for all the days of wandering, i’m struggling just to keep up with little things – dishes, packing for the next trip out of town, writing…
today i’m letting go of getting it all together and trying not to let it worry me. there are wildflowers growing right now that never will be looked upon, yet king solomon was not dressed like one of these.
there’s more to do than to-do lists. there is more to see than what has been left undone. we’re playing hooky and going out to find it.
the tide has inched its way up and we were talking. we didn’t notice how it soaked the edges of our towels. it gets pulled back to its center, straight into the heart of the ocean, leaving clams and shells and sand dollars, water running off each side.
all these gifts from the sea.
“watch your step. jellyfish.”
i look down, barely holding onto a surfboard, and see straight through it to the sand beneath. she tells me how to balance on the board and when to do a turtle roll. my friend once so broken she was told she would never surf again is teaching me today on the edge of the sea. the waves hit us so hard and there we are, still standing, laughing in white water.
we wake up on the beach. three women who stop at gift shops to purchase small moments of reunion for when we see our children again. for these three days we pushed pause on the lives we love, on the demands of mothering that don’t rest. we pushed pause and now there is time to be friends. to sit at the restaurants and laugh long, to put truth on the table before women we trust, to hold up a glass and toast just that we got away from it all and somehow have found ourselves on the gulf of mexico.
i bend down and scoop salt water into a bottle. mandy tells us that it’s good for our hair, our skin, and as always, she’s right. none of us can think so quick as shannon with her wit like a whip. her every word a surprise and we laugh at her loveliness and we pray for her foot.
this state of texas holds my sister in its center. one small woman, living well, loving well. for me, a girl with no flesh and blood sisters born alongside of her, i fly the skies to have days of sisterhood like these.
we drive home and the planted rows of farms speed by like the shuffling of a deck of cards. we leave the ocean behind and drive straight back to the heart of the state. we have some time left tonight and more tomorrow before i board a plane that will fly me straight back to the heart of my life. i will see him waiting for me and i will kiss him hello. we will all press play; mothers, friends and sisters – straight back into the heart of god.
sears bathing suit
swimming in oceans
communal living
laughing on the front porch
sitting behind a waterfall
the schonebergs
bracelets
not bowing down to idols
texas
mandy’s heart so close to the surface
painting toenails
fine dining
riding waves
peace like a river
swimming in oceans
the majors
lunch boxes
seeing the gulf
mother’s day presents that don’t come in boxes
surfing lessons
running out of cash
seahorses
pelicans
port aransas
loving people more
natalie
now she has five grandchildren. she was one of six and had two children herself. her children’s children gather around her and in their honest moments if you ask them who their favorite person is, they’ll all say the same thing, “buscia.” you say it this way – (boo-shah.)
she looks at these children and she can see what is needed. a day away and stopping for lunch. a trip to the store to buy a new purse. these moments, these days, they might seem insignificant, but her love has always been spelled this way t-i-m-e.
my mother has known this somehow; that time equals love. like a true, clean stream she cuts through no matter the terrain and rushes to bring what must be brought.
we’ve all drunk deep.
we’ve all gathered close to this life giving woman and we’ve knelt down with cupped hands to lift life to our dry mouths. she has kept running this way for years now. mother father husband children and now grandchildren. we’ve all drank deep of the love she offers to us.
happy mother’s day, mom. you’ve been so kind and generous, i don’t know how you keep on giving. i’m in debt to you and i’m bound, i’m bound to thank you for it.
it’s late and we’re fighting. our children sleep rooms away in their beds. one minute before we’d been as close as bodies can be and now he takes my arm away and can’t look at me.
your picture in the picture frame. the idea of one another. the difficulty of bringing reality to bare in marriage. sometimes i imagine one of us gone and buried and the other of us wishing we’d said or done things differently.
for me it’s always, i wish i would have trusted him completely.
i was holding you close with my arms but you were right. my heart was locked away and nowhere to be found. you are done with pretending even if i am willing. real love. that’s the requirement between you and me. after the apologies are said and meant, he places my arm back around his neck.
there’s just one way to please this man. my heart on display.
staying up too late
handmade journals
children feeling better
mrs. harris
smart tutors
baby parking lot
stickers
being uncomfortable
airports
back porches
imitation
ordering pizza
my husband
when the rain starts and the sheer curtain blows away from the open window, i don’t mind. i see a picture of my frantic self running from open window to open window shutting out the storm.
the thunder rumbles and the birds quiet down. it had been a perfect day. i sat in the shade reading while mazzy dug in the sandbox, while eleanor swung on the swing and made up songs about the beauty all around and of god. the wind tossed the new green leaves on every branch and i wondered how to photograph a moment.
now it’s raining. it became a bit unbearable before the sky broke. the heat rose such that children tried to rest fitful on top of their blankets too warm. but then i heard it. it was low and in the distance. the promise of rain.
so yes, blow right in to the bedrooms and the living rooms and right above the bathtub. let the painted wooden window frames get a little damp tonight. it’s the perfect end to this day.
all the time god is trying to make us do our duty as obscure people. ~ o. chambers
sometimes i enjoy carrying the weight of my small world on my own shoulders. i’m wholly unfit for the task, but that doesn’t seem to bother me. i snap at small children and forget my face can smile. i have important business to do. i have to keep this small globe spinning.
i’ve woken up to the sound of a child retching for the past two mornings. the dishwasher is broken and no one fed the gecko while i was away.
problems to be fixed. problems to be solved.
i spent a week away with words, but sometimes i wonder if every sentence i’ve ever written is little more than a cry against obscurity. the whole weight of god’s kingdom would crush my self-reliance until every word from my pen says this:
“i have nothing of value to offer except him.”
it may be that the pressing of obscurity holds within it true peace. could i embrace being of no consequence to this world? this world that molds and shapes young people to pick up microphones and sing out their souls for a panel of judges. can i stop waiting in the wings for a shot at one of the so easily earned standing ovations of our age?
i make a fort. i put on another pot of coffee. i read the gospels. i make dinner and hold a feverish girl. all this talk of obscurity is good for the soul. it’s good for my one soul that is no match for the one who stands able to bear the weight of my world, famous in every age, long after i’m gone.
being home
bottles of wine
picking up garbage
agents saying no
stained glass
yes texas!
coming home to a garden
john over too early
planting flowers
losing my eyebrows
writing seven hours a day
neighbors making fun
potlucks
find our own voice
not cooking
merz family
one agent saying maybe
one last fire
dishwashers
paying taxes
reading our stories
tamales
“i like the way you talk”
the focus
i’m spending a week with words.
i call home and hear the news of home. at home there is a lot going on. babies just found out and children needing thermometers. a true friend hearing truly hard news. but i’m not home, i’m here.
it creates a tension in my stomach and i wonder why do i think it’s so necessary to spend a week with words?
i say this,
“what am i doing here? there are so many important things happening at home right now!”
and she says this,
“what you’re doing is important, too.”
ann voskamp says that we think our work isn’t good enough because we think we are not good enough. we accomplish little because we think little of ourselves.
we meet downstairs for prayer at 8 and at noon and at 6 and at nine. we pray through these few, fleeting days of writing down what we think god might be telling us to.
we try.
from the tomatoes on the sill to the cathedral towering above the community garden, this place points toward that one word.
try.
so at silent prayer this morning i pray for home. i lift up the friends and the children and the newest life. i pray for not being there and not needing to be and knowing it’ll all go just fine, maybe better, without me. i let it go and i head back upstairs to try to write again today.
i watch the worship leader begin to cry. he stops mid song and his voice breaks. tears are falling down his face and we keep singing. every voice in the room keeps up the song he can’t go on with until he regains his composure.
the goodness of god overwhelms him and it overwhelms us all.
we pull up to the funeral home on sunday morning.
i look around and wonder on how one decides to decorate such a place. trying to find the right balance between great grief and great hope can’t be easy.
a church meets here. they roll coffins behind screens and unpack their guitars. in the chapel normally reserved for mourning they lift holy hands and worship the living god.
you gotta love the church.
they’ll meet anywhere to worship jesus. in a place marked out for death, you’ll find them unafraid and praying through grateful tears. and when the sign outside lets you know that you’ve reached the end of the line, they’ll put another sign in front of that one to say it ain’t quite over yet, folks.
the redemption of our stories. that’s what the church is about. when i thought i was dead and gone, jesus had more to write on the pages of my days.
resurrection in the most unlikely places. that’s him. that’s what he does.
what happens in the depth of god’s love
los galanes with elizabeth
susan and dan
chris and kathy
joshua preaching for rich
the friends in the church planting program
tremors in the foundation
faith and barb
laughing with karen and randy
staying in a work of art
church in a funeral parlor
seeing more than wounds
the convent
writing all day, all week
tilapia in the greenhouse
set prayers
beginning
we packed up and went to greenfield village for the first time of the season.
it was exactly the same.
there is a freedom in faithfulness.
to keep things, with a determined hand, to keep things the same. the ever-growing grass and the demands of the age are kept at bay and instead the same kind, the same quality is cultivated – year after year, day after day.
there’s a girl i know who needs more faithfulness.
she is just plain tired of the changes time brings, the surprises that can arrive in a day. she might well be done with that. she’d like to settle in now with a cup of tea and she’d like to be able to count on a few things to stay the same.
sound like anyone you know?
i searched with my eyes for a new thing. i was sure there had to be something different and i was right. there were new sheep just born and you could go into the barn and look at them if you wanted to.
you have to pay the price of admission to walk among this faithfulness. you have to wear a wristband to ride on time gone by.
but there is one unchanging who is the same and who purchased me instead of me emptying my pockets to pay. there is one who is faithful yesterday, today and forever.
a mother has permission to stare long. a mother’s gaze would make anyone else uncomfortable, but her children exist under it without a thought. they’re used to her eyes not turning away – always watching, always seeing them. from the beginning her eyes feast on the babe in arms and i see now that it never ends.
he says a word, he tilts his head a certain way and there it is – he’s two years old in an eight year old frame. he’s a baby and he’s a boy and will i still see it when he is a man?
mothers see a little like god. every age meets in every moment and i can see all of his days in today, in right now. but mothers aren’t god because he looks at his children and sees all that we’ve been and knows all we’ll become. he can see our totality in the moment, beginning and end.
completely known and completely loved.
mothers have half the story.
we see who’ve they’ve been and who they are, but the future? without full god knowledge mothers like to play god. i want to force and i fear and i plan and i hope. the unknown future of my children i wish i could see better.
but i can form for the great unknown of all his days. i can give a son important words that lodge in his bones and grow with him into the man i can watch but cannot control.
so yes. i’m staring at you boy, and i love what i see.
friends as crazy as me
natural milk
joshua on the porch
letting children talk
coconut cream pies
email at the end of the day
dinner in a train car
electronic cigarettes
maybe texas?
messy house
piles of laundry
grocery stores
elizabeth and devan
waking up to a thunderstorm
praying in the spirit
echo eating crickets
church on sundays
birthday breakfast at honest johns
the unsolvable city
doing nothing half
this time next week – retreat
dunkin donuts
promotions
