I am thankful for our mailman.
He is kind to my babies.
Some days he waits for them to run to him down the sidewalk. He divides the mail in half- half the pile to one child and the other half to the other child. He always calls out, “hellloooo there,” as they giggle and run toward him. His accent is northern and thick and kind. When we see him driving the mail truck he honks “toot toot” and waves. “Mail Man!!” my littlest one shouts, delighted. I am happy.
I am thankful for applesauce. Sweet, cinnamon goodness, warm from a pot on the stove. As summer winds down, the first crop of fall apples remind me that God is good in every season. He is the ultimate designer- Honeycrisp and Macintosh and Pink Ladies sliced on salads. Today I plop my baby boy into the kitchen sink and peel and slice by his side.
“Apple, my apple, mama?” He asks.
I hand him an apple slice that he grips with soap sud hands. Holding the apple to his lips, he blows the soap bubbles away, like a wish.
Together we watch the miracle that happens when apples and brown sugar and cinnamon come together. The air we breathe is delicious, in our little cottage by the beach.