Something magical happened today. I slept in. When I got up, the Chaplain left with the five middle kids for the strawberry fields. Our oldest was already at school taking a test, and I was left with the baby.

The baby and I read a story over and over (Tickle, Tickle, by Helen Oxenbury), then he described the pictures to me. (He pointed to one baby’s butt and said the longest string of intelligible words I’ve ever heard from him: “Poop diaper yuck sorry.”) After storytime, he played happily by himself and stayed out of trouble so I could sew.

When the truck pulled in later in the morning and everyone poured out of it, arms full of clementine boxes brimming with strawberries, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to set aside my sewing to start jam.

It turns out I didn’t have to.

Two and Three, at 12 and 10 years old, oversaw the entire operation. After years of helping me make jam, they confidently assigned their younger siblings jobs and set up an assembly line of strawberry jam production.The kitchen was buzzing as the kids worked together without bickering, moving around one another and switching jobs seamlessly. They took turns stirring the steaming pots on the stove, cutting the tops off the strawberries, and mashing and measuring for the next batch.

I realized this was something I would miss someday, the rare moments of unity and cooperation where everyone is happy and working together.

I helped a little. I changed the Pandora station to the kids’ favorite, Jamie Grace Radio. I told them where to find things, manned a few stations here and there, and offered a little advice. Soon we were all belting the lyrics to Mandisa’s “We All Bleed the Same.”They even came back to do the dishes after taking a break once they ran out of sugar.

It’s a tradition now, that the Chaplain takes the kids berry picking in June. I stay home with the baby, then help with jam when everyone gets home. This is the first year I really didn’t do much to help with jam.The little kids watched with wonder as the jam was poured into jars, wandering around the kitchen and dining room munching on fresh strawberries.

I’d started the bread maker before they got home; when the bread was done, we had fresh bread with fresh jam spread over melting butter.Little Five said she wished we could eat it all the time, but that kind of fresh, that once-a-year treat, is what makes it so good.