At long last the jet stream has finally gone our way.

(According to this map we're as cold as Wisconsin this morning and my joy can hardly be measured.)

After months of high pressure systems and sweltering temperatures, it is not too much to say that I think the dip in the jet stream looks like the finger of God and the reprieve feels a lot like grace.

I opened all the doors and windows in my house this morning to give it a proper welcome.

My girls pulled out their scarves for the winter walk to the bus stop and Ethan and I climbed back into his bed for a Scooby Doo retrospective.

I took Ethan to the doctor yesterday who told me that his "influenza" is actually just strep throat and started him on a course of antibiotics. This is probably the first time in my life I've seen strep throat as delightfully good news.

Strep throat as grace.

Strep throat as tender mercy.

I know how to count my blessings, and this morning jet streams and bacterial infections count.

After the weekend

there are six large pumpkins on the hearth, waiting for the knife

a small tupperware of aaloo chole and one of chicken tikka masala, but no more naan to mop them up

a few bits of sugar cookie, two ghosts and half a pumpkin (never mind, I just finished off the pumpkin)

a drying rack draped with perfectly tea-dyed mummy rags, waiting for a body to bring them to life

a notebook with notes from stake conference, and more determined resolve in my heart

a boy with a blazing temperature and soupy lungs, the dresser next to his bed littered with medicine, nebulizer, thermometer, and drinks with straws

and me, armed with...

a smile from the weekend delights,

a bottle of lysol for all the hard surfaces in my house,

a pair of watchful, vigilant eyes on guard for worsening flu symptoms and new cases in the rest of my darlings,

and a fervent prayer in my heart for protection from the worst of it.