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.