Sunday is Purple

Today we get wet
running into and out of
mass.

Today we fly
the children on our feet,
dance in the living room,
read on the sun porch.

Today we play checkers and chess,
pretend to be bakers and chefs,
run and chase each other through the house.

Today we tumble on top
of each other and rest in a mass
of arms and legs and bellies and cheeks.

Today we get irritated, angry, and sad.

Today we say, “I’m sorry,” and “I forgive you.”

Today is a purple day –
rare, precious, and holy.

practice

I sit on the floor
and the baby comes close to me;
his hands pat my shoulder,
my back; he says,
“gentle, gentle.”

We are practicing
“no hitting” these days.

We are also practicing
“no whining”
“no screeching”
“no fighting.”

It is difficult to be
each other’s practice boards,
to be the place where someone else learns
how to love, how not to love,
how to apologize, how to forgive.

We all have to practice.
It is one of the things that makes family life
mysterious,
and on the days we finally learn “gentle,”
it makes life miraculous.

Lenten Jar

Our Lenten jar is a sparkling vase.
It sits empty Ash Wednesday morning
in the center of the table, waiting

to be filled. The kids aren’t sure
we can do it: by Holy Saturday
foil-wrapped bits of chocolate rise

above the rim, waiting
to be hidden, found, unwrapped, enjoyed:
a testament to the good works of everyone in the house.