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.

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.