run with endurance

My fingers are tired. Not from lack of use, necessarily, but from holding on to words that weigh heavy and long to be planted. The soil of pen and paper, or today, of screen and keys. 

One hour and a sleeping wee one and another at art class. I have solitude and my spirit soars. My fingers stretch and dance across the keys as a caged animal finally free.

Life is full of stories. Of sacred moments. All glorious and weighty and easily missed with the pressing in of demands and messes and emotions and sleep deprivation.

It has a been a long winter, except that time passes quickly. An odd thing really, where the cold stretches to cover several seasons but the calendar pages flip when it seems the month has just begun.

A winter long with jack frost and jackets, and a grandma who has weathered an onslaught of viral invaders by the troop. She was eager for company and we, recently recovered from pneumonia,  packed our cheer and drove to deliver it. My tired face and two smallish girls bursting with life. Over the river and through the hills, to grandmother's house we drove.

The post box sits a street away and we stopped to gather it, the mail. Evie left our car to open the small door and peer inside the box. It emptied and filled her arms. I opened the car window beside where she stood. She placed the envelopes on the seat beside me declaring,"I'm going to run to grandpa and grandmas! Drive slowly behind me please."

For a moment, I went back. Back to little me and this road and that mailbox. Running feet that carried a dream-filled me down the little road toward home. Or feet that moved slowly, stopping to listen or see or smell or touch or pluck something pretty.Tree-lined on one side and a curvy watery pool on the other.

But there she was, my little person. A thing of beauty and wonder. Feet flying and hair blowing and arms pumping. I felt it, a catch in my throat. I drove behind her, past the trees and watery pool, around the curve and up the hill. All things sacred here.

I watched her, each step. And my heart called after her,"Run! Run!" She did not look back but with purpose of stride pressed on. "Throw off every sin, and the weight which so easily entangles and run with endurance the race set before you and keep your eyes fixed on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith! Keep running and don't lose your wonder," my heart cried and turned to prayer. "Jesus, keep her."

The sacred, on a warmish winter's day in March, where golden sun kissed the waking earth. Where my breath caught and time stopped and God spoke.

little graces

The sky was gray today. The sort of gray that people paint their walls and declare them all modern and stylish.

I'm apparently out of style, what with my golden colored walls to match the color of the sunshine when it streams through my windows. 

It was very gray, accented with the white of a recent snowfall. No sunshiney accents today. 

We walked the block to town, my little companion and I, wishing that we had worn hats on our ears and glad that mittens tucked our hands all cozy. It was a needed outing, with keys and phone but no purse so as to tempt our wants with opportunity. Sometimes a little air and the bright shiny displays of storefront windows can transport one's spirit from a gray day. 

She skipped along and we rhymed aloud, as we are want to do. She is never quiet, always singing or rhyming or pointing out the little details of the world around us. My "noticer", so full of words. 

We needed this outing today. Her spirit strong and chafing at my need for quiet and rest. We keep a busy schedule, though attempt to keep our Thursdays somewhat open. My pregnant, introverted self needs to know that at some point there is hope of home in a week.

We arrived home after an hour of adventuring, rosy cheeked and she declaring victory from our "race" down the sidewalk. She was far ahead, while I waddled behind holding on to the bowling ball that feels precariously attached to my front. I'm certain that the driver of the car who passed us mid-race had a humorous story to share for the rest of their day. 

Homeschooling is not for the faint of heart, I later observed, while the pigtailed girl did math with all emotions on deck. School took longer today, as it often does when the schooled cries with great exasperation and their head in their hands, "I SIMPLY CANNOT DO THIS!" 

It is an oft repeated phrase, after which the teacher comes up with a variety of responses. Some to cheer on the defeated, others to push the weary to the greatness that lies within and yet others with consequences that will ensue if the schooled does not sit up and grab their pencil and actually try the next problem which mirrors the 5 they have already successfully accomplished. 

Our day involved a lot of crying out and cajoling and tiredness and prayers uttered from a mother's heart and lips for grace to give and eyes to see the little graces. The little graces all tucked in the moments of the day we lived, between the tears and the frustrations, in piles of laundry and dirty dishes. In laughter and snuggles and broken pencils and misunderstandings.

And He gave them - eyes to see and grace to give. A Father who bestows on us good gifts when we ask - the good gifts all tucked in the minutes of the clock. Hidden from our earthly eyes under trappings of mess and struggle and gray sky. And yet, when we see them - they yield a rich bounty of surprising beauty and unearthly joy.

Thankful me, for little graces given and received. A treasure in my hands waiting to be opened. 

hope

Those strange things in life that seem insignificant but later you discover them so very important? How God purposes these little details and knits them together into a story.

This is hope.

Two years ago, exactly two years ago, when our family of three was tucked all snug in a cozy apartment. When we discovered the news of baby taking shape in my womb. When we were most concerned with finding a home to purchase. Our drive to church took us past Forest Hill Cemetary. It had for years but then, a question from a little voice in the back seat. "Do we know anyone buried in that cemetary?"

An odd question for sure, what having driven this route so many times, but she was one for questions. We couldn't give a name, but were certain that there must be someone we had known whose body lay there. Our answer satisfied her, until the next time we passed. Again it came,"Do we know anyone buried in that cemetary?"

We passed this place four times a week. Sunday mornings to and from our place of worship and on Wednesday evenings for AWANA. The question, unfaltering. Every time.

"Do we know anyone buried in that cemetary?" And our answer never changed.

The months past. The baby grew. Our address changed to a little house in town.

And then one day, I woke up to the sun golden through the leaves in the tree outside my window. A golden so bright it seemed strangely heavenly. The morning held an air of expectation. My companion gone to work, I woke slowly and opened Psalm 18 to match the date of the day: May 18.

What odd verses, I thought, wondering if baby would arrive today. It is our family custom to take the Psalm that corresponds with the date and gift it a birthday Psalm. Would this baby have Psalm 18?

"The cords of death encompassed me, and the torrents of ungodliness terrified me. The cords of Sheol surrounded me; the snares of death confronted me. In my distress I called upon the Lord, and cried to my God for help"

It is a fiery Psalm. An incredible Psalm. Words of the power of God.

It became apparent, as the day unfolded, that this baby was to arrive today. Psalm 18 would belong to this active life that found every occasion to kick and move and had waved to me the night before as I sat in a tub of water to ease my aching body.

The day brought baby to our arms, but not as we planned. A little boy with a head of dark hair, he had left us before he met us. With the "cords of death" around his neck, Jesus took him from his safe little place and straight to the realms of endless day. Psalm 18 was his, indeed.

We laid his body in the local cemetary, the one we had passed four times a week for the past 9 months. The question could be answered now, but she never asked it again.

God knew. And in these ways and so many others - He handed us hope. Hope that had prepared us - unseen. And hope that told us this hurt was not meaningless.

"As for God, His way is blameless; the word of the Lord is tried; He is a shield to all who take refuge in Him. For who is God but the Lord? And who is a rock, except our God," Psalm 18:30-31

two wheels and persistence

"Tell me a story, mommy," the little one said, "a story of you." We settled in together, her and I.  A cozy couch and a cool afternoon.

She is the image of me, the little me that once was five. Slight of frame with a head of nut brown hair, I look at her and recognize the features I once saw in the mirror. All wild and artsy and terribly clever. Determined. Persistent.

I pull a book from the shelf of my cerebral library, dust off the cover and page through to find a story worth telling. A story from 1982 when my dad wore bell bottoms and my mom's black hair was feathered back. When technology was the corded phone on our wall.  

"I remember the day I learned to ride a bike," I began and told of a pink Hufffy with a white banana seat. Hours of training wheels led to this moment of two wheels and me and the steadying hand of a grown up on the curved chrome handle behind the seat.  I peddled and they ran behind.  Faster and faster, until the legs of the grown-up with the steadying hand could not keep up. "I'm letting go," they panted and I felt a surge of joy. 

Down the street I flew, the voices of little friends cheering me on. It was tough to keep my wheel straight what with my feet on the metal pedals moving so fast they must have been a blur. The wind teased my short brown hair. I felt invincible. 

It has oft been quoted that "all good things must come to an end." My thrill ended in the gravel at the edge of the street where my right knee made contact. I felt it all through my body, the impact, the skin missing and gravel embedded in the raw, moist surface. There were tears and then the arms of my older sister. She lifted me and we made our way through the crowd of small people who had circled me with sympathy and curiosity. In my absence the crowd leaned to examine the small bits of rock for any terribly interesting fleshy material I might have left behind. 

Dr. Mother met us at the door of our apartment and started treatment. A tweezer lifted the gravel and my wound was doused with a fizzing, stinging flood of hydrogen peroxide before the band-aid was applied. Those plastic strips were like magic and a badge of honor all together. My wound was large so another sterile strip was applied. Two band-aids. This was serious. 

Slight of frame but sturdy in spirit, it didn't take long for my tears to dry. The huffy had to be mastered.  Out the door I went. I made sure to parade my battle scars and then, with bravado, slid back on to that white, banana seat and put my feet on the pedals.

The grown-up that had assisted in my inaugural run was no longer available. It was just me, and that bike. My courage waned slightly and the bend of my injured knee pulled the bandaids tightly against my raw wound. I took a deep breath. The children cheered my efforts.

Success was not swift. It was a process, the mastering, like most accomplishments are. Back on the bike, my feet on those pedals, all wobbly and wild. A few feet of forward motion and then…pavement. The process repeated itself frequently and it wasn’t long before the neighborhood kids tired of my efforts and headed off to play.

And then, I did it. My wild wobbly bike straightened some as I gained momentum. I gripped those handlebars with my scraped palms and cycled past the gravelly spot where I had left my knee skin, past the children and then back again.

It was a ride that ended when I slowed the bicycle and put my feet flat on the ground. I did not feel the pain of my injuries. I did not notice the missing bandaids. Victory was sweet and I savored it.

A little voice breaks in,”Were you okay, momma?” She is compassionate, picturing a small wounded person and wanting to help. The victory was lost on her just then.

It is a big story for a little person – the words between the words. That victory is often won in the suffering and perseverance. Character is shaped by experience. 

She sees me, little me. Wounded and bleeding and triumphant. My words painted a picture.

She sees me…me. The me that still wears the scar on my right knee from that first bike ride. The me that teaches her of life of how to live it. The me she watches plodding through the day to day and the busyness . The me that makes mistakes, and feels afraid and prays for God to redeem my failings.  

We finish the story and she has questions – nothing is lost on her. She inquires of the children, the wounds, and where was my helmet. She needs each piece, an entire puzzle put together one fact at a time. Then, she is satisfied.

I close the book and tuck it away. There will be another day. Another story.

different

"Who are you?" I ask the face in the mirror.

Grief is a transformative process. I have found it to be as visible as it is invisible. The heart cracks wide and sorrow pours out.

And the life that follows grief? As if you play a part in a show where everything changed and nobody told you. Strangely similar and vastly different. But people still need to eat; they always do.

I wear it. In lines where tears have carved their path. I smile and see where sorrow etched a story. These months look like years on my face. And the frame has thinned. I keep them shorter, my curls, so less can paint the picture of more.

I feel it. It wears like a heavy cloak. I can laugh and live and heal but I feel it.

I remember it. May 18th. A day of heightened sensations. Where, in the rush and the broken, my brain took a blow. Words are slower, memories escape. If one could describe dementia; this.

I walk it. This journey mapped out by grace. One piece of a family. A family of three who, quite differently, live the same story.

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