During the summer months, our family has always conducted something called “Super Summer Family Memory Nights.”

These weeks, our family night includes far more than the homemade buttered popcorn and Andy Griffith/Waltons/Brady Bunch-type fare—we use the time to bond the truth of God’s Words to our girls’ hearts with memorable fun.

Each week, one memory verse is assigned. We hand out the typed sheets to everyone on the kick-off night. (We began when our youngest was 2½ years old; we highlighted a shortened version for her, but she usually knew our version by summer’s end, just because of all the repetition!)

We begin our evening by reciting our verses. Small prizes are awarded to those who know their verses (a candy bar, fun notebook, pen, game for all of them to share, a coupon to stay up late) and thanks to friendly peer pressure, all the girls—and their parents—have learned all of them. The verses build on each other, so that by summer’s end, all of us have committed nine verses of scripture to memory (12, if we do the bonuses, which have the biggest prizes!).

We pray together, do a REALLY fun devotion, sing a few choruses and then let the snacking and shows begin! They love that one night is an ice cream sundae bar; another is a buffet of cheese cubes, fruits, veggies and dip and tiny desserts; one night is a jammies run to a fun destination.

We often use the Heritage Builders Family Night Tool Chest Books—Introduction to Family Nights, Wisdom Life Skills and Tried & True for Teens are some of our favorites. One year, we adapted Group’s Kids’ Travel Guide to the Ten Commandments and included knowing those commandments in order as part of our memory work. All of the lessons are easily adapted and we have added and cut as needed to fit age and interests. They don’t take more than 15 minutes.

All four of our girls still talk about the evening on our driveway, where a roll of Mentos candy was added to a two-liter of Coca-Cola and spurted everywhere, a vivid visual reminding us to be contagious Christians whose joy spilled over on others.

Another favorite was making a list of our worries in sidewalk chalk, the summer of Greg’s kidney transplant. In the middle of those worries, we wrote one of our verses: “Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” We prayed on top of those worries and let the garden hose wash and make of those worries a beautifully rainy tapestry, whose colors mirrored the sunset.

We’ve had scavenger hunts and planned tricks. We’ve ended the summer with a family talent night and laughed until we cried. One year, our oldest daughter, for her “talent,” dove in the pool at our annual end-of-summer Bed & Breakfast getaway and touched the drain! She has always been terrified of them since she read that someone’s long hair once got them sucked down a drain. We teased her mercilessly and applauded hysterically when she conquered her fear for those few moments.

Our girls have written their own Psalms, surrounded by the bounty of God’s world, serenaded by cicadas, and all of us have written down the five things we’d want to tell each other if we knew those would be our last words.

We begin the summer season, as we do the back-to-school season, with a family meeting. As our girls grow, we have wanted our summers to blend relaxation with productivity and memory making with down time. We agree on a few guidelines that prevent lots of nagging and arguing.

Here are ours for this summer:

• bed made and clean clothes put away daily

• only one block of TV/movie time daily

• 15 minutes of Webkinz or Facebook (oldest only) or Wii daily

• devotions and exercise daily

• generally, in bed by 11:00 p.m. and up by 9:30-10:00 a.m.

• one special day to do Summer List activities every week

• weekly rotation of learning to do laundry, dishes, and cooking with Mom

• one sloth day each week in which you can stay in your jammies and just do chill-out activities

I’ve included this year’s memory work to help you get started. Every family is unique and what works for one won’t always work for another, but part of the fun is adapting and treasuring each other! I can’t wait to hear all about what you do!

Super Summer Family Nights 2011

June 10

“Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds…but let us encourage one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.” Hebrews 10:23-25

June 17

“The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective. Elijah was a man just like us. He prayed earnestly that it would not rain, and it did not rain on the land for three and a half years.” James 5:16b,17

June 24

“Finally, all of you, live in harmony with one another; be sympathetic, love as brothers, be compassionate and humble. Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing.” I Peter 3:8,9

July 1

“This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us. And if we know that he hears us—whatever we ask—we know that we have what we asked of him.” I John 5:14, 15

July 8

“But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that.” I Timothy 6:6-8

July 15

“Do everything without complaining or arguing so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life.” Philippians 2:14-16a

July 29

“Be careful that you do not forget the LORD your God, failing to observe his commands, his laws and his decrees that I am giving you this day, otherwise, when you eat and are satisfied…then your heart will become proud and you will forget…” Deuteronomy 8:11,12a, 14a

August 5

“Don’t be afraid, the prophet answered. “Those who are with us are more than those who are with them” And Elisha prayed, “o LORD, open his eyes so he may see.’ Then the LORD opened the servant’s eyes, and he looked and saw the hills full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha.” II Kings 6:16,17

Bonus:

1. Review Books of Old Testament —$5 dessert of your choice during our B & B weekend

2. “One thing I ask of the LORD, this is what I see: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life…I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.” Psalm 27:4,13,14—$5 dessert + $10 credit to For-All Bible

3. “My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from him. He alone is my rock and . . . my fortress, I will never be shaken. One thing God has spoken, two things have I heard: that you, O God are strong, and that you, O Lord, are loving. Surely you will reward each person according to what he has done.” Psalm 62:1,2,11,12—Both of the above prizes + $15 credit toward one “extra” item of back to school clothing.

Remember that ALL 3 bonuses AND the memory work must be complete to get all three prizes! J I love you so, girls. Let’s make Dad’s first healthy summer amazing!

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I’m almost embarrassed to write this. Maybe it’s only something a cop’s wife who’s used to dark humor will understand, but I’ll chance it.

You see, this is the seventh day following a murder. Wherever there is a murder or other mayhem, there goes my police chief husband. And because I write for a living, this is what I penned, tongue in cheek, a week ago today:

My Day: A Short Essay

Make lunch plans with husband. Cancel lunch plans because of murder. Work tail off for five hours on novel proposal. Try to attach it as a document to agent’s e-mail and realize it is MIA. Cry. Take lunch to husband at crime scene. Remind self there are more important things and so husband cannot possibly help me find lost things on the computer. Try to compose self before picking up children from school.

The End

I alternated between good and bad moments, praying for the victim’s family, for those working the case, for God’s discernment and wisdom. Being supportive and understanding, knowing that as stressful as this was for us, it was more so for those who were out there working on it. Living it. It got harder on day three, when yet another family thing/kid’s program/date night was cancelled. Understanding seemed in short supply. Tempers were frayed, as is usually the case when sleep is lost.

But this morning, a morning for which I had many other plans, I spent at the vet’s office with Joy Puppy. She hasn’t eaten for the past two days and has—ahem—loose stools. The doctor looked at something under the microscope and said that while there are a small amount of bacteria that would cause this present, he estimates that 60 percent of her symptoms are stress and depression related because of the disruption in her routine (my husband walks her a mile and prays each morning before work) and because my husband hasn’t been home except briefly in the wee hours of the morning to catch some sleep for nearly a week.

My dog is depressed. The dog. I found it a bit embarrassing, a tad expensive for the medicines she needed, and ludicrous to call my husband with the update. Yes, honey, as though you needed any more motivation to wrap up the case, your puppy apparently misses you most of all. Sigh.

And yet, in all the conversations my girls and I have had through this week, we’ve had something else: the opportunity to pray. For their daddy and the other officers and the hard work they are doing because someone does not one to own up to having taken another life. For the victim’s family, because even homeless people have one and are imprinted with God’s miraculous design. For ourselves and our attitudes. Not to be petty, selfish or absorbed in only what we need. Ouch.

I have had the privilege, painful as it is sometimes, to play rally-er of spirits, to attend activities that went far away from plans, to be a servant to my husband and to remind them (and myself) that their daddy is being true. To himself. To the gifts and talents with which God has gifted him. He goes above and beyond. He does his job with excellence. This is a rare and wondrous thing. Through this, I want my girls to see that we are to be true. Faithful. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it hurts.

He will be home for longer soon. And the puppy? She’ll have to learn God’s provision along with the rest of us.

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I’d like to share a small story from my archives this month (circa 1998) . . .

The smell of the first chill, driving rain of fall wafted under the front door. Large drops drove under the wide white porch and pelted the rockers, porch swing and the weathered old wooden barrel, sporting checkers and a stenciled game board.

The noses of my oldest two girls pressed wistfully against the glass. Then they turned and fixed their baleful gazes on me. A basketball game had been promised.

My husband also looked at me, eyes full of questions. “How ‘bout it, Cinso? Would it be okay if we went ahead with our basketball game anyway?”

I think I gave my husband the shock of his life. “Go ahead,” I answered. “It won’t kill the girls to get sopping wet for ten minutes. I’ll have a hot bath and cocoa waiting.”

I snapped and tied hoods and sent them off amidst raucous squealing. The baby and I watched through the screen door, applauding any and all shots. The aroma of soggy earth and wet wood drifted in.

After a few minutes, one of the prosecutors from the office where my husband was the investigator, drove up the long gravel lane to deliver some papers for an upcoming trial. “Just in time for the game,” my husband invited. He shook his head in refusal and stared at the lot of us like we were crazy.

Maybe he wouldn’t nominate me for mother of the year, but I’m sure my then three- and eight-year-old daughters thought I was in the running. As his car backed out of the driveway, I imagined that he might secretly be jealous of our rainy adventure.

Maybe we weren’t crazy, we were just enjoying the smells of home.

You see, conventional mothering wisdom says we shouldn’t let our children play basketball in the rain, stay up too late, eat dessert first, sleep on a pallet on a school night. And generally, I’d agree.

But as I grow older, both in years and in parenting, I realize that sometimes I have to ignore everything and just go ahead and make the memory. We’re rushing along to errands and a child longingly, wistfully makes a comment about the beautiful day and the really cool new playground equipment at the park. Just stop and play for 10 minutes.

Your grade schooler has completed a really hard day of MAP testing and would like the peace of sleeping on a pallet in the floor of your room tonight. It’s a school night, so they’re just positive the answer will be a resounding “No!” Surprise them and say yes.

While you’re at it, a banana split contains potassium. I hear it make the occasional great breakfast!

How can you say ‘yes’ to the unexpected and deliver a wonderful memory, implanting the scent, the feel of home?

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As I type, I am driving in the dark with my husband, Greg, to St. Louis. It’s a ridiculously early morning hour. My eyes are sandpaper with streaks of red. I’m tense, but reminding myself that this is a much easier trip than it was twenty months ago.

Twenty months ago, on our 15^th wedding anniversary, we headed to St. Louis for my husband’s kidney transplant. He had an estimated 7-9 percent kidney function; this was our last shot at saving his life.

Looking back over these past months, I see God’s hand everywhere. I look over past posts and scraps of journals and see lessons.

There was the day we found that a perfect donor match found. She was a former student of my husband’s at the University in some crime scene classes. Her parents had forwarded her a prayer chain e-mail. We received one from her: “You may not remember me . . . your integrity and faith made an impact on me. I can’t stand the thought of your wife and girls growing up without you. I had myself tested and guess what? I’m the perfect match.” We wept tears of gratitude.

Over the next months as we waited for an opening, our girls and I watched their daddy and the love of my life, decline. One morning I posted: “Last night Greg was hurting too badly to sleep. He went downstairs to the sleeper sofa. All the girls took their sleeping bags downstairs, made a guard around him and they had an Andy Griffith show marathon. I went upstairs crying, not saying a word about anybody needing sleep. Some things are more important.”

Then there was the morning I wrote: “Ellie cried this morning for the first time during all of this. Her daddy was too sick to go to church.” I’ll never forget the outpouring of responses, including one precious friend who wrote: “I’m crying with her.”

On the morning of the surgery, 37 people had made the five-hour trip to St. Louis to be with us. They flooded the waiting room with prayers, laughter, hugs and strong coffee. They paced with us, entertained our girls, were patient with my distracted worry and expressed confidence in the outcome.

One of our friends brought a journal in which people could write their thoughts and prayers for Greg. Our minister and friend preceded his humorous comments with this: “Greg, the fact that I am writing in this tells you I am confident you will be here to read it.”

More than 300 people followed surgery week on Facebook. If there weren’t constant updates, we heard about it. They expressed personal prayers and the marshaling of churches all over the world to pray on Greg’s behalf. To say our hearts were touched is a little like saying Mandisa can sing.

When the surgeon came to tell me the surgery had been successful and that the new kidney was taking over, loud whoops filled the room. I don’t know what the medical team thought of us. When the girls got to see their daddy in ICU, there was not a dry eye.

All through the week, people came to see Greg. A high school friend rerouted his business flight to be able to see him. The entire youth group came by on their way home from CIY conference. So did folks from the church where my daddy preached in St. Louis as I was growing up. It’s not every day you get to stand by a miracle.

People came to drive my mother and the girls back home after the surgery. For three weeks after all of us arrived home, friends and church members brought meals and mowed our lawn. The men’s group from our church painted the house. It was humbling and amazing. Our girls watched all of this with wide-eyed wonder.

All of this has carved an ever-deepening faith in the yawning canyon of doubt from those dark, indescribably hard months.

A few months ago, one of my girls snuggled on my lap. “Mommy, I wish daddy wouldn’t have had to go through all of this. But it seems like his faith is even better than before, huh?”

I pressed my cheek against her head, breathing in the scent of childhood. She wasn’t finished. With a contented sigh, she continued, “I guess that makes all of this worth it, huh?”

Indeed.

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The day the softball hit Eden in the leg pretty hard, the campaign began.

“I don’t like softball anymore. It isn’t fun. I don’t want to play. I shouldn’t have to do something I don’t want to do.”

I wanted to throw up my hands. I knew she was just scared of the ball now, but she’d never admit it. Driving to practice was an ordeal. Griping, complaining, bemoaning the unfairness of it all. And that was just me!

It was so hard to explain to a six-year-old the concept of stick-to-itiveness—that you have to finish what you start. “Your teammates are counting on you. If you still don’t like softball at the end of the season, you don’t have to play, but you signed up and you’ll have to finish it.”

It’s hard as parents to know what to do. We don’t want to push our children into things, but we do want to give them nudges into trying things that will expand their horizons or give them a lifetime hobby.

I’m not one of those parents that thinks my girls need to know a foreign language, be proficient at a musical instrument, and be an Olympian sportswoman all by the time they’re eight years old. In fact, we limit our girls to one musical thing and one activity per semester, in order to guard both our family time and the sweet freedom to just play in childhood.

Nevertheless, I’ve wondered about paying for piano lessons that a child begged for, but then turns into a daily battle over practice time. What I do know is this: the picture is much bigger when I want them to learn persistence and determination. To finish what they start.

You see, if there’s anything more satisfying than sliding into home plate with dirt on your face, grass stains on your knees and the roar of the crowd in your ears, I don’t know what it’d be. Unless it would be entering the stadium through the pearly gates and having your feet touch golden streets. Watching the saints who’ve gone before cheer you as you enter heaven and having the One who loved you more than life itself, open His nail-scarred hands, and wrap His arms around you, shouting “Welcome Home! Well done, good and faithful servant!”

But you can’t win at baseball or anything else unless you stay in the game. The apostle Paul calls this Christian life “the race set before us.”

We want to finish well. We want to pass the baton to this new generation.

We have become a nation of spectators, not players. Of project starters, not project finishers. Want to change that? Be a project finisher. Stay in the game.

Come on.

I double dog dare you.

You do it and your children will follow. Finish what you start. It’s a lesson with eternal impact. One day, if you stay faithful, you’ll cross home plate for the last time.

And the first time.

Forever.

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My youngest and I picked through the stand of delicious looking fruit. If the samples were anything to go by, we could indeed choose a melon that was sweet and ripe, even during unpredictable March.

We giggled while thumping and sniffing the bright green striped rinds and then marveled over the sticker:

Seedless Watermelon

(It May Contain Seeds)

What? How on earth can a seedless watermelon contain seeds, Elexa wondered. It seemed a bit misleading.

But it got us to thinking about all the things that have not delivered as promised. A toy that does not perform as advertised on television. A shirt that is supposedly pre-shrunk but doesn’t meeting the waistband of your jeans after just one washing. A teacher that says an assignment will be graded and back to you at a certain time, but isn’t. A broken promise. An unrealistic claim. A game whose price isn’t the same as in was in the misleading advertising flyer.

Sigh. It would seem life is chock full of disappointment.

Happily, there was a sweet lesson even there. Jesus Christ does not change. He is the same yesterday, today and forever. He will never leave you or forsake you. He is a man of his word. Trustworthy. You will find him if you seek him with all your heart.

Guaranteed never to rust, rot, break or fail. You see, God keeps His promises. He remains faithful even when we do not. Even when we do not! That part steals my breath.

You see, when we split open the luscious watermelon after dinner that night, there were small pale seeds in the hot pink flesh. True, they were not the large black seeds that one normally associates with watermelon—hence the delight of a watermelon seed spitting contest—but they were seeds, nonetheless. The inside was delicious, and yet did not exactly measure up to the promises on the sticker.

We ate with sticky fingers and smiling faces, clinging to the one thing we learned all over again: other people, other things, other circumstances can and will disappoint us. They will fail to live up to our expectations. They will deliver something close, but not quite what it should be.

But when friends fail us, when events disappoint us, we have a Savior who does not.

And that’s a sweet truth.

Choose your favorite fruit for this season and share it as an afterschool snack. Talk about things that have disappointed you and spend time thanking God that He never fails.

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I’ve slowly been weaning myself from walking my 10-year-old into school. I’m down to three days a week.

Technically, it’s middle school, even though 5^th grade is still very elementary in outlook. But she’s my baby. The caboose of four daughters. And I have loved all these years of having daughters to walk in to their classrooms, warm little hands tucked in mine, swinging backpacks, lunch boxes and projects.

Their eyes shine with anticipation and enthusiasm. At this age, school is still a lot of fun, and they aren’t yet too cool for showing it. I have gotten to know her school chums. They hug me, they’ve sat by me at story time, told me stories of their own and bummed a few pennies in change from me at the book fair.

I expected much of that to change this year. I watch Elexa for signs that my accompanying her to her classroom is embarrassing her. Not only have I not seen that yet (thank you, Lord!), but what has surprised me is the relief on the faces of the kids who were at her elementary and have now been tossed into this transition to grown-up school.

When they see me, their eyes light up. Aha. This is someone we know. It seems not that different from last year. They wave. They grin. The boys give me high fives and tell me about their game scores.

When I enter Pod Two, a flock of little girls, smack in the midst of little girlhood, poised on the brink of maturity run up for hugs. They want to talk wardrobe, hair bows and the immaturity of boys.

For an instant, I am shocked. Elexa is a snuggler, but some of these girls are new to me. Not always the ones from elementary, but starving for attention just the same. I hear their stories on the drive home. They need hugs.

I hadn’t counted on this bonus, this delightful interaction with girls (some of whom Elexa is not fond) who so desperately want attention, to be noticed, affirmed. Not all of them have this at home. Some are more susceptible to the rumblings of peer definitions of growing up and have banished their own mothers from entry.

But I am not their mother. So the ban is lifted. When they see me freely lavish wide hugs and smiles on Elexa, they stand in line for their turns. Their neediness catches me off guard. I am overwhelmed and strangely honored.

The powerful love of a mother is not limited to those with whom we live—the ones we have birthed, adopted or married into. We have enough to go around.

That’s what I was thinking of when I went to a high school boys’ basketball game on Valentine’s night. I went to see two fine young gentlemen from our church play their final home game as Seniors.

My beloved had to go to city council meeting (which cancels for nothing), and I remember how very much it meant to me when my parents and their friends came to see me in plays, at concerts. It felt as lovely as a hug as I grew. It made all the difference.

Who else in your child’s school, youth group, sports team, needs your attention? How can you make a difference with something as small as a hug?

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Apparently, Raincloud is not a very good name for a kitten. When the nice couple from church offered us a kitten to cut down on the mice (we were remodeling a 98-year-old farmhouse), it seemed like a great idea.

Raincloud moved to our home on Buttercup Farm three days before Thanksgiving. Upon our return from an quick out-of-town Thanksgiving celebration, Raincloud was nowhere to be found. Obviously, she had found our distinct lack of hospitality not worth staying around for. The children were sad.

Fortunately (or not, depending upon one’s perspective) a few weeks later, news of our loss got around, and we were offered a tiny gray kitten by a kind neighbor down the road. It’s name? Raincloud II. Raincloud lived as a member of the Dagnan household for three days. On his last day, Raincloud inadvertently took a ride to Wal-Mart in the wheel well of the car. He did not survive the trip.

A wooden cross, colored with indelible markers, marked the spot where Raincloud the Second now rested. The children were devastated. Life is too fleeting, they decided. No more kittens.

But hope springs eternal, and all that, so a month later, Snowball and Josephine came to live with us. They seemed to understand the job description—barn cats. We figured that the name change and safety in numbers did the trick. They hung around for satisfactory cat lengths.

We’ve all had days just like Raincloud kittens. We long for something for us, or for our children we think will bring us (or them) happiness, but the brief glow is extinguished.

It’s perhaps the most important reason that we need to teach our children to keep their eyes on Jesus. People will always disappoint us; He never will.

Jesus experienced all of life just as we do. His feet got dirty. He got tired. Tired of crowds, tired of obligations. He missed his Father.

He ate, drank, talked, went to parties and picnics. He held revival meetings, walking, preaching, talking, fishing. He put up with dumb questions and even dumber answers.

He best friend and cousin, John the Baptist, was behead on the same day a violent storm shook up the sea of Galilee, and not incidentally, the faith of his followers.

He has walked on water, in fire, through doors and out of tombs. But He has also walked into the future. There’s the glimpse we need to give to our children.

When life is Raincloud rough, as it inevitably will be, we need to pull out a Bible verse, an example of someone living it out, a timeless Bible story that illustrates someone coping with a rotten situation and point them again to Jesus.

What Bible character or characteristic of Jesus can you point out to your child this week? How can the two of you emulate what they did?

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I don’t know about you, but I waste a disgusting amount of time worrying about stuff. Stuff that is not likely to happen. Stuff that might happen, but about which there is absolutely nothing I can do.

Ninety percent of it never happens, which I cite to my husband as proof that my worrying is effective. And naturally, I worry about what I consider the “big stuff.”

• If gas prices never go down, and the electric bill and milk prices keep going up, where will we get money for music lessons?

• When will we have time to replace some of the rotting porch boards? Is the roof seriously leaking?

• Now that our ancient van has reached wayyyyy past adolescence into the early stages of arthritis and Alzheimer’s, how long will it run until we have to get a new one?

• What if my fondness for the dust bunny, Sebastian, growing under the couch simply overtakes the family room and someone discovers this chink in my otherwise Type A personality?

• What if I’m hit by a truck in between my natural hair color attacks?

Big stuff. But you know something? I’m wrong those aren’t big things. The big things are nearly unspeakable and not worth worrying about? So I’m choosing to focus on these:

• Our annual weekend trip to our favorite Ozark bed and breakfast inn; the girls splashing and giggling while they swim; my; husband in one of the few relaxed postures I will see him in until Christmas.

• The much-coveted time to read a wonderful book with an average of only 10 interruptions per page. “Mom! Watch me!” “Did you see me jump?” “Look how tall I am!” S’mores. Pillow Fights.

• Snuggling on the porch swing reading just one more chapter of Anne of Green Gables as the girls listen with the same wonder and anticipation I had at their age.

• The last afternoons of the annoyingly cheerful tinny notes of the ice cream truck’s song, ushering in the last few days of summer.

• Hearing my mom’s voice unexpectedly when I run into her at the grocery store.

• The snatched refrain of an old hymn on Sunday morning.

• A silly collection of family memories from family nights.

We had a celebration a few years ago at Lambert’s Café. We go more for the thrown rolls more than we do for the too-large portions of fried foods. We go to celebrate the liberation of our eldest’s teeth from the prison of braces; because the girls have filled up the marble jar for being respectful, obeying the first time, excelling (at least more days than not) in the character traits we want to instill in them.

There was a moment where nearly the entire restaurant (some with mouths full) pause in their munching to sing along with a sound track: “Song, song of the South, sweet potato pie and shut my mouth!” in ridiculously joyful abandon. What does that even mean?

A few songs later, the instrumental theme from “The Waltons” plays, and my girls blurt out the title and collapse into laughter because they realize they’re among the few who recognize it.

It’s been a full 20 minutes with no whining. The youngest is over the moon that I have just caught a roll for her, and it is worth the smarting burn against my palms to see her expression.

“Nice catch,” my husband winks at me. And we have, once again, memories on a roll.

What are you doing to deliberately “catch” these days with your elementary girl?

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If I spend my days building skyscraping block towers, assembling really cool stuff out of Legos, speaking gently to my children, building relationships with other mommies over yummy, buy expensive drinks at Starbucks, but have not love, I am only the siren button of the kids’ Barbie truck, annoyingly stuck on hold.

If I have the gift of knowing exactly which child attempted to flush the Hot Wheels down the toilet, which one pushed her sister and which one is hiding a salamander in the closet, while pointing out my husband’s faults in excruciating detail (while failing to acknowledge my own); if I can fathom the mysteries of the BRAT diet, and the art of signing permission slips, icing the cupcakes and starting the washer while quizzing spelling words; if I can balance the budget, organize the book fair and choose intimacy with my husband instead of sleep at least three nights a week; if I have faith that somehow we’ll find both the lost car keys and the patience to tolerant an extended visit from the in-laws, but have not love, I am nothing.

If I save all my box tops and soup labels for the school drive, give outgrown clothing to the local shelter, send care packages to missionaries and cook (from scratch!) for my family most nights; if I surrender my body to the perils of childbirth, stretch marks, nursing, and dark under-eye circle from too many sleepless nights, all without benefit of Botox, tanning beds or diet bars; if I am the model of marital surrender but speak sarcastically to my husband or treat him with disrespect, because I have not love, I gain nothing. Especially not romance, tenderness or a solid mutual partnership.

Love is patient when someone isn’t ready to use the big girl potty or needs another forgotten lunch box run to the school. It is kind when my husband has a hard day. It doesn’t envy someone something that we can’t afford, it does not boast about an unexpected idyll or superlative vacation. It is not proud recognizing that glory for any of our accomplishments goes to God.

It is not rude, snapping at spouse or family when things don’t go my way. It doesn’t always want to have the house at my preferred temperature or eat at only my favorite restaurants. It is not easily angered by perceived or real injustices and keeps no record of all the times I get up in the night with a nightmare-prone child or get up early to take the 6^th grader to basketball practice.

Love doesn’t rejoice over someone else’s marital discord, but rejoices when truth and commitment win out. It always protests the smallest, sweetest confidences, always trusts, believing the best.

Where there are sleepless, newborn nights, they shall end. Where there are diapers, mounting bills, soccer club and endless dioramas, all built from shoeboxes, all due tomorrow, they will cease.

Dr. Spock, Dr. Phil and Dr. Dobson, and the knowledge I glean from them, will pass away. And now these three remain: Faith, to practice ourselves and instill in our children. Hope that in doing so, we have a golden wedding anniversary with inspired children to do the same. And love, that illusive feeling but concrete action that covers a multitude of wrongs.

Love makes memories, celebrates life and remembers that people are more important than things. It is the greatest thing.

It is what remains. Long after I am gone.

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