If this week had a theme to it, what would yours be?

Back in the Game
The last five months have been filled with sickness, whether from pregnancy or seasonal illness. I've been home bound, locked away in my little refuge. But this week, I've broken free. We've had more activities, and people to share them with. I feel refreshed. Energized. Like I'm finally physically back in the game of life. It's been too long. My soul yearns for the social engagement, even if my body is still fragile. My spirit is ready to be freed.

Where do you like to do your journaling? At a desk, in your bed, at the coffee shop?

I twirl the pen between my fingers. It's been too long since I've last written. I need to update my life.
The last journal entry reads like a bullet point list. I've been doing that lately, falling into the habit of just listing major events. But what I really need to write about are specific experiences, or cool things we've been doing, or maybe even neat little Hesston stories.
I read the last line of the entry and turn to the next page. The blankness stares back at me. Where to begin?
I lie back on my pillows and pull the covers up to my neck. Closing my eyes, I run through the last couple months of my life. So much has happened. How do I record it all? Gah...I need to do this more often.
My comfy bed calls for sleep. But I have a mission to do. If I don't take advantage of the quiet time now, I'll never get to it.
The clock ticks off another minute. I have about an hour before Hesston will wake up.
Taking the pen to the paper, I begin to spill my life onto the page.

Write about a memorable experience you have had staying at a hotel

It's our first night together. First day as husband and wife. First night as a couple.
A strange feeling grips my stomach. It's full of anticipation. Expectation. Fear of the unknown. And fear of being completely clueless when it comes to fulfilling the duties of a wife. Don't get me wrong, I've been looking forward to this moment for months. After all the planning, waiting, and keeping our clothes on, it's a little scary the time has finally come to reveal myself to another person in that way.
It's been one thing to open my heart, my mind, my hopes, my dreams, my emotions, and my trust to this man. Especially since he's proven himself more than worthy of all of them. But there's something about giving yourself over physically to another person. And not just out of lust or selfish desire. Out of love and mutual respect. The bringing together of two souls. To unite in love will be different than anything I've ever experienced. 
The elevator ride feels a little awkward after all the formal festivities of the day. Being surrounded by people didn't give us any alone time. Now it's just the two of us. The reality of the situation is hitting me. I'm married. Joined. Never to be parted again. This is how it will be from now on. Me and him against the world. United. Forever.
The thought gives me a thrill. I've always wanted, no, needed someone to have my back. I've had it periodically with different friends, but never in this concrete form. And never with someone so worthy of my loyalty in return.
I glance over at him, the thought of us sharing everything with each other bringing a smile to my face. I've wanted that since I realized he was the one for me.
His blue eyes are kind, gentle, calm. His shoulders relaxed. He's leaned back against the elevator's shinny crome interior, a small smile pulling his lips up at the sides. I realize just how big he is in that moment. He's like a lion, with his curly mane and broad shoulders. It's one of the many things I love about him. I feel so safe wrapped in those arms. Even though he's a giant, he's gentle. My gentle giant.
I wonder how I must look to him. Small. Scared. Maybe even a little nauseous. Is he feeling the same as me? His exterior gives nothing away.
As we arrive at the floor we're staying on, the doors slide open. I take a deep breath, tensing to enter the hallway. But my husband stops me before I can take a step, with a hand on my shoulder. He tips my head up so I look him in the eye, a finger caressing my cheek.
"Whatever happens tonight is up to you. We can take it as slow as you'd like."
His words comfort me. Remind me who I married. He's not a predator. He's my protector. I love him. I trust him. And I will give everything to him.
I lift my lips to his, standing on my toes to reach. This is the first of countless kisses. Just as this is the first of endless nights we will share by each other's side.
I  drop back down to my heels, ready to capture another first.

Write about the most recent gift you gave someone

I stand outside our son's bedroom and listen to the soft sound of my husband's voice as he sings our son to sleep. It is dulled by the closed door. But the lullaby is the sweetest sound I've heard all day. I can't help but share in this special moment.
A soft murmur of love comes from our son. He loves his daddy just as much as I do.
As the song comes to a close, I pull my ear away from the door.
My day has been filled with requests. I feel like a slave. A slave to a three year old. I just want to fall into bed. But the morning always comes too quickly.
There is another person in my life. A person who usually takes a back seat to the frequent requests. Or becomes the new request slave. My husband.
It takes almost a half hour, but the time finally comes when my husband joins me in bed. Even though I feel like I could close my eyes and be asleep in seconds, I know I must cherish this precious relationship. If I don't nourish it with time, what will make it continue to grow?
He must be feeling the same way as I, his eyes half closed and sleepy. I resist the urge to turn off the light and call it a night. Instead, I reach for his hand and cuddle up to his side. His free arm finds it's familiar resting place around my waist. We lay there for a moment, just relearning the planes of each other's faces. I tuck away the color of his eyes, the way his full lips tip up at the corners, the way his chin dimples, and how he has never looked more handsome to me than he does in this moment, even with his cheek pressed against his pillow and his curls a tangled mess. There's nothing sweeter than a kind and loving husband and father, and he is worth all the time in the world. A few less moments of sleep is worth him knowing how much I love him. 

What takes too long?

My head is bent forward, feet shoulder width apart, knees bent, and back folded over at the hips. My hair falls past my face. I can't see anything except the tile floor beneath my feet. My toes are white at the tips, the pressure from most my weight making them ache.
The air from the hair dryer blows my brown strands into a mini tornado. The heat warms my scalp. I rub at it to cool the skin.
"Mom? Mom? Mom? Momma? Mommmmmmmm....?" My son's voice rises above the whirl next to my ear.
"Yes?"
He comes up with a toy and tries to shout something to me.
"I'll play in a minute." I reassure him.
But he's not reassured. He stands by my side, trying to get my attention with more words. When that fails, he resorts to grabbing my hand. The hair dryer turns, giving him a windy blast.
He giggles as the air hits him in the face. The smile that's brightened his face shows he's just realized this could be even more fun than playing with his cars. What have I done? A second later, he pushes into the canopy of my hair. 
"Mine. Mine!" He grabs for the dryer again, but this time with the intent to capture it.
I stand up to give him a blast of warm air, careful not to get too close to burn him. He laughs and tucks his chin to his chest. By the time I switch the dryer off, his cheeks glow a soft pink.
"Ready, play?" He asks, his eyes luring me in with the innocent plea they hold.
I want to say yes, but only have fifteen minutes to straighten my hair, which usually takes at least twenty. On days like this, I curse my thick mane. We can't be late to church. Again.

Describe a time someone cared for you when you were sick

West Nile
I stare at the wall and see nothing. Time has no place here. Not in this agony. It's endless. Torment meant to break the human soul.
There's a knock on the door before my fiance enters. I try for a smile, but it comes out as a grimace.
His hair is a tangled mess of curls on one side, like he ran his hand through it a thousand times. The other side is flat against his head, with a hat line just above his ear. His blue eyes are bloodshot and have dark circles under them. His button down cotton shirt is wrinkled, like he slept in it. One side of the shirt is tucked into his jeans, showing he wears no belt. His socks are mismatched, a toe peeking out from a hole on the left one.
He rushes to my side and takes my hands in his. The warmth of his skin is comforting. I didn't realize how cold I was until he touched me.
"How are you?" His voice is hoarse.
"Better than you." I wish I had the strength to lift my hand and run my fingers through his hair.
He gives me a weak smile. "I just got done talking to your mom. She said your fever has gone up to 104 this afternoon, and they're trying to cool you down with cold, wet socks and wash clothes." He motions toward the one on my forehead before flipping it over to the other side. The cold is shocking. A shiver takes over my body. "You haven't been able to keep anything on your stomach, you've been in bed all day, and you haven't even gotten enough strength to walk to the bathroom on your own."
It's practically the same the report he's given me for the last five days, minus the fever. That varies between 102 and 103. But today is topped 104. My brain is swollen, taking my life with it. 
I can feel it. The pain in my head worsening. My limbs becoming weaker. My muscles disintegrating. There's no strength left in me. I'm dying. And I know it. The fact that I know I'm dying doesn't make it any easier. It only makes me feel worse. Worse that I won't be able to experience the rest of my dreams. Our dreams, I realize as my fiance looks into my face.
"Are you thirsty?" He motions toward the cup full of water on my nightstand.
The thought of taking a drink makes me stomach ache. I close my eyes.
"Do you want me to hold you?"
I open my eyes and give him my answer.
His arms are strong, wrapping me into a cocoon of muscle. His chest is solid as it presses against my back. His life force is palpable.
A shake rumbles up from his chest. At first I think he's laughing, until I hear a sob break through his lips, which rest next to my ear.
"Don't leave me. Not yet." His arms tighten around my waist. "I've finally found you. Please stay."
My eyes burn, but I'm so dehydrated no tears surface. I squeeze his hand with the last of my strength and close my eyes, turning my world into blackness.

Write about a time you or a character said no

The mittens are the perfect size. They fit around my hands like warm bundles. Not only would they keep out the cold and wind, they would save my skin from becoming stiff and cracking. I remove them and hold them tight. They will save me from so much pain. I can't wait to wear them.
I glance down at my son. He has a similar pair on his hands. A big smile lights up his chubby cheeked face as he claps his hands together and relishes the muffled sound.
"If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands." Clap clap. 
His voice is as excited as his expression.
I guide him to the check out counter and take out the money I've saved for this purchase. It's taken me all year, but I know it's worth it.
The lady at the counter rings up my son's mittens, then takes mine and does the same.
As she names the price, my heart sinks. It's double what the price was last week.
"Are you sure that's the correct price?"
She checks the pricing and nods. "Yes. They were on sale, but the sale's ended. This is the original price."
"Do you think they will come on sale again?" I struggle to ask, embarrassed by the fact that I can't afford such a small, yet necessary purchase.
She shakes her head. "Not until spring. But by then you won't need them."
Picking up the mittens I've chosen for myself, I give them a final squeeze then return them to their shelf. I must wait another year.
"Mommy, what's wrong? Aren't you getting mittens like mine too?" Concern lines the sides of my son's eyes. He knows how much the mittens mean to me. He's seen me save, sacrifice.
"No. Not today, son. Mommy will have to wait for a little longer."
His brow furrows. "How much longer? I thought we were going to be twins?"
I smile my sadness away and guide him back to the counter. "We will be. Soon."
He doesn't look satisfied with my answer, but lets it drop and goes back to clapping.
I pay the lady and exit the store with my son. The wind is already picking up, biting at my exposed face and hands. I rub my hands together to retain some of the warmth from the store.
I bend down and tuck my son's hat over his ears before pulling his coat up to his chin. "Make sure you keep on those mittens. They will keep your hands nice and warm."
"Thank you, momma." He gives me a quick hug.
I clasp his gloved hand and head in the direction of our cabin. Even though my hands may be cold, my heart is warm.

Imagine your life now as a best selling book. Write the summary for the back cover.

Glimpsing Miracles
Hellen's life is picture perfect, until her husband gets laid off at work. As she goes over their accounts, trying to make ends meet, she realizes something unusual is happening. They still have enough money to cover  their expenses when there haven't been any additional deposits. There's a miracle happening. Unexplained by the human mind.
Want to know how? Then pick up this book and witness the miracles. Sometimes they happen even before you realize they're happening. And through it all, life's greatest miracles can be found in another person. The one who always stands by your side.

Write about something you or a character made by hand

The windowpane is frosted. Ice crystals form an intricate pattern across the glass surface. I press my face against it. The coolness eases the fever that has my body sweating like the summer's sun, with hair sticking to my face, and clothes moist against my skin.
Evening light casts rainbows through the window, making the room feel magical. I close my eyes. If only it were so.
The hardwood floor is warm beneath my feet. I curl my toes in my wool socks and press them to the solid surface. I must keep my feet planted beneath me. I cannot let this agony in my chest rip my world apart.
My pulse beats a steady rhythm against my temples. My body, though limp, feels like I've been lifting fifty pound bags of wheat all day. The aches drown out the chills that run down my spine. I am so hot, yet can't seem to get warm enough.
I open my eyes and snuggle deeper into the patchwork quilt my mother has tucked around me as I rest on the sofa. I'm thankful my father moved the sofa next to the window so I can at least see out of the house. The walls are closing in on me. After a week of solitary confinement, I can understand why people in jail lose their whits.
My fingers curl around the yarn in my lap. Softness encircles them. I press harder. The lumpy pile resembles my sister's hair when she fell into a mud puddle. Long strings of messiness that I had to unravel. Took me hours. And both our patience wore thin by the time the last strand was straightened.
I wonder how long I've been sitting here, staring at nothing. Has it been days? Hours? Seconds? I've lost track.
The crackling of a fire pulls my attention to the kitchen. It must be time to prepare dinner. Who will mother feed tonight? With me sick, brother married and staying at his in-laws for a couple days, and sister getting chaperoned by father to the local youth dance where she's pining over the attention of Gabe Marcam, there aren't many mouths around. I wonder why she's bothering. Surely we could rewarm some bread on the already warm potbelly stove in the bedroom and call it good.
I return my attention to the mess in my hands. The yarn must be rewound into a neat bundle so I can crochet myself a scarf. My old one is splitting at the ends. And the neighbor girls are laughing at me from my apparent state of distress. No better time than now to get started on the project. I've got time on my hands.
A few minutes later, the smell of vegetable soup wafts into the room. It reminds me of cold winter nights, not unlike the one we're experiencing. But I cannot feel the biting cold since I'm burning alive. I turn the mess over in my hands, finding the end and pulling it out. I begin to wrap it around two of my fingers, in hopes of keeping it small and tight.
It's mindless work, and my thoughts wander. How did this yarn become such a mess in the first place? I bought it from the mercantile not two weeks ago. It was the rich, burgundy color that called my name all the way from the front door. I saved my meager compensation from organizing Mr. Parrot's storage cellar the last week and bought the yarn. It was wrapped in a perfect oval, the ends tucked neatly away, ready to be woven into a masterpiece. Yet I found it this way this afternoon, almost beyond repair.
I get to a knot and begin to tug it loose. I will have to be creative in getting it undone without unraveling what I've gotten done. My fingers caress the fibers, coaxing them to obey my demands.
A knock startles me. It's firm. Strong. Demanding attention. It's gotten mine.
My mother rushes out of the kitchen, through the sitting room, and into the foyer to answer the door.
A deep voice resounds through the house. It's not entirely unfamiliar, but also not familiar. I push myself straight, lift my head from the windowpane and try to seem relaxed, even when that's the furthest from the truth.
My mother rushes back into the room, an astonished look on her face. "He's here."
"Who's here?" I struggled to comprehend her statement.
"Gabe Marcam!" She exclaims as he steps into the room.
I deadpan. Isn't he supposed to be at the dance? The dance my sister begged my father to take her to? The one where she was supposed to dance the night away with her one, true love? Although, why she has her heart set on someone so much older than her is beyond me. He's five years older than her, three older than me. And when you're only seventeen, five years makes a big difference.
I've heard the gossip about Gabe, since my sister is obsessed. She collects it, like pearls on a necklace, lining up the latest next the last. But I can't quite seem to understand what all the rave is about. Sure, he's good looking, with a chiseled square jaw and tousled black hair. His eyes are what set him apart, so says my sister. They're blue, like the sky. So clear that the color cannot be matched. But as I look up into his face, I see that his eyes are also kind, and even though the color may be clear, there's a cloud to his features, pulling his lips down at the sides and casting shadows under his cheekbones.
His lips pull up at my mother's gasped introduction, then fall.
"I...uh...um...want...wanted...to um..." He pauses, takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes locked on mine. "Stop by."
"Well, Mary has already gone to the dance with her father. You're too late if you wanted to walk with them to the hall."
A twinkle sparks his eyes, like a star appearing in the midday sky, subtle, yet impossible. The anomaly of it keeps my attention. "I...uh...well...I...um..." His stuttering betrays the surety of his deep voice. "Wanted to see...uh...Lizzy."
The shock of him using my nickname pops my mouth open. I shut it with an audible snap.
A smile softens the planes of his face and he looks boyish, much younger than his twenty two years.
"Well!" My mother exclaims, her voice having risen an octave. "This is a surprise." She casts me a nervous smile, filled with the million questions that are bouncing around in my head. "I'll just be in the kitchen. Would you like a bowl of soup? It's just finishing up. Elizabeth and I were about to eat."
The thought of eating cramps my stomach. It must show on my face, because Gabe grimaces for me. "Um...no thank you...Mrs. Sterling. I...uh...I ate...before I left home."
"Of course you did." My mother nods her reply before leaving the room like a whirlwind.
Now that my mother's gone, Gabe looks even more nervous than I feel. He bounces on his toes a couple times before coming to a rest on his heels. His hands are thrust into his pockets. His shoulders slumped forward. His tall, lean frame beckons to be reassured, but I have no words for him. I've hardly talked to him, let alone asked for his attention all these years we've known each other. It's always been the other girls in town fighting over him. Why would I want to join in when I know there's not even a tiny chance of winning?
I realize my fingers are bound so tight in the yarn that they're cramping. To distract myself, I begin to open my hands finger by finger. They tingle as the circulation restarts.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Marcam?" My voice is strong, much more steady than I feel.
His eyes betray his emotions and for a moment he looks dumbstruck. "What...what do you mean?"
I blink a couple times to clear my head. "You said you came to see me. Well, here I am. You see me. Now what can I do for you?"
"What can you do for me?" He shakes his head, his words finally coming out in a coherent sentence. Of all the things my sister raved about him, she didn't mention stuttering or incoherency as an issue. I guess girls her age don't notice things like that. There are other things to focus on. Like his full lips and the way they form a perfect heart when closed. Or his broad shoulders. Or those long legs that seem to eat up the ground as he crosses the room.
He shocks me by plopping down on the sofa, right next to where my legs rest. My body freezes, my hands gridlocked in the yarn. I feel like I couldn't move, even if I wanted to.
"I came over here tonight to see what I could do for you." His eyes dart back and forth across my face, searching for something. "Your sister mentioned you've been feverish all week. And that you would be put in the grave before the month was out if you didn't start to improve soon."
"And why would this concern you?" My voice is sharp. I rein in my surprise of his worry, soften my voice. "I mean, you're not exactly my friend. Why would you care if I go to an early grave or not?"
He looks like I've slapped him. A deep flush filling the shadows of his cheeks. He ducks his head. His hands are out of his pockets. He fidgets with a ring on his right middle finger, twisting it around and around. "Guess I haven't been much of a friend. But I want to be...a friend..." He clears his throat. "I just don't know how." His Adam's apple moves as he swallows. "It's just that...there's always so many people around...and I never know how...how to approach you...you're so...so...I don't know...unapproachable..."
"Unapproachable?" I scoff. "Wow. You sure know how to make friends."
A laugh escapes, and his shoulders shake with his amusement. "Guess I'm not very good at it...yet...but what I meant to say was...that you're...that you're...intimidating...to me...I guess...I don't know how to explain it...I don't have this issue with anyone else...just...you." His voice falls as he says the last word, like it's all my fault. He takes a deep breath. "I can talk to anyone...even old Mr. Finch, who bites everyone's head off...but with you...with you...it's like...like...my mind freezes up...it's all I can do to put together sentences."
I make him freeze up? What does that even mean? And likening me to a mean man? Not exactly scoring many bonus points right now. I raise an eyebrow, questioning.
"See?" He's lifted his head again, his eyes squinted, searching for something in mine. "You don't even realize what you're doing. But even that...that thing you're doing with your eyebrow...you do it when you're confused...or skeptical...or want someone to get one of your jokes..." He shakes his head. "You don't even realize it, but you captivate me, even with the smallest of gestures. I don't know how to act or what to do around you. But one thing I do know, is that I do want to be around you. That is...if you'll have me...as a friend..."
I stare at him. His words circle my mind. Captivate? Is that what friends do? That's a word that belongs more in a relationship than a friendship. But what do I know about relationships? I've never been in one. Never needed one. Never wanted one. At twenty, I'm an old maid, but I've never needed anyone else to make me happy. Never. Why would I want to risk that kind of dependence when I do perfectly fine on my own?
"Before you make any decisions about us being friends...just think about it...but first...what can I do for you? Is there any medicine or oils or remedies I can help with? Do you need company?" He glances down at my hands. "Do you need help with that? I'm really good with knots."
I follow his gaze and notice I've lost my hold. The mess is even worse than before. "Sure. You can help me rewind this." I smile and almost throw the pile into his lap. "If you can unravel that and wind it into a ball, then I'll consider being your friend."
He looks like he's won all his hopes and dreams. His smile is so bright, it makes me shy away like I do from the sun. "You got it."
A few weeks later, fever gone, I weave the last strands of burgundy yarn into an intricate pattern. It's something I thought I'd never do. Achieve the stitch my mother has tried to teach me since I was beginning to hold needles.
The scarf's color is perfect. It sets off the sky as I hold it above my head. It will be like sunset raging war on the noonday sun as I give it to Gabe. It will start a war with my heart. One that I'm not so sure I will win.
He's been attentive and kind. More than any other friendship of mine. I wonder if he really wants to be friends...or if he wants to be more. There's a flame growing in my heart. One that I'd always put out. But this time, I don't want it to go out. I want it to grow, become an inferno.
I've taken on a new journey. One where I'm not afraid of putting myself out there, trying new, hard, and vulnerable things. Gabe has opened my eyes to the possibilities the world holds. Who knew that someone seeing me for the first time would make me realize I was someone worth seeing? Even at my worst moment of illness.
Just as this scarf has taken shape, so have I. When I wrap it around Gabe's neck, I will open my heart. Allow him to be my friend, or maybe even more. It might just bring more warmth than even the finest woven scarf could.

Periodically, we have tension build up in our lives that requires a release of some kind. Some people cry; others punch; some find a creative outlet. What is your relief?

I grab the keys off the counter and head for the door. There's a million things running through my mind. But I don't have the time or patience to think about any of them right now. I just need to escape. 
The pickup smells of warmed leather, courtesy of the sun beating down on the seats. It starts with a low growl, mirroring my stressful state. I jam it into reverse and shove the pedal to the floor. The diesel responds with a roar. My back tires kick up dirt and rocks, pelting the metal sides. Good thing the truck has a clear protective film. I would've chipped all the paint off by now. Black exhaust surrounds the truck as I slam on the brake then shift into drive. The smell of burned rubber fills the cab as we lurch forward on the pavement. Ah...nothing like burned rubber and diesel exhaust to clear the mind.
The steering wheel is smooth under my palms. I relish the feel of it as I turn onto an open road. I know this road like the back of my palm. It's seen me too many times to count. It provides the long, straight shot of nothingness.
I urge the truck into a steady pace, getting the feel of the divots, the way they move the truck, how to correct the movement from shoving me into the dirt barrow pit. The hum of the tires provide the background noise. That and the whistle of the diesel. I push the truck to pick up pace.  It responds by pressing my back against the seat. The gears shift down to attain the acceleration I crave.
I smile as I think of all the modifications the truck has. It's pushing over five hundred horse power. Even at fifty five miles per hour, it still feels like an airplane taking flight. We're flying. Nothing to stop us, but the end of the road.
Grain fields pass in a green blur. The yellow passing lines a long, single stripe. Black pavement, and the reflection of the sun off the shiny, black hood.
My head is clear. Stress-free. It's only me. The pickup. And the road.
I take a deep breath and relish the freedom. Sailing across the American pavement, with nothing holding me back. 
I've reached over a hundred, and I thirst for more. A slight hill provides a good view of the road in front of me. It's open, begging for me to go faster.
The pickup reaches a hundred and twenty before I ease off. There's a car in the distance, and with me doubling the speed, I will be upon it before I can blink.
The engine gurgles as it reins itself in. It's gasping for air. Just as I am.
The speed limit feels like a restrictive vice against my chest. I pass the car and regain flight. The pickup spreads it's wings. We're going so fast that I don't dare look down at the speedometer.
A stop sign is coming up. My ride is about to end. As I press on the brake and bring the truck to a stop, a sigh escapes my lips. That's more like it.

If you had lived hundreds of years ago, what kind of work do you think you would have done? What job would you have wanted to do?

The bucket sits next to the stool. I stare at it and wonder if my hands can handle another day of the cold weather, cold water, and moisture. The cracks are deep and bleeding. How much blood will get into the milking bucket today? Will my husband and children even notice? Does our cow hate me for my rough, calloused milking? Is that why she kicks at me?
I yank my hair back into a messy bun. The snarls are wound so tight that I can't get a brush through them anymore. I need a long bath. But that's not going to happen with the drought and lack of kindling to heat the water. We barely salvaged enough to heat our single room, wooden home for the winter months. The luxury of a bath must wait until spring. I dream of the day the river will melt the top ice and I can dunk in it's cool waves.
My hand stitched dress scratches against my legs as I straddle the stool and place the bucket under our cow's udder. I tuck the thick fabric close to my body to keep the heat in, and sit. There's a touch of heat radiating off Fanny's side and I lean toward her flank, soaking in the warmth.
Best get started. Time's a wasting, and I still need to get the rest of my chores done before I start on breakfast. I'm going to have to get creative with the eggs. We've had them scrambled the last week.
My husband enters the shelter with a couple buckets full of water as I'm halfway through the milking. He looks gaunt. His cheeks sunken from the lack of food, and his once bulky frame withering under his clothes. His hair is as messy as mine. A black streak of soot covers his right cheek. He must've swiped his hand there while he cleaned the fireplace, then restarted the morning fire.
He places a bucket in front of our cow, Fanny. She drinks in big gulps, her throat constricting with the swallows.
"Are the kids up?" I ask as I coax the milk into the bucket. My hands ache and my husband's presence is a welcome distraction.
"Not yet." He shakes his head. The light from the lantern casts shadows behind him. "But I'm sure they'll be up soon."
He maneuvers around the stacked straw and back into the chicken coop. A few seconds later, the front of his shirt has eggs gathered in it. I lick my lips, ready to ease the biting cramp of hunger that curls my belly.
"Maybe I'll make a fresh batch of bread today for Heber's birthday. I'll shake up some butter in a bottle, just enough for the bread, and use some of our strawberry jam. The kids would love that."
My husband smiles and crosses the room, placing the eggs next to the shelter's door. "I think sleeping in is going to the the highlight of their day. How many times do they get out of helping with morning chores?"
It takes me a moment to count. But the times are less than my fingers and toes. They work just as hard for our survival as we do.
"Did you find anything special for Heber in the village yesterday?" I can't help but wonder what surprise my husband has up his sleeve.
His face deadpans. "Nothing that we could afford with such a lean year. But I did make something I think he might like."
"When did you have time to make something?" The milk bucket is almost full. I ease my milking routine, Fanny's udder sags from the loss of milk. 
He shrugs. "Here and there."
He's being evasive, which means it's going to be something good. I shrug and let the questioning go.
This will be a great day. I refuse to let anything ruin it. Even if we have little money, little food, and barely enough supplies to last us the rest of the season, we still have our lives, our family, our animals, our farm, and a roof over our heads. We are greatly blessed.