Whole

She spoke to me
of roses and
little birds in
her garden--
this woman who
does not know
where she is
or why…she
kept tracing the
long curved line
from her forehead
to the base of
her skull with
fingers, the
sutures come out
tomorrow.
I listened close-
made mental notes-
about putting oak
leaves around the
crown in the fall
and what type of
seed the grackles
won’t steal. whole.
she is whole in
the flowers. she is
whole for a moment.
she is
whole.

For the Toy Box...

Unfulfilled Expectations

She grew tired of
puppetry, unfulfilled expectations,
and making fathers
nervous during communion
meditation. So,
Barbie left the city, ordered
a double bacon
cheeseburger and
partied all night.


TweetSpeak Poetry is giving away Barbies! In celebration of the release of Marcus Goodyear’s new poetry book, Barbies at Communion and Other Poems, TweetSpeak Poetry is hosting a giveaway. Find out all about it here, and join in the fun!

Finding God...In the Yard?

When I was a child I lived in the country. I did not know for many years that we were poor. I never understood that most folks did not live the way we did. We were happy to be tucked away, hidden from the world by the trees and the sky and the bubbling creek.

I never realized how rich that land made us until much later.

Are we in a depression?

My youngest asks me this not too long ago as we walk the streets of our suburban neighborhood.

Do you mean as a nation or as a family?

Our family…are we in a depression?


Do you mean emotionally or economically?

I quickly run through my head all the conversations his daddy and I have recently had. What has he overheard?

You know, with dad’s new job and stuff…are we not doing very well with money?

My husband changed directions, professionally speaking, at the beginning of the year and this choice did, in fact, involve a cut in income. The hope was that this position would be a stepping stone to something more rewarding—more stable--and the salary cut would be worth it. However, things never go according to plan and as the months tick by we grow a bit anxious.

My boy doesn’t miss much.

We have to be more careful with money than we used to be. But the fact is, we are still doing better than a lot of people. We need to be thankful for what we have and be good stewards of it.


So. We ARE in a depression.

I look at my son and see him. I see this middle-class kid with his Nike tennis shoes, braces, and big blue eyes. And I remember hand-me-down clothes and dirty bare feet. I remember day-long hikes in the woods and long walks to the bridge on summer days. I remember leaf-filtered sunshine and tall grasses bending in the breeze.

Nah, I wouldn’t say that, I say. We are rich. Richer than anything.

I squeeze his hand and take off running. He runs after me, scattering coins of laughter in the wind. We meet again at the bridge and stand together in silence--staring into water rippling over rocks.

We wade through treasure on the way home. Moments of countless worth. Gems sparkle on the water and golden rays surround us.

If I could, I would take my boys to live in the country. We would dine on joy, spend sparkling days like so many pennies in my change purse...and go to sleep to the sound of earth's lullaby. But for now, this place—this edge off the city--will do. We can make it fit. With the riches we have, we’ll buy the accommodations. They won’t be secret spots, but they will feel like they are. Small spaces in our neighborhood where we let our spirits drift on the wind. Where we can play towards God—delight in Him.

Some of this play will be light-hearted, but mostly it involves letting ourselves feel. My boys have no trouble with this; but their mother? For me, to feel freely, I must remember. I must remember what it is to be a child.

And I must come to God this way.


Written in response to week one of God in the Yard: Spiritual Practice for the Rest of Us by L.L. Barkat. I’ll be posting off and on--as the spirit moves--about my journey with L.L. through this lovely book.

Witness

The honeysuckle blooms now, I smell her presence before I see her—senses get entangled in her vines. I have sweet memories of dusty roads and drops of her dewy honey dripped onto my tongue.

I’ve been remembering happiness lately. This is new for me, as the sorrow most often announces its presence even in the midst of joy.

Most of this is due to the introduction of Morning Pages into my life, I know. This dictation of the constant flow of thoughts that pass through my head has caught me by surprise more than once. Old wounds are gentler when written on the page. I am able to witness these things, as Julia Cameron says, and pass by without bruising.

People grow weary of listening to the brokenness of others. I weary of my own. In the spring the little road that I run on becomes crowded. All the grasses and wildflowers fluff out, spill over like a river cresting its banks. What is left is a tiny path, strewn with beauty and brambles. The red-winged blackbirds fuss at me as trudge by and the meadowlarks call out from their hiding places in the deep grasses.

But in the summer, the brush hog comes through and clips it all back, tidying things up and widening the world again.

That’s what writing does for me. First comes the spilling out before the order can be obtained. There are too many words, too many thoughts, too much pain and joy to contain them in this shell.

In writing, I notice my life. Each moment takes on sacred presence. I do not have to write about God for my words to be pleasing to Him. He sees each moment, recognizes the holy. Life is filled with breath and sweat and blood. How can I walk on by?

There are things intangible in the writing life…benefits not readily seen by the eye.

I read this article, at Ann’s bidding, and pondered. The discussion is about whether to encourage our children to seek higher education or not. The author cites research about the financial strain of a college education and numbers of adults who, having gone to college, end up in positions that do not require such an education.

The article has its merits. There are practical reasons for some to pursue vocational training, to be sure. But it was the words of Morton Schapiro, and economist who is the president of Northwestern University, that resonated.

“You get some return even if you don’t get the sheepskin,” Mr. Schapiro said.
He warned against overlooking the intangible benefits of a college experience — even an incomplete experience — for those who might not apply what they learned directly to their chosen work.
“It’s not just about the economic return,” he said. “Some college, whether you complete it or not, contributes to aesthetic appreciation, better health and better voting behavior.”

Schapiro’s comments reminded me of the words of an older friend. She once told me that her father used to say: If you educate a woman, you educate a family.

She grew up in a time where it was unusual for a woman to pursue a college education. My friend now has her Ph.D., if I’m not mistaken.

Our experiences rub up against those in our lives, influencing how they see the world.

What does this have to do with writing, you ask?

I see. The way that I see is a gift to my children and others in my life. Writing allows me to peer deeper into this world; to see beauty that others pass over.

I write. I see. I witness my life.

Come along with me. There are rewards intangible.

Pentecost Flames and...A Winner!

The Holy Spirit falls in flames this morning. I forget.

I am almost done fixing my hair when I hear strangled cries from the shower. It’s shampoo in the eyes. I go stand outside the stall. Mumble soothing words. Score one for mom.

I’m just putting on my black and white jacket when I remember: It’s Pentecost.


Don’t forget to wear red, I call into the hallway.

One son disappears to change. He yells back. There's nothing clean that is red.

I suppose because I had class yesterday no one did the laundry, I say, grumpily to the air. The devil scores.

I sigh; yell back that’s okay as I grab a red blouse out of the closet. Another point for me.

Other one emerges from the shower, still whimpering. He lies back on the bed as I squeeze drops into his burning eyes.

Ow! It burns! The drops burn, mom!

Oh, for heaven’s sake! It will go away, just keep your eyes closed for a few minutes!

I snap.

Second point for the liar.

Eyes recover; he goes to look for red.

I can’t find my red shorts, he says.

I’m still trying to finish my hair. Meanwhile, the clock keeps ticking.

There’s a load in the dryer I didn’t get to, look there.

I did. They’re not there.

Look in the basket downstairs.

They’re not there.

Fine. I’ll stop what I’m doing and go look. Is that what you want me to do? (sarcastically).

Satan 3. Mom 2. He pulls ahead.

I stomp down the stairs. When I find the basket the shorts are neatly folded on top. I just can’t stand it.

Jeffrey, did you look in this basket? Come and get your shorts. They were right here in plain sight.

I mutter under my breath…Honestly, I don’t know how you people could function without me.

Dad, of course, never witnesses the Sunday morning stress. He leaves early to get the music ready. Only has to worry about himself.

Oops. Did I just say that? Another point for the devil.

Triple score. Satan 6. Mom 2.

We are about to head out the door when I hear something fall on the floor. A button mysteriously falls off my blouse. No reason. Just  wiggles loose of thread and falls.

I feel a hysterical laugh welling up. Teddy hides a smile.

I’m not going to let you get me this time, I say, shaking my fist to the air. I change my blouse.

Another point for me.

We hustle out the door. Go to pick up some friends that we give a ride to every other week. Jeffrey rings the doorbell. Nothing. Finally a head peeks out.

I’m sorry, I forgot to call, she says. They’re not coming.

I don’t say a word as we pull away from their house, but the boys are giggling.

This is getting ridiculous, I say, grinning their way.

What next?

He’s still two points ahead. I feel a bit sheepish, letting him win…especially on Pentecost.

That’s when I remember.

Jesus has already won this thing for me. I have already won.

We walk into the church to red balloons and smiles.

I feel it.

He is inside me.

This knowledge rushes over me and through me—makes me dizzy.

The Holy Spirit lives inside of me.

If I could just act like it. If I could just remember…always.

Do you?

Happy Pentecost, friends. Here’s my gift…

The winner of Elaine Olsen’s book, Peace for the Journey is….


Mariel of Growing in Godliness!


Congratulations, Mariel! If you see this before I contact you, send me your snail. A little package of love will be on the way soon.


balloon photo by ai.dan, flickr creative commons

Spiritual Formation

Her chocolate skin glows smooth in the lamplight, her cheeks two plums. When she laughs, our faces blush with pleasure. The room fills with the warmth of it. The brim of her eggplant-colored hat shadows her eyes, but her smile bursts forth like the sun.

Sister Emily from Nigeria joins us for Spiritual Formation group. It is only her second trip to America, and we are so pleased to welcome her to our small group.

We talk about Job and spiritual warfare and wonder if God is bragging about us too.

Emily tells us about the discipleship center that she and her husband run in Nigeria.

The older women teach the younger women how to cook and run a household. Whatever your gifts are, that’s what you share. Be it cooking, sewing, organizing the home…And we teach them how to read the scriptures.

She moves her hands emphatically as she speaks; her thick-musical accent punctuating her words. We all lean closer. Her passion for Jesus charges the air around us. We talk about many things—dreams, women’s work, the mystery of God’s ways, listening…

Emily and her husband, Brother Pius, are visiting sister churches to share about their ministry, garner support.

My husband, he goes every year. He goes everywhere. God called him to be an evangelist, God called him to be a missionary, God called him to go…wherever he goes he is at home.

Emily talks a little about the Nigerian government, how it is mostly run by Muslim law. She is respectful. But her strong voice quiets for the first time.

The Muslims are in the north, she says, and the Christians in the south. When it gets rough up there, our brothers and sisters from the north run to us. We take them in for a while (she gestures an embrace with those expressive arms of hers). They stay a while and then they go back when things calm down.

But when she says this, I felt a lump in my throat:

But our brothers and sisters who were formerly Muslims, when they come to us, they are ready to die. They are ready to die.

When I come home, I read more about Nigeria—Google it up. I read of the bloodshed that continues between Christians and Muslims. Of the corruption in the government and rich oil production. I think about Emily’s husband traveling about with the Words of Jesus in his pocket.

Wherever he goes, he is at home.

Jeffrey and I walk the dogs under the half moon. The air is crisp and cool. I show him the Big Dipper, tipping over on us.

There it is! He says. I didn’t realize it was so big.

We need to get him out in the country, I think. Away from light pollution, where we can do some real star-gazing.

But I can’t get these words out of my head: They are ready to die.

As we walk, God sends a tiny gift of light. It flashes once before my eyes and then disappears, leaving me to wonder if I imagined it.

Jeffrey, I say. I just saw the first firefly!

Really? Where?

We turn and look together.

But that tiny light is gone.

I feel so grateful to be there with my boy…to see the first firefly of the season. But I feel sad too. Sad for my brothers and sisters all over the world who must live in fear. Then I remember something Emily said when we were talking about Job.

Not everyone will be put through the same trials as Job, she said. But each of us, on different levels, will meet different trials where we are. The devil is the same today as he was in Job’s day…when we are afraid, he is happy. But God is the same God too. God is the same God who spoke to Job. He never changes. We have to speak the blood of Jesus over that fear. Speak it out loud. We cannot be afraid.

Tonight, we pray for Sister Emily and Brother Pius. We pray for all our brothers and sisters in Christ who live in dangerous circumstances—those who are persecuted, those who conquer fear every day. Those who are ready to die.

We pray the blood of Jesus over them. And we learn from their courage.

On Lederhosen and Orhodontist Phobias

 
We had a traumatic visit to the orthodontist yesterday, though the good dr. and his staff of lady bugs were as solicitous as usual. There were a few fun moments in the waiting room when I took Jeffrey through a relaxation exercise in which he rested soft on a cloud. But I have strange parenting techniques and as Jeffrey reclined in that stiff waiting-room chair, eyes closed, almost relaxed...I could not resist making my visualized Jeffrey taste the cloud, and when he found it tasted of vanilla he ate the whole thing out from under himself. Following which he began to free-fall through the sky…until he discovered he had feathered wings, after which he soared, viewing the earth below and the orthodontist’s fell waiting area as so small a speck…

Needless to say, this adventure did not yield the desired effect. Jeffrey’s phobia of the orthodontist continues.

So we wrote a poem.




Lederhosen and Chest Pains

Lederhosen makes you
look like a
walking sock.


Even if you are
very hungry you
should never eat
chalk.


the mailman's breath
smells like stinky
cheese.


you should never
ever ever eat
properly seasoned
peas.
with salt.


Dragons are
big and
very mean.


Some people think
that a chair
is a bean.


Even if you like
to dance...


Don't install a
printer inside
your pants.


peace.


Don't forget to leave a comment on this post for a chance to win a signed copy of Elaine Olsen's new book, Peace for the Journey.


photo by onecrazyweasel, flickr creative commons

The Ancient of Days

William Blake's The Ancient of Days

the court was
seated, and
the books opened
when he entered on
his chariot throne;
wheels ablaze--Chief
Justice of the
universe—Atik Yomin—
the Ancient of Days.

it’s not like
me to fall for a guy
so fast, but…
I caught my breath at
dazzling white from
head to toe. The
Kaballah tells of
the White Head of God;
this mystery of En Sof—
Ancient of Ancients,
unmanifested One.

daniel spoke
of woolen hair, but I
say, this embodiment—
the One I touch, who touches
me--is silk…soft threads
that weave us
into one—a great covering
over all.

the strong
hands that crush the
little horn, hold up
fists of saints in
victory—these hands
cradle, hold me soft, and
place the crown on
head of the One who
looks like a son
of man.

from forever and to
the forever of the
forevers.

now that
is ancient.


This was written for the High Calling Blogs Papyrus poetry challenge to write about an ancient place. So I wrote about the most ancient of all shelters. He is a beautiful place.

Peace for the Journey, a Giveaway

You have to ask yourself why you are writing. And then you remember that when you get discouraged. No matter what anyone tells you, you have to remember. God will honor that.
----Faith Elaine in a recent telephone conversation.

I was ready to give up.

My novel was passed over again and I just didn’t have the energy to keep trying. I took my despair to the blog and was amazed at the response.

There were others who felt the same way.

But one.

She called me the next day. She held my head up. Gave me words of encouragement. Told me things I knew, but needed to hear a fellow sojourner say.

She showed me love.

She even offered to buy me a beer. Some day I’m going to take her up on that.

She helped me remember why I write.

I’m proud to say that Elaine Olsen is my friend. She is a woman of words. Words that shed peace. Peace for the Journey.

Today I am celebrating with Elaine the release of her devotional book: peace for the journey: in the pleasure of his company.

I have been enjoying these words in my quiet time this week. I would like you to share in the peace as well. Leave a comment on this post by Sunday afternoon, May 23rd for a chance to win an autographed copy of Peace for the Journey. And in the meantime, visit Elaine over at her blog. You are going to love her.Leave a comment on her blog for another chance to win the book. Then come back here and let me know you did so.

Shalom!

Stealing Time

Laundry needs folding, floors need cleaning, sheets need changing…

So I go for a run.

I’m leaving it behind, chucking it all. I can work and play, after all. Today I am the queen of the multi-task. Right now I am simultaneously cleaning the oven (self-clean), doing laundry (once loaded it does itself), and ordering a good read (waiting for whispernet to download this to my kindle).

I’m feeling pretty good.

The hills surrounding our valley home are obscured by fog this morning and the rain keeps falling but I don’t mind. I am smoke passing through this mist and the moisture on my skin makes me feel supple and young.

I’m trying not to think, just be right here. But there’s too much and soon I’m fretting over that mid-day orthodontist appointment that will effectively prevent me from investing myself in anything worthwhile for fear of interruption. Not to mention that standardized testing started today. The teachers won’t be happy about me pulling my boy.

Who knew?

I try to cross the busy street but the traffic keeps coming. Someone yells out the window at me as they drive by.

Peanut butter!

Peanut butter?

I guess it could be worse. And I think of Michael Csutoris because peanut butter always makes me remember him. He shared his peanut butter and jelly sandwich with me on the track bus after a meet my junior year. The sandwich was all squished and the jelly had soaked through the bread. He told me that just made it better. I thought he was the cutest thing.

I cross the street and head down by the golf course. No matter how many years I run it always takes me two miles to warm up and I feel that familiar shortness of breath and the occasional heart palpitation that has me secretly convinced that I have an undiagnosed heart valve malformation that will one day cause me to keel over on the side of the road while out jogging. Before my five miles are up I have myself dead and buried. My body is cold in the ground and Jeff is remarried to some bimbo who mistreats my children.

I resolve to write in their journals more about how much I love them. Just in case.

A friend told me she once read that some crazy number like 80 or 90 % of people know how they would change their living space if their spouse passed away. I would paint my walls. Add color to this world. Get rid of the ugly brass fireplace insert. Hard wood floors.

This is morbid thinking, I know. I feel a sudden sense of panic at the thought of ever continuing on without my husband.

I was reading this article this morning about philosophy and it was very entertaining and all but it was this word that jumped out at me: clepsydra.

The author, Simon Critchley, said:

In Greek legal proceedings, a strictly limited amount of time was allotted for the presentation of cases. Time was measured with a water clock or clepsydra, which literally steals time, as in the Greek kleptes, a thief or embezzler. The pettifogger, the jury, and by implication the whole society, live with the constant pressure of time. The water of time’s flow is constantly threatening to drown them.

That’s how I’ve been feeling. Drowning in the continual ticking off of the seconds. Longing for the slowing, looking for a pause to breathe deeply.

I am feeling my body. Last night I woke up with spasms in my left knee. I’ve had muscle cramps before, but never spasms. It made sleep impossible. I think about my patients with their various neurological issues, the botox injections, stretching they have to do. And I have a new appreciation for their discomfort.

Julia Cameron says my body carries a knowledge deeper than my mind.

I believe this. I feel it when I run. When I breathe. I think about my grandfather and my grandfather’s grandfather and how their blood runs through my veins and I wonder about the memories inside of me. What do my cells know that I don’t? My grandfather lived to be one hundred years old. I don’t think I have a heart valve malformation.

I’m on the last mile when I realize that I feel good. My breath is smooth, by stride strong. I try to feel everything. Just for a minute. There is no sustaining this awareness.

The dogs are waiting for me when I get home—looking out the bay window expectantly. The laundry will have to wait a little bit longer.

There are worse things than taking a walk in the rain on a Monday morning.

Like changing the sheets. Mopping the floor. Cleaning the toilet.

We’ll get to that too, eventually. When I steal back some of what that sly thief time has stolen.

All in good time.

photo: flag that spoke to me while on a field trip with the fifth graders to Cincinnati

Ascension

the waiting…

pregnant with

expectation

when Glory

comes, bursts

forth, we

don't stand there

looking up...we

pluck it

from the vine

and carry it home

for the kitchen table.

Lucky Clover: In Which He Held My Hand

He goes for a run but I stay behind and walk instead. We spent the afternoon wrapped up in each other…it’s our anniversary.

My skin tingles as I walk. It remembers.

Toby comes with me; he’s doing well on his program. He’s lost two pounds already. He snorts along, but I’m not bothered—my head is filled with poetry.

The first time he held my hand we stood on the bank of River Lake. He wanted to show me his childhood home. Wonder—that’s what I felt, with my hand in his. And I thought that maybe I could love this man.

I do.

I find a four leaf clover by the creek and I pluck its green; it is warm in my hand. I’m always finding four leaf clovers. The pages of my journals press them flat—they are always slipping out when I remember.

The sun shines gentle through the trees, evening coming on. We walk down the bank and I crouch low beside the creek. Dappled beauty flowing by…grasses bend under water caress. I sigh.

We turn around.

As we turn to go up the hill, I see him. He’s slowing to a walk. My heart does a flip-flop at the sight of him, and I know he will walk down to join us for the remainder of the way home.

It was windy on our wedding day. We married outside and afterwards, the picture-taking was frustrated by the breeze. I have a photograph in my white album of him shaking my skirt our like a sheet in the breeze. We are laughing.

I don’t believe in luck. I know what got us here. There were times I wanted to give up. But I didn’t.

And luck had nothing to do with it. 

The breeze today is even sweeter than on our wedding day. I slip my hand in his and we walk.

I don’t believe in luck. I believe. I believe in a Love deeper than my heart can conceive. That's what I believe.

Thank God for that. Thank God.

Gift Circle

Every time I walk by my kitchen table, the scent of my Mother’s Day bouquet fills the air around me. I close my eyes and breathe deeply of this perfume…and I smile. It catches me by surprise every time. And I feel cherished.

The sentiment behind this simple gift lingers these days later—clinging with this heavy aroma. It brings to mind images of my boys, makes me remember mother’s day morn and fills my heart with love. This vase holds more than a clutch of lilies.

Today I am thinking of gifts. And how they stay in a heart and bring to mind the giver.

New York Times columnist Tara Parker-Pope, in this article, contemplates the same:

Gift giving has long been a favorite subject for studies on human behavior, with psychologists, anthropologists, economists and marketers all weighing in. They have found that giving gifts is a surprisingly complex and important part of human interaction, helping to define relationships and strengthen bonds with family and friends. Indeed, psychologists say it is often the giver, rather than the recipient, who reaps the biggest psychological gains from a gift.

Parker-Pope quotes Ellen J. Langer, Harvard professor, who describes receiving as the gift of giving. She says that the giving of gifts nurtures relationships, encourages bonds between individuals, and improves intimacy by encouraging the giver to think about the recipient—contemplating what the giftee likes.

Hmm…I finger soft petals--let the aroma work its mind-altering magic. Did my boys contemplate which bouquet I would like best? Did they poke their noses up to each variety and wonder which scent would linger long? And did these ministrations on their mother further root our love-tie?

I smile at my romantic notions as I try to visualize such a scene. I know their daddy picked these lovelies up at the grocery store on his way home from work. They hid in his car until Saturday night when he surreptitiously placed them here--front and center--after I had gone to bed. But this knowledge does not diminish the tenderness I feel as I study pollen peppered stamen.

In fact, it deepens my joy.

All this for me.

Sometimes the gift holds more than what is wrapped up.

I recall a time, early in my career, when the neuropsychologist I worked for gifted me with a very generous Christmas present. I protested.

I cannot accept this, I told him.

Of course you can, was his reply. Laura, he said, once a year I get to show you how much I appreciate all that you do for me. This gift is small when compared to my gratitude.

I carry these words with me still.

It was noted psychologist Eric Fromm who said that it is the act of loving that we find rewarding, Ellen Langer notes in Psychology Today.

… the more we give, the more we come to care about the person to whom we are giving. We feel alive in the activity. And it is the receiver who has provided the opportunity for us to feel this good, so we feel loving in return.

It is not in the receiving, but in the giving that love grows.

Is this why my heart aches with the burden of this heavy love with each passing year? As the tally of the giving continues on, will my heart faint under this weight?

Most mothers, self-included, are not so skilled in the receiving category. Yet, to encourage a mutual affection—one that nourishes both parties, Langer says, we must learn to receive well.

This is how we keep from sinking under the weight of giving.

We receive.

For mutual satisfaction, both parties must be allowed to experience the joy of giving. Receiving from my loved ones is the gift.

I saw this on Mother’s Day morn. My boys clamored around me as I descended the stairs (they kept watchful eye to make sure I slept in). Their anticipation of my reaction to my gifts was beautiful. Their joy increased mine.

The beauty in this is that there does not have to be a special occasion to experience this mutual joy. Each time I give to my loved ones, I am modeling for them this very behavior.

Giving. A circle of joy. It always comes back around.

What I Want

Pittsburgh--Where the three rivers meet.

Some days are flesh days--red and pulpy—when skin scrapes against the moments of life until I cry out from the chafing. Breath collides with the air around me and bruises those I love, shatters me into tiny pieces and I am no longer whole, just a whisper of what I’m meant to be.

The alarm sounds at 4:30 that morning—calls me to ready the care package that would get us through the travel. Four bottles of water, two pepperoni rolls, a baggie of fish-shaped cheese crackers, some oreo cookies and my books. It would be a long bus ride and I hoped to get some reading done along the way. Some writing too…I think, as I finger one of the journals my friend Ann sent me.

I sit alone but not alone on the bus, looking out the window into the dark, grieving. We cross over the Kanawha River at dawn, her breath rising in misty legs to greet the sun. I close my eyes against the approaching day and try to pray. But the thrum of the voices of thirty or so fifth graders drowns out my thoughts.

We are heading to Pittsburgh—the city where the three rivers converge. My son has been excited about the field trip for weeks…and I? I dreaded. Taking a day away from life always sets me in a foul mood. I get behind. Behind on work, behind on laundry, behind on writing, just behind…and there is no one but me to do the catching up.

All the while I have these bodies clamoring for pieces of mine and sometimes I just want to run away. On these flesh days I groan in my humanity, I whine.

Why are the things that I want always pushed aside? Why are the things that I want always the things that aren’t allowed?

I ask Him this in the silence of my heart as I sit still on that bus, smiling and nodding at another mom.

Do I want too much?

I’m feeling broken from the latest No, but not angry this time. It really didn’t surprise me. But I’m left feeling that there is something wrong with me.

Am I asking the wrong questions?

I sigh and readjust myself in the small seat that will be my spot for the next four hours. I try to remember how it felt in my husband’s arms. I try to know the love in his embrace.

You’re the best mom in the world, he said. That’s why we need you here.

There is a time for everything. This I know.

If I get the chance to go to Haiti and help the people there, do you think I should? I asked Teddy during the tucking in a few nights before.

There was no hesitation.


NO!


But why? I asked.

Because you’re my mom, he said. And something bad could happen.

Oh, honey, said I. We mustn’t let fear make our decisions for us. We have to pray about it. Ask God to help us decide. What if I can make a difference in someone’s life? What if I am needed? What if God wants me to go?

He hesitated.

I’ll have to think about it, he said.

But the answer was no. And Dr. Wright was so gracious about it.

I do a lot of things now that I wouldn’t have done when my girls were younger, he said.

I feel the rightness in the decision. Feel God’s confirmation. But still my flesh cries out.

I want to do what I want to do when I want to do it, I told my friend recently. We laughed, knowing.

We pull up in front of Heinz field and the kids start to clamor. I stretch my legs. I look at the cityscape and remember.

A street fair, luxurious party, the black dress and the optimism of youth.

My son’s head bobs in front of me.

Suddenly I realize there is no other place in the world I would rather be than right here with him.

This is my life. The one I have chosen. The one given me.

It is the life I want. 

And it is beautiful.

Here's my photoplay for the week...read all about it here:

to hide behind

to mend the tears

to catch the light

Thank you, Claire!

The Bravery of Mothers

I stand alone on the edge of aloneness;

watch you twirl your hair round and

round until the lock slips out—

leaves finger free to trace the curve of my

love.

its outline lingers everywhere

you breathe. And

I hold this tight, cling with my cells…all

the while knowing I mustn’t. you

have me, you know. from first

sound of that tiny drum

heart inside me, from first gaze

into milky--blue

eyes…I was yours. wherever

you go, my heart goes

with you. don’t forget

that, ok? don’t forget how

much you are loved and

do stupid things. promise me,

ok? promise to take good

care of you. no motorcycles, or

skydiving. the earth inside

me groans with each lift of

foot, until it meets solid ground

again. i learn

to walk too. shuffle step to and

fro, careful not to lose what

lies beneath me. but

you soar. I close my

eyes.

and when I open

them, you are

gone.

A Gift for the Mother (in-law)

Okay.

I took Home Ec. class. Way back in...the other century.

I learned how to sew. I made a gymbag. And a blouse. I liked sewing. I thought it was creative fun.

So when I got married and moved to a new home, I did what any self-respecting home-woman would do. I bought a sewing machine and made curtains.

Then I had babies.

That was thirteen years ago.

I found my sewing machine yesterday. It was sitting in the floor of my closet, languishing. So I heaved it out. Blew off the dust. And set up shop again.

What possessed you, you might ask. There's only one thing that could make me do something so crazy.

Mother's Day.

I was perusing some of my favorite blogs the other day when I stumbled across this post, via A Holy Experience. I've been by Susie's place a few times, but have never felt her amazingly creative projects were within my abilities. But this.

Surely I can still sew a straight line. That's all that is required.

I got so excited that I showed my boys. They were rendered speechless (and also had a somewhat glazed expression on their faces). We (I) decided that we (I) would make one of Susie's shabby chic tote-bags for their grandmother this Mother's Day. They would choose the material and I would do all the work.

So off we headed to Wally-World to buy the canvas tote-bags that Susie used for her project. But something strange happened while we were standing in the craft aisle. We bought an apron instead.

We (I) decided this would be more to the liking of my mother-in-law than a tote-bag. So...

I've chronicled the adventure in pictures. Just so you all could share in the joy.

we start with a plain apron, compliments Wal-mart.

these are the colors that Jeffrey chose. his style won out.

I cut 4 1/2 inch pieces, just like Susie says, then hem three edges.

When they are all hemmed, I try them out to see what order looks best.

the finished product.

A close-up of the rosettes. I can't seem to do it the way Susie does. I decided to try two different fabrics for fun.

my apron likes to hang out with dishes; have tea with the muse.

the ruffles.

the real thing.

 I hope my mother-in-law likes it. It would have been very easy to make if it hadn't been 13 years since I operated my sewing machine. But all turned out well in the end.

Happy Mother's Day, Ya'all!

On Sex and Writing

I’ve been participating in a book club discussion with some bloggy friends. A few of us writerly types get together over here every Monday to discuss Julia Cameron’s The Right to Write: An Invitation and Initiation into the Writing Life. It has been fun and inspiring, and the joy I feel in the knowledge that I am working toward improving something I really care about is tangible. It makes me want to write.

I mention this because I believe the same is true for intimacy. When we pay attention to what is going on in our sex lives, when we seek to grow in that part of our marriage…it can be very exciting.

As I was settling in to the first chapter of The Right to Write, I ran across a quote that brought to mind all my friends at Adding Zest.

The first trick, the one I am practicing now, is to just start where you are…

I think Julia Cameron is on to something. About more than just writing, I mean. Every journey begins where we are.

And so, as we begin our Spice It Up journey, we will be starting with little ‘ol you, right where you are.




Every month over at Adding Zest, I will be posting a Spice It Up! challenge designed to help improve marital intimacy. Join me over at Adding Zest for the rest of the May Spice It UP! challenge...

The Wisdom of Bats

I sat in the moist grass at dusk, staring up, peasant skirt splayed out around me. I hadn’t had a chance to change out of my work clothes—vaguely thought of jeans--could feel the damp seeping into the thin material…but was too spent to truly care. It was Tired Tuesday, the day I drive back and forth, rush to and fro, counseling the wounded and shuttling eager minds.

As I sat, thus, my husband paced back and forth along the side of the house, shining his flashlight steadily along its sturdy frame.

We have bats.

During the daylight hours we can hear them scratching about in the bowels of the soffit, leaving no doubt about their presence. We have scoured the shell of our humble abode but so far have not found their doorway in. Or out, for that matter.

So we waited at dusk, straining to catch sight of wing as light slowly waned.

The stars came out, one by one, and soon thoughts of furry winged creatures flew…I was enchanted by the coming on of night. The air was filled with birdsong, and I wondered why the Robins sing at dusk. Is it a lullaby? A farewell? Or simply a song of gratitude to Him who gave the day?

My thoughts lingered on my own.

A long day, it was. Frustrating. Disappointing.

My unhappiness at work grows, and yet…nothing changes.

I think of one of the patients I talked with today. How his words filled me, yet left me empty.

I love what I do, he said. I awaken every day filled with gratitude. I get to do this thing I love. It’s amazing.

I tried to hold his gaze as he spoke, but I felt he could see through me—I felt watery, translucent.

So I looked away.

I have tried to live each moment. Appreciate the gifts of the Giver. I have prayed the prayer for Rescue.

But I remain unsettled.

I think these things as the night slowly settles in…as my breath becomes mist before me and Jeff waves around his light in the dark.

I’m not sure why I did it…well, okay, maybe I am…but suddenly I got up and grabbed the rake out of the garage’s gaping mouth. Turning it on end, I wacked the soffit with the tip of its handle.

It felt good.

I heard a stirring, but still no bats.

I did it again.

I think you’re just scaring them, Jeff said. They’re not going to come out.

I couldn’t force this thing to happen. I let the rake fall. Stupid, benign…useless thing.

I am waiting for bats.

Among other things.

I know that eventually, with a great shiver, they will emerge from their hiding place—move in one wave across sky. And when they return they will find their home closed up, filled with foam insulation.

But until then, I just wait.

For now.

In the end, we might end up dismantling the whole blasted soffit, but things can’t stay this way much longer.

I will wait a little longer.

But not too much.

They say bat feces is toxic you know.



Will you celebrate with me the end of a season of waiting for my friend Faith Elaine? You can learn more about the release of her beautiful devotional book here. Elaine is a very special lady to me. Recently, when I posted this, this sweet lady immediately called me up and held my heart through the tantrum. She is the real thing. I just can’t wait to get a copy of that book in my hands!

Weighing In

This is what I found on the floor outside my bedroom door this morning.

Jeff and I were out late last night because his band had a gig. The boys spent the night with their grandparents so I could go out and enjoy some Blues.

Please tell me you had a three musketeers bar last night, I said to my husband when he emerged late morning.

No, he said, he hadn’t.

I would not have been so suspicious except for what happened a few nights ago.

Someone broke into Lucy Mae’s dog food bag and proceeded to eat a huge portion of it. We don’t leave it under lock and key. Never had to. But there it was--wide open, with a big fat face print in it.

the culprit

I was disappointed in the dog food, of course; but we all know that dogs are not supposed to eat chocolate. That rascal sneaked into Jeffrey’s room, sniffed out his prized three musketeers—the one he received in his Easter basket and was saving for a special occasion--took the lid off the box it was hiding in, grabbed the thing, ripped off the paper and ate THE WHOLE THING.

Our houseguest has an eating disorder.

We watched him for several hours and he never showed any ill-effects.

It’s just not right.

At his last weigh in at the vets, he had only lost a quarter of an ounce. How will I explain this one?! He might possibly gain weight this week if he keeps this up.

I understand, Toby. I so understand.