Word Play

I woke up this morning with the sleepy sky hidden behind closed blinds, a breath of crisp autumn air coming through the window. I rolled over, contemplating sneaking a few more winks, however, a word balloon played across my mind, one of those words I seldom use, or even ponder. It settled in my brain, the side of my brain that resists change, likes routines and embraces the sameness of life. I never DVR the make-over shows and I eat the same thing for breakfast every day. As I lay there, the word hugged my mind like a mother's warm touch, a super-soft baby's blanket. I went grocery shopping and noticed the gourds and multi-colored pumpkins on display. Autumn has arrived. The trees outside are peeking out of their dressing rooms, eager to show off their new clothes, teasing us with previews of vibrant hues tinting their leaves. The days are shorter, school buses make their daily stops and new television shows vie for mass audiences. Recently, I came across a quote by Jo Petty. "Take with you words, strong words of courage: words that have wings!...Tall words, words that reach up, and growing words, with deep life within them." Today, my word is transition. It is the word that gives me permission, alleviates my fear, and allows me to step out of the dressing room, confidently adorned in its powerful message. And like all words that have wings, I believe this one carries with it the ability to fly.

Hope Floats

Where does our hope go when life throws an unexpected pitch? When we stand at  home plate, hips slightly swaying, feet firmly in place, arms raised and our hands gripping the bat. And as we take the first swing we realize that we weren't prepared for this, this out of reach, impossible to hit change-up pitch. Our hope floats downward as the ball slowly drops, nicking home plate and our bat kisses the air. Suddenly, we realize the pitcher can throw a sneaky changeup. This isn't what we planned on,
what we hoped for. Sometimes life is hard. Our home is flooded. We can't pay the mortgage and we haven't told the children they will be changing schools. Our elderly parent forgets our name. Again. I am thinking God does his best work in us when our hope is faint. The Bible tells us to "be anxious about nothing." Don't worry. Be joyful. During my season of back pain my hope has grown as thin as rice paper. Tears of frustration pool in my eyes more often than not. My running shoes collect dust in my closet. I chat with my pharmacist during her break. But I had a thought today. Perhaps that is the master plan after all. When life is the dimmest and our strength is tapped, maybe, just maybe, that is when God does His thing. When I surrender and admit that I need to trust that He has it all figured out and His love is far greater than my magnified fear, then perhaps I can muster the courage to face the hour. Then maybe the day. And the next. Hope is more than the ultimate wish, it is the belief in a God so loving, so awesome that He wraps His hands around our own quivering appendages as we stand at home plate awaiting the next pitch. He nudges. Trust me. Jesus is here. Don't be anxious. Chill. We'll run the bases together, and remember, with me you'll always make it home. So, I inhale the rich scent of a rose I picked yesterday. I kiss my husband and tell him thank you for no special reason. I find creative ways to type my beloved words. I am stealing joy and my hope floats upward.