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

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.

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. 

sleep

Andy and I closed down the party at exactly 9:08 last evening. The lights went out and sleep came swiftly. It was the earliest we have seen the back of our eyelids in about three weeks of burning the midnight oil. Andy's alarm gives a faithful 4:30am wakeup call no matter how much sleep we've accomplished. 

We were giddy at the prospect of sleep and counted out how many hours were before us. Seven. Seven hours of consecutive sleep. Seven hours of crazy adventures for my dream factory of a brain. 

At approximately 10pm the beep, beep, beep of a received text sounded from the kitchen where my phone was plugged in. Andy stumbled out and checked it. A message from a prospective Craigslist buyer. We had a quick discussion about answering it and decided that Sunnie could wait for our reply until morning. The phone was turned down to vibrate and plugged back in. 

The captain of the nose blowing team began practicing at about 2am. She may be a small girl but Evie can use her nose to create a sound that resembles the trumpet of a full grown elephant. Both nostrils are firmly pressed in and she blows out with all her might. It is a process repeated over and over and over again. Unfortunately, her technique is not actually effective at removing any of the offending nose material and she is very resistant to any sort of help in changing her approach. She has seasonal allergies so boogies are a daily issue. She blows so hard her face turns red, I worry for her safety. 

After a few minutes, I heard the sound of small feet march into the bathroom and back to bed. More blowing. This was my cue. I slid my glasses over tired eyes and plodded into her room. Gently, I took over the tissue handling and tried once again to help change her approach. "Don't plug both sides," I whispered demonstrating my idea. I took the kleenex and depressed one side of her nose while leaving the other clear for removal. She blew hard. 

The right nostril was free and clear but the left was obstructed and no amount of blowing was going to remedy it. She was certain that it could be removed. I took the crumpled tissue away and offered other suggestions. "Just breathe through your mouth." 

I laid beside her and rubbed her back until she lay still and her breathing was slow and even. Usually I wait until her feet twitch, which is a sure sign of sleep, but I was tired. I made my way back to my room, where Andy soundly slept, and thanked The Lord for the swift answer to my prayer. 

Back in bed, I pulled the covers up and closed my eyes. Sweet sleep called to me and then, so did the sound of the trumpet in the next room. The nose blowing had resumed. 

Not wanting Andy to be disturbed, I grabbed my glasses and followed the sound. She was distressed about her nostrils and not to be consoled. I stumbled through the living room to my small little oil stash. Peace and Calming called my name. I needed it just as much as she did at this point.

It was dark in her room, but I carefully tipped the bottle over and felt one drop hit my palm. In my hurry to right the bottle, another drop fell. The pungent fragrance filled the room. I rubbed it at the nape of her neck then gently rubbed it across her forehead. "MY EYE!" she yelled out,"YOU GOT OIL IN MY EYE! GET IT OUT!" 

I think I might have quietly laughed at this point as I pictured other mothers (in long white nightgowns with beautiful braided hair) leaning over their restless children and gently applying oils which soothed them. I was wild haired, bleary eyed and trying to calm a child who was distressed by my sabotaged attempt to soothe her. 

Somehow we made and it and again, after a long back and head rub, she was still and breathing slow. I left her room. The blowing resumed. I climbed into bed, rolled over and closed my eyes. I prayed for the persecuted church. 

Over the next two hours she battled sleep, telling wild tales of the rescuers, blowing her nose, calling "MOOOOOOOOOOM" and making frequent trips to my room with requests to save her from the scary shadows on her wall. Andy slept soundly, for which I was grateful. He isn't allowed the luxury of sleeping in. 

Morning came quickly. A beautiful wet morning, covered in the gentle rain that had fallen on it while we slept. Much needed refreshment for our parched ground. I fell back asleep and woke up after Andy was gone. 

I heard it. The sound of blowing. I froze and listened more carefully, my emotions rising. Through my open window, the cars passing by on the wet streets drove through a giant puddle and the sound of their travels matched the blowing. The girl was still sleeping. The morning was quiet for a little longer. 

panera

It's a lovely morning, quite warm. My favorite kind.

I am alone. Alone on the busy patio at Panera. Alone with a frozen lemonade and my iPad but surrounded by the busy chatter of those gathered. I love the laughter and the conversations that catch my ear. I love that I don't have to talk. 

I am an introvert. No shame there. Silence is the fuel that fires me. 

"They call me Mrs. H," laughs the lady with short blond hair. She sits across from a friend with a long ponytail and sunglasses. Mrs. H. has carried the conversation for the past 30 minutes without ponytail getting in a word. She is excited about life, about God, about her mother and about prayer.

At the table across from mine sits an older lady in a blue plaid shirt. Her husband brought out a toasted bagel and prepared each half. She takes hers with thin layer of cream cheese but he prefers butter. He must have been hungry, polishing off his meal in a hurry. She takes her time. Savoring her half and mug of coffee, he a glass of ice water. 

A couple, on break from work, ate their sandwiches while planning a party. He tried to keep the numbers down, around 10, and requested beef jerky to be on the menu. She wondered who would help them set it all up, perhaps his musician friends? 

I think of Evie. She was excited to go back to Vacation Bible School again this morning. I curled her hair and dressed her a fancy short set. My little mud puddle lover looks so grown up and acts so grown up around her peers. It's sweet, bittersweet, to leave her behind though I must admit that I have relished being alone for a few hours. 

What is it about needing words that makes them so elusive? I am attempting again to write a piece for a contest and find my brain blank. I am working to recall a time or a person or a place of which I can write 2,500 words and yet, nothing. I thought perhaps a frozen lemonade and a table in the sun might awaken my sleeping brain.

The patio is clearing out. A new crowd begins to gather. The lovely ladies next to me bow their heads and one begins to  thank her Heavenly Father for their time together and the lunch before them. She says amen and adds "God can do anything." I take this as my cue, the changing of the guard, the encouragement that God is able and the reminder that my little fairy will be soon waiting for me with popsicle stained lips and stories. 

What a gift, these minutes on the Panera patio. I leave with a thankful heart.