reminders

i'm making dinner, looking out our kitchen window. i see our raised beds that i'm hoping will be full of vegetables later this year. one already has shoots showing of snap peas, lettuce, and spinach. the other is full of dirt, waiting for me to plant some seeds.

my little one has been in that raised bed today, the one that's full of cow manure and dirt. i see his blue bucket with the yellow snap-on handle. his faded red spade. the red, yellow-handled shovel. the yellow dump truck with the big wheels. the evidence of the fun he had today is all over my floors. hard little brown clumps of pure joy, shaken out in bits and pieces from his shoes, his pants.

as i look at the toys, i smile. as i sweep, i breathe a thousand thank-you's. i hear glass break in his little "kitchen", a little jar he was using to make me "coffee" now in pieces; i sweep some more. ann voskamp speaks of voicing even the smallest of joys. dirt on a floor that says my child experienced gladness today. laundry piled up that tells of one more day i got to spend with my family. dishes that need to be done, proof that we are fed and are not hungry today.

my husband asks if i want him to go get the toys outside and bring them in. i tell him no. i like my reminders.