target

Target. 

It is just a store. It is much more than just a store.

Last year we moved from our little house on a busy street in a pleasant community to a more rural setting. I rejoiced and I wept. 

I embrace change in theory but rarely in reality. 

It's often what we might at first resent that we find ourselves later grieving. For me, the conveniences of city living felt like wearing clothes that were a size too small. Here, in the amazing beauty of nature where a good drive lies between me and retail America, I smile at my foolishness. 

Let me clarify, it wasn't so much a choice of will as it was a necessity to pack up and go. Our little house held the memories of early marriage and a new baby and kindships and real life . God had preserved us month by month in that little dwelling through miraculous ways which defy understanding. We look back and marvel and in our wonderment are renewed in courage through faith in a God who is still accomplishing His purpose. 

But I still miss my Target.

Laugh if you will. Roll your eyes if you need too. I won't apologize for myself. 

It was on a trip to our "new" Target this morning that Evie sighed from the back seat,"I miss our old Target." I echoed her sentiment, grateful for the convenience of our new shoppings but certainly filled with the loss of the familiar. A whole year later.

It was within those "old" red and white walls that a significant piece of my life happened. It was my escape from a day home with a crying newborn and a failing body. It was the silent observer of many anxiety attacks- fellow shoppers wondering at the slow-moving, deep-breathing lady who pushed through to prove to herself that she was not going lose the fight. Through those doors I walked, suffering and dreaming and rejoicing and taking courage and fighting. The comfort of the familiar.

I'm stronger these days. Strong enough to look back and recognize the ordinary gifts that God made extraordinary to me in my days of struggle. For a season, it was mine- the blessing of that Target. A ordinary store and an extraordinary place, close enough yet far away from my front door, a place where I found a good supply of courage. 

red buick

I shall never cease to be amazed at what lives inside me. Next to the magnificent and intricate innerworkings of my human body lies the center of all things wicked- my sinful self. How utterly disheartening.

It has been lately, through a variety of God ordained happenings, that I've found my own sinful self illuminated like an x-ray. I stare in horrid fascination at the image- seeing depravity is cause for wonderment at God's love and mercy. Depravity in the shape of a red Buick.

Let me explain...

It was a drive home from town. A drive home on a two lane road at five o'clock in the evening with ice cream on the seat beside me and eight cars in front of me.

We moved along at a fairly good clip, for which I was glad; en route to birthday party that was shortly to begin. Fashionably late doesn't work with a set table and steaks resting in grilled juices. Never mind that I waited to purchase the gift until the 11th hour...

Two lanes widen into four around the stoplight a few miles north of town and I was pleased to see the line of cars stay in order as we slowed for the red. The two cars behind me still there.

The wait was short and the light was green. Like an inchworm we slowly resumed our procession and then, wait! The red Buick in the rear charged forward and toward the front of the line. Lanes narrowed and I watched as he slunk back into line (without signaling!!!) just behind the leader, who paced with leisure, and right in front of number two, who obviously did not appreciate the intrusion.

I am quite ashamed to admit that my feelings toward Mr. red Buick were not particularly cordial. How dare he cut ahead and make the line behind even slower. Serves him right to be tailgated mercilessly.

I was counting his offenses in the darkness when God pulled the string and the lightbulb burned bright.  The depth of my depravity clearly on display. The red Buick simply played out a scene my heart could write of itself.

The line was more visible as we drove around the turkey farm curves. Mr. Red Buick hung tight to the leisurely leader all the while followed veery closely by Mr. Pickup. Red Buick tapped his brakes in warning. Mr. Pickup did not falter.

In the ugliness of sin- grace is beautiful.

How good- God. To illuminate our darkness with light, not to shame but to tenderly cover our nakedness with robes of righteousness.

Where I see depravity, He gives love. Love greater than my dirty red Buick.

testimony

I've been asked about my testimony before. It's nothing remarkable- or is it? God's story in every one of our lives is remarkable because He loves us with an unearthly love. And love that this world cannot describe or contain is most certainly remarkable

Yesterday we were asked to present our testimonies during the morning service and I was not okay with that. Introverted people with social anxiety do not seek out opportunities such as these. But I took faith with both hands and stepped out in boldness. Hemmed by my loves and before a few hundred people I stood on a stage and opened my mouth and these words came out.

I came to faith in Jesus Christ at age 5. My mom was my Sunday school teacher and asked if anyone was ready to pray and ask Jesus to save them from their sins. I said yes.  I prayed in class with my mom. I remember the experience quite clearly- the feeling of overwhelming joy and lightness in my heart. Even at 5 years old I know that something really wonderful had just happened inside of me.

I grew up understanding the Christian life to be a list of things to do and a list of things not to do. And God’s love for me was sort of contingent on my performance. I am a list follower so it was easy and yet it was not easy to live the Christian life that way. But all my effort did not yield much joy- nor did I understand what the height and depth and breadth and width of God’s love even was.

In my late teens and early twenties I went through some difficult experiences which began to awaken in me a greater desire to really know God. And tenderly, He met me in my weakness and walked me into storerooms of grace that I never knew existed. That experience began the journey I still find myself on today- a desire to know more of the great God who loved me and sent His own Son to die for my sins. His purpose for saving me from my sins was not to shame me but to lavish me with His lovingkindness and grace. And in love there is joy- so much joy! 

1 Peter 1:8 explains it well “and though you have not seen Him, you love Him, and though you do not see Him now, but believe in Him, you greatly rejoice with joy inexpressible and full of glory”

And when I was finished, I was pleased to discover that I was still alive and not completely drenched in sweat. Clearly miraculous.

I handed the microphone on and Evie reached her hand up to hold mine. Andy's voice filled the air- his story. Another testimony of God's remarkable love.

artists

It was the way the sun shone- the air golden all around. Or perhaps the way the tree stood- full dressed in green. Together they painted a masterpiece on the sidewalk and she saw it. 

I've always wondered the purpose of the little paths at the local shopping center, clean, cement-lined with lush grass and shrubs with tidy mulch skirts. They go nowhere in particular, just white little trails in between parking spaces. A burst of park like charm- all 500 feet of it. We took a stroll down that path today.

I parked our car in those spaces facing green- with purpose. My little companion suffered the ill affects of paper doll clothes making while our auto was in motion. I reminded her that it always causes discomfort. "But I just love making crafts," she said sadly and in wonderment that such projects could cause such distress to her body. 

We exited the car and made our way to the lush grass. Sitting down  together I held her on my lap and we breathed. And as the moments passed, I watched her face; pale cheeks returned to color and dull eyes brightened. It was then that she saw it- the pavement.

"A path!" she cried and jumped to her feet."Come with me on a walk!"

I hesitated, my list heavy in my pocket, She danced around and the moment beckoned all of me. A little hand slipped into mine and we walked; around the bird poop stains - I told her stories. Her laughter mingled with the honeyed air and I drank in the richness of this, here, now. 

We walked to one side and turned around. Nearly to the end of our destination-less path, we were to pass a tree- its shadow stretched across the white trail ahead. "Let's play a game,"she said all of a sudden her eyes looking down. "Only step on the light."

I had missed it, the bits of light that wove their way through the leaves and painted gold on the pavement. Grey and gold together as if splashed there. I marveled. How did I miss the radiance, see only shadow?  I stopped for a moment, my breath caught in my throat, and she tugged my arm. "Come on, mama."

We hopped across- our toes touching light. I felt it- a holy moment- where grace surrounds and life dissolves and all there is- this. The presence of God on the sidewalk in the gold tinted shade of a spring dressed tree. 

the story

The same story so many times- different but the same. It all begins, innocently enough, in a bathroom stall. And as I prepare to, well, take a seat, things begin to change. The crack between the door and frame begins to widen and then the door is no longer. And as I desperately try to figure out how to escape my predicament the scene transforms into a solitary toilet with me on it. IN A PUBLIC PLACE. And always a busy public place. And always the panic of the trapped.

And there is laughter. And there is shame. And I wake up but I can't escape it. 

Where was the story that wrote this one? A long yesterday ago tale rewritten in modern day English. Nightly showings available on the back of my closed eye lids.    

Laugh away, but it tortures me.

Not far from that story is the real day to day adventure. The quest to accomplish life without shame or fear or doubt. 

In my small sphere, I find comfort. 

The days of mothering and schooling, a gift. My husband speaks love to me- sweet words of life and goodness  I hold them close. The familiar faces of family; kindly and generous. Grateful for friends- I do not seek out companionship but welcome small gatherings with surprised joy. 

I fight to declare purpose. My purpose. God's purpose for my existence on this big round planet. The reason He fills my lungs with breath.  

But what if they laugh? 

Like the servants in the parable of Matthew 25, talents have been entrusted to my care. The end of the story is a reckoning, not of the handling but of the harvest  The currency of gifts- designed to multiply.

baskets

It must have seemed so mind boggling, a crowd of five thousand and a prayer of thanks for five barley loaves and two fish. "and they all ate and were satisfied. They picked up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve full baskets." Matthew 14:20

The darkness of early morning lays heavy. Silhouettes of furniture hem the space about and I hear the sounds of sleep from the next room. Morning is beautiful, although I miss the warmth of the worker who slipped out while the moon still hung. 

Here in these early morning hours, I fill baskets. Satisfied and wonder-filled, I gather the joys that multiplied. 

Our weekend begins on Thursday evening. Four long days are celebrated with an early weekend. Though his load has been heavy, my worker rejoices at the blessing that follows; three days of rest. Three days for three of us. An equation which yields full baskets. 

The kindness of spring greeted our Friday morning. Bird trills and throaty songs from the marsh serenaded the sun's ascent. Golden air slipped in through the open window. 

Hair curled and bags packed, we stepped out to join the day. Plans were planned; Evie was off to Grandma's and we steered the car towards the big city. Hours to fill with each other and a conference. Opportunities ahead.  

Books and seminars and plans for the coming school year all hemmed in by the sweet faces of friends. Through the crowds we saw the familiar and gathered for conversation. Our arms were heavy with books and our minds with information, yet our hearts were lightened in those moments of kinship. 

What a welcome back to life; the arms of a little girl encircling my neck. "I missed you so much, mama!" she cried. She smelled of summer, her hair wild. And the night was complete, what with tucking in and stories and laughter and prayers and the hope of family making the trip into town for the weekend ahead. 

Saturday morning was a sunny blur. Different ones here and there. Evie's world complete with the addition of her most precious cousin, Hannah. Laughing little faces and serious grown-up faces. I wondered at the emotions and then the news, it shook me terribly though I had nearly expected it. A smiling 6 year old face read me the note she spelled phonetically and I was glad she could decipher it. "We are going to move to a new home," she said and I looked up for confirmation. My beautiful sister; her eyes proved true.  

Those blurry moments when your emotions collide in a sort of horrible wreck. Everything at once and flames that shoot high and eyes water to put out the fire. It burned hot my heart melted in the heat.

But it goes on, life. The clock does not stop and this very second is all I own. Little hands grab my cheeks and inquired of my tears. "But mama,"she said with cheer and compassion. "Let's just live in today. That's what you always tell me." And wisdom makes a full circle.

So we celebrated the moments; memories are made right where life is. We celebrated the daisy days sale at Joanne Fabrics. And we also celebrated Easter; for celebrating a holiday belatedly is just as good when it works out for everyone to join. Eggs and bucket headed people smiling and squinting in the bright, golden rays.

Patience and laughter and tears and  pickle juice seasoned the grilled flavors on our table. We made memories in our togetherness.

Day three began like most Sundays, a mad dash out the door. We celebrated our on time arrival to church- a miracle in itself- with a third row seat. Listening is easier when you sit close enough to shake hands with the speaker.

Faces gathered around the table for another meal. Tacos and good conversation and the comfort of family. And rice, always rice. The small people entertained with their antics and clever words. We finished and cleaned and went our ways; goodbyes of various degrees.

And night comes - the day and the weekend. Rest finds its finale in a to-do list of groceries, clean up chores and laughter. So we drink in the moments;  the sounds and sights of three in a space that bursts with the joy dwelling inside.The day closes and we gather on our knees; prayers of thankfulness and a lot of silly little person.

Darkness hemmed the day and morning unfurls. I pick up what was left of the broken pieces and my baskets are full.

here

Why is it that we search far beyond our reaches for the joy dangling in front of our fingertips? I speak from experience. It is often in the unexpected that we find what we are looking for.

This past weekend found us knee deep in celebrating and laughter and family. We laughed and chatted to the sound of plastic roller skates on a tile floor and a gaggle of bouncy, screaming girls celebrating 6 years of life with cake and painting pottery. We tripped over piles of toys and piles of things emptied from a leaky kitchen sink cabinet. We revisited a day 17 years ago when vows were made and child-faced grown ups made vows to each other. We shivered in the cold. We visited Target- twice in as many days. Messes and memories all in one. 

Yesterday found my little companion and I together- how I love these days. Grandma came in the morning to visit and read "The Boxcar Children" to a little girl who listens with her imagination. Afternoon came quickly, and with it a long list of to-dos. From her seat in the back she fills the car with tales and wonder and questions. Lots of questions. Lots of in and outs. She reached her end at Hallmark where she demanded that I buy her those stickers "because she certainly was a good little girl." We left without stickers and she cheered quickly in the sunshine. We skipped to the car, stopping only to inquire about the rocks in medians. "Why are those there?" she wondered aloud. In our drivings we passed a wheelchair bound man walking his exuberant dog. I prayed for him, smiled at the black fur bouncing beside and thanked God for legs that walk so easily. 

Last night found us in our cozy little home and sweet togetherness. I was stricken down by mysterious and debilitating pain. Andy served our little family by caring for the needs at hand. Evie visited me often with her sweet smile, her kisses and a plethora of small gifts. Strawberry Shortcake, a small pebble and a piece of birch bark still decorate the table beside my bed. From under a blanket I listened to life and savored the sound. I sent them out to enjoy the last bits of day and they were hesitant. "Go," I said wanting to hear the stories of outside. While I waited, I filled the quiet with a message by Kara Tippets. Nothing challenges the heart quite like a message of hope from a suffering soul. 

They returned from their adventuring with smiles and tales and the fresh smell of spring. I listened and felt as though I'd been a part. The day winded down and with it a brown-eyed girl. We snuggled together under blankets and daddy read from Mark. From around his head she peeked at me; smiling when she caught my eye. And we prayed- thankfulness to start- for there is much. And prayers for the needy- for there are many. 

We haven't much but we have much more. Here- where the kind and gentle words of a good man fall on me and I feel undeserving. Here- where a little brown haired girl dances and questions everything and builds snail houses outside the door. Here- where we laugh and dream and watch God open up our hearts to the good things right before our eyes. 

I am surrounded by colors and words and smells and sights and sounds and they are beautiful. Joy is here and I grab hold. 

filled

If life was a cup and today was the water that filled it, my vessel would pouring out as fast as it filled. It overflows with beauty and wonder - the magic of ordinary life.

My day began twice. Once when my love, dressed and ready for work, came back beside me to pray and whisper his goodbye with a kiss. I am rarely conscious for those moments when the sky is dark and the house is quiet. But, today I was there- in body and spirit. Just for the moment, for after he was gone I was too, my mind back in dreamland weaving wild tales.

My day began again when through my sleep I heard a small hand knocking on my bedroom door. The door opened, the sound of it slowly sliding across the top of the carpet. I am blind upon waking, my eyes- my glasses- beside me. A blurry little figure, morning hair wildly askew walked up and climbed in beside me. She begged me to open my eyes. I couldn't, not yet. She was patient, for just a moment or two. And then it began, wrestle-mania; her latest craze. I simply try to protect my head.

Her hair truly is a thing of art. I tuck her in at night with smooth, gleaming locks. Sometime in the night, however,  a small squirrel enters the room and weaves himself a warm berth of her nut brown hair. Before she awakens, he escapes back to the snowy yard. And when she awakes, well, we marvel at the latest creation. A tangle spray and big brush and lots of screaming later the coiffure is complete. Crazy squirrel.

It was a snowy morning. Small, determined flakes- teeming in number- marched toward the ground. They worked quickly; the air, the ground, the trees, covered in a blanket of white. I am thankful for windows. I am so warm inside these walls while through the glass I can observe the most spectacular view.

We were prepared for a snow day. A trip to Target yesterday yielded a bag of supplies that waited for us. Boxes of Peeps, cornstarch and coconut oil.  In between bites of breakfast she begged to begin crafting. We cleaned up our plates then pulled out our supplies. Playdough made from Peeps; a Pinterest success story. Hours passed as we formed names and shapes and finally, the castle to beat all castles.

The snow stopped just as we made sandwiches and climbed up together to the table. The sky lost its white and the air filled with a sad gray. It settled on my heart and I took a deep breath- fighting its weight. A grilled cheese with bacon for me and peanut butter for her. The music of Frozen the soundtrack of our mealtime.

Four discarded couch pillow forms, three blankets and various chairs, washcloths and towels are gathered and another castle is created. "Its two-castle Tuesday" we declare as she ducks into hidden caves to small for one of my legs to fit. She finds comfort in small spaces.

A game of Chutes and Ladders, and then another. We each win a round and celebrate. I would be satisfied with a hug but she seems to require another round of wrestle-mania. I simply try to protect my head.

She does her school work with diligence and wonder. Pigtails bob as she reads aloud. She is on my lap and I open my eyes wider, I don't want to miss this. The smell of her hair, her bright eyes taking in new concepts, the way she writes her name with a heart, the sound of her voice spelling out t-u-l-i-p as "tolep". Phonetic spelling is ever so fun. I don't want to miss a minute of this day, the way she looks at the bulb garden on the table; studies its contents. She moves her head all around to see each angle. "There's another tulip," she says with wonder then counts the blooms. Purple hyacinths fill their air with their heady perfume.

The sun came out, lifting the gray skied heaviness from the air and my heart. The wind whips into view- swirling sparkling white flakes through the golden air. Streaming in the window, honeyed rays shine through Evie's pigtails as she sits on the couch, her head in her hands. Grandma and Evie watch videos of newborn babies on YouTube. I hear a tiny cry and listen to the discussion that ensues, Grandma describing the purpose of umbilical cords. Evie is filled with questions.

The afternoon blurs along...life has a way of gaining speed with each passing moment. It is good...then requires a bit more courage to proceed. But, there is good in every moment and I wish not to waste a single one. Each a gift, given once and for a purpose.

I might as well confess that my courage waned as the evening progressed. There have been moments in which I have completely forgotten about courage and the gift I might be squandering in my immediate discontent with circumstance.

And there is grace. Grace to cover my sinful, selfish, frustrated heart. Grace like thick, white snow.

dancers

The sky was overcast and gray. The clouds hung low and heavy. The air was cold and still.  And then the clouds burst, pouring forth their contents into view.

Slowly they began to dance. Large, white flakes like downy feathers. With no hurry to their routines they swirled down and then up, some left and some right. Each with abandon, following their own course. And yet, each dancer, different though it was, looked beautiful beside the others. A billion flakes that filled the air. No two dancers looked alike. And I marveled.

There was much to do inside which kept me busying about. And yet, I frequently found myself at the window staring through the glass like a child, my little companion by my side. "Beautiful,"she whispered into the stillness. 

The afternoon found us out amongst the dancers. We drove Frosty, our trusty Sable, into town for some errand doings. It was cold and the stores were busy, no parking spaces near the door. We parked with a walk before us and grabbed hands. The dancers swirled around us.

I started off briskly and found my hand pulling her along. I looked behind me. Her sweet face was turned upward, her mouth wide open and her eyes closed. "Catch any yet?" I asked. She laughed, "No, but they keep going up my nose!" 

I slowed my pace. Together we walked; our faces upward, our mouths open. We laughed as the flakes tickled our skin and landed everywhere else. Unsuccessful at our mission, we entered the store and at once became lost in a beautiful sea of fabric. 

Lost in the pattern books, my little companion filled a sheet with the corresponding numbers. Each to an item she confidently assured me that I could make. "My mommy is the best sewer," she announced to the kindly sales associate who had stopped to help us. "And I have lots of things for her to make!"

Hand in hand, we wandered through the possibilities and managed, somehow, to complete the list of necessities for one pattern. A pink and yellow flowered print to be transformed into a sweet little summer dress. Buttons and bias tape. Laughter and sweet conversation. We walked to the register and transacted our shopping. I counted change while she tried on the foam beards and hats beside me. "Look," she cried with glee.  And I saw her, my little leprechaun, her eyes dancing. 

Slowly, and with mouths opened,  we made our way to the car. The air thick with giant white flakes that seemed to evade capture when finally, I tasted success. And as I exclaimed, she did too; sharing our moment of joy with one another. 

Our ride home was filled with chatter. I watched the road and the dancers. She designed a car wash aloud. Details that went from simple to complex. And the sound of her words was like music, sweet and melodious. The music to which the dancers danced.

And the show was complete. 

We pulled into the driveway and parked. Gathering our bags we made our way to the door, our boots scattering snow like dust bunnies.

And my heart clapped.