomato

Then stumbling upon grace like a mote of dust and changing the question entirely. Starting to ask for the simple gift of contentment in the not-knowing. Instead of demanding, receiving. Attending. Cherishing. Reacquainting myself with gratitude.


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