making shadow puppets

this is no-where space between walls. we drive rush of wheel on pavement and northern ontario squishes us with mosaic-rocks and he eats bbq spits and baby plays with rings and my fingers sketch on glass streaks of yesterday.

soon we steam onto ferry and clouds cleave with rush of waves-blue, bubble blast and baby smile... and husband looks at me, as if remembering, says, "we should kiss more often."

and we do, making shadow puppets with our mouths. baby eats wooden spoon and i remember the boardwalk. the way her shoulders slid slim and his braced broad, how her small hand slipped into his, large, how her body seemed to fill in his cracks as friend Bethany would say. man and woman formed before me.



and husband dates me in this space between walls. in this moment on a boat far from kitchen, living room and bedroom... far from flowers which bent sideways in backyard breeze... far from rasperries-staining-purple-fingers.

and we cleave close, husband to wife, on this boat-deck. in this transition space between homes. me not knowing who i am, we leave the ferry, drive far amongst rocks the size of buildings and i touch the window, remember the shadow puppets. and i know.

i am his.





thankful for this moment. this knowing. this being with family in high-way place. homeless, we make a home out of flesh and voice.

(we had internet connection in our motel in espanola, and so i took opportunity, and wrote. will continue to do so as traveling allows.)

my parents' dance

she wore skirts and patent leather shoes and sat shy in front, in calculus class. and she blushed pink and tilted head sideways and he needed to know her, this woman named Yvonne and so he did. he knew her slowly, biking miles on country road to bring her flowers and God in a soil-thumbed Bible and kissing sweet under shooting-star-sky.

today he bows low to massage her feet with lotion, kisses her quiet as she hums off-key and touches hand beneath afghan as they watch British comedy.

she's had it for seven years, this tumor. mum who schooled us at kitchen table, who broke back baking bread, hanging laundry-line and being wife of pastor. mum whose hands are still worn and smell of Jergen's. but who sometimes forgets what day it is, or how to walk.

but the tumor is shrinking and she is rising, up, out of bed and into a new dawn of day and she is learning, how to walk, how to bake, how to clean, and she is hanging laundry on line and singing in key and blushing pink when Dad kisses her.

i watch them dance to the lull of love's song and i think, now is the time. and i turn in the shadows--them distracted by a shooting star--and i slip out the back door into my husband's world while my parents continue to lean and laugh and learn from the other.

he makes everything beautiful in his time...

mum, he's made you breath-taking.


(please note, this decision to move has not been easy. trent's father has been injured for the past seven years, so trent's heart has been torn, wanting to help him on the farm... please pray for my sweet parents. i ache.

this is the last post i'll be writing for awhile; i'll be on the road until we settle down in alberta... driving with babe and husband and life-belongings shoved precariously into trailer-back... veggie oil fumes behind us... will write as camping and wireless allow)

an irish man and his baby

his name was al.

he spoke with an irish tongue, laughed with a thousand wrinkles and wept with a red spotted hankie.

we sang for him and the other adults, my sister and i, and he held aiden. and when Amazing Grace struck the ivories, it struck a chord and i saw him reach deep in pocket and pull out the red and blow hard and aiden just sat on this 80-year-old's lap, still as if he were grandpa.






and al told me later of a God of second chances. of a God who'd watched him work his way through family, away from births and babies and diapers, of a God who'd seen him home late at night, away at dawn, of a God who'd watched him lose chance to smell baby skin near.








and now, this God of Amazing Grace had given him aiden for a few songs. this God who'd seen everything. this God whose love covers wrong like red hankies cover tears. "after all these years, i get to hold a baby," al croaked.




and aiden cooed. and prodigal-love rejoiced.

i was sewn love

she spun thread like Rapunzel, turned my sadness into fabric-gold.




i'd told them at supper, father, grandfather, mama, sister, chewing chicken and potato, sun a silhouette on the evening floor, "she might buy it. she's thinking about it." and husband had shaken his head once, enough to make me turn inside myself and cry.

i'd hurried to do dishes so no one would see. there was a woman who'd seen our house the week prior. we'd had no answer yet. and while flower-weeding, soil upturning grubs and grunge, spirit-voice had whispered, "i'll care for you." then, the warning. "do not doubt."



and so, i'd believed. but in a moment fast as spearing potato with fork-prong, faith fled and so had i, to the sink, to make white soap bubbles and scour dishes and pretend i wasn't a fool believing God to make things right. to sell our house, somehow.

that night, visit to friends--her birthday--and me, having energy only to cut her some flowers and stick them in a mason jar. me, faithless, the whole drive to hers.

and i'd handed her the mason jar, and she'd turned, secret seamstress and had spun gold in front of me, handing me a sweater she'd made for me. "God told me to," she'd hummed humble. "I prayed, and saw him wrapping you in love." She'd made it all--sweater, design--one of her "life line" pieces. and i put it on, soft fabric on skin, and it fit, Cinderella-style.




and i'd fled inside myself again to weep and bow, to ask God forgiveness for no faith...








he'd told her to clothe me in love. because he would care for me.




sewn tiny black stitches of faith....







and i believe.

more of daddy

i live in a town of 1,000, and everywhere, boys with mamas. boys with grand-mamas. visiting post office, grocery store, convenience, some with strollers, others with hurry-hands and others texting tattooed, tiny sons tugging, wishing mommy would stop running and tell him to stop swearing.

i see long legs and short and stained clothes and clean and freckled noses peeling-burn and eyes the shapes of tears and i wonder, does someone see them? hear them? know them? little men, soon fathers of next generations.

and where are the fathers? i see mamas, no papas, and where are they, lifting brown legs high, swirling, swinging, laughing, protecting from boogie monsters and fast cars and speeding bullets and being the heroes in their little boys' lives? but heroes are history and all these young ones have are tired women with bruises of their own.






and i stand still amidst the swirl of a town of too sad, and i see him. husband, (to whom mother said i'd never be able to submit, for i never submitted to father), and it's taken years of scaling backwards into the nothingness of self and realizing he knows me, everything, and my skinny shoulders need his broad ones and together we make life in the form of a boy who laughs a lot. and i see him walk towards, boy on broad, and he's tickling and boy is laughing and he's swooping and boy is gasping and begging for more of daddy, and i stand and admire. my son's hero. a man amongst boys.









-day on beach, all sand and sun and watermelon-sticky
-grandmother's hand in mine, worn and wrinkled, her face so small and sweet
-husband telling me to send my worries away to the sea
-son saying mama and pointing to me
-large trees that shade me when sun scorches
-weeds that need pulling
-flowers that need smelling
-house that needs packing, and husband to help with that
-people that need hugging and loving and being with...
-chocolate and wine from friend

sidewalk to heaven

sun makes liquid path of light and we walk, you holding mine and me tender steps taking...










your presence, bigger than being.


















your toes smell old of sock and when you smile
man peeks through, i sob, yet
somehow lift you higher for
everything in me lives to see you grow
in spite of wanting to keep you small

and i know now why He died.
i would scrape the sky to keep you off the ground.

the dreaded post

i am a dreaded, pierced, tattooed artist, soon driving across country in a vegetable-oil car with man and boy... to live in a small Dutch farming community in northern Alberta.

i'm terrified. excited. dreaded. dreading. what?
not knowing... how to be.
how to fit in, amongst a people who sees what i am, not who...

but i trust, they will. with time. look past.

my dreads are a year and a half old. maturing.

i am 29 and 3/4. maturing?

sometimes i think i paint and write to find myself.
sometimes i know.
what is there to find? he asks. my pragmatic math-speaker-teacher of a man.
he looks to Christ. i need look there more.

he is Christ to me. i lean dreaded head on husband's shoulder and we touch baby's hair and it's smooth. sometimes i miss the swish. the pantene-moment. but then i feel the knotted grooves and i know, i'm being me.

the 'me' i was born to be.

and that me will stand tall before a Dutch community and say, here i am.
dreaded, tattooed and pierced.

love me.

(please?)

ode to my abode

it whispered private, i found it on my bike, home from korea, and bought it for husband and i. him still in far-land, trusting me as i made love to shag-floor, wall-papered corners, then tore war into all who'd lived before uncovering secrets of hard-wood tarred black from generations who liked to step plush, not sheen.



linoleum stripped, curry-yellow walls painted wide and we made salsa on those counters, shorn of garden squash and we baked yeast-bread and brewed wine-sweet and dished bowls of ice and cream and laughed long at a table made for games and family and communion over steam and stew.

and can you see us, friend? we're dancing, him and i, beneath huron-county sky and somewhere a dog is howling and the town is crying with shying wonder and we're marveling in the birth in belly and heart and mind...a baby, coming... and then gone in wash of miscarriage red as living room walls, and he, finding me couch-weary, worn...



and we tried again,and then found love new in bible-pages and prayer on that tarred hardwood floor and training-foster and trying to adopt then that, failing and crying bruised, don't break! then, a trip to new york city, our house buried deep inside us and coming home with swollen womb and new life ticking heart into limbs... and



i posed large in garden-wide and he zoomed lens and i smiled proud as plants grew wild around, and we waited and dreamed names and swallowed hard fear until the day life moved into our purple room. he, our heart-ticking-son making everything else stop and us, just stare...



with a wail and a burp and a bump he came into cradle-sewn-love and we ooed and we ahhed and then sighed as the walls seemed to cave and our house seemed to usher new era, new footsteps, new carpets and paints and people, and so we put up the sign and cleaned up the mess and waited for buyers as we planned new steps.



just the three of us.

with the one of Him.

on an unknown road.... seeking new abode.

pulling God's face to mine

he pulls mine to his, faces smushed, drool-cheek pressed, sticky-fingers itching my skin to know me more, to pull me somehow inside and i laugh for baby intimacy, and he tries to eat my nose.

he balances on my legs, tottles, coos to the world that he's emperor of mama's lap then gasps and pulls my face to his again as if he can't get enough. as if he's never seen it before.

and then, big noise, and before reacting--before crazed-cry--he looks to me. looks to see what his reaction should be. and no matter my worry, i brave-smile for then infant wrinkles ease and, coos once more. for hushed okay.

to pull God's face to mine; to reach human hands and love on his skin, to somehow know his presence inside me, to want more, ever-more, and to coo in his presence... this, yes, but also: to seek his expression, when loud noises happen. when sin makes black this world. when mean makes nasty-day. when laughter at crass shatters still of heart. when person cries, or dies, or sings... no matter, to look to him. to seek his expression. and to base mine on his--not on the world around.

join me, friend?

hearing the music

i see them, colors pinned on clothes line, and she doesn't see me, my neighbor across the way but we're reeling in basket and the day is done and the clothes are dry and we're one, in this long-drawn moment as sun casts final glance on foot-flat grass. and i wonder, 'did i spend this day well?'



the spirit voice is brush of butterfly against cheek: 'it's not what you did, but the attitude you did it in.' the final shirt lies folded, the final cloth diaper and husband is picking strawberries for milkshakes, back-strong bent over plants-tiny-green. 'was i grateful?' i sigh--or did i waste today wishing for another?



inside, sister sits in dusk reading 'good night moon' to my son. his little hand rests on hers, and i remember hours ago, same hand with wooden spoon, favorite toy in spite of bright new ones... wood toy against shine of pot-lid... and i don't mind the clang-clang for his smile; he's diaper-clad, making music from the every-day.

world winds down, i remember the squeak of laundry line, the soprano whisper of wind, the click of keyboard keys, the laugh of seven-month-old, the whirr of stroller-wheel against pavement, the growl of blender as husband made milkshake and the swish of book-page-turning... these were the everyday songs. it was up to me to hear the music.

watermelon smiles

we sit on paint-peeling porch, making toothless smiles out of watermelon slices and talking 'round the rinds, making marriage matter in this moment of baby-sleep.

it's been seven months of pleading to the whims of child and we're missing each other. so we stop, sunday afternoon and carve red heart of watermelon dripping love onto front porch. and we play "would you rather?" a game which makes us learn the other. "would you rather... a full-time painting career, or writing?" he asks. "would you rather a part-time contract, or full-time sub work?" i return.

the rinds rest idle as we chat beneath sky, and sabbath seals, heals best, and our bare toes touch. and i know him more, this man i met in bible school, this man who grew long-legged on family farm, this man who reminds me day-by-day that i am the world to him.



we hear baby stir and it's okay, for worlds have woven tight, and we live inside the other, again. it's as though we're 18, lying on living room floor, listening to bon jovi, only we're near-30 with crow's feet and dirt-beneath-fingernails. but the kiss still shatters glass-of-day, and his voice still brings me home.

and so, we steal our marriage back on this sunday afternoon.

in this, i breathe thanks:

12. for husband hugs
13. for watermelon-smiles
14. for baby napping
15. for soil in toes
16. for homemade bread
17. for house near-packed
18. for husband's dream job
19. for publishers interested in book
20. for sunday songs

becoming bread

washing machine whirls, bread thumps in bosch and baby drools sleep, and i stand in kitchen-middle feeling little as the ant crossing counter. wondering, for umpteenth time, who am i and how can i be such a mess?

words flung harsh at husband, friend feeling forgotten and baby sick with cold, this mother wants to run but, too tired, stands still, and tears.

outside, overcast, like shadows on my lining face, and i wonder, will i ever get it? this christian life? will i ever be able to love self enough to die?

fists pound dough, shapes bread, and i think, this is what i need: to be like dough. to be shaped into bread which can be eaten. which will nourish. dough is nothing if not turned into bread.

it rises in heat of kitchen and i realize too, this heat, this persecution, this changing circumstance, is needed to make dough rise into fullness of bread... then, once risen and prepped, the roasting of oven, dying to dough-self, becoming something greater.

shared communion.

these overcast days, life seems long, but i bite into bread thick with jam and butter and sit in the middle of my floor and sketch pictures in the flour and realize: i need do nothing but let God. the dough does nothing, save for being. i am dough. he is molding. making.

oh, let me love myself enough to die so i might nourish....

being the woman he needs me to be

he eats toast and peanut butter every morning; nachos every night before bed. i taste them on his lips when he pulls close in married-way. he asks, 'does this match?' wearing gray with brown stripes, and steps into my swept up piles. then he sweeps me up and brushes off frown with farm-boy hand and does his bum-dance that makes me girl-laugh.

but two days ago, faltered dance-steps, mismatched outfits, crumbs on goatee, and i stilled; realized, my man was once boy, and he needed me.

trent's dream job--teaching math in childhood-school--loomed, and the interview came and went, and with it, his voice, and he sat on skype whispering his answers into the monitor hoping the principal had grace.

and the principal and four others said they'd call. and they hadn't. and his hugs were fierce and his silences long and he missed breakfast, sitting with baby watching him jump, jump, and suddenly i saw my lover's shoulders droop and his strong jaw like collapsed clothes-line and i knew. i had to be the woman he needed me to be.




much like i hold aiden i clutched his neck, pulled him near, and we soul-tied while baby laughed, and he said soft, "what if i don't get it?" and i thought of all those years, wanting, and now: moment pending. what if he didn't? and all of a sudden my heart dove and i wanted to gasp for fear, but i sucked up strength and kissed hard and prayed harder voice of faith. "i believe you'll get it," i spoke.



is this not what wedded ones do? stand in the gap? "increase my faith" we pray, and God sends us loved one, to hold us near heaven when we have no strength.

i leaped into water, played peter walking to Jesus begging see the way my feet move, not the way they sink, while husband stayed in boat, watching, and we do this water-walk for each other, taking turns getting wet.

and i heard spirit-voice: "in the afternoon. you will rejoice, for God is good." i said not, just watched husband breathe in and out and then, the phone, and him picking it up and listening and heart suspending and then, the slight nod, eye wink, and i knew. he'd gotten it. and i wept and rejoiced for yes. God is good.

i am mother

i wear "author", red-silk-title around my neck, baby slung to body and they see him, not title... i radiate, for they know me for my womb child and they smile, these conference-ladies: in spite of all, only one matters: bearing fruit of earth through laundry-piles and length of grocery list and dabbing of scraped-knee-tears...



and it's hard, playing single mama to this babe stretching long of limb ... i sigh deep, missing husband, willing spirit-strength in foreign land of red rock and desert flower... then, boy smiles up through wall of weary and my back eases and i remember--His burden is light, made sweet through drool-bubbles and dimpled toes.




more than striving, is this: being made nothing; making other everything.
abraham lincoln said, "everything i am, i owe to my mother.' i hear this through silver-slap of leaf-trees, and i know. in this tiny flesh-skin is my father's jaw, my mama's eyes, my husband's nose and my length of leg. when kissing him; when hushing goodnight, when teaching to crawl, to walk, to laugh, i do as ann voskamp once said--i mother thousands.




i see them smile as i bear baby through airport halls, back-pack balancing infant-sling, and in their look is one of wonder.

flicker-heartbeat through green-felt sling. i slide crick of finger through his. i become Christ, washing feet of child, nursing mouth of history, and singing hymns into curl of ear. and in Christ i find my calling. that of mother.