It was no less spectacular for the last one than it was for the first. For nine children I watched the first signs of recognition, held my breath for the laborious sounding out of consonants, felt the cringing apology around capricious vowels who change as they fancy. 

We were passing a park when our firstborn shouted.

"It's a letter!" I scanned the equipment for signage. "It's X!" Ah, yes, the crossed legs of a picnic table. 

When it was his turn to figure reading out our second son's eyes grew big. 

"All of the letters in Max's name are in the alphabet!" Max was his best friend and the fact that he would be so completely included thrilled Micah. 

Chara stunned us all. On her fourth birthday the boy next door brought her a primer with colorful pictures. A sweet gesture, but wasted on her. Then she plunked herself on the couch and began to read it. My mouth fell open. Yesterday she was three. She still nursed. Isn't there a law forbidding those two from overlapping? 

The twins learned at a less surprising age, but what still delights me is how they snuggle side by side on the couch staring at the same book. When one finishes the page, she waits until her sister is done too. For hours they cuddle under a quilt in silence, three hundred pages at a stretch. 

Words and their meaning  are within the purview of each person who has made the effort to crack the code. Everyone else is clueless. 

John and I had our first meeting of the fall Living Gratefully series. To begin we invited each participant to articulate a particular area of thanks in their life. One woman said that with each person's comments, she realized another thing to give thanks for. It turns out that appreciation is a skill, like reading. It takes practice to read the runes written all around us. The copper leaves. The warm wool sweater brought out of storage. The cinnamony pie. The first fire. 

The prose of blessings God has inscribed all around us is a sweet read.