Week Six: Lament

This morning the sky is cotton pulled thin. Rows of diaphanous white mute the sun. But the outline of the moon sits silver on this stringy bed, reminding me that day and night are one—time flows out and then back into itself.

I pray as I run. This is what I do. No reverent recitations, just quiet conversation. The sound of my quickening heartbeat a fitting accompaniment to our love talk.

I call Him by name.

Jehovah.

Once, I believed this was the only proper name to call Him. I mouthed it at night, into my pillow…swallowed it’s consonants with salty tears.

He held me.

I used to think He held me as a Father holds a child. But even then, at the intuitive age of twelve, I knew it was more.

He breathed hot breath on my cheek, kissed away tears, covered me with His hand. I see now.

He held me like a lover.

…God can be fairly alluring in the same come-hither way, and we can be rather dim or callous about our approach, much like the Song of Songs lover when he thrusts his hand through the latch…(L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard)

Being loved that way leaves a mark on a woman. These years later, I put palm to face, trace the outline of my cheek with the cup of my hand, touch lips with trembling finger. I breathe deeply, searching for the aroma of love…

Where is my lover now?

He has morphed into this kindly father figure, the Giver of Good Things, the One Who Sees but never touches. Does He?

Another holds me now, loves this body, wipes tears away. Have I closed myself to the Great Lover’s beckoning?

My prayers--so alive, so intimate--as a young woman, have become quiet conversations.

It’s not all bad. I wear Him like a glove.

But then I think on this:

This is what we long to be in prayer: one who is utterly given, stretching out beyond the immediate to the absolute reality of God…The essential act of prayer is to stand unprotected before God. What will God do? He will take possession of us. (Sister Wendy Beckett, quoted by L.L. Barkat in God in the Yard)

Framing spiritual disciplines in the language of art, grace, or sex does not make me nervous. It makes me long for that sweet invitation to be held that I once knew. I have protected myself from the world and in doing so I have hidden from Him. I have covered my nakedness with respectability, responsibility, and all the shoulds a good Christian girl must be.

I miss the hot breath of God, the dewy softness of melting into Him, of leaning on fire and not fearing the burn.

How do I open up to Him again?

…In the end, there was no product that would make me vulnerable and open to God. There was nothing to help me see God as my alluring Beloved…(L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard)

There is nothing left to do but go back to the beginning. I lay myself out before Him—bare, raw, naked. We remember. I lament.

See? This is who I am.

How can you love me?

He holds me once again. Close. Stills my heaving, catches my tears.

This is who I am.

I cannot leave You behind anymore. Without You, I diminish. I become mist—a ghost of love.

So you whisper into my skin, Remember…remember…remember.

And I do.


**This was written in response to Week six of L.L. Barkat's God in the Yard: Spiritual Practice for the Rest of Us. Join me?

The Butterfly Garden Journey Begins

I thought about it for a while.

I thought about how, when I was a girl, it was the love of books that saved me. I thought about how this post touched deep places. I thought about how, now, this book is taking me on a soul journey.

And I knew I needed to share it.

I’m starting a little book journey of my own. Sending God in the Yard out to bless others.  Following L.L.'s suit, I thought about what I have growing in my yard—looked for little bits of God to send along.

I have no lusty-scented herbs to crush for swoon effect. But my bee balm has a pert minty aroma.

My butterfly bush is blooming.

And then there is the tall phlox. This one is called Laura. Isn’t that sweet?

I bundle them together, press between parchment. I have a butterfly bouquet.

The Butterfly Garden Journey is born.

I sign a little note to Gretchen on the pages of the book, and off we go.

The book will make its rounds, passed from hand to hand with love. I hope that each reader will send a special note in the pages, and gift us with something from their yard.

Here is travel itinerary:

• Gretchen
•   Susan  
•     Karin
•     Jennifer
•     Laura  
•    Cassandra
•    Sharon  
•     Stephanie
•    Linda 
•  Erin 
• Mary (I have her address, Erin!)

When you are ready to send the book on its next leg of the journey, let me know and I’ll update our Facebook status. I hope you will each blog about the sending off as I have done here.

Many blessings, ladies, and happy reading!

Secret Pollination

The rain that pounds through leaves a sea of color in its wake. The flowers in my garden lift cup-like faces; let rainwater coax petals open—drink.

I am at work when the storms pass through—in the day room, testing a patient. He hears it first—that low long rumble--his hands slow on the puzzle in front of him and he lifts eyes.

That was a big one, he says.

We leave the puzzle behind.

I wheel him to the window and we watch the wet lash the concrete patio—listen to growling sky. The wind blows the rain horizontal and I hear him draw breath quick as the sound of rushing water beats overhead. My pulse quickens too.

My favorite time is right before a storm, when the air is filled with anticipation. The very breath I breathe is heavy with unshed tears and I inhale energy.

But this.

We sit in shelter as the drum beats life all around us. I feel the power of his spirit unleashed even as he struggles against the wheelchair that holds up his body.

The rain slows and the moment passes and we go back to the day room—finish the puzzle and all the question asking and figuring. I wheel him back to his room and he talks about flooding in Logan and wonders if his daughter will be stranded and not able to come visit.

I think, Mercy! I didn’t bring an umbrella.

I walk the long hallway back to my office and I score up his tests and others—work quietly in the fading of the day. It has been a long one. I try to let go. My neck is stiff, my shoulders tight.

I need a new job, I think, as I shuffle piles and piles of paper…make mental notes about progress notes I still need to write. When I leave the hospital, the sun is shining bright, illuminating diamonds scattered on the sidewalk. I skip over puddles.

At night I dream I am having a passionate affair with Frank Lloyd Wright. We flee the country to get lost in each other’s arms. I am deciding to stay with him. Leave my husband and children.

It’s the book I’m reading, Loving Frank, same story. In my dream, I weep and weep. How can I leave my children? But in the dream world, reality creeps in. I stand with Frank and remember…I love my husband.

And I awaken to color glistening with dewdrops all over my backyard.

I go outside to feel the colors breathe. I kneel down close. Two bumblebees are busy gathering nectar. I look and see that one has big balls of yellow pollen on his knees. How can he fly so free with that heaviness cleaving tight to him? But he does...he goes about his business, doesn't even realize what precious gifts he leaves behind.

Jeffrey comes to me, tells me a story about a game he has invented. I cannot hear his words—I only see his face. The grief of the dream--of leaving him--is still fresh and my heart skips a beat and I trace his cheek with my finger as he talks. I try not to cry. He turns his head sideways and tries to nip at my fingers. He wants me to listen.

But I have to work. It’s travel season. That means it’s accident season and our case load is busting at the seams. I drop Jeffrey off at music camp on my way to Charleston. He hugs me goodbye and by the way his hands linger I know he is glad it is Friday.

So am I.

I drive up 60 along the river and feel the shimmer of morning sun on water. I think about the things I take for granted—my boys, my love, my legs and hands…And I pray.

Colors swirl in my mind—the sweet gifts of summer.I wonder about the mystery of buzzing about...about secret pollination and what sweet beautiful things can grow from it. I wonder what I unknowingly leave behind as I carry this heavy weight.

It’s time to begin another day.


Hey! No one has emailed me yet about winning the copy of L.L. Barkat’s book, God in the Yard. The plan is to create a book journey, passing it from one hand to another in good will. Interested? Just drop me a line at laraj@suddenlink.net.

Week Five: Sky Stories

I tried not to expect too much. In this way I could guard against disappointment. So many promises were made that never came to fruition. Trust was a slippery slope.

Do I dare open my heart-temple to the sky?

…The sky, vast and changeable, sometimes beautiful, is not seen as trustworthy. Any sparrow with its wits about it might consider staying grounded.


It occurred to me one day that I was like an earth-bound sparrow. I did not trust the sky. Growing up in an alcoholic household will do that to a person. The sky, or in other words, the social setting which is larger than us and that we look to for direction, the way we eventually learn to look to the Divine, does not invite exchange. (L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard).

This morning as I run along my dusty trail, I think about these words. The light blue of chicory cheers the roadside and the swallows perch above my head. If I get too close to their hidden nests they swoop and dive at me, warning me of my trespass. The world opens up before me and as I crest the hill, the sun appears--pink around the edges from a warm night’s sleep. I am running into the sun, ascending rays of light.

Sometimes I think God hates me, my young patient told me yesterday. His pastor had just left and the words took me aback. Do you have bad luck, I had asked him, or do you make bad choices?

But I had said nothing of God. And here it was.

As I run, I wonder. When things don’t go my way, do I think like my young patient? Do I think God hates me?

I shake it off.

Do you believe in God? I asked another man…an elderly stroke victim.

I go to church and stuff, he said, but I think the only thing that will get me through this is a bottle of whiskey.

We both laughed because we knew he didn’t drink. And then he cried.

I cried a little too.

Life is hard. If I close my heart…if I let fear of the sky win…I will never fly. I learned a long time ago that trust in man and trust in God are two different things.

But here is what my heart hears this morning as I put one foot in front of the other: Laura, you have let your mistrust of man shape you more than your trust in Me.

And I know it is true. I kept Him out of it. I have taken His trustworthiness and set it on a shelf. This knowledge hits me full in the chest and I gasp for air, clutch at my heart.

My heart-temple has been boarded up, the sky a memory. Oh, God, how does this happen, when I love you so much?

If my heart is closed to others, how can it open up to Him? I thought I was warm and approachable and open. But, at VBS last week when the water balloon burst in my face no one told me I had a big black smear of mascara under my eye.

You are so pretty, a male friend once told me, that guys are intimidated by you. And by the time they get to know you, you become their best friend and it’s too late to ask you out.

I was in grad school. Reeling from a broken heart. And lonely. Why doesn’t anyone want me? I wondered, over a beer and dinner. I trusted him…he was going to seminary. His answer surprised me. Intimidating? Pretty? Cute, maybe. But I was never the prettiest, or the smartest, or the best at anything.

I was always trying to prove I was good enough. I never expected anything. But, oh, how I longed for more.

Too many years of pretending I didn’t care…stifling the hurt. You always want too much, was the message given. I was easily wounded and my mother would sigh heavily as she turned her back on me and let me cry myself to sleep.

It’s all buzzing around in my head as my heart quickens and then settles into a new rhythm. I don’t want this. I don’t want my substance to be determined by other people. This is not who I am.

Grace says otherwise. I feel my resolve strengthen. I open my heart up to the sky. I hear a faint rumble and the rain comes. I close my eyes and lift my cheeks.

I am baptized again this morning—in rain and sweat and tears and road dust. The sky never was so sweet. Hope lives inside of me.



This was written in response to chapter five of L.L. Barkat’s God in the Yard. Guess what? If you are game and are the first to email me (laraj@suddenlink.net), I’ll send you a copy of this wonderful book. All you have to do is agree to send it on in the same way when you finish. We are sponsoring a book journey. Read about it here.

Daddy's Girl

they called me

daddy’s girl…

blonde hair, blue

eyes, freckles—

secretly, I was pleased

to bear his likeness. I

grew my hair long for

him. sister and I would wait

until he came home from

the plant and race to him to

unlace his workboots. and

bring him a beer. he held

me on his lap and kissed

my baby cheek. but only

when he was drinking. I

thought love smelled like Stroh’s.

I grew. Some things are clearer

with time. daddy’s little

girl learned to hate her own face—

damn these blue eyes and

freckles. a family in tatters and

I blamed him. time again. anger.

space. my own mistakes. his eyes

in my mirror. I couldn’t run away

from my own blood. forgiveness

came in the middle of the power

plant where I worked with him. grease

under my fingernails. the noise of

machinery spilling through earplugs…

myself lost under hard hat and safety

glasses. he was proud of me. he

had no right. he had nothing to do

with the person I was. the person

I am. but there were his eyes

again. suddenly, I knew. he

did the best he could. compassion swelled

like a wave, washed over me with force.

married at 18. a father at19. four children

by 25. he never knew how. to be. a dad.

no excuses. just different eyes.

eyes of love. like Jesus. and everything

changed. these are my eyes. I got them from

my Father. this is my heart. I got it

from Him too. the hole

in it no longer throbs with pain. little girls

need their Daddy. mine never leaves. He

never left.

Joyride

I’ve had trouble writing this week because of the wonderful exhausting phenomenon of Vacation Bible School and all the things I’ve seen that remind my faith to be like a child.

It would have been easy to just go through the motions—teach these children because it’s my duty or to help my friends out or just because I was asked.

But God had other plans.

He won’t let me be. When I see the wide-eyed wonder on their faces. When they jump for joy…

my heart does too.

And last night, the volunteers gathered together late into the night for our annual end of VBS party. We stayed out way too late. And I may have had too much to drink. But whether my face grew warm from one too many pale ales or from the joy of friendship, I can’t really say. We are family. And God knit us together into this faith community, charging us to build one another up and to teach the children.

Today, we are resting.

I feel a little lost. Can’t seem to step back into the ho-hum. So I worked on my painting. Took a nap. Tried to tell you about it.

Later on I’ll call my dad. Try to be responsible.

But for now, I’m just going to rest in the afterglow of 90 some children falling in love with Jesus. Wow. What a wonderful joyride of a week.

Celebration

We are settling into our summer routine. The boys go with their grandmother on the days that I work and when I am off…we move slow. I just cleared away the breakfast dishes--tucked the syrup back in the lazy susan, wiped the table and counters…I seem to spend a lot of time in the kitchen during summer vacation.

We broke out the waffle iron and fried up some bacon in honor of our guest. Jeffrey had a friend spend the night last night. It is Vacation Bible School week and all the grown-ups are tired. Watching Jesus move into so many little hearts is amazing and exhausting. Dwelling in Him so actively must also create hearty appetites because I couldn’t get the food off the griddle fast enough. The boys feasted as only boys can. When they ran back upstairs I felt lonely. But then, this song came on the radio and I twirled in my nightgown, made the kitchen tile a dance floor.

Now, I sip my coffee…listen to boys upstairs. And think about celebrations. It’s the topic of week 4 in God in the Yard. This chapter left me strangely empty--in part, I know, because it tells my story.

As a child of both divorce and alcoholism, I have frailties on both sides of the celebration question: structure and joyful freedom. (L.L. Barkat in God in the Yard)

And also:

…people who live with alcoholics often refuse to enjoy life. (page 34 in reference to words of Melody Beattie)

We did not celebrate.

There were no birthday cakes, no presents on Christmas morn, no Easter eggs to hunt. I have remarked before about how this lack clouds memories… swindles me out of the anchors for life’s milestones.

Without the stones to hold them down, my childhood memories drift away. One day was much like the next. There were no special traditions to hold dear.

Yet…

As I sit here letting my coffee grow cold I can’t help but remember some sweetness from those early days. I have no milestones to time them by…can’t remember how old I was or other details. But if each day was much the same, my heart knows that each moment was not.

We watched kittens being born, butterflies emerge from chrysalises, and tadpoles slowly grow legs. We knew the joy of discovering secret beds of wildflowers in the woods, running through meadows alight with fireflies, and seeing our hollow from the top of a tree.

There was magic in each moment. And perhaps that was where we celebrated.

And this made the divorce all the more traumatic. When we moved to town with mom, we lost our wonder-land. We lost our celebrations.

We took our wonder to the dirty city streets. One sibling still struggles with the fall-out of that.

But it is still difficult to think on, even after all these years and for now…I must stop.

L.L. says, It is good to take grief and give it a place in our celebrations, alongside joy.

It helps us grow up emotionally and spiritually, softens the callous on our hearts.

I don’t know. I have worn my grief in turns like a crown, and then a dirty undergarment. Celebrations make me melancholy.

But I can still dance in the kitchen when no one is looking. I can twirl and whirl and hold my arms out as I go round and round. This is my joyful freedom. This is my grief. I spin sorrow and joy into one. They can never be separated as long as they are part of who I am.

There is a Greater Becoming that is part of it all. There is Beauty in the Becoming. And I never dance alone.

**This was written in response to week for of L.L. Barkat’s lovely book God in the Yard: Spiritual Practice for the Rest of Us. Join me?

The Church of the Holy Jeans

I called him from my mother’s on Saturday afternoon.

The boys and I are in town for the night, Dad. I was hoping to stop by tomorrow. What time do you usually get moving?

Come when you can. I’ll make a pot of coffee, was his response.

He did not sound good, and I swallowed my lump of worry. He’s had a cold, he said.

Mom goes to the Kingdom Hall at 9:30. We can make our way over then.

I thought for a minute. I remembered Billy’s post and couldn’t help myself.

We’ll have church, I said.

He was silent on the other end.

We’ll have church, I repeated. We’ll just come as we are.

Ah, he laughed. I’ll wear my holy jeans.

As long as I’ve known him—and that’s all my life—he’s never gone. My aunt once told me that he went to Sunday school as a child. All eight of his brothers and sisters believe.

What happened to their baby brother?

I wonder these things as I drive the streets of my hometown on Sunday morning.

I don’t know if my father believes in Jesus.

All their married life it was just mom and us. Every Sunday morning, every Tuesday and Thursday evening, every Saturday morning…she would dress the four of us up in our finest and drive out the hollow to the Kingdom Hall.

He stayed behind.

Was it them? The Jehovah’s Witnesses? Did he not believe in their ways? It is a difficult path, this I know. Or…is he without faith altogether—godless and uncaring?

I don’t know. I’ve never asked.

Alcohol has been his god for so many years now. I don’t know if he can give faith to Another.

I shake off those thoughts. We head for the outskirts of town.

He had the coffee waiting when I got there. All these years we’ve shared little common ground but coffee is one. He never forgets.

It was dark. The curtains were closed, no lights on, except what radiated from the television and the computer screen. I felt my way to the couch until my eyes adjusted.

The light hurts my eyes, he said.

We settled in on the couch in the dark. My boys were quiet. They listened as we talked, watched me sip my coffee.

I thought about the post again and I began to pray.

Lord, if you want me to say something, You have to give me the opening.

How does one ask their father if he believes in Jesus? How do I step past the familiar dance of avoidance, of small meaningless talk and jump into soul talk with the one whose blood courses through my body?

I couldn’t do it.

I kept praying.

They say I only have 47% use of my lungs, he said.

My breath caught. He talked about the oxygen and how his levels never seemed to go up. He got out his pulse oximeter and let the boys take their pulses and oxygen sats.

I need to quit smoking, he said.

I said nothing. I’ve said it all before.

So I left without saying anything important at all. Except I love you. That’s new too. Somehow it’s easier to say it to this broken-down man than the man I loved and feared as a child.

We left early, so I drove the boys through downtown. I showed them the street where we lived after the divorce. The hill was smaller than I remember, the street more narrow. It was covered in blacktop patches—the perfect picture of the poverty we faced when that was our address. I didn’t drive up to where the house was. It looked too scary. A bad part of town.

We drove over the 4th street bridge and the air was filled with the mouth-watering scent of bread baking. We stopped at Tomaro’s bakery. I bought six pepperoni rolls and two loaves of fresh Italian bread. The boys both ate a roll, still warm from the oven.

I drove slow through the streets, feeling the sorrow of time gone by.

And then we hopped on Rt. 50 and headed home.

I’ll try again next time. Will you please pray? I thank you. This is the hard stuff. But He never said it would be easy.

Better Than Dessert

Summer has officially landed at our house. School is out and the children have abandoned a reasonable night time schedule; the temperatures have been sizzling in the 90s; the fireflies are out in all of their glory. But something even more telling has hurdled us headlong into fun in the sun: the arrival of the dreaded ice cream truck.

This predatory creature always seems to know just when dinner time is. It summons children like the pied piper.

Doors are recklessly flung ajar as soda pop music is piped into the air, cajoling them into a trancelike state. The children with less astute hearing are soon enlightened by their friends, and it doesn’t take long for the streets to come alive with young voices.

Last night as I sat on the porch with my youngest, he began to plead his case for a tasty frozen treat. I reminded him that we have a whole box of perfectly good popsicles in our freezer. They’re just not packaged as nicely. They’re not wrapped up in his favorite cartoon character, and they certainly don’t come with a song.

Then, my ears pricked up. What was that? It sounded like the carousal music from a fair long past. My heart skipped a beat. I wanted to run down the street in pursuit of that joy on wheels. Instead, I gave my boy five dollars and contented myself to live through him in the next moments.

As I watched the doors flapping and the legs flying, I was caught up in the excitement of it all. In the midst of the fun, a thought occurred to me: Maybe we sometimes don’t put Jesus in the right packaging. We wrap Him up in Sunday mornings and hymns that are hundreds of years old; in pious looks and judgmental glares; or legalism and rituals that mean nothing to those who have never been to church. Where is the fun in that?

Read the rest of this post over at Laced with Grace...


photo by whimsylove, flickr creative commons

Picnic

When I was a young girl and summer days stretched long before me, I whittled away the heavy heat one page at a time. A favorite thing to do was spread out on a quilt under a shade tree with my latest read. The whisper of leaves overhead and my favorite pooch by my side made the reading all the sweeter.

I’m a grown-up now (so they tell me), and I still find this a welcome occupation. It must be catching, too, because all I need do is provide the blanket and soon there is very little square lounging area left. My boys do love a good read. Popsicles help too.

At High Calling Blogs we celebrate the gift of words. We hope your summer is filled with great reads. To get you started, we’re sharing some of our favorites.

Visit HighCallingBlogs to read my summer reading list and share yours if you like!

On Contemplation

There are temples all over this place.

My dining room floor, the kitchen table, underneath the pear tree, in the meadow amidst the grasses…no tall arches or stained glass, no austere organ music or deep mahogany. Just these hands, this body, these thoughts.

“To mark out a temple” is just one meaning of the word contemplation. (L.L. Barkat in God in the Yard, page 21)

Contemplation to me is a gentle wondering—a noticing. Right now I sit by the window. The rain falls in sheets of silver. Trees give in recognition of its presence. Welcome, welcome, they say. Touch me…caress my leaves and quench my thirst.

I am noticing how green the world is becoming. Contemplating how the seasons announce their arrival. And celebrating this great wonder.

Summer has arrived.

Last night I sat out back and watched the fireflies in the trees. How does one put words to such loveliness? No, I think, it cannot be done. At least not by tongue-tied me. There are places for words, but sometimes nature just asks to be noticed. When I see, I feel Him. And Peace settles over me.

It has been a difficult few days. A trip home to see the relatives…a midnight soiree to the urgent care with a sick child…the grief of a pending goodbye…and the sudden realization that I’ve had it all wrong for so long.

Part of me wants free of this contemplation. It reminds me of that old R.E.M. song, Near Wild Heaven:

It's just a gift I'm given
Try to live inside
Trying to move inside
And I always thought that it would make me smarter
But it's only made me harder
My heart thrown open wide
In this near wild heaven
Not near enough

My personal psychology gets me down.

But she says I should dwell there. I know this…after all.

In some ways, it seems too self-focused to let the inner landscape be part of our reaching towards the Divine. Spiritual practice is supposed to be about God, isn’t it? Yet if the word contemplative also means “putting together”, which it does, then it may be needful to search for darkness, the broken pieces of life, with an openness that these are somehow important parts of communion with God. (L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard, page 26)

These words unbind me.

I imagine the darkness like a cord. It is wrapped around me, I cannot move. But slowly, I start to turn. I am uncertain at first…baby steps, one foot beside the other. And then I am spinning, I am whirling around in this freedom dance as the cord slips down over my shoulders and puddles in the floor at my ankles. I twirl unfettered now, fast and free like the child that I am. This maniacal singular ring-around-the-rosy ends in a heap in the floor and I remember doing the same with my babies, and how they would laugh as we all fall into one pile--arms and legs and fleshy love. I laugh now too.

I am free. I am free.

And nearer to heaven.


This was written in response to week 3 of L.L. Barkat’s book God in the Yard: spiritual practice for the rest of us. Join me?

How to Make Spring Linger

The passing of the spring blooms feels like putting up Christmas. Summer perennials are not yet in full glory and my heart sighs as I clip back the dead.

How do I hold on to spring?

Our evening walks are sullied by the heaviness of the air and I. just. miss. the breeze. I don’t breathe as easy when she goes.

I wait for the cool.

The stars come early and the moon lingers long and I sit still under the night canopy. The scent of honeysuckle drifts on night mist. The fireflies wink at me in the dark. I am aglow with living starlight.

Summer is coming.

And though the season of sunshine has its own joys, I will miss the whispers of new life—the budding out of trees and babes in the nest and bushes alive with color—that awaken new life in me.

So I bottle up spring.

I gather the last weeping petals of my peonies, still heavy with scent.  The fingers of the blooms have lost their luster. Like an old woman they fold over, spot...sag.

But the scent...it still intoxicates.

The recipe is for rosewater, but these? Heavenly.

The petals wait. I dip my hands in the bowl time and time again--letting remnants of scent saturate my skin--lost in silk.

I place a bowl in the middle of a large pot—for catching the precious drops of scented dew. The petals embrace the bowl in the bottom of my dutch oven. I pour water over their delicate white. The lid is put on upside down. As the water gently boils and then simmers, spring fills my home again. It’s better than any potpourri created. The upside down lid gently channels drops of condensation into the bowl.

After a couple hours, I have spring in a jar.

Each morning and evening, my skin is kissed with peony.

And spring returns.

Parachute: Learning to Fly

Welcome to the world, he says, when I carefully part the branches for him to see.

There are only three and so we know. One of the hatchlings did not make it. But this somber knowledge gives way to joy as the babies detect our presence and, mistaking us for mother, open mouths wide for a snack.

We laugh and stand, gawking through the tree limbs at new life.

So fragile. So fresh.

I make room for these balls of fuzz today...scoot over to let in wonder. It’s good to let awe break up the day—interrupt the usual.

I don’t always.

I live a disciplined life. There are the chores, the husband, the children, the dogs, the running…I read my Bible and have prayer time. I do what I am supposed to do.

I have always done what I am supposed to do.

But to soar?

There is never enough time.

Does discipline allow it? When every minute is scheduled and planned? Will I fly if I keep regular spiritual practices?

My pastor used to say, We like to be prepared. But we like to leave room for the Holy Spirit to move too.

I ponder these things at 5 a.m. as I sit at the kitchen table. Outside the window is dark and my tired eyes get lost in the lightness of mist lifting through the morning hues.

I am tired.

I scribble for a time in this journal, eyes heavy, heart limp.


Why is it so hard?

I am tired. Weary to the bone of feeling pulled apart sinew by sinew--stretched thin by what is needed and what I desire. I end up on the couch after half an hour—notes incoherent. As I drift I am aware of that sinking feeling. I have failed again. I tell Him about it. Ask Him to take the tired away.

He doesn’t quite. But He nudges me to remember. And these words speak:

…if there is any rule at all, it is listen. But the direction and the path can change…My job is not so much to practice a rigid set of disciplines as to pay attention…On a practical level, this means that though I’ll take time to read and learn about spiritual practices of various kinds, I decide not to be married to particular ones as The Only Path. Instead, I’ll see what comes….
(L.L. Barkat in God in the Yard)

So I wait. And I listen. And I feel the air catch under me as this attempt to fly ends up on the couch.

If I could decide my own spiritual program I would rise when my body tells me to. I would spend as much time as I wanted, lingering over scripture. Then I would take it to Him and we would chat long and loose about all the stories my eyes took in. I would share some poetry with Him. And then we would run. I wouldn’t worry about work, or laundry, or if there is enough food in the cupboard for dinner. I would put on music and we would dance…there would be no concept of time and no one in my life to interrupt my prayer and meditation.

But there is. I have this family. And this job. And these dogs. And there is much that needs doing to keep things in order. There is work to do and food to prepare. There are bodies to maintain and floors to sweep.

This is my life.

So I jump. Time and time again…only to feel my wings too weak—fuzzy and impotent. The flight is aborted.

But I won’t worry about that anymore. See…I have this built in Parachute. When I start to fall, He catches me—whips up with just a tiny breath. 

Welcome to the world, He breathes. I won't let you fall.

And I land soft. I land safe.

Safe for another try.

This was written in response to week 2 of L.L. Barkat’s book God in the Yard: spiritual practice for the rest of us. I will be posting about my journey through this book as the Spirit moves. Join me if you wish! We’re all in this together…