Essays
The Last Day of Summer
At the end of the day two cats sit in the window, sunset
facing, while my husband walks the trash to the curb. Two fresh bodies are tucked into bed. Two still-dirty ones stretch the last minutes
of daylight in the yard.
There was some discussion this morning of knocking out a
wall in the upstairs of our house.
Common sense prevailed though (No new projects right now, thank you very
much!) and the cool blue sky drew us outside.
We moved a pile of wood, cleared up a patch of land under
the big pine tree. The kids built a
fort, tag-teaming lumber from the garage to the very space we were clearing,
under the big pine tree.
The dog found a toad, who became a pet.
Lucky, he was rescued from the dog.
Unlucky, he will spend the night in an old fish tank.
Dead flies, worms, pieces of fruit, the lid of a peanut
butter jar filled with water, all of these served as offerings for the
toad. Still, he seemed to be without
appetite.
I chopped some wood, throwing the axe out over my shoulder,
missing half the time, aware of the vulnerability of my toes exposed in
sandals. Every once in a while I hit
home and the wood snapped with a satisfying crack – worth the effort it took.
The wood pile behind the garage grew slowly, a long stretch
of Lincoln Logs strung together, wobbly.
I hammered nails in the kids’ fort.
Hooks for the hatch-door. My
daughter knelt on the ground with wire cutters snipping chicken wire which
became a window.
By the end of the day, the oldest boy built a zip-line
which, failing to zip, turned into a log-launcher. And we all left the dinner table, measuring
tape in hand, and stood staring at the old wooden stairway that runs through the heart of our house.
“Could we turn it into a slide?” someone asked.
My husband turned to me, a light shining in his eyes.
“It’s
14 feet,” he said. “You can buy a 2x12x16 ft. board for about $30.”
“Will we? Will we?” the kids clamored.
“Maybe,” we said, “it’ll be a winter project.”
Happy Labor Day!
How did you celebrate?
A Stone Well-Placed (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
Wherever there is stillness there is the still small voice,
God’s speaking from the whirlwind, nature’s old song and dance . . . – Annie
Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Speak
Five months pregnant with twins, I waddled up a narrow,
rocky path. I was looking – listening –
for something in nature that might speak to me.
This was the culmination of a retreat day oriented around
nature as a source of revelation. Having
read an excerpt from Annie Dillard’s Teaching a Stone to Speak, we went
outside, tasked with the mission of listening for the voice of God in the midst
of the natural world. Our assignment was to bring back the object that spoke to us for sharing within the larger group.
Twenty of us wandered through the gravel parking lot, then
split off in different directions, uphill and down, into meadows and woods. I didn’t stray far, my body shouting clearly
that heavily pregnant women ought not go wandering the woods alone.
I surveyed the grassy edges of the parking area.
In the sea of green, a dark stone stood out. I leaned awkwardly with my arm outstretched
and plucked it from the grass where it nestled.
In my hand, though, it was just a stone. Bending again, I put it back.
Further up the hill, near the edge of the leafy
woods I saw another stone. This one was
white, surrounded by smaller, darker stones.
It stood out bright in contrast.
Bending to pick it up I realized it also stood out because
of its surroundings. I hesitated and
left it unmoved.
Every rock, leaf, branch that caught my eye was the
same. In its place, it spoke, but in my hand, it was reduced. It was probably the
third of fourth sighting before I heard what the stones were saying, “I’m
happy where I am.”
They whispered contentment, half-buried on the rocky trail
or sleeping in the bright green grass.
Not only were they happy where they were, but their placement was what
made them special.
Tears sprang to my eyes.
I was not content with where I was or where I was going. I didn’t want to be pregnant with twins,
dreaded leaving my job in a few months’ time, and couldn’t imaging, much less accept,
being a mother of four.
I left all of the stones in the woods that day and returned
to the meeting room with their words in my heart. The rocks had no say in their placement and
yet, they thrived. They were well placed right where they were.
Fast forward four years and a few months, through seasons of grief and fear, longing and hope, and I now find myself like those stones, happy in the place where I
am.
In Psalm 16, the author puts it this way:
Lord, you alone are my portion and my cup;
you make my lot secure. The boundary
lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful
inheritance (v.5-6).
The psalmist here is a stone well placed and
I think of his words often when I glimpse the gift of this place we’ve been given; when I think about the paths I would have taken had I made my own way.
When have you found yourself unexpectedly well-placed? When has nature spoken to you?
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Books, Like Tissues
At our house we
use tissues
as bookmarks.
Allergy-prone,
boxes sit
in every room,
which is where,
also, we read
–
every room.
“We have
too many
books,” my daughter
once commented.
This, I believe,
is how it should be,
just like the
tissues.
You never want to run out.
As A Child (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
In the early morning darkness, I lay my head back on the
couch, face lifted, chest wide, shoulders back.
Open. Prayers rise, unbidden, as
coffee cools in my cup.
Decisions, relationships, lift like smoke, ascending from
that tense place in my chest where I hold things too tightly. For the hardest things, my words are lacking,
stumbling stutters.
“Please. Help.”
I feel inarticulate, frustration rises.
//
When my four-year-old gets in a tight place in the yard –
stuck upside-down in the hammock, balanced precariously on the edge of a fall –
he cries out.
“Somebody help I!
Somebody help I!”
Yesterday, having nicked his heal, he ran into the house at
full speed, full volume, calling, “Guys, I bleeding! Guys, I bleeding!”
I love the unspecificity of his cries, the simplicity.
He is a boy raised in a loving crowd – someone will
answer.
He doesn’t need to find the right words to wrap around the
problem in the midst of his panic and fear – help will come, regardless.
//
This is what comes to me in the midst of the frustration and
inadequacy.
Ah, I think, I am praying like a child.
I live in the midst of a great sea of Love – Someone will
answer.
I don’t need to find the right words – Help will come,
regardless.
My cries are precious to the ear that hears them.
Friends, the lovely Laura Boggess and I are leading a retreat day on September 26 based on Jesus’ invitation to become “as a little child.” You can find out more about this event here.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Manna, Flying Ovens and Grace
Our stove was broken.
The oven burned everything and the biggest burner, the one I used every
meal, either ran on high or not at all.
It was one more thing we didn’t have time for, didn’t have money.
Not long ago, when our finances led me to consider applying for a full time job, God told me clearly, “Just wait.”
I was relieved to hear from God with such clarity. But after a pause, I reminded God that
this meant “he” would be “supplying all our needs.”
After burning yet another meal in the broken oven this week, I scrolled Craig’s List obsessively searching for a replacement. Then I remembered that conversation with God.
Maybe God has a whole warehouse of stoves
somewhere and all I need to do is ask, I thought.
I don’t claim to know how these things work, but I stood on the porch and pictured a white stove floating
down out of the bright autumn sky. (Ought I mention that the stove had big black wings? It was really quite a delightful image.)
That afternoon I found a decent stove on Craig’s list, but
it was still $100 that we didn’t have. My
husband suggested we just fix the burner on the old stove and continue using the
broken oven. But I didn’t have the heart to burn one more loaf of bread.
Later that night a friend stopped by and standing in the darkening driveway, my husband mentioned that he was stressed about money.
“Really?” the friend replied, “We’ve got an extra $100 dollars floating around this
week. I want to give it to you guys.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out cash.
My husband said no three times before giving in. We’re so tired of needing help. But when he came upstairs to tell me, as I was putting the twins to bed, my eyes lit up.
“That’s our stove!” I said, telling him about my prayer.
I wish the story ended there. It would be a good one, wouldn’t it?
The truth is the guy with the $100 stove didn’t get back to me and we ended up buying one for $125. Then the cord on the new stove wouldn’t work with our outlet, so my husband pulled the cord off of the old stove to attach to the new one.
But that old cord? It was broken. So we ended up spending another $25 for a new cord. That brings the new stove tally to $150.
(Maybe God isn’t the best at math?)
We’ll fix the old stove and sell it, it’s got to be worth something to someone. And maybe then the math will work out.
All of this has got me thinking about faith and trust and how the way things appear on the surface can often be deceiving. I’m thankful for all of the graces, big and little that come our way. But I want to remember also that each and every grace is only a fragment of a greater truth – the Love and Grace that dwells in and around our lives.
Sometimes the little graces add up and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes that which is manna one day has soured by the next.
I keep reminding myself of all the things we have, the things we take for granted that come floating down out of the clouds for free. Things like the field of soy beans across the street that turns a brighter shade of gold with each passing day. Or the view of the mountains along with the blue sky and sun. Who am I in the midst of all of this abundance to say what is and is not enough?
Last night I made pizza from scratch in the “new” oven. It had a perfectly browned crust. Examining her slice, my daughter exclaimed, “It’s not burnt!” and the look on her face was priceless.
Waking With the Chickens (#SmallWonder Link-up)
(The morning view from the porch at God’s Whisper Farm)
Remember a few weeks back when I wrote about Cutting Loose at a friend’s farm while enjoying a weekend long writing retreat? This week I’m honored to host the farm’s owner, author and editor, Andi Cumbo-Floyd. Andi writes and lives from her heart and I hope you’ll listen close to her words to get a sense of the love and presence they emanate. Then, scroll down and visit the link to check out her new e-book, Writing Day-In and Day-Out: Living a Practice of Words.
* * *
It’s not
light. But it is lighter than it was a few minutes ago when it was actually
dark. Now, the sky is indigo and graying at the edges, waking into aging,
perhaps.
I am still
in my pajamas, the interior seams almost gone but still adequate enough to
cover me for my walk to the chicken coop. The road is an 1/8 of a mile away,
and the glimpse of the farmstead is slim, even if an early-rolling trucker
comes by. My feet slide easily into my morning-cooled rubber shoes, and I walk
the trail across the grass, knowing that when I return it will look like two
wheels rolled the path.
I begin at
the front of the wagon shed and slide back the bolt that does nothing but hold
the door shut. Inside, I can just make out Lemon’s fluff beside the window
screen. I stretch my arm long and slip the hook out of her eye. “Good morning,
babies.” I pour feed into the lime-green
trench of holes and step out.
Behind the
babies, I can hear him. He’s already crowed once in that sound that used to
startle and delight me. The true cock-a-doodle-do of children’s books. Now, I hear him rustling, his horny feet
grasping the post on which he sleeps, sort of, still.
With him,
his girls are sleeping, too, and I can hear the quite cuckle of their dreams. A
coo. A tiny cluck. A mewl even. I’m
fairly certain I have never heard a sound so peaceful.
Then Xander
lets fly his crow again, and I move a bit more quickly, eager to get the big
birds food out before he wakes fully. I
toss Oyster shell into the scoop and then layer feed. I slide open another
bolt, this one to the run and step in, swing the feed into the red trays
below.
Gently, I
slide open the third bolt of my morning and swing the door to the back coop
open before moving backwards as fast as I can, the feed scoop arcing in front
of me as a ward against flying rooster spurs.
But then, I
hear him crow again, from far back in the coop. He sings, and then, soft as a
whisper, I hear the rasp of a sigh come from him. “Sleepy rooster,” I say.
I slide
that one bolt back into place on the run and stand outside, waiting. First,
comes Fern, her head full of feathers like an awkward crown. Then, Xander steps
forth, breast high, shoulders back. He fluffs up and struts, and he lets loose.
Bold, brazen, moving toward me without fear.
Then, I
hear that sigh of sleepiness ease from his mouth. “Good boy, Xander. Good boy.”
Maybe we
are all at our best when we step into the day new, a little sleepy in the
graying dawn.
Andi Cumbo-Floyd is a
writer, editor, and writing coach who farms at the edge of the Blue Ridge
Mountains with her husband, 4 dogs, 4 cats, 6 goats, and 26 chickens. Her
latest book is Writing Day In and Day Out: Living a Practice of Words and is available on Kobo and Amazon. You can find out more about her work at her website, andilit.com
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Like Nunchucks and a Pot of Nuts and Bolts (Back to School)
All four kids took turns rummaging, elbow deep, in the large
metal pot that holds rusted nuts, bolts, washers and nails. First they made robots, tiny friends composed of wing bolts and
screws. They each made three or four and
named them based on appearance and abilities.
Then Solomon made a “weapon,” something like nunchucks, by
tying nuts on either end of a piece of string.
He practiced throwing it until he could get it to wrap around a
tree. Then the other kids caught on and
started in with their own string and nut creations.
This morning he tied a washer in the middle of the string and,
pulling the two ends taunt, observed the washer spinning first in one direction,
then another.
//
This fall my four kids will be spread among three different
schools. Two will climb on separate buses within
minutes of each other, heading in opposite directions. Then the other two will ride with me in yet a third
direction for drop-off.
I have three separate Back to School nights listed on the calendar, all requiring babysitting, and two more Meet the Teacher events that include some, but not all, of the kids. A large sheaf of papers pinned to the bulletin board announces teachers’ names, room numbers and other pieces of essential information.
I feel something like that nut tied in the middle of the
string, spinning in one direction and another as my kids fly out into the
world. How lucky we’ve been, piled together for the summer, like those nuts and bolts in the pot. We’ve clattered around the house and yard together, merging and separating at will. With fall, we will be flung a bit wider, but I’m grateful, always, for the cords of love that bind us together.
BTW: That IS how nunchucks is spelled. Weird.
Thank You (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
(This past week marked the one year anniversary of my admission to a local Psychiatric Hospital due to the sudden onset of severe panic attacks. I took this picture of the outside when I went back this week for a routine appointment. You can read more about my journey by clicking on the anxiety tab under Topics.)
Sometimes we must talk about darkness in order to better talk about light. – Kelly Chripczuk
Palpable fear, fog descending on the brain, blood pressure slipping and
sliding while the extremities go weak.
Dizziness, anxiety and an unbearable desire to flee.
This is what I felt this past Friday morning walking into the lobby of
the Behavioral Health Unit where I was hospitalized last summer. I was there for a routine Psychiatrist appointment.
I wasn’t feeling well. Tired and stressed from a long week of
classes, I had a brief dizzy
spell in the morning. I wondered if
something was off with my blood pressure – it can tend to run low.
As I drove, I thought about asking the
psychiatrist to check my blood pressure. She’s a medical doctor after all and, at the
least, she could call in a nurse. I
pictured myself in her office, with that black cuff around my arm.
What if they sent me to the ER?
The same ER where I waited for almost twenty hours last year before admission.
What if going to the ER caused me to panic? What if I couldn’t stop
panicking?
I spent the whole thirty minute ride to the hospital psyching myself
out. By the time I got there, I was
jacked up on anxiety.
After parking, I pulled out my phone and took a few quick pictures of the “courtyard” – a small fenced in area where supervised low-risk patients could take a
breath of fresh air in the afternoon and evening.
Entering the building through double glass doors, I crossed the dim, brown interior. Facing the receptionists’ large cubicle, I
worked hard to force words out of my mouth in a
stream that seemed natural. I wanted to
run back out into the sunny blue day.
Instead I sat and waited a good twenty minutes. I picked up a magazine and read fluff
articles about combating clutter while talking myself down.
On the drive home I was physically sick. I kept an eye on the shoulder looking for
places to pull over and vomit. A
headache formed behind my right eye and stretched its way down into my neck and
shoulders. Thirty minutes later I ran
into our empty house and knelt on the floor dry-heaving into the downstairs
toilet. My kids were still out picking
berries with a friend. The dog looked
curiously at me.
When the nausea passed I took some Ibuprophen and sorted laundry,
placing the kids’ new school clothes on clean white hangers. Exhaustion hung around me like a shroud,
sleep was all I could think of, but I was scared to sit down, scared to lay
down, afraid anxiety would pull me under.
Finally I walked out the back door and into the yard. The grass here is brown in patches, scratchy
like straw, starving for rain. I sat down
on a little slope facing toward the garden and flowerbed. The dog flopped down beside me, panting and
squinting in the sun.
I leaned back onto the ground, my arms outstretched on either side,
palms down into the grass. The grass
pricking my hands reminded me of the summer before, when I stretched out in the
grass in the fenced in hospital yard.
“Thank you,” I said, aloud. The
words sprang unbidden from my lips, pure, like water from a deep, cold spring.
I was home and the earth was solid and the sunshine warm. No one was there to hear me. But I’d like to think the dog and the browning grass and sunflowers
nearby nodded their heads ever so slightly in agreement.
(Friday was the worst day I’ve had in a long time, but I’m happy to say it’s passed and after some good rest, I’m feeling much better.)
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Not that Grumpy (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
“What do you think heaven’s like?”
Seated around the sticky kitchen island in the early morning
humidity, my children and I wake up slowly.
I am on a second or third cup of reheated coffee. They spill milk and cereal and crunch
chocolate toast. In a moment of quiet,
my oldest son poses his question.
Still focused on my coffee, wrapped in a fog of sleepiness
I’m reluctant to leave, I reply, “I’m not sure.
What do you think it’s like?”
Perched on a high wooden stool, he pontificates, and his
picture of heaven includes the absence of bickering.
There’s been a lot of bickering this morning and every
morning, especially now as summer begins its waning. In fact, first thing that morning I scolded
the boys for their non-stop verbal warfare.
My sleepy brain picks up on the no-fighting thing and in my
best grumpy old man voice, I growl out a version of God, “Hey, cut that
out. No fighting allowed in here.”
Wrapped in the joy of his own ideas, my son pauses and turns
to give me a quizzical look. Eyebrows
arched, head cocked to the side, quick as a whip, he replies, “He’s not that
grumpy.”
His correction causes a pause, then we both laugh, surprised by his nimble reply. In four
short words, my son defended his own understanding of the heart of God, God’s
own disposition.
I am grumpy.
Especially in the early morning, when humidity is at 90% and little
sweaty, sleepy people are squabbling all around me.
But God is not.
And the fact that my son not only sees, but
defends the difference, is a great source of joy.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Me and Van Gogh (You Are Not Alone)
The Good Samaritan by Vincent Van Gogh
While the kids watch TV my husband and I steal a quiet
moment at the edge of the yard. Sitting
side-by-side at the end of the driveway, the garage shades us as we talk about
the morning’s sermon.
“I really liked the painting,” my husband says. “It makes me
want to have more paintings of gospel stories.
To hang them in the house.”
That morning I spoke on the parable of the Good Samaritan
and rather than making a formal power point presentation, I used Van Gogh’s
rendition of the story as a visual backdrop to the discussion.
“Yeah,” I reply, “It really helped me when I was preparing.”
It’s one thing to read about acts of love, another to see
them laid out stroke, by stroke in rich yellows and blues.
“I found a post where someone wrote about it,” I add. “It’s by Van Gogh. He painted it when he was in an asylum.” Tipping my head to the side and shrugging my
shoulders with my hands spread wide I add with a grin, “So . . . you know . . . me
and, Van Gogh.”
We exchange looks and laugh.
“Yeah,” he says, “You and your pal, Van Gogh.”
//
Parker Palmer struggled with debilitating depression. As did Henri Nouwen.
When I was in the psychiatric hospital last summer, I
gathered these names and held them to myself as evidence that mental illness
and hospitalization didn’t have to be a stigma.
Their stories gave me hope that despite struggles, my life could proceed
with productivity and meaning.
This past Sunday, after reading about his painting online, I
added Vincent Van Gogh to my list.
//
This week I’m approaching what my counselor eloquently
referred to as a “tender anniversary.”
A year ago this Thursday I had my first panic attack. My heart beat furiously, waves of heat and
chills ran through my back. My stomach
flopped. I lay on the living room floor,
unable to get up. I called my husband at
work and asked him to pick up our kids and come right home. I canceled my plans for the weekend, which
included preaching, and made an appointment with my primary care Dr.
Still, the panic continued, pulling me under, like a rip
tide. Six days later we woke a friend in
the middle of the night, asking her to come and stay with our kids while John
drove me to the ER. The next evening,
after a long wait, I was admitted to the Behavioral Health unit.
I’m telling you this because it happened. It’s part of the truth of my life. I’m also telling you this because it happens –
every life is filled with shadow and light.
And lastly, I’m telling you this because I want you to know
that you can add my name to your list.
When fear rages and panic sets in.
When you’re unable to eat, unable to sleep.
When you make a difficult Dr. appointment and fill a
prescription you’d rather not need.
When you or your child needs to make that scary trip to the
ER, to be sheltered for a while until the meds kick in.
You can add my name to your list.
Me and Palmer, Nouwen and, of course, Van
Gogh.
Linking with #TellHisStory.
Exploring Faith (SmallWonder Link-Up)
This week I’m grateful to share a guest post by Dolly Lee. Her writing always brings a gentle, clear perspective and an invitation to rest in God’s love. Dolly just finished her first e-book, A Soul Care Manifesto, which you can receive for free by subscribing to her blog. Visit her website, Soul Stops, to find out more.
* * * *
Welcome to the first post of my series exploring Faith.
A few weeks ago, my husband and I walked and talked after dinner. Tension accompanied us with each step as we fumbled with words; it was as if we each spoke in a foreign language.
Faith here looked like inviting God into our conflict and seeking in love to listen to each other share his/her heart.
We didn’t know how our disagreement would resolve.
Faith meant we obeyed God by not stewing in anger. Instead we shared our feelings with grace (for the most part…keeping it real). (Trying to practice those “I feel…” statements vs. “You are…”)
We listened to each other (imperfectly but we persevered) so bitterness couldn’t take root in our hearts.
Afterwards, we agreed we’d fought a battle for our marriage of almost 24 years and won…for now.
If you’ve figured out your “faith walk” perfectly, read no further.
But if you take two steps forward and one step back, on a good day, please join me.
Faith in God seeks to follow God’s way even when the outcome is unknown.
In an earlier post, I invited you to explore a question with me: How can I remember God’s bigger story of redemption and restoration in the midst of my smaller story?
Some of our smaller stories include marriage with or without children, some are single or divorced, others are retired, and others battle chronic health issues.
Some of us work outside the home, some within, and some do both.
Whatever our story, we can learn about faith from Abraham’s life.
We’re introduced to Abraham’s smaller story when God invites him to join God’s larger story of redemption (Gen. 12:1-4).
“By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called out…And he went out, not knowing where he was going.”- Heb. 11:8 ESV
Photo used with permission of Flickr User: Nana B Agyei
Sometimes faith asks us to leave the known and travel to an unknown place.
Faith and obedience to God’s call intertwine like a braid. God can speak through feelings but sometimes I let them boss me instead of letting faith in God lead.
Faith obeys God’s call into the unknown because faith trusts God knows.
I wonder if Abraham felt scared as he left, at age 75 (!), his home, country, and everything he knew to go to an unknown land God promised to give him (Gen. 12:1-4). I wonder if he ever missed his home or a favorite vista.
By faith, Abraham wove his smaller story into God’s bigger story.
Sometimes the unknown that God calls us to is a new way of thinking, believing, and/or living and relating to someone, including ourselves.
Some of us may have grown up in families where we learned unhealthy ways of relating (e.g., screaming; hitting; unfaithfulness; stuffing feelings/issues). For some of us the unknown is to learn new emotionally and spiritually healthy ways to relate to our friends and family.
Some of us need to leave the land of self-condemnation and hatred and learn to walk in God’s unconditional love for us.
In his book Emotionally Healthy Spirituality, Pastor Peter Scazzero learned a painful but valuable lesson: he couldn’t grow spiritually without also growing emotionally. Peter had to change how he treated his wife and his family.
He didn’t learn it easily or quickly and I appreciate his wisdom.
Faith always moves at God’s invitation to move. But faith stays when Gods says, “stay.”
I take comfort knowing Abraham’s faith wasn’t perfect; he doubted God’s promise after waiting for 12 long years and decided to “help” God. It didn’t end well. And I can relate.
Our faith is imperfect but God is always perfectly faithful to keep His promises.
Faith trusts God enough to obey and move into mystery.
What does faith in God look like for you today?
Where is God inviting you to move, whether literally, or in how you view someone or something?
How have you seen God’s faithfulness in your life?
Thanks for being here.
In my next post, we’ll continue to explore more of Abraham’s story and what we can learn about faith.
Read more of Abraham and Sarah’s story at Hebrews 11:8-16.
Try reading the passage aloud several times to see how different words or ideas stand out for you.
If you like to journal or create art, see what comes up for you as you read Hebrews 11:8-16.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Cutting Loose (#SmallWonder Link-up)
I don’t generally recommend camping out, alone, two states
away from home, in the yard of someone you met online.
No, generally, I would say that sounds like a bad idea.
But . . . that’s what I did last summer. I practiced pitching my tent, then packed it along with a sleeping bag, my journal and a couple of pieces of writing and
drove far into the winding hills of southern Virginia.
Last summer I attended my first ever writing retreat mostly
because it was inexpensive and being hosted by a woman whose kind and caring nature was palpable in her online presence.
Camping made the whole trip more affordable and I booked my stay after
confirming I’d be able to catch a shower and a good dose of caffeine each
morning in the main house.
It felt like a big adventure and it was.
This past weekend I packed up again. My husband topped off the fluids in his old Ford pickup truck. He seemed confident I would make it there and back. I felt a breakdown was likely, if not imminent.
I headed south on Rt 81 without A.C. and, except for stalling out a time or two, arrived without incident.
When you’re accustomed to living your life tethered to others, day in and day out, as I am, it’s good to cut yourself loose sometimes. Despite the sweat dripping in the 90+ degree heat, I felt pretty cool, rattling along in that little red truck.
I don’t have words yet to describe the weekend, except to say it was good, so good, for my soul.
When I got home, my kids were flesh-hungry for me, climbing and hanging from my limbs. I threw down my things and dove into the dirty kitchen, the dirty kids, the empty refrigerator.
In the evening John hitched a small wagon to the back of the lawn tractor and pulled it, full of kids, through the lawn. I roamed the yard gathering yellow tennis balls from the green grass, then hid behind the house waiting for the tractor to whiz around the corner.
When it came, I lunged, letting loose a loud viking roar and a volley of balls aimed at the kids whose mouths hung open in delight at the sight of their roaring, running mama.
They screamed. I screamed. And we played the scene over and over until I was again dripping wet with sweat.
Yes, my friends, it’s good to cut yourself loose sometimes.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Taste of Green (#SmallWonder Link-up)
These are the blossoms for the Dragon’s Tongue beans. Photo Source
And for all this, nature is never spent;
there lives the dearest freshness deep down things . . .
– Gerard Manly Hopkins
Bean plants grow low and lazy, leaning. Standing above and looking down, there are
only leaves, a canopy. But kneeling and brushing
them aside, shifting and lifting the plants, reveals the long, lean beans.
This year, unbeknownst to me, my husband planted Dragon’s Tongue and Royalty
Purple as well as our regular green beans.
Dragon’s Tongue produces long, light-green beans with purple
stripes. Royalty Purple yields small
beans in a velvety shade of violet.
Purple beans, striped beans – imagine my surprise!
Snapping them from the vine, the kids and I sampled.
We chewed on sun, on dirt and the heavy rains of summer.
I hand them out to visitors, “Have you ever seen a purple
bean? Try one!”
On my knees picking for a friend, I tell her a secret.
“The green ones still taste best,” I say. “I’m not sure why.”
Moving from Dragon’s Tongue to Royalty, my children follow
like hungry hens, snapping beans out of the colander as fast as I can pick
them. They never pick more than they
eat, there is no storing up, no stockpiling for them, only pull, snap, crunch
under a blue sky, crisp breeze and sun.
Last, I arrive at the green beans which, tasting, yield a
revelation.
“I know!” I cry, “They’re better because they taste like
green!”
“They taste like green?” my friend replies, laughing.
“Yes! Like green! The
purple ones don’t taste green, that’s why they’re not as good.”
“What does green taste like?” she asks.
“Like freshness and vegetable.” Like something essentially green, I think to
myself as my hands continue plucking strings from the vines; like spring rain and the “dearest freshness, deep down things.”
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Vacation (#SmallWonder Link-up)
We’re officially on vacation this week in sunny Florida. We drove down Saturday in one long haul. Our kids did amazingly well and my husband drove for long stretches like a champ. I kept myself awake, driving while he slept, by carving baby carrots into little totem poles with my teeth (whatever works, right?).
The reward for our efforts came yesterday when the kids ran into the Gulf of Mexico and smiles spread as they discovered the fun of riding the waves. We dug and dug in the sand and shells, hunting for shark’s teeth and came away with a healthy haul of black bone triangles.
Standing at the ocean’s edge as the waves rolled in, I realized they would not end. Each follows one after the other in a never-ending stream of rise and fall, crest and crash. Watching, I heard the words of one of my favorite hymns in a new light,
O the deep, deep love of Jesus, vast, unmeasured, boundless, free!
Rolling as a mighty ocean in its fullness over me!
Underneath me, all around me, is the current of Thy love
Leading onward, leading homeward, to Thy glorious rest above!
This – these waves, spacious, incessant, without end – this is what the love of God is like.
Samuel Trevor Francis’ hymn makes prolific use of exclamation points throughout. Standing at the ocean’s edge, I can understand why.
Do you have a favorite image that speaks to you about the love of God? I’d love to hear about it!
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Playing With Fire
See the Mama wren? She’s fussing at me for being too close to her babies
who’re tucked inside the bird house.
Discarded
shoes litter the grass around the pine tree; two bright blue Crocs, a pair of canvas sandals.
When the kids are missing for a while, I step out the back door and call to the tree. Before long, small faces peek out from among the
greenery. They’re perched a good fifteen to twenty feet up.
Their faces
and arms bear scratches from their climbing, but no
one’s fallen yet.
//
The other
night, eating at the picnic table, I asked the kids what their favorite thing
is about me.
My oldest
son replied, “You let me do dangerous things.”
I had that
in mind a few days later when he asked if fire would spread on rocks.
Fire
questions deserve follow-up, so I investigated his plan which was to make a
fire on our driveway using his magnifying glass and leaves. Playing with fire, I guess, is a no-no. But we’re reading Gary Paulson’s adventure
novel, “Hatchet” about a young boy stranded alone on a beach in Northern
Canada. A small hatchet is the boy’s
only tool and eventually he discovers how to make sparks by scraping the
hatchet across some flinty rocks. Using
the sparks and birch bark he is able to make fire.
My son
doesn’t have a hatchet, but he does have a small pocket knife that he bought
with his own money at Lowes. The other
day he came down from quiet time with a heavily shaved pencil. “I think I’m going to like carving when I get
older,” he said, pocket knife in hand.
I imagine he
wanted to be like the boy in the book in some small way, so I let him make the
fire. And it worked. He used flower pots to perch the magnifying
glass above a small pile of leaves and bark so he could “watch from the
shade.” The leaves smoked and smoldered
and I reminded him not to stare at the sun’s reflection and to keep a big glass
of water at his side.
I stayed
nearby imagining the fire somehow catching, then spreading. All it would take is a gust of wind at just
the right moment, just the right angle.
But I let
him have his fire while his little brother squatted nearby taking it all in.
//
“Don’t drown
in the pool tomorrow,” I announce into the van’s rear view mirror. Four blank faces stare back at me. We’re running errands and I’m thinking
about their much anticipated day at a friend’s house tomorrow – the one with a
pool.
This is my backhanded way of expressing worry and fear, the by-products of my fierce love for them.
//
The tiniest
of wrens built a nest in a small bird house in our yard. It sits under a metal windmill, in the middle
of a round flowerbed. I love to see her little face peeking out of the small, round doorway.
When I hang laundry nearby, she flies a few
feet away to the Japanese Maple. From there, she scolds me with fierce chattering – she is trying to get my
attention, to draw me away from her babies.
Inside the bird house, tiny voices whirr with excitement as she comes and
goes, her beak carrying food.
In the
evening I sit and watch her fuss. Our clueless tomcat wandered too close to the nest and she is frantically trying to lure him away. She flits across the lawn,
swooping low before resting in a shrub, her machine-gunning chatter
calling incessantly.
“She would climb
inside his mouth just to get his attention if she could,” I tell my husband.
She tends
her little ones with love that is both gentle and fierce.
But a time will come, not long from now, when
they will leave the nest. Then
what?
Maybe she
will sleep for a hundred hours, relieved.
The Worst and the Luckiest (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Only the
worst kind of parent hopes that the slow, cold, July rain doesn’t let up in
time for fireworks.
Or maybe it’s
only the worst kind of parent who decides, even after the rain lets up, not to
take the kids to fireworks after all.
And, in fact, declares an early bedtime for everyone.
Either way,
my daughter proclaimed in bitter tones as she marched through the kitchen, “This is the worst fourth of July ever.”
The worst.
“What did
you say?” I asked, my back turned to her.
The comment wasn’t aimed at me, but I took the bullet anyway.
She toned it
down, but marched out of the house, tears streaming. Later, when she came in for a shower, she was
still sullen and snarling and I was rolling those words around, that one word
in particular, like a jaw breaker.
It wasn’t
the worst day ever. It was cold and
rainy and we were all very, very tired.
But it wasn’t the worst, not really.
I was afraid
it was, though, and her comment struck at a vulnerable place in me, the one
that feels like it’s my job, my pass/fail, to make sure everyone has fun. What kind of parent can’t pony-up to take
their kids to the fireworks?
The worst.
Sitting on
the couch after everyone was in bed, I heard neighbors start celebrating. Sharp cracks, pops, zings cut through the
night and it felt like every single one was aimed at me, the great party
pooper. It felt like hiding inside on
Halloween when you’ve run out of candy and little kids come knocking even
though you’ve already turned out the porch light.
I sat on the
couch soaking in shame. The seconds
ticked by with agonizing slowness. When
would it all be over?
We turned on
the TV, but still, the fireworks sounded.
Then I
thought I heard my daughter in the hallway upstairs. I asked John to pause the show and went up to
check on her. She was turned sideways in
bed, eyes wide open.
“Are you ok?”
I asked, “I thought I heard you in the hallway.”
“I was cold,
so I shut the window.”
I checked
the window, made sure the cats were in for the night (they like to wander the
roof).
“You know
what?” she asked.
“What?”
“I can see
fireworks from my bed.”
I crossed the room to
the other window and knelt with my head tilted.
Waiting, I was rewarded with sharp sparks of white light rising from a
distant neighbor’s house.
“I get to
see fireworks after all,” she said, with clear, sweet delight, “from my bed. I’m the luckiest girl.”
The luckiest.
“Yes, you
are,” I replied, relieved the storm was past.
Back
downstairs I struggled, still, to let go of the day, to allow myself to be
moved from the worst, to the luckiest. The two are not always so far apart, sometimes all it takes is the opening of our eyes in the dark, the turning of one’s head toward the light.
How was your fourth of July? Somewhere between the best and the worst?
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Brave, Like the Color Pink
“What do you
think of the pink room?” I ask my daughter.
“Every time
I walk into it I think, ‘Well?’, like I expect it to say something to me, to
tell me why it’s so pink,” she replies.
Snuggled
together on a sunny Sunday morning in bed, we laugh because it is so
pink.
She was with
me when we picked the paint color at Lowes.
While I gathered a bouquet of
pinks from among the paint chips, she made her own collection of beautiful, bold
colors in the bottom of the shopping cart.
“I’m making
a color collection,” she said and I smiled to see her perusing the rainbow, listening to her
own internal guide as she gathered colors.
After
narrowing it down to three shades of pink, I leaned toward the lightest, but asked
her to help me make a final selection.
She picked the slightly bolder middle shade and I thought, ‘Well, why
not?”
My husband
said he didn’t care. Even on the way home, when I teased him with paint
chips in deep shades of magenta, he held his ground. But when he opened the can labeled “Pink
Taffy,” the words, “Wow! That’s PINK!” shot out.
Seeing the
primered walls begin to blush, even I had second thoughts. I’ve always leaned toward neutral shades in
paint and clothing – tans, beiges, straight up blues and creams.
“There are
people,” I said, “who would paint their dining room pink. Why can’t I be one of
those people?”
“You are one of those people,” he
replied.
//
I’ve recently
developed a thing for pinks and purples, oranges and fuchsia – all of the
bright colors. I bought purple nail
polish a few weeks back. Not long before
that, a flouncy orange skirt – the color of sherbet. Walking the clothing aisles of the local
Salvation Army Thrift Store, I pass by the browns, whites and blacks, heading
straight for the bright delights of chartreuse, purple, pink and turquoise. I even bought a pair of pink shoes recently and I’m secretly on the lookout for a pink pair of skinny jeans.
Do you
remember the scene in the movie The
Wizard of Oz when everything turns from black and white to technicolor? This change in me feels something like that. Or maybe like the pink Zinnia I planted on
the side of our house. The first blossom opened this weekend. The plant, once just one shade of green among many, was transformed by its opening, set apart by a brilliant splash of joy.
As we worked
our way around the dining room, hesitancy gave way to joyful delight. “It’s such a happy color,” I said over and
over again.
//
Last month I
sat in my Spiritual Director’s lovely white meeting space – a space filled with
the gentle greens and browns of nature.
“I’m in a
period of consolation,” I said. A friend
recently described the spiritual state of consolation as a time in which one
feels an “overwhelmed awareness of the love of God.”
She asked me
to tell her more, to give story to the definition and I unpacked all of the
lovely little things in my life, the places of grace and love, laying them out
between us.
“What does it
feel like to be love so well?” she asked.
I closed my
eyes and thought.
“It feels
like a bouquet of beautiful flowers.”
“What color?”
she asked.
I closed my
eyes and thought, felt, again. “All of
the bright colors,” I replied.
“That sounds
lovely,” she said, nodding in recognition of the joy and love in my face.
//
If you come
to my house and see the pink dining room, sour apple green kitchen, the purple
and turquoise accents, please know that what you are seeing is an extension of
my heart.
I am, like
my daughter, making a color collection.
As life deepens and widens, so also does my palette.
People tell
me over and over again that I’m brave to speak about my struggles with anxiety
and panic attacks, they tell me I’m courageous.
But for me, talking about the darkness comes naturally. For me, choosing the light, no matter what its
hue, is a far more courageous and vulnerable thing to do.
Sometimes
brave is a brilliant shade of pink.
Have you noticed changes in your color preferences over the years? What are your favorite shades these days? What color would YOU love to paint your dining room?
Small Things and the Nature of Joy (#SmallWonder Link-up)
It fits in
the palm of my hand, small and pleasing, like Julian of Norwich’s
hazelnut.
The cover is
cut and glued from scrap paper – the same paper that lines my kitchen
cabinet. The pages, cut from printer paper and
the binding, a bit of linen cord.
All in all,
it took less than fifteen minutes to complete once I understood the pattern and
got my measurements right – in fact, I made two. Inside I wrote, by hand, one of my own small
poems, fifteen lines spread across nine pages, forty words in all.
I wrote a
book, see?
Because
that’s what I’ve wanted to do for a long time now and yet I’ve been afraid,
overwhelmed by the enormity of it, unsure where and how to begin. So I followed my heart to its place of joy –
a quiet place where words and pages meet, where a project is small enough,
simple enough to be approached. My love
for craft – paper, glue, scissors, color and cord – balanced out my fear,
tipping me toward productivity.
I wrote a
book, a very small one indeed.
And it made
me very happy.
I was
smiling inside and out, delighted in a heart-happy way as I moved about the
house. Then my mind kicked in – not the
mind that is restful, awake and aware, but the calculating one, the
insatiable. Before long I was making
books by the hundreds, selling them by the truckload, considering buying a
printing press – in my head. And there,
of course, the fear set it, what if it didn’t work? What if it wasn’t a huge
success? What if this little joy
couldn’t sustain its own multiplication?
Then as I
was cutting and gluing, head bent, a voice leaned, whispering in my ear, “If you
made a hundred books, would your joy be any more full than it is right now?”
Pea-green
paper rested between my fingers. Linen
thread wrestled. The tiny triangular tab
of a cover tucked perfectly into its slot.
No, I
thought, it wouldn’t be any fuller.
That’s not how joy is.
Joy isn’t a
commodity that changes with increase, it’s whole in and of itself, like a ripe
berry, or small seed. Joy needs no
addition, no subtraction or multiplication.
Joy can be shared, spread, multiplied, but only as itself, each
experience whole like the many seeds of a pomegranate’s flesh.
That
question rooted me back in the present, gave me back the joy that arrived like
a rainbow, a gift, to begin with. There
will be more books, in many sizes and with them each will come joy.
But it won’t be any more or less than what
I held that day in my heart’s hands – pure, simple, sweet.
Is there some small thing that’s giving you joy these days? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Grandma’s Chickadees
I have my own picture window now, complete with bird feeder.
Grandma fed
her chickadees
religiously, for years. Filling
a rusted coffee can with sunflower
seeds, she loaded the feeder outside
her big picture
window, daily.
Seated with binoculars
and bird book in hand,
she watched the window like a big screen TV.
A .22 leaned casually against the window frame.
She slipped its nose out
into marauding Blue Jays and other greedy types.
Her letters to me, in shaky script, described
birds
she saw and bears; often
mother bears
moving through the old
orchard on
their way to the river
with cubs in
tow.
She stopped shooting the rifle, she said,
after she accidentally shot a hole in the floor.
When a bold bear came and
stood outside the window
making eye
contact with her, she also stopped feeding the
birds.
I wanted her
to feed them anyway,
to stand her
petite frame in the wide
window,
binoculars in one hand and riffle
in the
other, like a sharp shooter in the WWII
movies Grandpa and I watched in her
living
room. I wanted food for the birds,
which were
food for her. I wanted her to keep
feeding
them.
Now I walk my own property
toting bags
of oiled, black sunflower seeds.
One by one I lower, fill, and rehang feeders.
I watch dumpy
doves, dapper
cardinals, bright yellow finches
and the greedy squirrel who
hangs upside-down by his back toes.
I lift my
children to face the window, “Look! See!,” I
say.
We’re a long way from the mountains,
though I can
see them in the distance.
I don’t
believe the bears
will find me here,
but if they do, maybe I’ll tell them
about my
Grandmother – her binoculars and gun,
her happy, well-fed chickadees.
A Wink, a Blink, and a Nod (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Today, I’m grateful to be hosting the words of fellow blogger, Elizabeth Marshall. Won’t you give her a warm welcome as she shares her heart?
I am measuring beauty and grace in
increments of fragmented seconds. Small flakes of wonder, and flecks of time
the size of a radish seed are grabbing and holding my attention, turning my
chin with fingers, with skin. The hand of God calls me to look. The Trinity corals me into a hemmed in place
for my soul to rest. The balm is of his creation. In this new system of
measurement I find lost artifacts. Code them and hold them as sacred – privileged
to be awakened to see what was unseen, I abide in him more.
I am an archivist of the now.
The dragonfly in the garden looked
like an adolescent. Thin and frail, if he flew slant he would become a line.
Fueled by a passion to stay alive, to feed on the nutrients of his world, he
left in a blink. A logogram of wonder. A sign of the miraculous. Punctuating
the exclamation from my heart of the extraordinary ordinary.
Morning Glories wrap around my patinated back stoop railing. They open and shut, winking and nodding the sweetest of good day’s and good night’s. Slowly going into and out of the heat, they remind me of January’s curtain of dormancy. They cause me to recall – there is quiet, there are pauses. In other seasons, there is a waiting. My senses awake in a nod. The breath and depth of creation’s unfathomable design, brilliant and alive, is newly paraded on stage. She is a humble peacock. Humility inhabits the folds of her feathered covering. Brilliant and illuminated, her beauty is not hidden easily and it has awakened me. My ears are unplugged, my eyes are re-focused on minutia.
I am awake at the wheel.
In this season, the garden is my sacred place for abiding. God reveals himself to me there. I pluck a flower or pick a berry. Sitting by my newest friends – my rooster and his hens – I settle into the quiet. I study the intricate patterning of their plumage and marvel.
I am both a child and an aging
knower.
I see as a child but with the
hindsight and maturity of one who is in the second half of life. My life is aging
in the flesh and in my bones, but the child in me is present still to share in
the partaking. I am privileged to have a second chance – to see with the lens of grace, to gather and tuck petals and feathers and seconds of life into my place of remembering. I dissect and review and reframe as a poet. I lean into this living fully present, waiting on beauty and glory. I see glimpses, take sips, drink from the cup of his offering.
I am Rip Van Winkle, awakened to the beauty of the now.
Reacquainted with Father God the
creator, I add a dimension to my faith by watching him unveil and reveal a
softness and gentleness. Masterpiece after masterpiece says, “I am here and love you. I have made art for
your soul. I understand your love for my heavens and my earth. I created you to
marvel at it. And it to be marveled at by you.”
In a wink, a blink, and a nod we can see it, savor it and ingest it. Or we can live with a beating heart and flowing blood, alive, but not engaged; here, but not present.
For now, I am awake at the wheel as
I live out my days in my fifties. Fifty six years of making memories in this
life – gratitude attends my soul as I thank God for calling me into a season of
seeing, recording and savoring.
Each second, each wink, blink and nod, there are thousands of signs of God’s love.
Abide with me.
Slow with me.
Find time to see anew with me.
This is my passion.
To find the beauty in the simple and
to gather, handful by handful, the overflow of miracle.
Shell.
Feather.
Stone and leaf.
Skyward, a pastel painted sky fades
and gives way to winking and blinking stars.
And I nod.
Yes. Thank you. Grace.
At the tips of my toes the Cicada
springs up through the grass, joining the symphony of the ebony night.
There are wonders, miracles, and signs of God in every wink, blink and nod. I have been slow to see, but I rejoice that I am now awake. Won’t you join me in the partaking?
Elizabeth Wynne Marshall is a writer, poet, and blogger. A lover of grace & the sea, she spends her days living and writing out the beautiful ordinary in a life lived by the sea. Her words may be found at her writing home, elizabeth w. marshall, poetry & prose through a lens of grace. On twitter & instagram, she is @graceappears.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Books
Between Heaven and Earth (poems)
Prayer can easily become an afterthought, a hasty sentence, a laundry list of all the things we want. But what if prayer is a time to find out what God wants for us–and for our world? What does it mean to pray that the kingdom would come here and now as it is in heaven? Explore these questions in this study, and learn prayer practices that nurture intimacy with God and sensitivity to God’s dream for the world.
Follow this writer, spiritual director, and mother of four as she dives into the deep end of chicken farming and wrestles with the risks and rewards of living a life she loves. At turns hilarious, thoughtful, and always compassionate, Chicken Scratch will change the way you see the mess and chaos involved in living life to its fullest.
