I slept through my alarm clock this morning.

Breakfast was late getting to the table; sleepy kids waiting patiently for promised pancakes.

Dirty dishes forgotten in the dishwasher must now be hand washed. Running water trickles through the dish soap on my hands. I listen as detailed dreams are retold from last nights sleep.

"...I was driving the bat-mobile last night. It was super fast!"

"I dreamed that the girl from 'The Magic Finger' pointed at me and turned me into a duck. I was a little bit nervous."

Today is picture day at school. They both pick white shirts to wear.

8:40am arrives too quickly and we hurry out the door; Isaiah needs to catch the bus, and I am going to bible study to discuss how God uses the mud and muck of our lives to transform us.

We scramble home in time for Caleb to eat lunch and get ready for school.

The phone rings. Isaiah is in the school secretary's office, upset that he has just spilled strawberry yogurt all over his white shirt. Pictures have yet to be taken and my second graders heart is broken.

Holding the phone in one hand and searching through an open drawer with the other, I gently tell him that these things happen and promise that I will bring him another.

"How about the blue one with white stripes?"

Trying to hold back the tears he quietly responded "That would be okay, Mom."

I hung up the phone, then spotted another plain white shirt buried deep in the corner of his dresser. It's slightly wrinkled and almost too small, but Isaiah's heart doesn't allow him to see such imperfections, not even in a wrinkled shirt.

I rushed out the door, two shirts, one purse and a 2 year old in hand, followed by Caleb in his clean, white shirt and backpack.

We arrived at school. Isaiah's eye's lit up at the sight of another white shirt. He says he loves me and then walks confidently back into his classroom, wrinkles and all. He can still take his picture with a white shirt.

I arrive home. Breakfast dishes still in the sink. Lunch spread all over the table. Toys spread all over the floor and laundry still in piles.

I wonder if I accomplished anything I set out to do today. I want to say no as the evidence of hurried-family-mess stares me in the face, but something presses on me...



Today was meant for listening to dreams and healing hearts. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I watch as white, frothy bubbles build up in my pan. Ingredients reacting violently to the consistent heat that forever changes them. A quick stir with my wooden spoon and the froth quiets itself into a beautiful swirling pattern.

I'm mesmerized by the dance playing before my eyes, the beauty in the mundane moments of life.

Cool wind blows outside. Quiet music plays in my ears. Baby sleeps. Raindrops splatter on window panes.

Something catches my eye. A fluttering leaf reflecting beautiful light, swirling gently to the ground.



Harvest has come, filling my plate with God-breathed order.

Belly laughs break the silence.



Blond heads streak past me. Muddy footprints pounded into the floor.



Another flash of brilliant light.

Door slams. Baby wakes. A new word spoken from this quiet child. In this safe place her muscles can stretch and strengthen.

My soul overflows with the bounty of this harvest. My table has been set in preparation.



Won't you join me?

There are two things I am sure of:

1 - Boys are always smelly, even after taking a shower.

2 - Boys are weird.

I'm used to weirdness. I have learned to laugh at weirdness - to embrace it.

But this...this...this... thing stuck to my fridge goes way beyond weird. It's downright disturbing.



Who did this and why?

What purpose could it possibly serve?




And more importantly, what is the meaning of it all?

Ambiguously Yours,
Anna Banana