Do You Hear What I Hear?

Carefully, tenderly, I unwrapped the glass angel from its protective bubble-wrap. Lifting miniature decoration, ready to place on tree, I noticed the missing arm. Gazing at her misshapen body, her one-armed pose, I wanted to be mad, or blame bubble-wrap or worse, put her back inside box. Unadored. Forgotten. Unshared. My hand stilled, cradling ornament, and I wondered at the brokenness, the hollow grief of past weeks. Of lives forever changed, mourning, weeping hearts. Holding delicate angel, I took in two gold wings, halo and one slender left arm. Can I keep this up, this thank you through tragedy and unexplainable acts of terror? To say yes when head hangs down from news and senseless violence? Holding angel in my palm, a resting place for all wounded and pierced, this is side of hand I humbly turned toward December sky, to the One who has power to comfort, massage the black spots in bleeding hearts. Oh, breath of heaven, pour down on us. Blind us with thy perfect light. Timidly at first, a whispered thank you, a yes breath of praise, braiding cords of hope like string of white lights. Thank you for one-armed angels. Thank you for pastor's and friends and world who cry to heaven for those grieving, bent in anguish, tears rushing like loosened dams. Twenty-six bells ringing, angel's tears surely spilling, two more bells to hear, and I think world is listening. Slipping gold string around Noble Fir branch, I hung glass angel, and inhaled deep breath of promise. The kind of promise that transforms ugly into beautiful, impossible into possible, weak into powerful. Do you hear what I hear?  Said the king to the people everywhere, listen to what I say, pray for peace people everywhere...The babe's weapon was love, and for that I humbly, passionately, adoringly, give thanks.

Children Of The Light

I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life

A blazing gold sunrise stole my breath, curbed anxious thoughts, thoughts about television news, tragedy and sadness. The rising hues draped eastern horizon like a comfortable shawl, easing tension, casting bright light in its glorious wake. It's always the light, the luminescent moments, unpretentious moments that sow seeds of hope, always bringing me back to the beginning, to first love, inseparable love.


***



When our twin grandsons were infants, my husband and I entertained them with a ceiling fan. Pressing buttons on remote, we delighted in watching their diminutive eyes widen in surprise, smiles playing on lips as cream-colored round bulb brightened and fan swirled in three separate speeds. All for you! All for you! As months passed, boys learned how to operate remote, to engineer speed of blades and degree of illumination, punching eagerly on green-colored buttons. Looking like texting pros, elfin fingers pressing with ferver, they mastered the art of ceiling fan commando's. And if light extinguished during process, dimpled hands swiftly raised, pointer finger showing the way toward darkened glass. Pleading eyes pinned on adult while speaking unintelligible cries for help, to fix. Joy, unspeakable joy. Now, when they arrive at our home, twin boys zip past grandparent's eager welcome, words like: "uh-oh! han, eeh" tumble from toddler lips. Sound of feet racing like Roadrunner on hardwood floor, straight toward ceiling fan in living room, always toward the light. Simultaneously, they point toward tan blades, unlit dome light, earnestly repeating sacred words: "uh-oh! han, eeh." A rich desire to be spoiling grandparents, we willingly turn on switch, grin at boys instant happy faces, their contentment, all is well. Approaching age of two,  they are mobile, four feet traveling fast, the demand is far greater. Our house contains four ceiling fans.We have not taken them to Home Depot by ourselves. Donning extra sweater, dusty blades swoosh-swoosh, goosebumps raise tall in winter's chill from breeze, a small price to pay. The joy and excitement, high-pitched "whooaahh!" so precious to behold. Bubbles of pure joy float inside of me, translucent, un-poppable joy. All for you! All for you! In the book, The Prodigal Son, Henri Nouwen writes it well: "People who have come to know the joy of God do not deny the darkness, but they choose not to live in it. They claim that the light that shines in the darkness can be trusted more than the darkness. They point each other to flashes of light here and there, and remind each other that they reveal the hidden but real presence of God."

In the eyes of a child I see wonder of it all. Flashes of light, unabashed joy, unblemished appreciation. Can it be that simple? Is that the Christmas message in condensed, child-like version? Angels singing, wise men following bright light. A baby in a manger. I watch for flashes of light, for reminders of first love, hearing silent words children of light understand...All for you! All for you!

Red Badge Of Courage

In the story, Red Badge Of Courage, Henry Fleming transforms from a fearful, doubting,  lost youth to a confident, duty-bound soldier. After abandoning a tattered soldier he resolves his guilt by using the memory of this act to keep himself humble. Through a series of events he converts his fear of the enemy into anger and becomes a leader, eventually assuming the role of color bearer for his regiment. I thought about this story, about courage, and my eyes conjured a kaleidoscope, colorful patterns reflected, light transforming all hues of bravery. And sometimes, like a jigsaw puzzle we  can't see the whole picture until each piece has been connected together. Choices and decisions weaving a tapestry of life, hardest ones producing blotches of sweat and ripples of fear, easier ones perhaps a swipe of brow.  I may not be a soldier, an airplane pilot or a scuba diver, I do not need to be any of these to use my best Lady Macbeth voice and "screw my courage to the sticking-place." I said good- bye to granddaughter after Thanksgiving, blinking back tears, praying for safe travel. Can this be courage? John Jay Chapman wrote: " Have plenty of courage. God is stronger than the devil. We are on the winning side." I like that. We are winners. Every day an opportunity to display fresh acts of bravery. Smile wide when hurt grows strong, discover hidden talents and use them. Host a dinner party when reading delicious book adorned in favorite pajamas sounds divine. Forgive someone, even if pebble of hurt is lodged in throat, not having made its way down to center of pain. Maybe it's really small acts of bravery that builds solid foundation to stand on when storms arise, like practicing for when it's needed the most. Deep down in core of the fear lies that golden nugget of truth, gift of joy, another layer peeled off, humbly drawing me in to blazing red beat of heart. I wanted to kidnap granddaughter, stow her away in pack-n-play, never kiss creamy cheek bye-bye. Instead, I pasted on brave face, leaned in for elfin kiss, fixed on badge of courage and screwed it to the sticking-place. Humble, brave, certainly color bearers my family and I. Our kisses good-bye, damp eyes and hugs, red badges flashing brightly, winners, winners, winners, most truly we are.

Not For A Moment

"A weak signal," cable guy said, "I detected a weak signal coming from your television." Retrieving ladder from his white van, he climbed toward cloudy November sky and worked at fixing our weak signal. One hour later, dusk draped orange ladder and young man working to add new cable line so we could watch Scott Pelley on Channel Six news. Once he finished, we offered our thanks and drove off to daughter's house to romp with toddler boys. Later that evening, my mind traced verses of a song I heard recently on the radio. It played like one of those old vinyl record albums, thin needle stuck in the groove. "Not for a moment will you forsake me, not for a moment will you forsake me. After all, you are constant, after all you are always good." The lyrics draped across doubts, swathed me in peaceful fog as I sat with them, pondering meaning. Earlier in the day cable guy stepped on ladder to re-connect a feeble signal. It was dark but he continued on until he finished. In darkness, in pain and suffering, our faint signals ping, always, always, audible to the One who hears all. Trusting He listens is key, unlocking clenched fist and opening door to gratitude, weakness morphing into power. Learning to say thank you, connecting to broader network, brighter picture shoots flares towards heaven, search and rescue assured. Yes, my pain is still there. And so are orange-tinted leaves, three toddler grandchildren, husband who washes floors and co-workers who laugh. In August I received a gift from a good friend. Leather bound journal with familiar encouraging words inscribed on cover: "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound..."She said I could write about my journey with pain. Surveying the size of journal, I decided not to heed her advice, rather choosing to upgrade my own thank you's to a bigger volume. More room to explore the practice of gratitude, more pages to capture precious moment. Frances Roberts wrote: "If you discern God's love in every moment of happiness, you will multiply a thousandfold your capacity to fully enjoy your blessings." All acts of gratitude have in themselves the power to transform circumstances. Not for a moment does He sit still, His ear bent in eager anticipation, all thank you's a resounding alleluia.

Happy Thanksgiving

A Kindled Fire

The book felt light in my hands, a slim novel with seventy pages, a treasured gift from a dear friend. I had forgotten she had given me the book many years ago. I picked it up the other day by chance, a coincidence, perhaps an omen. We had shared the same passion for delicious stories and traded books like high-schooler's sharing secrets late at night. We couldn't wait to discover the end of the story, to dissect each plot line, every character, good and evil. Flipping this slight book open, I re-read the inscription, her neat penmanship causing tears to well. The White Cliffs was given to her in 1942, I could see from inside cover. When rummaging through her old books she had thought of me and passed it along. My friend died almost a year ago and I miss her sorely. Gazing at the writing, the endearment, I swallowed hard, an ache from a missing place that commanded pause, stillness. She knew my passion for stories and writing. She understood my love of words and penchant for keeping titles I savored. Recently however, a confession fell from my lips and as the words spilled they tasted hard, gritty and foreign. "I've been thinking about getting a Kindle Fire," I admitted to various family members. I kept silent about test-driving a co-worker's e-reader in dark bathroom at work. Just to make sure she told the truth, it is possible to read with lights off.  Nagging doubts plagued my mind since revealing this new-found desire. Who would I share beloved books with? Inside covers would not bear witness to beloved friendships. Pages without tattered corners and blotches from unfortunate coffee spills. First-graders with noses pressed up against gray screen sends chills up my spine. Touching the slender novel once more, thank you, the two words breathed out, fingers passing over her handwriting once again. Simply to recall and reflect. And all angst over choice melted like lipstick left on hot dashboard. Books will never leave, just like cherished friendships, they lean against each other, bolstering and propping one another up. And the really great ones leave imprint on our hearts, same as loving friends--kindling a fire, fanning into flame ardent yearning for more. Yesterday at a baby shower, I watched expectant mother's awed expression as she read inscription inside cover of baby book. "Thank you,"she said to co-worker. A pregnant pause. Her countenance I understood, her gratitude mirrored my own, "thank you for writing in the book," she repeated. Inhaling familiar dusty smell of used book store, I vowed to never let my library card expire and always keep my book shelves well stocked. Maybe I will buy a Kindle Fire just for airplanes and bed-time and darkly lit rooms.

Purple Rain

We gathered together, us people at work, in a room filled with a collective desire. Pray for healing we asked, this is what we do. This is what we know. Our voices lifted up to you. Please bless this woman who needs you. Please give her a spirit of confidence, a powerful sense of your presence. Unabashed tears I heard, porcelain cups that crack slender, a hurt for the beautiful. This woman who loves beyond measure we loved her back. Different voices humbly requesting a healing, words colored with praise and trust. Like purple rain you've never seen, but deep down in the knowing place, you trust in its absolute splendor. Watchman Nee wrote: "Our prayers lay the track down on which God's power can come. Like a mighty locomotive, His power is irresistible, but it cannot reach us without rails." If this be so then our tracks ran long, and steam rose high, tears splitting open the gates above. Walking back to my desk I caught a glimpse of maple tree dressed in blazing oranges and reds. Ok,  yes you are glorious. I put to rest the questions, the sadness and doubts, laid them in the place that says I don't-know-why-but-you-do, and lingered in the moment, stillness by the window. There is a song that I like to press repeat when I am in struggle or sad or wondering why we have to suffer or feel pain. A refrain that says nothing yet everything.

When my world is shaking, heaven stands
When my heart is breaking
I never leave your hands

Like purple rain unseen, and angels that move unnoticed, prayer is the door which opens to invisible. All you have to do is believe.

A Hiding Place

Where can one hide from the cares of this world? Truly escape from it all, the tough work, daily grind, grim news on television, political ads. When cars blast anxious horn while I wait to turn right on red light. Learning new work flows on computer, silently praying for foggy head to clear, for instruction to seep into nearing retirement-age brain. Pain continues and feet move forward, one step, one choice, one blessing received at a time. And the desire to rest in a cave like Elijah is extremely overwhelming. Hard times call for smuggling those moments that refresh spirit and restore even flow of breath. Quiet. Relax. Hibernate. Or in the case of a grandmother of toddler twin boys, hide in a Sesame Street Play Hut strategically placed in their bedroom. Oh what joy! Flat on their wee backs with happy grins, or peeking through flap of tent, all giggle and play. Through eyes of a child heavy sack of worries disappear like D.B. Cooper. One boy stands up and carries nylon tent on head, tripping, spilling over and the getting back up. The getting back up. That's the tough, rigorous part we play. More adventure to come, more hide-and-seek and staring at glistening stars, or Elmo's beet-red head. And more stumbling. Wobbly knees straighten again, sturdy, bolstered by God's creativity at awakening weary spirit. Cranking heartbeat up a notch. And maybe, like Elijah, the still soft voice awakens tired, fearful souls in unexpected ways after exiting the cave. I found a hiding place yesterday, in Elmo's tent and toddler boy's glee, breath returned, fluid and free, once again, God's sweet voice reigned on me.   

Two Words and Counting

I walked through daughter's front door, a surprise tucked inside my purse. "Pleeeaaase...two...two!" Grandson exclaimed as I entered the house. Oh, a happy tingle rippled down my spine. Blonde boy smiled wide as I stepped into living room. Brown-haired boy wandered over, maybe knowing that his brother had ingeniously engineered an extra treat. A quick survey of room told me that snacks had already been served. No matter, a grandmother has special benefits. I retrieved a baggie filled with organic animal crackers, headed over to sofa and took a seat. Silently I counted and placed an edible animal in each elfin hand..."One, two," I said. "One, twooo," echoed small boy, his crystal blue eyes jubilant, sparkling. Brother watched in peaceful silence, munching on goodie."Tank you," blonde boy said, a contagious grin pasted on his face. My heart truly melted, puddled onto carpet, liquid bliss. Supernatural power those two words contain, explosive in meaning, graceful swords.  Practicing again, we counted out crackers, one, two...tank you! Oh, you are ahead of the game I mused, a tank you planted on those tiny lips. We continued counting to two until bag was empty. "Tank you," I heard once again. In The Return Of The Prodigal Son, Henri Nouwen writes: "Because every gift I acknowledge reveals another and another, until, finally, even the most normal, obvious, and seemingly mundane event or encounter proves to be filled with grace." My mind skated to words of truth, from the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise. I planted a kiss on each toddler head. One, two, tank you.

The Eye Of The Storm

A flashing sign on the right hand side of freeway warned of possible drenched road ahead. Weather forecasters earlier in day predicted a late summer thunder storm. Having just left hot, humid, beautiful Annapolis behind, and threatening clouds seemingly a safe distance from our route, we continued driving back to Virginia. Minutes passed, cars up ahead slowed and red flashers alerted my husband to ease up on gas pedal. He flipped on windshield wipers. Slanted sheets of rain began pelting against the car. Wipers flipped in furious motion as we crept down the freeway, glancing at clock, murmuring to ourselves that the forecasters had it right all along. Almost to the minute. Tree limbs whipped, a frenzied dance of mother nature. Branches blew across road, leaves coated ground in complete surrender. Dark, pregnant clouds continued delivering buckets of rain from their plump bellies. My seventeen month-old granddaughter, who was seated facing me, studied swirling rain drops clinging to window. Watching her intent expression, I wondered at the vulnerability of it all. At the fragility of my plans and how can I ever escape the aching need to control and command? Would I really want to know that this thundering storm was looming, just up the way? A.W. Tozer said: "The knowledge that we are never alone calms the troubled sea of our lives and speaks peace to our souls." To have the next crisis I face forecasted like the weather would be itself spiritual disaster. A thought flitted across my mind like those fireflies at midnight. A typical tropical cyclone will have a region of calm weather right in the middle of the storm. The eye of the storm. Hmmm...The intensity of the rain eased a bit, sky brightened from its menacing darkness, and granddaughter played with her painted toes. Husband's shoulders relaxed, dropping a few inches. Then we are never alone in the storm? Can I truly trust in the middle of it all? The scary parts and fearful moments? Journey calmly through plans I never crafted? I looked at my granddaughter, who by now had abandoned her serious expression, trading it for silliness and play. Oswald Chambers wrote: "Keep the thought that the mind of God is behind all things strong and growing. Not even the smallest detail of life happens unless God's will is behind it. Therefore you can rest in perfect confidence in Him." Then this is the eye of the storm, this calming trust, this divine control and unfurled fist receiving and thanking. The hand that reached out to Peter is the same hand that catches us when we fall. I wanted to tell my granddaughter I had it all figured out, just like the weatherman had earlier today. That storms will surely blow her way, she might cringe standing out in the wind, but she had to fix her gaze on the center, the middle place where she would find refuge and peace. Her giggles interrupted my musings and I re-planted sunglasses on bridge of my nose. Mentally calculating how soon we could get pedicures together, I turned my concentration to passing scenery as we buzzed down highway, leaving the thundering storm behind.

How To Fill The Empty Spaces

It's only a plant, I told myself. But it reminded me of her and it was part of her and now it's just plain gone! I missed the tiny purple buds, the smell, the aroma that triggered memory. Like a copper-winged butterfly, scenes would flit across mind, lifting the corners of my mouth into a smiley face. A scent so sweet and pungent, painting a picture without words, triggering a flash of past with one fragrant inhale. The lavender start I brought back from my mother's farm many, many years ago flourished, weathered harsh winters, blistery summers, and at times suffered sheer neglect. This July, I happened upon an empty space in my backyard. "What's that stump there?" My sister inquired, scanning the exact spot which now contained a mere grayish stump, the remains of my lavender bush. I clamped my mouth shut, swallowed words I wanted to say because I knew that wooden-looking thing was simply left-over remnant of my mother's lavender. My husband did not admit to pruning the shrub, declaring complete innocence and my heart plummeted to ground, heavy, thudding. The plant had proved faithful through all these years, and our last mild winter caused inner suspicions to rise like tsunami yet I kept pointing finger folded inside fist. Weeks passed, summer unfolded and so did fist. John Keats wrote: "The poetry of the earth is never dead." My mother loved the earth and maybe that is why I cared so much for her plant. This year for my birthday, my daughter presented me with a special gift. Gazing upon the offering, a keener understanding welled within, stroking the loss much like a mother's tender kiss on unblemished skin. The special knowing between mother's and daughter's, unspoken words, silent understanding, hearts scrap-booking past and present. Corrie ten Boom penned: "We have been planted according to a divine pattern, even if we do not always understand that pattern. God is interested in each of us 'microscopically' as well as 'telescopically.' The hairs of our heads have been counted, but the universe is also in his hand." "Did you see what it says?" Daughter asked, her tone eager, expectant. Stepping to get a closer look, I read the inscription.

Seven letters etched in black, slightly faint, message clear, translucent. God's poetry filling the empty space. All things are possible if you Believe.  

A Hope That Sings

The birthday present came in a UPS jacket, clear bubble-wrap to protect, maybe to disguise. Retrieving the gift from its unique packaging, I wondered at the surprise that lay in store. What could it be? It felt heavy, round. Once I laid eyes on the gift I knew immediately what giving thanks had taught me these past long, arduous months. "Thank you," I managed to tell my husband. Months back, a gray, bleak day in Portland, I found myself staring down Hope in the garden section at Fred Meyer's. My husband who was purchasing a new hose, stood at the cash register when Hope sandwiched me in; between violet pansies and redwood planters. Four jet-black letters etched in round stone, emerald-green hummingbird dressed in glittery sequins, pointy beak taking a drink from cherry-red flower. Hot tears sprang to eyes. I had bolted, darting past my husband, swiping the unexpected wetness from cheeks. Where is my hope? Pain is so hard! I feel sooo alone! Hiding the distress, trying my best to be OK, at trusting and  keeping faith, we drove home, husband with his purchase, me wrestling darkness to the floor-mat. My eyes dried. For days after, I thought about how much I wanted that stepping stone, how much I love hummingbirds, and how my own feeder remained chock-full of sweet nectar, eons since a bird sighting. Blaise Pascal said: "Instead of complaining that God has hidden himself, you should give him thanks for having revealed so much of himself." I spotted the same stone a few weeks ago, the one that ushered in one thousand graces and still counting. Checking the price tag, picking it up and cradling it my hands, I still could not bring myself to buy it, to let go and give an emphatic yes to Hope. Emily Dickenson encourages: "Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops--at all." I am thinking, by thanking him for all circumstances, for gifts, trials, even failures, courage steps up and paves a path towards Hope.  #1315 Hummingbird stepping stone, silently trilling... Hope does not disappoint, hope does not disappoint, never give up, never give up.

A Secret Message

Ever since receiving the torn sheet of paper, splotches of color, ocean-blue, pink, pale- green, scrawled across one side, I knew it contained a secret message. Surveying my toddler granddaughter's handiwork, sent via snail-mail, I wondered at the marvel of oranges, bright yellows, daughter-in-law's courage, and the simplicity of it all. Tiny hands abandoned in exploration, play and composition. The carefully folded art-piece, sealed and stamped, visible proof the drawing meant more than a child's virgin attempts at creativity. So I waited. Prayer list magnified each day, doubt threatened to destroy faith, and friends and family who are trodding a thousand long days of trials I wanted to cry out, please stop. No more hardship. No more pain. No more crisis. Please. The other day, tracing fingers across picture on refrigerator, pausing to behold, a discovery rifled down to sacred space where questions and prayers remained unanswered, where thick layer of fog blanketed ebbing faith. I thought about what He was saying, not audible words, more of a hush, a stillness that calmed, soothed. Like a deep well stumbled across in the middle of a blistery hot desert, I drank discovery, guzzled all that He revealed, throat coated with damp grace. Could it be? Truly? Colors leaped, danced, those scribbles, disordered blotches of finger-paint, to a grandmother's eyes a beautiful work of art. A masterpiece. This missive, it came upon like a splendid rainbow after late afternoon rain, unexpected, surprisingly. The messy is my means to draw you out, shape and mold, craft you into the beautiful. I use everything to create the masterpiece I know you to be. Each stroke a manifesto, an authentic heartbeat, my omnipresence a guarantee of absolute security. Inhaling slowly, I placed the picture from my granddaughter back on refrigerator, one corner kept in place with  magnet that says "Cherish." Jeanne Zornes said : "God often delays His response out of love, as He works all things together for good." Humbly, I sighed into morning kitchen as I understood, He is right here, in the past, in the future, always, always, drawing with His strong daddy hands, a masterpiece, crafting beautiful from the messy, the hard, and the pain.

How To Bend The Knee

"Tulips," she inquired over phone, "do you want me to plant tulips under your tree?" My daughter, who had extra bulbs, came over after work one recent evening to grace our circle of dirt under Dogwood tree with assorted bulbs. The fruits of her labor won't be visible until next year, the beautiful flowers that talk happy to us after gray, bleak, shivery winter. Truthfully, I wanted to be the one digging the June dirt, kneeling in soft green grass, preparing soil with anticipation, hope of exploding colors pushing through Portland's damp spring. A heavy sigh expelled into warm evening air. Surveying her efforts, her long flowing sweater touching grass, blond head bent in concentration, golden earrings I secretly coveted catching light, my mind traveled backwards. To another day, a time when I planted my mother's own bulbs under same Dogwood tree eons ago. Daughter was but a toddler. Memories swept across brain, pleasure recalled at simply watching those glorious red tulips rise every spring. They were a part of my mother. A treasure. A comfortable shawl draped across shoulders bearing weight of loss. Through ensuing years, after  neighbor's dogs trampled across tulip bed in play, maybe a few frigid winters, the flowers died. I re-planted the bed with impatiens, missing my mother's tulips sorely, like a child's favorite soft blanket, the kind with shiny satin edges. As the scene unfolded before my eyes, daughter bent low, garden tool in hand, a song by David Crowder Band flitted across my mind, a butterfly kiss. "I am a tree bending beneath the weight of his wind and mercy," closing my eyes, hurting body saying yes to next verse, "When all of a sudden, I am unaware of the afflictions eclipsed by glory." Oh, I managed. A bent knee. A daughter who knits past and present together, unknowingly, generously, crafting bed of glory on bended knees. William Wadsorth said it well: "Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar." In gratitude I bend the knee, whispering thanks, as I understand once again the full measure of a father's love. Afflictions eclipsed by glory. "So heaven meets earth like an unforeseen kiss," the band croons into listening ear.

If Roses Could Talk

I opened the back door to let the dog outside. Before returning inside, my eyes glimpsed a flash of color, tinges of pink in the midst of jungle-green raspberry bushes. On closer inspection, creamy center, petals edged with ribbons of coral pink, unfurling in the middle of rambling bushes. How can this be? Husband forgot to trim this section of garden. Announcing its presence in early morning dawn, birds singing the world awake, I stooped down and inhaled the rich fragrant scent. Hypethral bloom, against all odds, triumphant entry into beautiful. This double-delight flower, Rose Festival award-winning bush I bought many years ago on expert advice, weathered storm of neglect, postured itself against crowding bushes and staked its claim of rightful place in my garden. Perseverance, roots that dig deep, grace unfolding. I did not expect to see a single petal on my double-delight. And trudging through season of pain, uncertainty, wondering why the Kardashians were on the cover of People, doubts clashed against my journal of gifts, now tattered around corners, a joyful tatter. Hope grew thin as a sliver. And I did not let on to my husband that I feared for the plant, for my favorite summer flower. Retrieving red shears, I cut long thorny stem, carried it into the house and  placed it in a crystal vase. Max Lucado said: "Plant a word of love heart-deep in a person's life, nurture it with a smile and a prayer, and watch what happens." Glancing at the single flower, I pondered what this rose bush would say if it could talk. Truth evolving in daily routine, in gardens, in schools and work. Syllables clanging, soaring with validity, growing stronger with meaning because if this rose could really converse I know what it would say.

"You're planting roots heart-deep. That is why you noticed me, why your eyes caught mine in sea of green. I was but one face in a thousand, yet with laser vision you saw the beautiful." Like a kiss from heaven, a hymn, this rose told me what I needed to hear. Watch in the ordinary, thank you planted on lips, it is enough for now. 

One Thousand Gifts

He walked through the front door, trotted right past me, proceeded steadily toward dining room, this grandson of mine. "Eeeh," he said, and raised palm upward. Brother followed behind, stopped and tilted blonde head toward point of interest. "Yaya," he asserted. Quickly lifted palm high in the air. Tiny twin dimpled hands saluting ceiling fan, or maybe a praise. We turned on the switch for the fan, lights brightened the room. Their gazes, immersed in scientific wonder, of light and movement, simplicity of it all. This is routine. This is what they know. We taught them how to operate the remote for one of our ceiling fans. Plus, I tutored them on the necessary high-five. I thought about this early habit of theirs this past week. About the familiar, how it feels cozy, comfortable, safe even. But what happens when our spiritual GPS gives us an incorrect route? Or we can't hear steady voice announcing "re-calculating, re-calculating." We're left lost, broken, confused.When habits begin to hurt, and our souls enlarge but head reclines on the sofa watching re-runs of Seinfeld. A few weeks ago I jotted down #1000 in my journal: tried a class at the gym, no good, left after 10 minutes, sneaking out door. Ran into a gymmie friend in locker room--her husband died the day before, tears spilled, words tumbled out, she talked, cried, talked. I listened. We hugged. Earth did not shake after ink met paper. Clouds did not break open and spill fish. My On-Point pen looked the same. Seconds passed. Tick. Tick. Tick. A supernatural epiphany took hold of pen: one thousandth grace was life, doing life, hard life, the beautiful gift of life. And saying thank you for the wonder of it all. During these past months, through pain, uncertainty, and yes joys of life, I believe God orchestrated it all, knowing assuredly that eyes would open to see. Pry open from dubious squint. My spiritual GPS wasn't broken, it needed new batteries. A new source of power. Helen Keller wrote: "God is the light in my darkness, the voice in my silence." When twin boys raise palms in the grocery store, in our home, toward nothing in particular, I like to believe that their spiritual eyes are soaking up everything, like those elfin toy sponges that morph into cool animals.  I ran across a quote today by an unknown author: "Worship is the highway of reverence and washes the dust of earth from our eyes." I like that. One thousand hallelujahs and more to come, a crescendo of  offering thanks, little boys raising palms. And a celestial GPS, unswerving in its direction, "Yaya, Eeeh!" This is the way. Trust me.

A Mother's Day Tale

I bought two Mother's Day cards last week. Analyzing words, sentiments, colors on envelopes, I made choices and left the store. Driving home, my thoughts spooled back to another Mother's Day, the first one after my own mother died. I had stopped to buy a card for my mother-in-law, but as truth wedged its way into outstretched hand, a hand ready to choose, I fled, tears streaming down cheeks. My mom is dead! I can't buy her a card! There were other firsts; birthday, Christmas, anniversary of death. They came and went, as did swells of tears, crawling through anguish, loneliness, grief. I missed my mom. Over the years, I worked through loss and other untamed emotions wedged in this heart of mine. Lately, while counting graces and gifts, I understand that without my mom, I would only be a blank name card. A fleeting thought of possibilty. Motherhood, a sacrifice with stretch marks, that is what it is. Pure, honest, sacrifice. Can she hear me say thank you through these long years, does she careen ear toward earth, listening for child to respond, to appreciate sacrifice? To release expectations and raise palm toward acceptance and love? What if mother's never truly leave? What if they bury themselves in our deepest needs, our sorrows and triumphs, can we hear them through darkness and our fears? When resentment and inner anger fades into wind, after long journey back home to trust and gratitude, Jesus settles into heart and says, there, there, that is a mother's love. She gave to you. Isn't that enough? Did her best. It is always enough. These conversations are strong like tsunami and leave me humble, satiated, awestruck. Jesus adjusted the focus and through the lens a strong woman appeared, eyes bright with love and best, most she can do. Always, that is always good way to see, through eyes that hold tight to gratitude. I'd like to think that someday I'll be sitting in heaven, maybe on a cloud that smells like eucalyptus, and we'll high-five, my mom and me. Her mother, and the others before, their seeds planted long ago, growing for generations yet to come. We might sing collectively, a symphony of peace. All of these mothers, a gift that truly keeps giving.

 Heart that beats to loves strong cry, I rehearse words, ready for the day. They play on my tongue, rolling over again, as I practice what I long to declare. Thank you, Mom. You did your best and your best was enough for me.

A December Day With Johnny Depp

She called me on Sunday to tell me the news, my friend she did. Sick from cancer they told her, that's why she hurt. She had to drop out of book group, her reason for calling. "Please tell others I can't make it anymore." I gulped hard. One week later, cradling the phone to my ear, words traveled through the line I heard. She was ready to die, my friend she said. "I've lived a good life, I'm 80 years old," an affirmation of a contented soul. Sadness bruised my heart. But I'm not ready for you to go. Three weeks after that first call, she passed and my mind spun backward to last December, and how I had almost said no to Johnny. And no to my friend. A cold, gray day in December's rush. My back hurt and gravitating toward fear and selfishness, I conjured excuses in my brain. Preparing for Christmas, one more thing seemed insurmountable. Daunting  even. Minutes passed, then oh yes, heaven stretched its graceful arms, inscribed a missive upon my heart, like a 3x5 cue card it read: "Love never gives up. Love cares more for others than for self." Images of library books she delivered to my door and key-lime cookies at Christmas sealed the deal. Wrestling fear and selfishness to the ground, I pinned weak excuses to floor. Yes, I said, I would love to come over and take your picture with Johnny. Later that day, we propped him up against the wall, snapped numerous shots, various poses, lighting changes. Slants of weak winter light glistened on sword. He looks so devilishly delightful as a pirate, I mused. We giggled like high-schooler's at prom. Fun, I thought, she loves fun. And adores Johnny Depp. Weeks after the photo shoot, I retrieved the Christmas postcard from mailbox. Beautiful. Ignoring inner critic, the voice that says maybe-you-could-have-done-better, I gave a nod to spirit. To friends, to life. And to my dear friend who laughed, traveled the world, got a tattoo in her seventies. During her funeral mass, mention of Johnny caused my eyes to well. A tight breath expelled into sad room. My gaze scanned the coffin adorned in lovely cloth, and I loved her in my heart space. Silently I whispered thanks to Johnny Depp and the December day I will never regret. And to friends who accompany us along our way, yes I gave thanks.

How To Travel Light

In preparation for our recent vacation to The Outer Banks, my body took on a mind of its own. Muscles I never knew existed bound tight, demanding a hiatus from daily routine, leaving me depleted, questioning the feasibility of even making such a trip on a plane. I sat down, layed actually, asked God for leniency, to speak to me, a miracle, anything. My body hurts 24/7 and I do not know how to do pain anymore. I am afraid, weary, I confessed. Scared of messing up, not getting this pain thing right. Are you preparing me for some great mission, like those people in the Bible who could not see any further than the present moment, and those who questioned? Job in particular came to mind. I want to play, bend down and scoop up grand kids. I want...I want...I want...My gratitude journal at the ready, like a soft down pillow, a resting place, I fixed my eyes on anything to give thanks for, this search for graces my hungry quest. How to fly? Soar above  circumstances.  A friend texted me song lyrics, others prayed. As we settled into our seats on the plane, my husband, daughter and twin boys, a recommended song by Steven Curtis Chapman filtered through the ear buds on my Ipod. This is not how it should be, this is not how it could be, This is how it is and our God is in control, This is not how it will be, when we finally will see with our own eyes, He was always in control...  Oh God is so very clever to sing me through the sky. But I don't know how to do this pain thing I reminded him. Yes, but I know how to take care of you. The truth is, I am in control. And I give, I give, I give. Leaving my fears about the trip behind like a super-bad haircut, I took him at his word. We snapped pictures, wrapped ourselves in the beautiful embrace of family, three toddler cousins, wonderful food and majestic scenery. Sweet southern birds trilling, a soothing balm for soul.  A surprise spa massage orchestrated by faithful husband on first day, an effort to ease my aches, a yes from God. Exploring new territory, marshes and lighthouses, sites to behold. My gratitude journal exploded. Is that cheating? Taking advantage of such bounty in the quest for 1000 gifts? I wondered. Nope. #831. Ospreys, winging their way above vast expanse of sound water. Oh, how he loves us...on the ground, in the air, in our despair, in our exuberance.  Through child-like eyes we witness grace, the wonder of it all.

"What kind of birds are those?" I asked my son. A park ranger sitting in her car on the ferry overheard. "They are Laughing Gulls." A smile spread wide across my face. Click click. And in the midst of storms, winds and thunder, in the wet and coldest of nights, he whispers, I will teach you how to fly. Just trust me.

Love Me Do

He waddled towards the overflowing basket filled with stuffed animals, toys, this grandson of mine.  A grin pasted on his small round face, a gleeful sound bubbled up, spilled into the sunlit bedroom. Reaching for blue puppy, both fists tightened around its soft body, he pulled the beloved plush animal to his olive-colored cheeks, just under fringe of brown bangs. One year-old boy's eyes shone sparklers, his happy glee noises making my heart spin, so enraptured he was with puppy. I followed him with wondrous eyes, the kind of eyes that say, do-not-miss-this-moment-it-will-never-repeat. His wobbly legs stepped eagerly towards large mirror on door, one of blue puppies floppy ears held tightly between tiny teeth. Dimpled hands banged in play on mirror as the toy swayed from side-to-side, toddler head swinging with delight, a joyful reflection. Blonde brother turned pages of books, chattering, chattering, unformed words playing on his lips. This must be it, I thought. The possibility made possible. The mind focusing on present, all eyes fixated on the beautiful. Leon Henri Marie Bloy said: "Joy is the most infallible sign of the presence of God." If that be so I mused, then God smiles wide at each grace discovered, each moment stolen, thieves that rob for joy we are. I sighed happy. Later in the day, a Beatles tune thread through my head like one of those old vinyl records that got stuck in the groove..."Love, love me do, you know I love you, I'll always be true, so please love me do..." It felt like God was singing the words to me, see boy with puppy, books strewn across floor, wondrous abandonment? There I am, in the middle for you, all for you, love, love, me do. Thank you, I breathed and lifted my journal from the kitchen counter. #719. boy who cuddles with blue puppy. #720. snowmen still stand under warm sea-blue sky. #721 bright yellow daffodils springing to life after crazy spring snow. Without gratitude I am stranded on an island of fear and resentment, cold and shivering, mumbling my complaints of pain. By counting gifts, I see the chorus of God singing, I'll always be true, so please love me do.

When The Moon Comes Out To Play

On July 16, 1969, the world watched in anticipation as three men were hurtled skyward, bound for the moon. The successful landing on July 20, 1969 ushered in an era of moon exploration. My own fascination with the moon began in childhood. Not the scientific allure, telescopes and museums, rockets and moon gear. Mine is pure romance. One glimpse at a brilliant full moon commanding the sky, telling the world yes, I came again, I came back for you all and my heart comes undone. I count on the beauty, I need the beauty. For two nights, dragging myself to bed, exhausted, praying for relief, the hazy, effervescent light found me. Peeking between wood blinds, all glory and luminous, slanted light splaying bright stripes across bed pillow. A ray of soft light, a veil, painted my nose, forehead. My gaze pinned to the fullness, to splendor. Tears washed down my cheeks, the moon came back for me. Like it always has. I drew in a breath, thank you I managed, all senses attuned to the moment, to the incandescent display. Time spent slow, wet face tilted toward window, beauty trumping discouragement, I thought of running outside like Ann Voskamp to chase after the gift. To run panting through wheat fields, but this is my own story to live, I let the fullness of the gift adorn me. Lying with the glow shining through blinds, I played hide-and-seek, moving the position of my head, face damp with wonder and joy. Eyelids heavied, cheeks moist, like a child's lullaby the moon sang me to sleep. Oh, how He loves and woos, afflictions eclipsed by glory once more, Heaven meets earth. The moon came back for me.

You Is Good

The words Kevin Costner spoke, I thought about them afterward. A quiet hush, a ponder in the present quieted my mind. She wondered if she was good enough, he said. Am I pretty enough? Will they like me? Hesitation and doubt marked her motions, caused her to re-do make-up, a change-over to be enough. To be good. Tweens asked the internet, am I ugly? Surveys for self-worth. My heart hurts.  Before the birth of my three grandchildren I had read The Help. In the story, one of the black maids, Aibeleen, witnesses to white child. She croons into baby girls ear, telling her, "You is good, you is important." "You is good." After reading that first scene, truth spoken into baby girls forming ears, her elfin brain, I understood the importance of passing on the message to the next generation. A fiery sword aimed directly at the enemy. Break generational curses and chains of shame. Cradle babies, lean into tiny ear and proclaim. You are good. You are important. There will never be a more beautiful you. What better way to jump-start a heart than turning on the ignition before the race even begins. Staking the claim before the world defines their worth, I whisper into pristine ear, You are loved. You are good. According to Pastor Ted Roberts, the limbic system "the part of the brain that stores highly charged emotional memories, sets the emotional tone of the mind, and tags certain things as important," is developing in infancy. Kiss soft cheek. Croon into ear. River of life flows through the canal, rushes down, down, pooling in the heart. Spoken truth, epistle for abundant life, drives the force within. It begins with the young, this pour from the wise, a drink for the thirsty, all are good. He  spoke before the world, saying words we all long to hear, "off  you go Whitney, off you go, escorted by an army of angels, and when you sing before him, don't you worry, you'll be good enough." Souls bury their beauty, doubt inherent goodness. So, I declare the truth, the one that Jesus unfurled, my own surveys he answered. I mark it in ink #545 I am good. Pass it down, imprint into evolving limbic systems, charge the emotions with love. #546  gentleness is power. #547 God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. Look into young eyes, watch flecks of light glinting in the iris, the brain tagging the message. You is good.

A Perpetual Feast

Several weeks ago we celebrated our twin grand babies first birthday. Friends and family gathered together at our home, digital cameras captured cherished moments; frosting on faces, gifts in bright bags, good cheer around. Our granddaughter, just shy of one year joined the party from Virginia, a picture on cell, it worked its charm. Spills on the floor didn't matter. Bits of cake crumbles between sofa cushions, no problem. We rejoiced in the birth of the boys, their presence with us. Curious George cutouts dangled from the ceiling. After a bit, back pain forced me into a chair. Look up! Handmade yellow, blue and red Happy Birthday banner strung across the wall. One birthday boy chased after blue ball, the other sat on his knees, laughter spilling onto the floor. What presents? Rising to chat with a guest, the back pain resumed. Look up! I am looking I whispered back. The party ended, guests left and my husband cleaned the mess. #417 Husband who cleans up party mess. Max Lucado says it well: "We must trust God. We must trust not only that He does what is best, but that He knows what is ahead." Look up! He says. He outpaces me and I cannot reach, but my pen takes notice. My pen has supernatural power.  #465 Grandma teaches one-year-old boy the high-five #475 exercises that retrain silent muscles. A tear slides, lands in His palm. Trust me. The banner stays strung, Curious George grins wide from above. How long will I keep hurting I wonder while gazing at the monkey face on paper napkins. He knows what lies ahead. While hope girds the heart I wait, and wait. Keep pace, write it down, the good, the hard, the monkey faces. "Cultivate the thankful spirit! It will be to you a perpetual feast," encourages John MacDuff. Trading tears for the promised feast I catch the glimpses, boys tossing balls, husbands helping hand , Curious George in play. Affliction eclipsed by the beautiful. Perhaps in the midst of our suffering, our unanswered prayers, He can finally reach us, palm to palm, and joyfully teach us how to fly. #500 Wings on hummingbird, thrumming, thrumming.

As The World Turns

Recently, while performing a cardio-does-the-back-good routine at the gym, my Ipod died a sudden death. Noiseless, empty ear buds a mere prop. A bold question mark dangled in my head. How am I going to finish exercising? I need my music! Bereft of my workout companion, I swallowed a discouraged breath, and headed for the weight room. I needed to perform a long stretch, the kind that begs for the company of music. I knew I had to find a way out. A distraction to prevent me from bolting for the locker room. Voices filtered through the atmosphere, a cold rush of air brushed my shoulders, my eyes darted to the clock. Four minutes, six yet to go. I groaned inwardly. Soon, a gentleman approached, a man I see regularly, the sweetest smile lighting his face. A sun break. The question mark morphed into answer. I had been given a way out! We chatted for a few minutes about the weather, the new weight machines. The stretch tightened my calf muscles. The sparkle in his eyes eased the boredom. After he parted I took a long look around the room. My eyes panned the new gym equipment, faces of both the familiar and unfamiliar, people like me trying to take care of their bodies, ease the pain, stay fit. Like an early morning sunrise, reds and golds palming the sky, I understood I had just received a gift, a grace. When I reached the locker room I jotted it down in my journal. # 309. Ipod died. I didn't. Nice chat with gentleman. They are vigilant. The searching eyes. The cataracts supernaturally removed. And as the world turns, I watch eagerly, much like a five-year-old at Disneyland, eyes opened fresh wide, the magic kingdom unveiled. Oh, the wonder of it all. This thing called grace.

Journal of Graces

This past Christmas I received the book, One Thousand Gifts, by Ann Voskamp. A friend at work had recommended the book, knowing what flavors I like to read. Oh, the exhilarating thrill of words playing with each other, poetically, romantically, daringly. With each turn of the page excitement snaked up my spine. During Thanksgiving I penned about gratitude, deep breaths of gratitude, the winning type of thanksgiving that outpaces resentment, the Roadrunner racing for joy. Ann Voskamp's story has deepened my inner hunger to live gratefully. Joyfully. I am on the move, taking the dare. I dug into a bottom drawer, fished out an empty journal I had laid aside years earlier, simply because it was too beautiful to use. What better place to start! Clicking my favorite pen, I opened to the first blank page. #1. beautiful journal #2. On-Point pen. I inhaled a fragile appreciative breath. #3. fresh brewed coffee. Oh, the possibilities. The hunt. My eyes dart, searching for gifts and graces, for the not-too-appealing gifts, back to graces. Truly, I am an amateur at this discipline of gratitude. But I have a hope, a burning desire. That by the practice of naming graces, gifts, writing them down in ink, I might have a greater chance at releasing my inner resentments, fears, and yes, my pride. Like Henri Nouwen said: "resentment and gratitude cannot co-exist" It isn't that difficult. The naming. #4. full moon rising. #5. babies tiny teeth. #6 cold medicine. With each stroke of the pen, this thing, this gift, becomes illuminated, magnified, appreciated. Isn't that what this is all about? This life? To learn to receive what got lost in the first place? To disinfect the old wounds and pain with God's joy? #248. seagull winging it over winter waves. Like any amateur, it takes practice. #249. swoosh, swoosh of windshield wipers. But if I linger in the moment,  in each stroke of the letters, the seeds of humility sprout, and the eyes of my heart grow wings of everlasting joy.

A Joyful Sound

Gently, I lifted the ornament from the tree and cradled it in the palm of my hand. I gazed at the intricate painting--a wintry scene, a house, snow and trees-- the dusty pink bulb now faded with time. My mother died when I was in my thirties, and I inherited part of her Christmas ornaments. Each year, I find myself once again  handling the decorations ever so carefully, treasures that they are. Memories dance across my mind, much like a ballerina, graceful, tender, peaceful. Each year the ritual repeats itself, a thoughtful pause, recollections sweet like cotton candy. I wonder if my own daughter will one day experience the same winsome feelings, the pangs, the sense of something far greater than the design on the wrapping paper, or even the presents themselves. This year I am beginning to embrace a fresh understanding, the answer to the question mark. The most beautiful things we can pass on to the next generation, our friends, loved ones, and even strangers, is our time, our wisdom, our gifts. Even the sound of our laughter. Recently, a dear friend of mine passed away. Her death left me with a welling sadness, a deep crevice in my heart. I ached in the soul place that only God knows, only God can fill. The thought of Christmas made my heart hurt even more. I knew she was with Jesus but I also knew the void she would leave here on earth. Christmas just seemed heavy. Burdensome. But this is the secret I discovered in the midst of grief, unearthed like the first crocus in spring. The memories, the wisdom and even the mess-ups and failures remain planted inside of those who are still here. Words once spoken now satiate our minds, massage the pain, leading us down fresh paths, our feet stepping on virgin snow. A layer of sadness gave way to peace. So, I cleaned up from the Christmas season, hung a new calendar on the kitchen wall. And I prayed that whatever God has gifted me, spoken to me, freely given to me, will one day cause another to linger in the memory, listen for the soul sounds, the joyful noise that only you can hear.