I’m shocked to realize it’s been over a month since I wrote even a word in this place that bears my name. Truth be told, I haven’t much to say, but I thought I’d drop you all a line and let you know how we’ve been. About like this:
It’s a wet Wednesday, and we’re out of sorts. Rather, I’m out of sorts, and everyone else is taking their cues from me. Doug’s out of town for a conference, the sky is weeping outside, and I am weeping inside. We’re all a little off our rhythm.
We long for summer—blue skies and sunshine and long walks and picnics in the park. Hours spent out of doors. Lazy days by the pool. Croquet. Strawberries.
These things will come. For now, though, it’s wet, and we must endure, huddled inside our small walls. It’s dry in here, and warm, which is more goodness than many people have.
So I put a little Jadon Lavik on the radio, Jack makes a smoothie, Jane makes cheese and crackers, and I pull out a book of children’s verse. We eat and read on the living room floor, on a picnic blanket. Nothing fancy, just something to get my mind off myself. And it works.
Jack reads “Disobedience” by A.A. Milne. It is impossible to listen to that poem and not crack a smile. Then I remember “A Jonah Day” in Anne of Avonlea, and I pull that book off the shelf and read it to the kids. Between the firecrackers in the stove and the bucket of ice water on poor Prillie’s head, we’re all laughing and enjoying ourselves and one another, even within these small walls.
Even when the food is gone and the books are put away and it’s time to make yet another meal, I find solace in the thought that whatever the gray skies seem to imply, winter doesn’t last forever. Summer is coming.