again

It is not new, the story of a day many days ago. Brought to life by the pressure of a contest deadline and a long-suffering husband. Late nights and sentences.

I try again. From life to prose, my simple days.

Titled and double-spaced. Letters knitted together into pictures. In an envelope and off into hands of those who know the craft of words.

Will they see it...the view from my page? I wonder all the while I wait.

What a surprise, then, to find an email from the contest chairperson. I read the words, a few of them. The ones that said "first place winner."

Read my words...and celebrate with me. (But don't critique my grammar...late nights and creative minds tend to overlook those things).

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 walking paths in the parking lot of the local shopping center.  A burst of park like charm - lush, green grass and shrubs with tidy mulch skirts. A park with a cement path that goes nowhere in particular, unless one wanted to start at one random parking place and end at another. We took a stroll down one today.

 I parked our car in those spaces facing green- with purpose. My little companion was suffering the ill effects of auto motion while she cleverly designed doll clothes. I had reminded her, while on our way, that she should keep her eyes looking up and out the window. "But I just love making crafts," she said.  

 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 beside us.

 "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; 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. 

so much

For the full days of golden air and bird songs and sun-kissed skin, I celebrate. The warmth of it like a soft blanket in the cold. All beautiful and glorious. Medicine for my heart.

I find myself wordless in conversation but my mind is not silent. It replays significant moments and waits for my fingers to translate it into the tangible.

So much to say.

Of stories all mingled, expectation and the here and God's hands touching earth with heaven.

Last week, I said goodbye to hope. Not hope unseen, for that which I do not see is weighty and wonderful, but to a smallish tree framed by a kitchen window. A little tree with a large presence.

The space beside our new home has been a scene of progress. An empty lot has grown into an apartment building. The space around it bare. And then one day appeared man and machine and so much greenery. There it was, from dirt and rock to Sherwood forest in a manner of hours.

Planted there, a small oak, a larger maple, two tall birch trees and beside them conifers of every variety. Large and full and so close together. Dry ground infused with life. So much life. I wondered how this story would play out.

Small in stature but plumed with green, so stately, my little oak. The breeze tousled her leaves and squirrels visited her branches. So lovely, the view between the sharp greens of pines.

The sun was hot.  No one to nurture. She felt it, the life ebbing from her. Green became brown. Her whisper stilled.

The men returned and saw her plight. They tried. Her slender trunk wrapped in tubes and plastic, those moments when life hangs in the balance and with breath held...the waiting.

Tender and easily afflicted, a young oak in drought. Help came too late.

Arrayed in a halo of curled and tired leaves she refused her fate. A glimmer of life. One bright green leaf, undeterred by thirst or threat, danced alone.

She was radiant, even in her final days. So I cheered her on, giving name to her and the story she told. Hope.

It was a hot day when she left, dug from her resting spot and tossed carelessly aside. I watched anxiously from my window. Dirty hands around her slender trunk and a refuse truck and then, gone.

She was not replaced, her space filled in and left to be covered with a green blanket, little blades reaching up.  Not replaced and not forgotten.

^"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, obtaining as the outcome of your faith the salvation of your souls."   1 Peter 1: 6-8

dirt road

"The mind of man plans his way but the Lord directs his steps." Proverbs 16:9

Perspective. 

Life hasn't exactly gone as planned. Does it ever? If it did, I might wonder if I was actually living in the will of God. 

A little Evie and six years. Six beautiful years of life and laughter and wondering if God might have designed our family as a little group of three. Late last summer we were surprised by joy and the discovery of a new little life growing inside me. 

A storage locker filled to the brim and two years. Two years of memories made in small spaces and dreams of a little house down a dirt road to call home. 

God's plans were different. 

Six years of waiting ended on the sunny morning of May 18 when I birthed a beautiful little boy. A beautiful little boy with thick black hair who never breathed air before he met Jesus. Nine months of wiggles and hiccups and five hours in my arms.

Two years of waiting ended on May 7 when a strong and kindly crew of friends and family moved our earthly treasures into a little house in the city. A little house with a beautiful back yard.

God was not finished.

This morning finds me sleepless and staring out through the early morning light. I savor the silence of these early hours, they are mine. A fitting end to the last five days I've lived.

This week has been a story of its own, what with Evie's health and the challenges and adventures of street repairs all mingled in with the bitter taste of grief. Sleepless nights and Doctor visits and noisy trucks and a water main break and the pavement missing and so much dirt and...

Through my window God paints the world gold and opens my eyes to see it. Oh the irony, my dirt road.

wait

"Patience is a virtue. Waiting won't hurt you."

This, the old adage that I've heard many times in my years upon earth. Those childhood years where waiting seemed an eternity but how many times had I heard it "you've grown so fast!".

What did grown up people do to make the clock move to quickly? "Never enough time"

And so we wish away our childhoods in anticipation of the glories that wait ahead- the magic of grown up-ville. Where we can drive and pick our own bedtime and buy things for ourselves instead of waiting for Christmas or Birthdays.

Oh the beauty of waiting. Anticipation. Preparation. A gift we don't often take as one.

"Good things come to those who wait."

If truth be told, this way is often God's choice for me. And, after I put up a bit of a tussle with my emotions, I find that I am more often grateful for not being given my way. Impulsivity is a bully and the fruit of the wait is much sweeter.

Life is waiting. In the clutches of winter I long for the glories of spring. The sweet smell of soft earth and green life and golden air. And I will celebrate- again. For all of the springs I've experienced in 38 years of life, none will be so grand but the one in which I find myself.

"A watched pot never boils"

Life is waiting and what we choose in the waiting will determine the sweetness of the fruit.