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.