A Joyful Thanksgiving

Our dentist, he asked if I was under stress, experiencing anxiety, did I want to try meditation, prayer. Me, on the other end of the phone with eyebrows furrowed and thoughts circling over the past few weeks while he continued with his diagnosis of my jaw pain. Have you watched the news? Do you know we put our dog to rest?Are you sure my recent dental work isn't the real culprit? As he continued in his explanation my back fired hot, I shifted in the chair, with a heart crunching on his words. How can one clench and not know it? Does clenching mean trust is buried beneath all that worry? I thanked my dentist for his help and hung up, lingering doubt shadowing my thoughts like a Star magazine at check-out.

Earlier that day I helped four-year-old grandson decorate a felt vest for Thanksgiving celebration. Like the Native Americans wore only this one gave me fright as the teacher handed my daughter and I sewing needles. Panic rifled through my chest. As if the elfin chairs and miniature tables weren't enough to test my brave, flared-up back pain and jaw discomfort took second place behind my fumbling fingers with a needle and thread. My mother was gifted true with a sewing machine, all those spools of thread and transparent patterns. I shivered at the sight of the apparatus in motion. Stealing quick glances at a young gentleman and son across the small table fueled my increasing anxiety. Over there, on their own brown vest I noticed beautifully arrayed pattern of multi-colored buttons, beads and on the back? A craftily drawn portrait of a figure which I didn't recognize, what with all that spinning going in in my head. My daughter figured out how to work her needle and thread, the room hummed with creativity, sparks of imagination illuminated the festive atmosphere. And as grandson concentrated hard, carefully coloring a forest green sun in between the stencil pattern, I sewed the end of a blazing orange feather onto the vest. After securing the thread, praying the feather would hold on until Thanksgiving, I scanned the room, fixing my gaze on Joy.

So when my dentist asked me those piercing questions later that day, I knew it to be true. Stress and pain holds it grip and this crazy terror causes fear to snake up the spine. But underneath all the uncertainties there lies a restful secret. Fear and faith can wrestle tough, long strands of slender thread and shiny silver needles might brand the eyebrow with glistening sweat. With eyes hunting for Joy right there, in the midst of the chaotic moment, enfolding yourself into the right true peace of bumbling seamstress, of dentists who might not see everything and behold the infinite Joy, now. Look for it, it's all around our earthly frames, this gift of His inexhaustible Joy, dancing circles beneath our grateful feet.

~Be Joyful, pray continually, give thanks in all things~

A Matter Of Time

I listen to her story, this friend of mine who grieves big. Such unthinkable hard she is walking through, trudging really. I listen intently, she has a gaping wound to share, a bleeding heart and I have nothing to give but myself in these moments. She mourns for a brother who was fatally shot at his home. Only eight minutes after he confirmed church and breakfast with his parents on the phone. Why? He had asked this neighbor to drive slower down their street. Disbelief passes across her features as she speaks the words, eight minutes she says, just eight minutes after he spoke to his parents he was gone.

What can we do with our lives in eight minutes?

I leave the gym, turn on the wipers, bow my head against the cool steering wheel. I think about loss, how only moments earlier I had swiped my own tears away while stretching on the gym floor. Our beloved dog put to rest this week and the missing him washes over us. Please God, please massage the sad in our hearts. And I sit in the car and think about my friend and how five months later she weeps, eyes glisten grief for the brother now gone.

Later I walk to the mail box and glance at the neighbors tree. And I remember to count again, yes in the midst of this sorrow the orange-tinged dancing leaves, they wink hope, and I see, I see. Thank you. I see the beauty right here in front of me. These are a few of my favorite things and I thank you. Opening a beige colored envelope I see the animals on the front of a card. The message inside is written in ink, a missive of sympathy from our vet. A kindness he says, it was a kindness to let him go. My eyes well once again as they have all week and I think of my friend and her brother shot so senselessly. Missing is hard life and time will heal but you have to catch up to the time. 

In eight minutes I can write a card to someone who needs a touch, a kind word to lift the the weary spirit. Drop it in the mailbox at the curb.

In eight minutes I can stop my busyness, cross the street, chat with an elderly neighbor.

I pray for my friend and her family, for the loss and the hurting that might never end.

And in eight minutes I can thank Him over and over again, for that wellspring of restoring hope that never ever truly ends.

A Requiem For A Ring

My husband and I married in 1973, us two, high school sweethearts who wed one year after graduation. Babes in the woods. The same year Elton John crooned "Daniel", and the price of a gallon of gas, 40 cents. Our nights cruising around the Speck Drive-In in the past, we had a life to build now in the city of our births. Much has changed since that year long ago; computers and iPhones, Facebook and Twitter, rush hour traffic at two in the afternoon, Amazon and eBay. How can this be? Where has the time gone? There are too many TV channels to choose from! How does this happen? When the past and present co-mingle in the same millisecond and you click the mouse on your computer while humming a refrain from "Hey Jude". And when you recall an old television show at work, the only co-workers who nod in nostalgic agreement are the ones who color over their gray and  read up on Medicare enrollment. Change is good. Change is slow. Change is inevitable.

A few years ago my wedding ring showed aging signs. And after it started to catch on clothing and the two bands threatened separation I took it for repairs. For the first time since our engagement, my ring finger was bare. But when the salesperson lifted the ring from the canary-gold envelope my toes tickled happy. I gazed in awe at this shiny golden adornment. Slipping it on my finger I wondered at the longevity of this wedding token and how a jeweler could transform the broken into the majestic. I studied the intricate lines etched into the linked bands, the now shimmery diamonds and glistening gold. After a moment I paused, inhaled slow, my thoughts hijacked by an image of LaRog jewelers, to that store commanding the street corner where we purchased our rings all those years ago. This isn't my ring! It's gorgeous but not the same. I want my ring from 1973! Slowly, ever so carefully, I slipped the ring from my finger and made my plea. "My ring had antiquing in the grooves. It must have rubbed off during the restoration." Politely I asked, "Would you please fix it?" The manager apologized, returned it to the jeweler who converted the ring back to its former glory.

Lately I've wondered if that is what God does for us. Maybe he sees the glistening gold deep down inside our wayward hearts and He brims over with everlasting joy at each baby step we take towards His light and truth. And perhaps every now and then our evolving selves need an illuminating brushstroke or two of his  magnificent, restoring grace. One step, one change, one revelation at a time.

To the degree you experience God loving you as His Beautiful

You will be changed into Beautiful

Why I Need A Superhero

I clap my hands several times, pause to see if he heard the call. He looks toward the street, I clap again. His head turns toward the sound this time, he angles his thin frame my way and pads slow, ever so slow, a sway mostly. And when he is in within reach I bend down, rub the bony crown of his head, look into those rheumy eyes, his face all gray, this fifteen-year-old beloved dog of ours. His fluffy tail wags happy.

One month ago we believed him near death and our sad heavied our steps throughout the house, the yard, at work. I lamented to friends, they listened and cared deep. On the advice of our neighbor we started feeding him hot dogs, anything to get him to eat. He lapped them up from our palms. My husband now cooks hamburger and rice, vegetables make nice color, and he serves up the feast on a Spider-Man three-slotted dinner plate. Our grandsons haven't stole the plate back, they love our dog big.

I think about our dog, Frazier and how we feared his imminent departure, how his sleepy frame and rapid weight loss drained our hope. And like those handmade paper airplanes winging it through the air, wobbly and often missing its mark, nosediving into a dark corner, we too lost our aim. But even though our hope grew dim and we etched out a game plan for our trip back east, He reached down, breathing fresh life into our beloved pet, if only for a time. I am all humbled once again, reminded of our true Superhero and the super-true fact that I am not in charge. I tuck that crystal ball back into the jet-black closet, close the door. I rinse off the Spider-Man plate, turn on the burner readying to make rice, and thank you I say,

for the precious time we have left.

The most important prayer in the world is just two words long: "Thank You."

~Meister Eckhart~

What To Do With Flashes Of Light

I watch the fall leaves transform into beautiful, the brilliant colors adorning the landscape, our backyard, the quaking country. I think about the tragic event in Roseburg and all the other senseless acts of violence and something churns inside. How can this be? How can it stop? It must stop! I don't have the answers so I fire them off, SOS missives for this madness to end, for peace, safety, and comfort for the grieving. Shaking off this burden like a small child laying down a heavy toy, simply too much to carry on your own, I garnered my thoughts and focused on Joy. Having just returned from vacation in Virginia, I set the mind on what matters, on life with family, on grandchildren tenderly shielded from the ugly, on story books, hot chocolate dates and pumpkins with smiley faces.

"I have to learn to "steal" all the real joy there is to steal and lift it up for others to see."

~Henri Nouwen~

Maybe the collective prayers will reach the tallest part of Heaven, the highest One who knows it all anyway. The help will come, we just don't know what it looks like yet. And like Henri Nouwen so wisely pens, "It means choosing for the light when there is much darkness to frighten me." Flashes of light they are, these "stolen" moments of joy, when the ordinary events of my life transfigure into extraordinary memories.

There is much in this world to frighten me, ripples of fear threatening the faltering footsteps. So like a reformed jewel thief on the loose, I look up and pray, Lead me to the light. But don't let me hold all that bright for myself. Point me to the needy, to whomever is on my path, shaking in all that hopeless dark.

How To Caulk The Sad

I look out at the damp ground and fallen leaves scattered on the back deck. It's coming and I am glad. Summer is ending its long hot run, fall peeking out from behind the curtain, us Oregonian's who love the seasonal change, eager for its entrance. Kitchen clock ticks the seconds and I yearn to switch the clock back to more than one hour this year. To turn the time backward, before electronic devices took us captive, before airlines charged more for less. To children playing free in the schoolyard, no guns in sight, only adolescent kids clueless to a future boxed in fear over safety.

And I see a photograph of a tiny body washed ashore, and I wonder if Heaven is weeping too?How will you answer and please help us move.

If we will not listen to the poor when they cry unto us in their need, God will not listen to us when we cry unto him in our need. 

~R.A. Torrey

It seeps into the soul this world gone mad. I read Ann Voskamp and know what I can do. I sign a petition and give where I can and their desperate faces they haunt me still. As the clock ticks and the soft rain falls from the cloudy sky, I wonder at how busy Heaven is right now and how can that be? In a world gone astray I count what I've been given, thankful for all that surrounds, in the midst of hard there is beauty, if the eyes can only see. This sad heart it leaks so I caulk the tears with gratitude. And the song I woke to this morning, it rings in my ears, it pleads with my sad to look up and say thanks.

The song from my childhood, the lyrics and melody braiding together the past and present. For these are a few of my favorite things and I kneel down under this crushing weight of gratitude. And as the clock marks the passing of time I can almost hear their voices, both seen and unseen, those angels rushing to and fro, a thousand winters melting as Heaven comes down to earth.

Love has hands to help others. It has feet to hasten to the poor and needy. It has eyes to see misery and want. It has ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of me. That is what love looks like, 

~Augustine of Hippo~

The Gift Of Rest

A mother rocks her elfin baby, this unsettled infant nestled upon her chest, she croons a lullaby and rocking chair creaks a tune of its own. Moments pass and she slowly bends an ear, the whimpering cries have ceased; she stands carefully, gently places baby in the crib, tip-toes from the brightly painted room. Both are tired, both worn thin, both need rest. 

A husband enters the front door, it's six o'clock and he kicks off his shoes, the day brutal, his job a never-ending cycle of deadlines, of frustration. He opens the refrigerator, a whoosh of cold air greets his thirst, an invitation to visit his past. His outstretched arm pauses mid-reach, a memory, a flash of what was caused him to softly close the door, the bottle inside untouched, his victory unsullied. The rest he has found envelops his tired frame, and a knowing smile washes over his face.

This elderly man, he leans against his deluxe walker, his feet moving slow but steady. A golden sun kisses his back, the spring air gently bushing his heavily lined cheek, he looks over at his wife who keeps up her own pace, twin walkers ushering the two down the sidewalk. After a few blocks they park their walkers, set the brakes, maneuver their tired old frames into position, taking a break on the cushioned seats. This old man, he steals another breath of this wild and crazy world, looks at his bride and grins wide. We found it, he says. She nods a yes, their blue-veined hands clasp, an affirmation of Truth, and they rest.

***

We traveled to the beach for my birthday this year, sixty-one years of living and breathing his glorious air. Moments of exhilarated inhales, seasons of sobbing gasping breaths, these latter years a plethora of joyful, thankful, elongated exhales. And in between all those exhausted, stale, victorious, amazing breaths we are gifted, is this invisible hand, gently caressing a shoulder, cupping a tear, carrying the afflicted. We cannot see, we forget to lean, we trod unsteady, stumble across Grace, and I keep hearing him whispering, Rest.

We want to run fast from those tsunami waves of life, we are undone, yet we stand upright and brace ourselves against the hard, how is this so? 

We do this thing called living, we take the next step together, shouldering the burdens, inching the way forward, yearning for that rest to come, all the while he radiates Grace. Our eyes shutter wide open, and that luminous glare is too beautiful, we want to run and hide. Yet our trembling hands unfurl. We look up.

Perhaps the key is guiltless play, becoming like those children he mentions so often. All innocent and trusting. Those crashing waves now stilled, foamy ripples of salt water peacefully lapping the shore, all fear has disappeared. The eyelids close softly, we say thanks.

***

Maybe when I am an old woman, my husband and I will park ourselves on a stretch of glistening sand, our two hands with skin like parchment paper will clasp with understanding.The seagulls soar above, a small baby giggles close by, her mama scoops her up, plants kisses all over that unblemished skin. And a young gentleman will stride by, purposeful yet relaxed, a bottle of ice-cold water he carries, a faint hum of a refrain wafts in the salty sea air. My husband and I, we shade or eyes against the golden sun all pregnant with promise, we nod a yes, we inhale deep into our aged lungs, together we exhale into that glorious accepting atmosphere.

We are at Rest.

How To Hold A Grace Sandwich

It's there in a majestic sunset hugging the western horizon, a slow inhale, a thoughtful pause, you remember. It's in a photograph that takes you hostage, throat constricting tight, a moment in time resurrected. It's in a song playing on your iPod, it comes and your heart says leave me be, I still have work to do.

Three weeks ago we said goodbye to my father-in-law, this old man, he passed peacefully at the age of ninety-four. During his latter years his mind grew dim, thoughts and names failed, limbs weakened and life began its slow fade. My own father suffered from Alzheimer's, I understood this loss, this dementia which robs the mind like a jewel thief, grieves loved ones as they try to navigate this new normal. It's a process, this letting go, saying good-bye without the words. Loving big, accepting what is, regardless. 

Just two days after my father-in-law passed, our family began the trek to his grandson's wedding in Montana. Hearts heavy as our loaded luggage, we journeyed the distance to celebrate this new beginning, two lives entwining, us eager to witness the celebration and gather as family. And as I flew part way to join the rest of our group, those moments in the plane, they play in my mind like a verse from a favorite Psalm, me having thought all that grief had already washed away. Him tugging heart strings, a song on my iPod, and the tears, they welled at first causing me to glance around, can anyone see my sadness?  Have angels hijacked this plane? My make-up is smudging! I swiped my eyes, turned up the volume, surrendered to the lyrics, the wafting memories. 

Grief shows itself in its own fashion, unscheduled, unrehearsed, our vulnerable selves at its glorious mercy.

And when our daughter presented all us family women, bride and granddaughter included, with necklaces crafted from my mother-in-laws old jewelry; I cradled it  in my palm, counted this a grace sandwich, a precious gift in the middle of our sad.

Maybe eyes that see from that place above and within, perhaps they behold a perfect understanding, a knowing that speaking goodbye is never the end. Sandwiched in between all that living and loss is that deep peace inside the pumping heart, I was loved, I loved, I am loved, I will always do my best to love. 

My husband, he waved happy from great heights in Montana, surrounded by beauty, family, mourning suspended in the moment. I held the camera still, wondering at all that amazing grace, hungry for another sandwich. 

And clicked.

A Fourth Of July Interlude

She comes to me around the Fourth of July. Every year. Thoughts and memories encircling my mind and heart and I pause at each one. Much like a beautiful sea shell, unbroken, embedded in a pocket of hard glittery wet sand. I see her more at this time of year, her laugh, her wise self who picked me up, brushed me off, taught me to keep the ongoing. How to bend the knee, wobbly, uncertainly, triumphantly. Her faith so big and wide I wonder at the vastness, and the day she died, her Jesus-filled self, loving all us around her, love pouring out of her dying self. A tired and worn heart giving life support one last time. I wonder at God's creativity, her being born on this day, all sparkly, brilliant displays of light, picnics, barbecues, family and friends gathering, let freedom ring.

I look at the picture of the two of us, this reminder placed on our refrigerator, a strategic sticky note to myself; love happens, love wins, you are loved big. Isn't that all there is, really? Gathering my thoughts, like a fragrant bouquet of multi-colored roses, the freshly cut kind, I garner the memories, inhaling Grace and say, Thank You.

Love has hands to help others. It has feet to hasten to the poor and needy. It has eyes to see misery and want. It has ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of me. That is what love looks like,

~Augustine of Hippo~

I have her wooden rolling pin laying behind our silver tea kettle. Borrowed from her daughter last Thanksgiving, our daughter in need and my own kitchen coming up barren. I have it still, it reminds me of her and how my knees want to straighten and stiffen tight. And how sacrifice is OK and giving truly is receiving and peace flows right freely when that scared place inside gives up the fight. And I hear the Beatles sing that old tune, her life song matching the refrain. "All you need is love, love love love." 

It's Fourth of July, Happy Birthday I say quiet. And it's the silence that greets me back, this peaceful interlude, this unfathomable Grace, unending love, overflowing Joy.

a

Heaven Come Down

I click off Facebook. Sadness washes over me. A gun and nine people, the world cries out on social media, the news, the living room. Our hearts break and mourn over one more crime, one more senseless act, another gun pointed in all the wrong directions.

Will it ever change? Can we ever go back? Are we safe now under cover of all this crazy need to be free to carry a gun like a favorite purse, a trophy of right?

Our grandson fills his mammoth squirt gun the other day, I cringe. It's OK, Grandma he says, I won't point it at anybody. I sigh relief. He and brother take turns putting out pretend fires on the plastic play structure and I breathe a bit more easy. I study their efforts and watch as the fake fire is contained, at least for the moment.

Have we gone ahead of ourselves? Can we ever return to simple, to The  Donna Reed Show, Father Know's Best? Can the children see our sadness, our disbelief? Aren't we all the same color under our skin?

I gaze out at potted flowers, the bone white impatiens and pale blue lobelia. A green finch perches on the water feature basin. Our home is a haven, our church, a sanctuary for worship and how did this happen that a gun is aimed for destruction, this freedom of rights gone wrong. I think about birthday gifts all wrapped in surprise, about guns purchased to celebrate number twenty-one and how can this be? I think about kids hunched over homework and families eating together, at the table. Talking and sharing about life, about wins and losses, hopes and dreams, teachers and friends, love and acceptance.

It's Father's Day and I wonder how his father is feeling and does he know that freedom to purchase can also be freedom to destroy? It's Father's Day and I scan the cloudy sky, searching for hope.

Is that a tear I feel in this upturned palm of mine? Do you weep for your world gone mad? Have mercy, Oh God, we need you. Heaven come down, shine your precious light on those gone astray. Lead us out of the desert, into the open palm of your loving hand.

Hope For A New Normal

I turned the nozzle on the garden hose, adjusted the setting, sprayed cool water, showering my lavender plant with liquid mana. After a week of heat, blazing sun and air conditioner usage causing intermittent power outages, watering the garden felt  luxurious. I started to move on to the hydrangea, yanked on the hose and that is when I spotted it. Almost hidden amongst those green stems, purple flowers and hovering bees. Forgetting I had placed it there, I studied the missive, wondered at how often I had turned my back on this visual, this virtual reminder that I am not the one in charge.

That when grandson's fever spiked high day after day and daughter slept in short shifts; when doctor scratched his head and Grandma wrung her hands, worry thoughts roaming free like tiny bandits on the loose. Prayers fired off to heaven above, flaming arrows of hope, and in the end with his help, it's always going to be OK.

That when beloved dog passes out, right in front of husband's alarmed eyes,and his furry body stills for two minutes, breathing naked air, yet he wakes and shakes it all off like a bath in the salty sea. Always, always, it will be all right.

That when the vet says this is serious, I watched him listening intently with that stethoscope pressed against dog's side, and he moves it around, I forgot to breathe. The diagnosis he gave, it caused alarm and new medicine and instructions gave voice to the true age of our precious animal. "He will most likely have a new normal," the vet predicted. And I wondered all week, what is normal? Is this fear of mine normal?When I forget to bend the knee, take the crisis and mold it into my own trembling hands, is that normal?  Or casting my eyes any where but on the One who knows it all anyway? 

I don't know how much longer our dog will live, days, months or years. If my grandson takes ill or the heat blasts through the city, I pray for restful breaths, trusting, seeking eyes. And if I forget to release, and the mind spins crazy wild I know the One holds it all anyway, he has it all under control, even when I forget. And maybe just maybe, with practice and abundant grace, I will awake one beautiful morning, stretch out these aging arms, whisper to the invisible with awestruck wonder, thank you for helping me wake up to this liberating new Normal. 

Far be it to me to not believe, even when my eyes can't see

And this mountain that's  in front of me
Will be thrown into the midst of the sea

How To Touch The Sky

When I was a little girl, way back when Paul McCartney stole the throbbing hearts of female teens, I tried with all my ten-year-old self to shrink tiny. I did not want to own that awkward super-sprouting growth that landed me in the back row of the church choir. My friends were shorter, I wanted to stand by their side, I wanted to fit in, so I would bend my knees under a flowing purple robe, a ruse that went unnoticed. I stood on the last riser, in the back, with all the other early bloomers. I didn't know during those yesteryear's, that God has a way of sorting things out, without my help. And what may seem abominable at the moment might actually be His way of reaching down, whispering an invitation, gently offering his capable hands to take care of the situation, the crises, the moment. I reached my full height by sixth grade, I am short and I still have this ridiculous idea that I can control anything or anyone.

Last week I struggled to secure grand boy into the car seat. You must have shot up to the silvery moon last night! His brother and he switched seats, that didn't solve the problem and he said matter-of-factly, "I am too big." I winced.

I am too tall, too ugly, too stupid, too bookish, too weak, too short, too old.

 I stood back, scanned the cloudy sky, inhaled a breath of acceptance and rode on the wings of forever. Looking him deep in those crystal blue eyes, I said with my most sincere Grandma tone, "You are just right." I stole a glance at his smaller twin brother and added, "You are perfect, both of you, just as you are right at this moment." I never got the seat buckled properly, we rode home ever so slow.

I wonder if discovering your singing voice is actually bending free. Allowing the who you are to be bigger than that nagging self inside that struggles in vain, wrestles with your beautiful awesomeness.  Bravely, humbly, most abandonly singing off-key, touching the sky wild when the knees hit the ground.

Let The Sun Shine On Mothers Day

I listen to the song, this old tune my dad liked to sing, especially in old age when life was fading slow. He knew the lyrics and always, always, the tone of his voice trilled a bit, emphasizing a word here and there, a melody that pumps life into a beating heart. Mother's Day  is near and I think of my dad. My granddaughter, I watched her this past week while we visited in Virginia, she strings a necklace around her four-year-old elfin neck. A gift from her daddy. Her creamy face glistens with happy and I bend down to read the inscription. I smile wide.  Slanted rays of light play across her precious frame, beams of gratitude, and I tell her I love the necklace, I sing her the song.

It's almost Mother's Day and I see my dad, his filmy eyes roaming the room, seeking a familiar face,  he can't quite recall a name, and he sings. 

At twin boys' Mother's Day preschool tea, the children, they stand in a crooked line, readying to sing and recite, and I retrieve my phone to capture these moments. My hand, it wavers a bit as tender voices join together, feet shuffling, hands waving, teacher conducting. A chorus of the innocent. They sing a different version but the refrain is the same, and a thread from heaven stitches love, criss-crossing the distance between memory and today. My dad would like this video.

 It's Mother's Day tomorrow, I have the canary yellow tulips arranged in a vase for the mothers at the foster home, and a gift for my daughter. My father-in-law turns 94 tomorrow and we will celebrate him too. I click on my Kindle, pause, breathe in Grace, for it's there I see my mother, alive again through Facebook, and oh how did I wonder at my thoughts this past week, as if I could ever forget.

Today, I wing a greeting upward, to my mother, swipe a tear at the missing piece of me. I feel it then, this nudge from high above. He says to not worry, to look at the birds in the air, how he cares for them and they soar free. My mother loved birds, same as me, and I know they never truly leave, the loved ones we loose. A robin sings sweet and I run right swift to that special place where daughters sing peace. This liberating rest, of acceptance, of overwhelming gratitude, I whisper her name soft, a Goldfinch, it trills and I think I hear a melody and say it can't be. 
"You are my sunshine my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey

you never know dear how much I love you, please don't take my sunshine away."

Maybe my dad can see bright true and sings with the angels above. And maybe my mom hears a familiar tune, joins in the refrain, her newer self, all peaceful and free. 

A Time To Slow

This world, it rushes and pulls, whirling by lightning fast and I too get caught up in the spin of it all, the instant gratification. In this real time world, the slowing, pausing and breathing in the right-here-now, it gets dirt hard. Recently I received a gift from my daughter; Iris bulbs housed in two glass vases, they drive me into a watchful mode. A gradual unveiling. One day the twin boys noticed new roots shooting out, webbing across rocky surface, both exclaiming in high-pitched delighted tones, "They're growing!" I peered through the smudged glass, searching for evidence. Yes, they have green shoots and a number of roots. How long will it take to see the beautiful? I want the glorious now!

 On the next day, I chewed on those wayward thoughts, a warning signal, a reminder that I had drifted away from my word for this year. And as I drove home from the store, tailing the car in front of me, urging them to please go faster with my hurried nearness, it came, this humbling epiphany from above. I am guilty. A scampering Grandma. A rushing fool. Instantly I slowed down, exhaled an apology. With this rushing madness lodged in my throat like a thick wad of cotton, I pulled up alongside their car at the stop light, looked toward the driver, offered up a weak smile.

Never be in a hurry, do everything quietly and in a calm spirit. Do not use your inner peace for anything whatsoever, even if your whole world seems upset.

~St. Frances de Sales~ 

My friend, he whispered a missive a few years back, when pain was fire-hot and the next step chock-full of uncertainty. An ancient message really. Stunned and undone I wondered at such words, at the possibility of the impossible even in this. But I want healing! Now! Please. He met me in the irrevocable moment of despair and mess, my eagerness to skip past this leg of the journey, be done with it all, fast. But his time zone is different than mine, and the message he gave me that day, all cradled in genuine love, it breathes life into the insanity of this have-it-now world. 

Peace be with you, he says and I hear those angels singing praise, their voices trilling high above the world's crazy noise. Hallelujah, this anthem of hope. He rose again that third day to talk to you and me, be still thy soul, let go He says, come now, rest and sit with me.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=YNqo4Un2uZI

On That First Day Of Spring

I scan the scenery, pale pink cherry blossoms and crocus' they burst with vibrant color, cornflower blue sky canopies the city and I breathe happy. Spring is showing off in Portland. In all its beautiful glory. I take a walk at lunch, allow my thoughts to circle this season that sets the stage for renewal, restoration, and inevitably I think of her. Each year as I turn the calendar to March, my thoughts spool back to that day many years ago, when Village People belted out the song, "YMCA", Jimmy Carter was President, and most importantly, my daughter was born on the first day of Spring back in 1979.

A few days before her birth a case of hives took me hostage, my subconscious worries about motherhood fleshing it out on my skin, itchy red bumps of Will I be a good mom? Will I fail her during her teens? How do you nurse a baby? This was all before I understood Jesus had a second name. Victory. So I fretted big and bought Benadryl at the drugstore.

On that glorious spring day in 1979 I met her for the very first time. My beautiful daughter, my dear friend and confidant. I scanned her pristine face, inhaled sweet promise and the journey began, regardless of welts, fears, and uncertainties. The sun glistened through the hospital window, slanted rays of light blanketed us two, ushering us into the unknown future.  A path of love and sacrifice, mistakes and forgiveness, of blessing and hardship, disappointment and peace. And joy, what bountiful joy. Shouldering the load alongside my daughter through the years and to the present, the promise, it echoes through time. It pings loud and I hear it all now, but not then, and I know this grateful heart has stretched like wine skin and I have Victory alongside who wings me tight when I get scared and my daughter, she knows this too. And when we get scared together, our fingers, they tire from all that texting back and forth we do, and together, we pin our gaze upward and share all the more.

A mother never knows yet she tries and that's OK.

They say we look alike, my daughter and me, her face mirroring my own mother's and it takes my breath away. From snowy white baby shoes, braces and bad boyfriends, to wedding dress draped in delicate lace, and hashtags neither of us get, we write our story together. Us two, standing tall, sheltered in the arms of infinite grace.

A daughter has a way of palming her mother's heart, unknowingly, the two together make one.

And maybe one day when I get old and frail, this daughter will sit by my side on a radiant spring day. Together we see the cherry blossoms, the sun yellow daffodils and the two of us breathe. I might tap my bunioned toes rhythmically on the ground and ask her to drive me to the YMCA. She looks at me then, smiles gently and says, "Mom, do you remember the year I was born?" I shield my eyes from all that light beaming upon us and follow her gaze to a budding tulip tree. I nod my head slowly, say in a whisper, "It was 1979. The first day of spring I believe."  She takes my blue-veined hand, links it with hers, and we hear the still small voice of Victory. 

An unbroken promise to my daughter and me.

How To Rest In The Promise

I look outside and see the signs. A fresh wave of hope washes over me. I know, I believe. I trust that even in this, in seasons of terror and war, of gangs and guns and cybercrime we have a deeper hope, a promise to cling to. The vision, it's clearer than before, even when us kids ran free through city parks and gas prices hung low. Way low. I watch the birds shaking it out in the water bath, splashing drops of winter onto the deck. And I hear the voices of days long gone, of children calling out loud, playing hide-and-seek in the darkness, unafraid and free. How do I protect my grandchildren in school? At McDonald's? In the grocery store? I clutch the vision and carry it like a silken purse, hold it tight and wear it like one of those protective vests law enforcement don.

This is insanity, what I see on TV! Orange jumpsuits and hearts broken wide. Madness it is and pour down your Hope. Please.

The birds they sing gaily, not a care or worry, and He says to think about the birds and I do, but those worry lines make creases. And my brows furrow doubt, all knit together like twins working a hard puzzle. So, I aim my sight high, somewhere above Judy Garland's rainbow, the place that knows it all, gently wipes our sweat and tears, takes our shaking hands in His, even in this. The daffodils, they signal sweet sign of encouragement, glorious yellows splashing across landscapes, tulips patiently waiting their turn to delight. Delicious scent of Daphne wafts through the atmosphere and thoughts of evil and crime are rendered silent for one glorious moment. I will not give up! I will keep searching for the beautiful, for the gifts, and the daily news renders me speechless but the light is always stronger than the dark.

 

 

A friend once told me to never give up. To hang in there and keep looking up. To pray at all times and sing joy to the world.

He said to say thank you even when it's pitch black. A vision is worth everything when aimed high above, and He said to help others with their vision too. And when life gets tough, don't forget those birds of the air.

 

 Like those Laughing Gulls in North Carolina, they soar above it all, and I pitch my tent on the other side of worry, for a few moments at least, resting peacefully in the Promise.

Especially in this.

 

 



When Love Calls Your Name

It didn't happen over night, this enduring love since the year 1970. It started out as a confession, slipped casually from a classmate during a high school football game,"I think he likes you." This boy who played baseball and drove a bright red Volkswagen Beetle. At the ensuing dance inside the school, the beat of "American Woman" ricocheting off gymnasium walls, swishing my bell-bottoms, ushering us both onto the road map of our lives. Two teens, both student drivers. And when we sat together on a recent February evening, watching a television show I normally roll my eyes at, I developed a keener appreciation for the man who called out my name, searching the dance floor for a girl he "liked," oh those many years past.

In the television episode, the wife lamented over her husband's lack of compassion towards her, his lack of verbal or physical affection especially when she was injured, physically or emotionally. I snuck a glance at my husband who wore a guilty expression pasted on his face. I smiled wide. But it turned out the character and my husband have something in common, as later in the episode the wife learns her husband's love language speaks differently than hers, the same quantity of love, just dissimilar. Casting another look my husband's way, his knowing grin gaily announced the verdict. He fully comprehended the moral of this story. I was undone!

Love is always having to say your sorry, folding someones laundry even if your angry self would rather toss the clothes onto the wet driveway. Out into the inky dark night. It means putting the needs of others ahead of your own, even if your idea of a glorious day morphed into a day of shopping for make-up and hair products. At more than one store. It means working behind the scenes, humbly, tirelessly, living the mundane, the ordinary, flexing courage muscles, keeping your focus on the other.

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

 

And this is why I give thanks for the man who searched me out on a dance floor when I was sixteen. Who pretends not to notice my tears, but wipes them anyway, in his own loving way.

 

 

He bought me gifts in our teen-age years, simple yet bold, powerful proclamations, a forecast of  our lives together. He speaks a foreign love language, one that still needs translation at times. But like the husband and wife on television, love paints pretty when Grace gently, beautifully, leads you back out onto the dance floor. One merciful step at a time.

 





A Peaceful Surrender

January, the month of new beginnings. When new calendar is hung, this month, it stares back in all its pristine glory, untarnished with those penned reminders of busy life. A promise of renewal, freshness to savor and linger with, much like holding a newborn, diminutive head cradled in nook of the arm, guileless and pure. As I mark engagements on the virgin calendar, holding the pen between my fingers, I hear the nightly newscast in the other room, and the messiness enfolds my spirit. Peace. Remember Peace. No resolutions, just Peace.

At the gym I talk with a friend, we perch on stationary bicycles, I turn toward her and say, "It feels like we often get the same life lessons to learn over and over again." I slow. I think of my life journal of re-runs, of repeated pleas, of disciplines not yet mastered. Of broken promises to myself. I swallow Grace and pedal. She gives me an emphatic nod, "'I know, I know exactly you mean!" I think of January, all the moments, blessings and miracles I've yet to behold, to scratch down in ink. Maybe re-runs are OK and crowded journals are unspoken truth. A soothing hymn for the dispirited soul.

 Later, I stop to read another story about loss and survival, quenched hope and beautiful redemption. The downcast granted another chance, a blessing, divine rescue. After reading the story I knew just what January needed. The answer to the elusive question of do-overs. Like a life preserver thrown in deep frigid sea, I reach out with unclenched fist, grab hold of the pen once again, the one discipline that trumps all negativity and fear. I count. Again. Frolicking in the re-runs, writing my thanks to the author of it all, peacefully, joyfully, surrendering to Grace.

# rain pelting windows. #picture on cell of baby boy's face, smeared with carrots. #lavender, just because.#Chevy Chase is funny

"The reward of choosing joy, is joy itself."

~Henri Nouwen~



How To Reign In The New Year

Take with you words, strong words of courage: words that have wings!...Tall words, words that reach up, and growing words, with deep life within them

~Jo Petty~

Each year, after decorations are tucked inside plastic storage bins, stray pine needles swept up, and energy restored with refreshing naps, lists are composed. New Year Resolutions. Weight loss, gym membership, save more money, read the Bible, read anything, make peace with the neighbor. Stop watching the Kardashians on whatever show they must have on television. Making a list is hard work, keeping the bargain made with yourself even harder. I know. I've tried and failed. Each new year. And when I came upon a guest on the Today Show, this man, he talked about his book, about one word, about success and then he spoke two words that tingled my spine, lent me courage to try.

 The author, Jon Gordon, he said to choose one word for the new year, one word to focus on, a word that is for you alone. How can that be? Is it truly possible? Seems way too easy. "Look in, look up, and look out," he told television show co-host. That is how to discover your own one word.

Simplify. Reduce. Disentangle. The idea, an alluring concept, less is always more, and trying on new vanquishes all those what-if's.

Not a manifesto, but a singular thought pinging all year, this hope of moving forward, stepping softly into more of your real beautiful self.

A word will come if summoned, it's been there all along, in the hazy background of chances, lost dreams and dashed hope. Believe in the beautiful, in the power of deep within, and of soaring high above the past, always resting in Truth.

My one word, it came as a surprise. A long anticipated guest you've been waiting eons to meet. I thought I had it narrowed down to two, tried them out a few times, speaking them aloud, into a quiet room. Not certain which to pick, bouncing them back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball, I finally... let go.
And then the word found me.

Peace
2015