Brushstrokes Of Grace

I look at the picture, this enlarged canvas hanging in our living room right by the front door, hard to miss and I scan the details every day. The smiles on the faces of those I cherish, the kids, arms entwined around each other, as if they invented the group hug. I love, love the way it captures the essence of our family, unique, joyful, loved. And I pause once again to enjoy this memory, and it catches my eye, slips in this fresh vision, and my thoughts, they spool back to that rainy day in November, the day the clouds poured down more than that famous Oregon rain.

It was a cold day. A rainy, gray, November day. Not the most desirable day to gather for a family photo shoot. It was a Christmas gift from our daughter, this chance to all be together, to gather in front of the camera and with part of the family living in Virginia, the memories would taste sweeter, a completeness filling the frame.

A hint of trepidation snaked up my spine before we set out. How will my back manage the standing? Will it rain super-hard? Will the kids behave?And how about my hair! We donned our jackets and retrieved numerous umbrellas from our cars. And before each photo spot, we slipped off our jackets, smiled wide, then quickly pulled our jackets back on. The air tasted frigid cold, the rain dampened our shoes, parts of clothing, messed with the hair and we kept smiling, us enjoying all this love, these precious captured moments. The rain stilled at times, slices of heaven gifted our way. The photographer, a friend, brought gummy bears as bribes for the kids, and they downed those gummies all blissful and smiley face happy with each click, click. This Christmas gift, it came wrapped differently, and like most uniquely boxed presents, we unwrapped these layers of love and joy, one rain drop, one flip of the umbrella, one gummy bear at a time.

Today when I study the picture on the wall, my eyes, they spot a patch of light dancing on tree branches, illuminating those lime green leaves, how it shines brighter in that area above our unsuspecting heads. Shimmers even.  And I think back to that man who ambled over to the fire-pit just beyond this very last shoot of ours. The chairs that surrounded the freshly lit crackling fire, the delicious warmth for our chilly frames. My gaze, it fixes once again at that light projected on those thinning leaves. Maybe God is simpler than I think He is. He met us all right grand that wet day in November. Brushstrokes of grace, this beautiful light that never extinguishes, never dims, especially on the rainiest of days.

P.S. Happy Valentine's Day

Maybe it's the sun streaming through the window pane, or the vacant rain spilling from the sky. Or perhaps it's the promise of spring hugging the calendar on the kitchen wall. It could be the desperate need to turn the gaze from the news, even for a few minutes. Wash the soul clean with a little of that spiritual homework. Unplug Facebook and the cell phone. Write it out in cursive, ink it right into a fresh sheet of  college-ruled notebook paper. I will do it today! I will not grumble about politics or the excessive rain we've had. I will sing it out loud on those thin blue lines of paper, the pen it will catch the words, let them flow upward, let Him hear my ardent Valentine.

I love you, God, even when things aren't going my way.

I love you more than I did yesterday, seriously.

I love you for never turning your back, never running away, and always catching me when I fall right hard, which can be on most days.

I love you for this life, crazy and hard, beautiful and stunning, peaceful and stressful, creative, joyful.

I love that you made us all unique, individual, cherished.
I love the way tiny grains of sand glisten, sparkle even, under your toes on a glorious sunny day.
Oh and those waves in the ocean, how majestic and therapeutic, and how you calm the storms with a single touch, a breath from heaven. I love that too.
I adore my family, my husband, children, grandchildren, siblings, all this you gifted, I love you.
I love your teachings on the fruit of the spirit; patience, kindness, self-control, gentleness, joy, peace and I think there might be two more. (There is a special place in DC that might need a fruit basket soon.) I slipped this in.
I love the first kiss of spring, all the seasons you created, and birds, birds, birds, except maybe crows.

I give the pen a few shakes, the ink, it begins to run dry. Flex the fingers a little, they've grown a bit stiff. There is so much more to say, so many more endearments to share, but the page is full. I cramp it in, one last line.

I love you for forgiveness, I cannot forget forgiveness, that awesome grace that trumps all grace. 
P.S.
Happy Valentine's Day

And I carefully tear out the sheet of paper, fold it in half, tuck it in my rain jacket. Just in case I need a gentle reminder on a slippery, hard, wet and stormy day.

One Stitch At A Time

I held the fabric between my fingers, caressed the past with memories of prom dresses, blouses worn and doll clothes played with eons ago. Marveled at the exquisite detail, the lace centers, the hand-stitching and even the faded corners on a few pieces. I made her a promise all those years ago, and now, like a golden burst of sun after days of gray rain, I knew the promise never truly forgot me

It was September, 1990, the year I turned thirty-six, the year my heart, it tore in a thousand tiny pieces. My mother, she lay in a hospital bed at Kaiser, back when death was treated with sterile crisp sheets and nightly corridor noise. Before hospice care understood death to be a prayer, a sacred hymn for the family to sing together. Sadness and death co-joined until the next life.

I read to her from Trinity, our book group selection, and even though I feared we wouldn't finish the novel, I read anyway, keeping her company, loving her imperfectly, afraid to let her go. My mother sewed quilts for all the girls in the family, and when she took sick she had one in progress, this for my own eleven-year-old daughter. It rested next to her bed in a plastic laundry basket, a stack of assorted material, batting and lace. During her stay in the hospital, before she died, she asked me to please finish this quilt. I assured her I would, even given my aversion to sewing I said yes. I cannot let you go, but your quilt will stay. We never read to the end of Trinity.

A promise is a bridge between your heart and mine, I''ll carry your wish forever, and meet you on the other side.

I stowed the laundry basket in a closet, all the fabric pieces one on top of another. Brought it out every so often through the years, surveyed that basket of promise, breathing in those pieces of my mom I still had left here on earth. And each time I touched the materials, I noticed another piece of my heart had been stitched up and I never let go of the laundry basket. It survived my husband's penchant for tossing items he believes to be unnecessary. It remained unfinished, invincible, spiritual.  And the commitment I made in 1990 lingered like an incomplete chapter in a story.

Until this past year. I retrieved the basket one more time and I did not put it back in the closet. I can't give up on you! Oh, my beautiful, faithful God, He has unending mercy on those who dislike needle and thread. My sister's dear friend poured herself into my promise, showered this project with His unending grace, even sewing on certain pieces of fabric she had given my mom decades ago. She said she felt my mom's presence while finishing this quilt and this I believe to be right true.

This quilt, this beloved piece of my mom, I touched the edges and I wept happy sad. And when I handed it gently to my daughter, that pool of tears welling up in her own eyes, I saw it then. "I feel her presence here," my daughter said, her eyes damp with awestruck surprise. I did not doubt this to be right true. And that heart that tore so bad back in 1990, that aching pain from loss and grief, the missing, by God's healing touch and outrageous love, it found a measure of peace, one grace-filled heart beat, one stitch at a time.