Through The Eyes Of A Child

The days approaching Christmas, they speed wild and crazy, shopping lists and red curling ribbon, parties and long lines. A hurried and frenzied world that clicks on-line like a forever tap dance, and stealing a slice of peace is risky business, there is so much more to do. And when my father-in-law took a fall and needed hip surgery I wondered at the timing, at the decisions and choices crowding together. Not his hip! What are the options?Is surgery safe for a ninety-three year old with dementia? After consulting with the specialist we opted for surgery which set his operation exactly when we had a train ride to catch...

on The Polar Express.
 

Where wistful watching captured a moment and hopeful expectation skipped down the aisle, clapping happily, a song, a refrain, Hot, Hot, Hot! I sang too, I clapped and my mind hummed down the tracks, I need to be somewhere else, in a waiting room not tapping my feet here in all this glee.



Cheers to hot cocoa, a child's delight, coating the throat with liquid gold. I took a few sips and thought about the time. Is he safe? Will he be OK? Will he walk by himself again?

He came and sat among us, this man with the whorly white beard. He chatted and spread hope, giving life to child's biggest wish. An aged Superman. A silver bell from the harness of a reindeer. And I am ushered back into the moment, where childlike faith is walking on water, trusting is simple yes. The sound of a bell is real. Santa Claus is everywhere at once and that is OK. I lost track of time, singing "Feliz Navidad" like I knew all the words with young boy studying my lips, carefully mimicking. Joy ricochets off steel walls. Worry melted from my shoulders, pooling on the vibrating floor, a puddle of I-will-trust-this-here-now.

 

 

As we departed the train and made our way to the car, with all those pajama-clad children whose faces still lit bright, I knew this was the right choice for us that day. A gift, a respite, a slice of peace in the midst of all the busyness of the season. Maybe we never made the choice, maybe the train had waited for us all along, that a surgeon would check his schedule, and an operating room opened up at precisely boarding time. Perhaps God knows that adults are really grown children, in need of play and whimsy, and timing is irrelevant and trusting is the key.

Later in the week I watched my father-in-law practice walking down the hallway, hands gripping a walker, caregiver holding him by a striped belt, his gait unsteady, wobbly. Christmas music streamed from the dining room. I thought of a silver bell not all can hear, a Santa who travels the world in one night, a babe in a manger who came to save the world. I shook my head in awestruck wonder.

The answer so simple, so crazily divine, only with eyes of a little child one can truly see, the Gift in all His blazing glory. He came that day so long ago, for all of you and me.

Every Breath Is A Second Chance

It came as a package of three, a parcel of gifts that flew my way. Separate pieces of a glorious puzzle. While cleaning our house last week I spotted gorgeous pale pink blooms adorning my mother-in-law's Christmas Cactus. How can that be? It barely got watered for two whole years? This plant kept company with nothing more than sound of birds chirping bright outside their empty home after her death. Whenever my husband checked on their house before it sold he gave it a drink, how much I never knew. I figured it stood little chance at survival. Let alone thrive and delight. While gazing at those beautiful blossoms my mind spun backward, to another cactus, one that kept me company for many years. After my mother passed I inherited her mammoth Christmas Cactus. Magnificent fuchsia-colored blooms, year after year it did not disappoint. Until the winter I left it outside, in frigid temperature and it never revived. A broken gift. Maybe this is a second chance! Maybe God is giving me a re-do! I will let husband water this one. While snapping a picture of thriving pant, I thought about a God who gives second chances, who creates beauty from ashes, who builds strength from mistakes and failures.

A few days later, as we stood in the toy section in Fred Meyer's I felt  it then, this lingering touch as I retrieved one Ninja Turtle from the shelf. "Is this the right one?" I asked my husband. He picked  one of the action figures from the display, examined it closely, yes we agreed, these were the right toys for twin grandsons. We spotted another couple choosing a higher priced version, turtles with serious slashing sai action, fantastic for four year olds. We bought two. "This feels like deja vu," I said. "We bought these already, just twenty-five years ago!" Memories of our thirty year old son enacting heroic scenarios, sound and all with Donatello and Raphael, these images flashed nostalgic, a sentimental slideshow right in the toy aisle. These Ninja Turtles resurfaced again. Will the boys love these Ninjas like son  did?  Is it weird buying these super-enhanced turtles? Where did all the years go and was it safe for son to play-act like a super-hero turtle?

We put the toys in the cart and through the day the feeling remained, like a nudge from your best friend before she shares delicious secret you think you might already know. Maybe we do get second chances, and maybe broken gifts aren't truly broken but laid to rest until another resurfaces. Like a neglected cactus that blooms at Christmas, and super-hero turtles that come back to life.

And the tea party I promised my granddaughter a few months back but forgot to set a grand table. Our plane departed and she woke recalling a broken promise, this memory that cast tears in toddler eyes. Taking advantage of second chances, I knew my China Tea Set has power of its own, to spring back to life a child now grown and those that follow to share in all that joy.

 

He nudged me that day in the toy aisle, a truth that shimmers me free, I wrap a toy, admire a bloom, and set a table for three.

 Every breath is a second chance...

Wearing Your Brave Under Cover

He sat hunched at the dining table, slender frame cloaked in red v-neck sweater, dark slacks, bald head, this elderly gentleman he looked so frail. His smile, it gave me pause, the way his lips were pursed together, corners lifted sweet, and his eyes shone as if they held mysterious secret treasure. We had not met him yet, this newest member of my father-in-law's foster family. Mentioning how he got off to a rough start with my father-in-law, but they were friends now, timbre of his voice soft, quiet, made me smile tender. I looked out the window, branches littering the back yard, multi-colored damp leaves carpeting the fall ground. A storm roared through the city the day before. Yes, he was worried his wife might have had trouble getting home, what with all that howling wind.

I wondered why they didn't live together and what brought him to the small one bedroom adjacent to the dining room. Moments later she arrived, skitting across the floor, hands clutched to her deluxe walker, her son, his step-son, a few steps behind. After introductions, she promptly sat next to her husband, a tiny person herself. Oversized glasses, round expressive eyes, quick to grin and chuckle, a happy spirit. Before we repeated our names, our familial ties to this venerable gathering, the two were kissing, looking like precious valentines, teen-aged sweethearts."Wait until they sit on the couch out in the living room," their son informed us."They can't get enough of each other, holding hands under a blanket." An elongated roll of the eyes. Forty-five years married, she approaching ninety-six , him eighty-nine and both sporting walkers. I stole a glance at my husband. There is hope for us!

We were mere babies when we married forty-one years ago, first held hands on the zoo train at Halloween, no walkers in the house and as of this breath our story is not yet over. I was eager to know their tale, hungry to hear words pronouncing enduring love through wrinkles, arthritis, bad knees and hips, mistakes and failures. Loss of that invincible self who controls everything yet nothing at all. As we made our departure, walking to the front door, just like son said, there they sat on the sofa huddled together with a red-and-blue plaid cover folded over their laps. A security blanket. I knew I had stumbled upon a gift, breathing in sweet fragrance of adoration, a love so strong that age and distance cannot quench. And hands that cling tightly, lovingly, refusing to surrender to circumstances, they must have loved wild brave.

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage."

~Lao Tzu~

Wearing Your Brave In The City

"The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time."

~Abraham Lincoln~
 

 I used to be afraid to fly in an airplane. I had my first panic attack in church. Thoughts of hosting a Thanksgiving Dinner would propel me into high anxiety, frequent trips to restroom. Recently, my daughter and I flew across the country to meet the newest member of our family. When children grow up, move away,  raise families of their own, seeing their beloved face trumps dread of skating with the clouds. And anticipation of cradling elfin grandson in the crook of loving arms, this image stamped across my brain, this yearning for the pristine, unblemished, it has flown with me over the years. Much like an invisible friend who shares your affinity for crystalline conversation. With family, moments take flight of their own, a web of beautiful, liberating acceptance.

 During this trip, we all made our way into D.C., trekked along the sidewalk together, holding up umbrellas to ward off rain showers. We visited Smithsonian Museum, ooh-ed and aah-ed with granddaughter over multiple Nemo look-a- likes in pristine glass tank. She found a few. She spotted Dory. Joy spilled over, caressed the clear glass.

Baby boy slept, oblivious of all that mirth. Hope diamond showed off its glittery splendor. And the final destination, reason for our trip into the city, the Lincoln Memorial, where thousands of Christians were gathering to pray. For the city, for the church, for the world. For our own wayward selves.

I took a seat on a nearby bench, daughter-in-law and baby boy soon joined and as the worship music played, singing pulsed through all that political and historical atmosphere. Voices joined together, Korean, American, African American, Chinese, Hispanic and more. Surveying the mammoth crowd, an epiphany swirled through my mind; this mega church gathering is ageless in its certainty, an organic sanctuary; Abraham Lincoln would be pleased. We yearned for a wedge of they sky. Let Heaven come. Please. Thank you. During this assemblage, a kind-eyed news reporter made his approach, could he ask me some questions? I darted a swift glance at daughter-in-law who was nursing baby boy. I did not wash my hair today! She is nursing! Hushing my own wayward self, tugging on my brave, I turned to the gentleman with ABC stitched onto his jacket and said Yes. Later when family asked me what what I had said, I answered truthfully, "I don't have a clue." But I don't have panic attacks in church anymore.

We viewed the segment on television later in the day, my name and city of residence announced, the interview edited, most likely catering to vast audience. I wondered at how those pregnant clouds held their bellies tight for ninety whole minutes. I thought about our hurting world and neon-colored fish, how in midst of uncertainty and darkness he reaches down, offering fresh glimpses of light. And my ears pinned on that one word  the reporter coaxed from this grandmother's heart. The words that eclipsed bad hair, my daughter-in-law's possible momentary discomfort. My inward fear of failing.

Yes, I have Hope.


Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark
~George Iles~

 

A Time For Everything

Fall morning air blanketed the city, sweaters retrieved from drawers, closets. Morning sun gleamed through front windshield, an energy pill for the Northwest spirit. As I made my way down 82nd Ave, I glanced right and left, recognizing the changes in landscape. This an avenue I've traversed since the year I turned sixteen and my brother taught me the rudiments of driving a car.

 

He had me turn in circles, brake, practice red light green light. The knob on the dashboard used for rock'n'roll music, The Beatles, Steppenwolf. He instructed me in the parking lot of Bazaar Department Store. The store is no longer there, along with many other businesses that collectively store up memories for us who have lived on this side of town for eons. It's not a long stretch of forever change, but enough that my mind swirled as I drove, noticing one after another, buildings replaced, some dilapidated, others gone for a number of years already. Change is good and so are recollections that bring an affectionate smile, parting a wrinkle or two. Did I really wear only black that Christmas at Lipman's, me a high-schooler working the counter in the infant clothing section? And now Walmart holds court in same patch of land? The Eastgate Theatre now a church, built when I was in grade school. How can that be? 

 

Maybe it was the brightness of the day, the freedom of the moment, or the past rendering itself present, it caused a swell inside, those grateful reflections that give tender pause to the moment. And just as the color of leaves convert to majestic reds and blazing oranges in Autumn, I know nothing remains the same and the Bible is right; there is a season for everything.

 

Time is so precious that it is dealt out to us only in the smallest possible fractions--a tiny moment at a time. ~Irish Proverb~

When the past surrenders itself to the possibility of now; a transaction takes place, and a metamorphosis transpires. Freedom takes flight.

In the heart of any real change is the desire to always do your best for God.

Reaching for the light always involves a choice; embrace what is now, letting go of what used to be.

 

Maybe it's all about noticing the changes, continually thanking God for all that went before, then taking that next step, boldly entering the new season in awestruck wonder.

 

There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under the heavens.

~Solomon~

 

 

 

How To Be You Bravely

She shared with me her various workout routines; step class, spinning, weights, elliptical and stationary arm machine. Sweat branded her upper lip. I have known this fellow gymmie for a number of years, a woman around my own age, another person sharing my affinity for fitness. I waited for the familiar patrolling groan, that inward voice intoning, you-need-to-try-harder, you-have-to-be-perfect-or-you-will-fail-fast. Studying this woman's face, I listened intently, nodding my head in encouragement. "I'm not competing, I'm not trying to build huge muscles. I do it to maintain good health," she added. My left foot cramped and low back shot tight. Smiling, I affirmed the good work she was doing, all the while I waited for that competitive inner shout to affix itself to those moments. To whine and complain of the injustice of it all, like after getting a super-bad haircut. As she stepped away I clicked on my iPod, readying to stretch, searching for a song to drown out that sure-to- surface nagging noise. The clock on the wall, it told me that minutes had passed since our conversation. A pregnant pause. Then it struck like a majestic blazing orange sunrise stretching wide across eastern horizon, kissing the bleary-eyed on morning commute. The voice was silent. Inaudible.Voiceless. Powerless. Punching the volume button higher on iPod, I began to hum along, sing even. And a song by Kutless, it played across across my mind same as the other day, winging a message from above, reminding me of the ugly beautiful, those circumstances which require me to muscle up all the thanks I can, in everything. "Even if the healing doesn't come, and life falls apart, and dreams are still undone, you are God, you are good, forever faithful one, even if the healing doesn't come..."

 I have asked a plethora of times for Him to remove my pain, to take away the hurt and limitations. To make me new again, undo what has been done. But perhaps in these recent years and moments, the unanswered questions and in this thing, He is in reality teaching me to Unlearn. To put on the Brave and create a new normal. Give thanks even in this. Wearing my Brave transfigures the ugly beautiful, unleashes supernatural power to transform the unbearable. Searching for the good when I would rather utter a grievance. A cocoon for hard life. So I unhinge an old thought, fight for the light, letting go of what this thing should be. Practice your brave. Listen for the silence. A new normal will find you, one courageous, crazy choice at a time.

~God does not allow pain, unless something new is being born.~

All The Light We Cannot See

We had waited for this news since our nephew shared at Christmas his desire to propose to his girlfriend. The specially crafted ring, gold melted down from a Krugerrand he received after my mother-in-law died. She hid the coins in an antique hope chest, later discovered by my husband as he cleaned out cupboards, closets, anything with a pocket. We waited through the summer, time waned and the sun now rises lazily, sets too quickly. On Labor Day his text message appeared on our cellphones. He wanted to share before family took that swipe on iphone, ipad, clicked black mouse on desktop and set hungry eyes on stunning ring. We told my father-in-law who was seated in a comfortable blue lawn chair during our picnic at Sauvie's Island, reminded him of his connection to this grandson. He nodded, seemingly understanding yet I knew that tired brain of his had not heard at all, that when my mother-in-law died, certain neurons in his brain disappeared, trailing after her like an upside down question mark. Her name he still mentions and it ricochets off four white walls, informing us she must be in the bathroom, the hall or kitchen of his Foster Home. I gaze at the photograph again of beautiful ring on Facebook and I hear my mother-in-law's hearty German laugh, and the accent she never lost still hums fresh in my ears, a melodious memoir. Did you ever think one of your hidden coins would bring such joy? That love would triumph, tunneling its way through that dark wooden space, ensconced it was and now shining free. As I reflected on this past week; our future niece, the familial thread of love embedded in gold, of how our minds can lose elasticity with loss and aging, I wondered at the marvelous process of renewal. And with the birth of our newest grandson in same week, a name we had waited patiently to discover, a tiny body delivered thousand miles away from Oregon, I said, thank you for future generations, healthy babies and electronic devices with HD.

"Whatever we are waiting for-peace of mind, contentment, grace, the inner awareness of simple abundance-it will surely come to us, but only when we are ready to receive it with an open and grateful heart." ~Sarah Ban Breathnach~

Waiting is hard life. I am eager for the wedding. Five weeks until I hold baby boy, kiss creamy perfect skin. But an elderly demented man, a German woman who clutched money tight, a nephew who loves big, a newborn grandson I've yet to hold,  they all teach me that thanking for now is the bride of possibility. And all this time of waiting, of incubating, maybe it's simply God's way of protecting our eyes from all the light we cannot yet see.

That Perfect Day

 

As my sixtieth birthday drew near, so did tension between celebrating life and hiding behind latest edition of AARP Magazine. A tug-of-war in which only one can win. When we placed our 2014 calendar on the wall, I quickly flipped through the months, searched for the date, promptly asked for the day off at work. I cannot work on my sixtieth birthday! Through the ensuing year I racked my brain to come up with a perfect adventure, something out of normal routine, daring even. And every time I thought of just the right activity, the perfect adventure, a blissfully relaxing spa, a part of me erased the plan like a child holding one of those black chalkboard erasers, takes an elongated swipe. I sneezed through haze of dust as all those perfect adventures disappeared, my mind drew blank. So I began again, this crazy search for commemorating sixty years of  life, of taking a zillion divergent breaths. While ruminating about getting it perfect, about staring into the golden years with smudged lenses, somewhere in midst of this mental tugging fest, the crazy beautiful found me; ushered me right into the next chapter.

 A number of days before my birthday, I received a piece of mail from South Dakota. Real mail, with a stamp. Pulling out white sheet of paper tucked inside a birthday card, my friend's beautiful cursive handwriting penned her greetings, on both sides of the paper. I read it three times. Slow.

Co-workers shared love, gifts and surprises, sprinkles of joy brushed my desk, my heart. Thoughts of my perfect adventure began to take hold of me, a full moon illuminating the way, the glittery stars nodding in assent. Jesus, His heart pinging cacophony of approval and I laid it all down. The angst, the fear of the number of days I might have left, am I doing enough, it faded, bowed down to perfect now. And I pocketed the time already lived like a child fingers treasured last bite of candy tucked deep down inside material, savoring what's left.

 

  

 

We drove on that perfect day to Hood River, walked slowly through gardens, bathed in favorite scent of lavender, and the breath it expelled out happy all over glorious field. We snapped pictures, leisurely, joyfully. Click, click, click. We found a local bookstore, browsed through beloved books, touching the covers because I could, marvelous smell of creativity wafted throughout the store, followed me out the door.

There was more to follow after that perfect day, more than I could have orchestrated, more than I could have planned or purchased. Celebrating with family and friends, community which often scares me but on that other perfect day, Gratitude ransomed all my angst over growing older, over performance and perfection. Slipping on a new pair of lenses, sight now sharp and clear, the tug-of-war was over.

 

 

And I knew that this outrageously, courageous attitude that sings me joy, will surely, truly, grant me more Joy in next years to come. For on that other perfect day sitting on beautiful table waiting to be received, a gift to behold and He winked at me grand.

 

 

Joy, unspeakable joy, it rises in the soul, it never lets you go,

 on any given day.

 

Thank you.

 

 

A Tea Party On The Fourth Of July

 

Recently I re-visited the past in a most surprising way. It happens like that, the past sneaking up  unexpectedly, like when you first notice your child's pair of eyes, deep set and crystal blue, a mirror image of your own parent. During the Fourth of July while eagerly waiting for dusk to settle in, our blond boy grandson grew a bit antsy. In an attempt to keep two small boys occupied, I retrieved an old gem from the cupboard. While I brushed off the dust, daughter asked, "Where did you get that?" A nostalgic pause. Memories of Drive-In movies, us with grape Kool-Aid stamping upper lips, hide-and-go-seek with neighborhood kids well into inky darkness, a house humming with chaos. I loved this tea set and I had hoped you would too. "Oh, I played with this when I was little." Lifting the lid I surveyed the contents of the box. Daughter did not remember this set, the only toy besides Barbie's I saved from childhood, this treasure of mine that escaped Goodwill runs, garage sales, moves and husband's cleaning frenzies. Separating old faded tissue, I inhaled fresh waves of grace, a spiritual nudge from above. The boys exclaimed happy, dug into the fragile, and clinked sea-blue glass stamped with Made in Japan on the white bottom. A breath lodged in my throat. Oh no! Don't break it please! Please don't ruin my precious dishes! However, witnessing pure bliss pasted on those creamy faces and my daughter's joy, the pent-up breath released into all that surrounding exuberance. After placing my order for black tea which blond boy served up as vanilla, I  rested in the moment, watching this next generation enjoy a thread from my youth. How did it survive unscathed after all these years? This protected box housing childhood gift, this cherished piece of childhood, I marveled at the wonder of such pleasure.

 

 

The next day, stooping over to put the dishes away, I noticed two words stamped on the front of the box. They jumped, shimmied, cart-wheeled right off the cardboard, an epiphany to unwrap. My childhood God watched me sternly, judged every move, wagged a finger at mistakes, spelled perfection in capital letters.

 

Looking long and hard at those black capitol letters, all bold yet gentle, the epiphany, it slowly began to unwrap, one opaque tissue at a time. Two words, a nod from heaven, a yes to quaking fears. Hand Decorated. Not my quaking hand, not the foreign hand from Japan. His hands, they paint pretty over all the sticky messiness, they heal, tending to the scars, tenderly replacing fear with love and acceptance, brush-strokes of promise. And the past has a way of forgiving itself. Over time, beautiful flashes exquisite from within, all adorned in grace, the colors designing precious, all humble and thankful hearts ping outward, thank you, thank you. Practicing kindness, unveiling the precious, to self and mankind.

 

Maybe it's when the past sits down right in front of you, conjuring up recollections of that person you used to be, the one whose hand quivered while pouring, could that be the moment? I began to carefully put everything back in the box, and for a few elongated moments, I paused in the memory. And that young girl whose fist clamped tight, who loved this toy, she helped put away blue dishes, reminded me to loosen grip on tiny glass handle, bowing into the precious.

 

I would like to have more tea parties with my grandchildren, watch them tussle over cups and eat cookies, splaying crumbs fun, unrestrained, playful joy. And if they uncover a toy from their own past one day, may their reminisces sing sweet, grown hands all steady, preciously cloaked in His grace. 

 

 

 

Who Goes Before You?

What do we leave behind for the next generation and those that follow? What sort of memories will they clutch dear, re-visit at random times? What photographs will never fade or diminish in quality, so precious they will always be. The words we speak, will they be quoted, imprinted into future minds like a favorite refrain? I thought about this while picking raspberries yesterday in our back yard. Reaching deep into the bramble, I gently plucked a ripe berry from its stem, leaving behind the not-quite-reddish ones, they needed more time. Time and all the nuances the word entails filtered through my thoughts and I know I'm not alone with these ponderings. Thoughts of my oldest niece in her youth, many years ago she picked the berries for me, perched on a ladder to reach the highest. We don't need a ladder now, the bushes have somehow shrunk in height, causing me to stretch my spine taller, measuring myself against time. Husband and I continued our task, him, reaching low, allowing me the easier job. I thought about our old neighbor, how I always remembered to gift him with a container, he loved raspberries and I missed him all over again, as if he were leaning on his shovel, white hair gone askew, taking a break from hard yard work. I thought about who planted the tender shoots, watered and cared for, enjoying summer's harvest and they both now are gone. Carrying a large half-filled Tupperware container inside, the memories, they danced in my mind like a ballerina pirouetting in soft satin slippers, grace abundant. Maybe approaching a mile-stone birthday has caused this reflection, realizing that time passes for everyone and how to spend the moments? George Denison Prentice wrote: "Memory is not so brilliant as hope, but it is more beautiful and a thousand times more true." Maybe it's more about making the memories, shifting current time into creating tender and unforgettable remembrances. To slow, in the moments, in the mind, in the hurriedness and madness of living. Carefully measuring the moments, like the miniature hour-glass grandson's received from the dentist, grains of sand count the minute, but the minute is counted slowly. Perhaps it doesn't matter who planted the raspberries, or what container is used to house the ripest, or even if grandson plucks the green ones believing they taste delicious. Can I truly set another pace, revering time rather than the racing against? Can the moments be processed like black-and-white photographs; images and scenes developed gradually, snippets of the whole picture revealed in diverse shades of gray, delightful it is to witness the unfolding. I have a store box of memories to keep me company, and like a jewelry box filled with gold and silver most of them involve people. I hear voices and laughter, songs and jokes, faded photographs, curled at the edges. I see writing in old cursive and books with names on inside, thoughtful dedication. And I see a moment now without pretense and haste, where berries conjure moments of unfathomable grace.

A Sea of Hope

He thought he might see a whale, or maybe a shark or two, unblinkingly grandson announced before we made our way to the Oregon Coast. Oh the mind of a child where plethora of possibilities exist true, where innocence and imagination infuse the small frame with life-pumping hope. I nodded a yes, all the while my eyes pinned on that ring of hope a child so easily grasps. At the beach that weekend there was not a whale or shark sighting. No great leaps of mammoth black-and-white shapes arcing above cold, salty ocean blue. No gray sharks swimming laps around unsuspecting fisherman.
"But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have?" We don't know where the path will lead, but we know the One who paves the way, and this everlasting hope never disappoints.

A fisherman stood on a small hill above the sand, dipping a mammoth wand into liquid concoction, blowing translucent bubbles into early morning atmosphere. Me, I wanted to keep walking at our steady pace, uninterrupted, stepping away from this delightful display. Husband, he pulled his iPhone from his coat pocket and ushered me right into the tiny miracle. Hope, it moves into the moment like a silent dance partner.

This boy who wanted to see whales and sharks, he found something else instead. A castle made of sand, a feather, and random sea shells. And a father who never gave up hope on crafting something beautiful out of the ordinary.  

We stop to notice, to focus, and in the midst of the grit and the mundane, we smile knowingly, and take the next step a little more hopefully.

 

And sometimes, all it takes to lift the weary spirit, to garner one more breath, is unbridled hope emanating from the beautiful eyes of another.

 

Everything that is done in the world is done by hope.

~Martin Luther~

 

 

 

 



Let it Go

She knew the lyrics, the refrain anyway, her voice rising in pitch, lowering as she stumbled over words her three-year-old self had not yet mastered. This mega-hit from the movie Frozen, granddaughter intoned still strums through my psyche since we returned from Virginia. "Let it go, let it go! Can't hold it back anymore. Let it go, let it go! Turn away and slam the door..." The queen in the film, she has special icy powers and sings in freedom, her powers now unrestrained, unfettered. Granddaughter carried this tune with her in the car, on the sofa, at play and at rest. An uninhibited a capella.

 Those three words, they plague me, and I confess, I have a difficult time of letting it go. There are many things I clutch dear, even though songs and God remind us otherwise. My Hood to Coast grayish sweatshirt from 1999, I still don at night when chill seeps in. Welfare of my family, children, grandchildren, I fervently pray every day their hearts will never stray, and they will always be happy, healthy, never hurt. The Kardashians, how it troubles me they are everywhere and why is this so?  Even habits and attitudes cling like a small child's arms to mother's strong neck. Afraid to let go of the past, afraid to let go of judgements, afraid to let go of desire to control, afraid to let family wing it alone. I chewed on those three words, really let this conviction sink soul deep, down to the root of my own resistance to truly let it go. Maybe the whole of this life is a process of letting go, of re-framing the past, of trying on new ideas, how do they fit and are they liberating? Perfectionism, another word for yesterday, it might not fit well, and maybe the new life within is indeed for today. Little girls, Princesses they already are and that is unshakable truth. Let them  hope big, chant and dress their beautiful selves in sequins and pink flowing gowns. Glittered tiara, crown of glory.

Their eyes focus on the beautiful, on possibility, on the liberating idea that letting go is in reality, letting in.

Letting in the light, a brilliant practice, illuminating, exquisite anecdote to fear.

And if the light blazes too bright, shield eyes momentarily, but only until the breath is caught, then let it go and continue that redeeming hunt for more glory. For every act of release is in itself, a triumphant hallelujah.

Oh, the Places You'll Go!

My mother, she loved nature. She loved digging in the dirt, grew anything that took root, and she loved just to be outdoors. She was born a Prairie woman living in the wrong century. Gardening and weeds I understood, Bonsai plants and rose bushes, they are beautiful. The birds though, I never comprehended her fondness for birds. They flew away too fast, hard to spot in a tree, and most of all, took her attention away from me. By the time she lived on a farm I was a young mother and our visits most precious--it was time with my mother. And when six-year-old daughter of mine got bit by a chicken, her fear of birds grew wings for life. Mine, it festered, this idea that all mothers need to be perfect, joyful regardless, attentive and loving. Every moment. Every day. Now, after all these years, I get her. And I am getting God. Is there any higher form of love than choosing to embrace the truth? All is Grace. All is Good. All is Forgiven. Mothers are not perfect and I like that idea, it liberates the spirit and all is free.

When my husband told me the name of our vacation destination this year, Chincoteague Island, I wondered at the possibilities for exploration and sight-seeing. Is it safe for granddaughter? Will we have enough to do? Are there any decent coffee shops? Once we arrived, settled in, shook off travel dust, I took a look around. And for the next three days, I kept on looking. For birds. Specifically, Northern Cardinal.

I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought, and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder. ~Gilbert Keith Chesterton~

And I thank Him for the beautiful, the past mirrored in present, Him understanding that I too, love birds. The wonder, it bubbles inside and I can't get enough.

Once the past is laid to rest, all dirt swept away, the flying high, it begins as promised. The hoping to be loved, it rings right true, and the wings they fan out, unfettered and free.

 

Hope, the thing that perched deep down in young mother's soul, it never gave up, it whispered in the dark, beckoned faltering steps forward. One step, one moment, one breath at a time.

My mother, she loved birds. My mother, she was imperfect. My mother, she was rightly loved.

 

Oh, the places you will go! You will be on your way up! You will be seeing great sights! You'll join the high fliers who soar to high heights You won't lag behind, because you'll have the speed. You'll pass the whole gang and you'll soon take the lead. Wherever you fly you'll be the best of the best. Wherever you go, you'll top all the rest.

Except when you don't, because sometimes you won't. ~Dr. Seuss~

 

 

 

 

After The Clouds Pass By

It has been said that every cloud has a silver lining. After messy, unexpected, and distressing moments and days pass, shafts of light will break through, releasing those pent-up breaths, limbs go loose. A few weeks ago our daughter had emergency surgery. "I'm in such pain," she said that day. "This hurts bad!" And those words seared right through to that mama place that still wants to fix-it. Fix everything. Forever. Take away anguish and all that causes pain, since both my children graced our life I simply wanted to protect them from harm. A mother's shelter where door never closes. A scraped knee, nasty bad ex-boyfriend, migraines and marital spats I want to wing it all and nestle children under loving sanctuary. Like any crisis we do the doing and when it eases up a bit emotions start chattering, and the noise I heard the day after her surgery reminded me that I might be a grandma, but in the beginning, I was mama. This grandma epiphany caused  tears to snake down cheeks right there in the gym. I still want to fix. It. All. And the song emanating through ear buds, stark-real love proclaiming His great grace, I swiped damp eyes. I might still want to shelter our adult children and yes, I want to run wild scared when they share hard pain and I know now instead of running I stand wild scared and do the doing.

Only after cloud has passed can I do the crying-mama-can't-fix-this-for-you thing. Oswald Chambers says it so well: "What a revelation it is to know that sorrow, bereavement, and suffering are actually the clouds that come along with God! God cannot come near us without clouds-He does not come in clear-shining brightness." And I held the book, scanned words I had missed after reading same page numerous times, tracing pointer finger over writing both gritty and soft, like after the sanding down and all you see now is pure authentic beautiful. "Yet it is in these very clouds that the Spirit of God is teaching us how to walk by faith...Through every cloud He brings your way He wants us to unlearn something." A hospital bed under wispy cloud-cover. A mama who wants to surrender cavernous desire to fix-it-all. A God who knows it all anyway and sends those beaming rays of light right down into that scared space. I like to picture Him gloving this mama's hand while I carefully positioned Band-Aid's over child's gaping wound, listened to bleeding heart-ache, watched a baseball game go sour, and him standing alone on pitcher's mound. The cloud has passed and I feel it then, His breath fanning my face, and this grace, I inhale it slowly, knowing deep down to ruby-red pedicured toes, I really still want to fix-it-all. The light after the cloud passes, it gently reminds me this burning desire to mend it all back together is OK. But I no longer need to hold all the pieces in my own two hands. Like a child's squeal of delight blowing translucent bubbles through grass green plastic wand, unleashing beautiful; each time I let go, I am unlearning something. And that, is magnificently OK.

The Gardener

The first day of Spring, a promise it is, awakening the senses once again. Eager I am to fling open doors and windows, breathing it all in, letting all that beautiful enfold the body, like baby's soft blanket. This renewal, glorious blooming season, it sends ripples of pastel hope into winter weary bones.

 

 

 

Pausing to inhale wafting scent of Daphne, my mind spins backward to the house I grew up in. Smells trigger memories and I know when I catch that rich scent, my spirit revives, I am that young girl again and what better way to enter into the next season of life than this? To take that next step, boldly into the promise. Much like the daffodils, we rise with light, and light penetrates our roots, nourishes the soul and beauty multiplies. And as we step, stealing all the little joys we can, pointing each other towards flashes of light, our load lightens, each step a bit braver, each choice made a little easier. As Henri Nouwen wrote: "The reward of choosing joy, is joy itself." Cultivate joy, release that which no longer nourishes, watch as beauty expands.

 

 

Our bed of daffodils began as only a few. Through the years they multiplied, creating splashes of color, blissful tonic for sun-starved souls. And as spring blooms in promise, days stretch longer, casting out chilly gloom, I liken myself to the budding flowers all around.

 

The Gardener, he tenderly plants his seeds, waters and fertilizers the soil. He breathes life into the budding shoots. Then one day he sees a brilliant golden-yellow bloom atop an elongated verdant- green stem. He is greatly pleased. A few years later, he grins joy, he sings joy; he follows the multitude of glorious with eyes blazing white as the beautiful diffuses all that dark soil. He cries happy all over the flower bed.

 

By using my brave, by risking the unfurling, the garden will grow, one joyful choice at a time. It's a promise.

 

 

"Trust God where you cannot trace Him; Do not try to penetrate the cloud He brings over you, rather look to the bow that is on it. The mystery of God's promise is yours.

~John MacDuff~

 

Love's Golden Promise

They say that the streets of Heaven are paved in gold. A magnificent sunrise steals our breath away, all tinged in golden hues. A wedding band, love's golden promise. Recently, I took a much needed rest from playing monster with twin boys and laid down on carpeted floor, begging off another round. Grandma needs to rest her achy back. Brown-haired boy laid down next to me, proceeded to play with my hair, fanning out carefully dyed strands, and I am all young again that girl who wore long pony-tails and the perfect flip. An elongated yawn and I broke the moment.
Grandma you have gold!
What are you talking about?
Open your mouth.
Oh, these are grandma's fillings that you see. My teeth needed protection.
You have gold! In your mouth! And he grinned.
Those two gold fillings I forgot, much like the Novocaine and dreaded drilling. I ponder those three words little boy uttered, they hang about my thoughts, creep into quiet time, a fluttering moth around burning light. If only I could see the gold inside, witness the glistening color, how beautiful it shines under bands of light. And I wonder at the overflowing joy grandson spoke into my heart, how believing in the gold, the steadfast truth of our human goodness and we all have shimmering gold inside. A miracle it is, this beauty that outshines all that looming darkness, the recriminations, faults and habits that stay strung on same clothesline. Through frozen winter. I cling to those three words, a blazing- orange life preserver vest clipped to shaky frame while taking those faltering steps, out onto the water, an anthem for the soul.
A few days ago, blond-haired boy made an amazing discovery.
Grandma you have gold!
I know and so do you. I breathed happy.
I don't have any gold like you.
Yes, you do. And it is very beautiful.
Maybe the miracle, it's not so much about discovering beauty within, but the courage it takes to share it. To spread all that grace, winging it to those He places along your path. To little boys who speak innocence, to a world that desperately needs to hear the truth. Joy, unspeakable joy.

I wish you all the joy that you can wish.

~William Shakespeare~



I Wanna Hold Your Hand

The week before Valentine's, arctic cold slammed down on Portland. This uncommon snow gift offered a chance to play, to slow, to capture those precious moments. Like a news reporter looking for a fresh angle to the story, I strapped my camera over shoulder and pointed the lens at all this white joy.

At times in life it feels too hard to let go. The unknown, it looms dark and scary, painful, the holding on, clinging, it feels right and true. Like a favorite pair of faded pajamas, bottoms all frayed. Comfortable, cozy, relaxing even.

But when the hands loosen tight grip, oh what a wild ride it is, and the eyes focus clear and you catch sight of Him in front, going ahead, always in the lead. Beckoning with outstretched hands. Waiting. Patiently.

 

The view alters when I dare to look up. Perspectives, visions, choices change as the next faltering step propels feet forward.

 

And when ice storm threatens power, safety, children at play, I hunt for a sign from Him, a love note that He instant-messages, time after time. An epistle from above, a coaxing from the unknown.

This old Dogwood tree, its branches cloaked in chilly ice, He wrote a special note that day. The Christmas lights dangling down around lamp post. A bit messy, green string almost forgotten, until the ice and wind exposed that strand of white lights.

 

I thought about that. Those Christmas lights in February. In all the uncertainty, the messy and hard, He is chipping away at the frozen heart, exposing transparent layers of light. And ice chunks fell from tree branches, bird feeders, telephone wires. Gracefully, lovingly, painfully, chipping away. His arms holding us tenderly while we groan audibly from stretch marks, He wipes damp brow. The breaths come easier with each truth unveiled, groans giving birth to glory.

 

 

His hand, it reaches to the ends of the earth, into the clutter, melting all doubts. Isn't this what the Beatles sang fifty years ago to American audiences? The ancient message, its captivating, scary, liberating invitation. My legs trembled love. I hummed like a nine-year-old girl perched in front of black-and-white television, oblivious to the future that was already placed in His capable hands. The unknown, it has a way of braving you in.

 

"Oh yeah, I'll tell you something, I think you'll understand, When I'll say that something, I wanna hold your hand, I wanna hold your hand..."

  

 

The knowledge that we are never alone calms the troubled sea of our lives and speaks peace to our souls.

~A.W. Tozer~