The Fourth of July

My dad turned 50 on the fourth of July, and everything worked out to visit him and my brother, Megan, and Aida. I have to give a shout out to my fruit salad, as I had never successfully made one before. If you've never tried it, don't say it's easy. All kinds of fruits don't mix together well, and who would have thought that orange juice from concentrate is the best base mixture? Not me; that is to say, allrecipes.com has sort of bailed out all of my cooking events.

My brother manned the grill, and Aida did her best to keep herself posted on all the goings on in all the rooms of the house while still watching Phineas and Ferb. She's nearly four. But she acts and speaks like an older child. I often feel that she sort of skipped toddlerhood in favor of childhood; and I wonder just as often if that is a healthy thing for a person. Either way, she's adorable and more interesting than ever. She's at the time in life when she has a working understanding of most conversations and can participate in them to a fair degree. Yet she still manages to ramble on about E.T. and Elliott, her imaginary friends who are, by turns, her fiance or her brother, or non-existent even to her, making you out to be the insane adult.

After dinner I presented Dad with his card and a print-out of "Every Season" by Nichole Nordeman. I have loved that song for a long time and decided that Dad's gift would be an experience rather than a thing to fill his apartment. So I sang it! I've rarely performed alone, and never for a close crowd like that. It felt like I was holding my heart outside my body for a minute and a half. But as I finished, I felt like it didn't even matter if they had liked the song or not. I think I was real. And I now think that that is more precious than I had ever suspected. I see now what George MacDonald was talking about as he repeated that the Lord is not a harsh taskmaster: He teaches humility in creative, not torturous, ways.