romancing the world

sometimes i can hear the world breathing.

it's in the stillness, the act of doing nothing, that it hits like blast of train whistle and the mouth of the world smells of pretzels and salt and sweat and beer and coffee and tired and fast food,

like the exhaust of our veggie car

an exhausted world. it hits me at our bible study as we're huddled round everyone trying to un-hurry hearts for an hour to forget about suzy's cold and jimmy's grades and to know Him, by stilling.

but then it's rush of car and home and sleep and work and rats racing and there is no time for brushing teeth just go, go, go and

mary sits expectant

i sit excited for

the advent of this wreath, which ann's son has made

and for some reason this year, i cannot wait
for advent

yet i must
for it's in the waiting, the days leading up to conception, that romance happens

the wooing of a world gone weary

the roses of a suitor-God who comes in form of angel
says, behold
i love you
enough to give you life

we need this stilling, this knowing of a divine kind of romance for without it,
there would be no immaculate story, no savior in a manger, no God on a cross, no Christmas worth winter

and so, i wait
the coming of advent


(shared with one shot poetry)

my zambian sister

there were women dancing and gifts full, and smiles, so many white smiles stretched in black face, and my sister wrapped in african garb and her groom, visiting for a moment with an armful of roses then gone, and more dancing...

this is where i've been... helping youngest sister step into her zambian name. she, patient woman who's waited so long for this man woven right.

and after feasting and gifts and games we stood and sang 'i stand in awe'... and i stood in awe and my face was wet as though God was scrubbing skin clean and he was the one dancing. Lord of the dance.

we married to spirit, mothers and wives and sisters and daughters and we stood unified in color and heart and it was heaven on earth. while outside the world fell silent beneath snow.



thankful with ann for

171. zambian song
172. sisters and late night movies
173. chocolate fondu
174. oma to care for son
175. sleep in's
176. mountains in the distance
177. sun on snow
178. hugging son tight and him kissing sloppy
179. articles to write
180. prayers from agent

Guest Post: keLi on Giving Thanks

she is thoreau-bred baby, my friend keLi, and her words swoon to the spirit in a way i've never known... and here, she bows low and gives thanks, and i invite you to listen.





when you say your thanks

mean it.


glance around the table spread long and wide

and see more than the good plates

the dappled silver on display

the gravy server placed just so

to hide the stain of last year’s cranberry salad.




give thanks and link hands

tuck fingers into grandmother grasp

of palms worn into leather, from love

branching varicose into very being


give thanks and pay tribute

to cousin Bobby in Afghanistan

who spoons his bounty from a tin can today

hunkered as if bowed in prayer, too


give thanks and remember well

the soul flung up from that empty seat

at table where clink of forks fills silence

enduring days of want before true feasting above


when you say your thanks

mean it.


look – really look – at those who have gathered

and see the beauty and the mess of it all

eleven calendar months of life hard

the nicks and scars no fancy tablecloth can hide

all facing each other now, passing time and food

and gratitude.


when you say your thanks

call it grace.

call it all grace.

and mean it.



Reminded today, as I am every day since sweet Baney went home, that to breathe is blessing – and to live is praise. Praying that you, friends, would slather your loved ones – heaping helping of gravy-style—in love this holiday weekend.


ALL SCRUMPTIOUS PHOTOS COURTESY: http://www.flickr.com/photos/crowdive/

imperfect prose on thursdays: a mother's love

i'm one of those people that straightens rugs and stresses over curtains hanging crooked and he's sitting in a puddle of vegetable oil slapping happy and i sigh and pull him out and clean up fast but kiss him faster

toilet paper sticks to the bottom of his shoe, he trails white and shreds merry, leaving confetti across carpet and hardwood and i fold laundry and marvel at the mess and the rest inside me

he cries and kicks on the change table and i think, i could punish, but i take a moment to look deep, and his eyes speak pain, what baby words cannot voice and so i stop and hug it hard away and he quiets for the love

the mama's love that laughs at arrowroot crust on curtain, at vegetable oil puddles and toilet paper confetti

it's a love that transcends

we sit now and i teach him his numbers and colors and then, his bible, and we're learning beattitudes and i am still getting it, this being blessed when sad, this being blessed when poor

but it's no less true for me failing to understand

and part of me gets it: the mother part. the part that says, when you, aiden, are sad or in distress, you are blessed because then i can help you. then i can hug the sad away and kiss the happy-return and you will know love more fully than if you had never been hurt to begin with

and love is the kingdom of God.



broken writers, artists, believers... spill crumbs below... in a communion of the imperfect.

1. link up a post that you feel is 'broken' or 'imperfect' or somehow redemptive
2. put the 'imperfect prose' button at the bottom of your post, so others can find their way back here (see button code in right-hand column of my blog)
3. read other's offerings, and comment!
(i will be officially opening the community every wednesday at 5 pm EST, 3 pm MST... you can link up all week long)

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*'a mother's love' painted for a friend who recently fled an abusive situation with her children; prints available here*

woodstove picnic

i tiptoe from the bathroom in the elbow of night and our room is empty, duvet shoved aside and pillows gone

turn soft on carpet and my eyes adjust and
he's laid a blanket before embers, pillows warming, and it's a woodstove picnic

we lie in the quiet of a sleeping house, timber sighing deep even as the roof snores beneath winter's warm

our son stretches cherub, tucked away in crib, one hand curled into fist as if to hurt the bad guys

and it's our world now, in the glowing
just one week ago we sat here, pretending fire, wondering when, and now
wood snaps red and orange and it's as though a sunset for the flame

everything slows for the heating of house by wood, and it's effort now, but not without glory, and every half hour, another stoke and poke and bark catching light


he finds my hand
we hold each other
on the blanket in the basement

chimney smoking grey as heat rises



(linking to chatting at the sky and one shot poetry)

love and laundry and toy

God's joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box, from cell to cell. As rainwater, down into flowerbed. As roses, up from ground. Now it looks like a plate of rice and fish, now, a cliff covered with vines, now a horse being saddled. It hides within these, till one day it cracks them open. (Rumi)

the clothes are a soapy collage, and little boy kisses front-load glass, unable to peel for the swirl of the cotton womb

wash day. my son's favorite day. i turn to word as he, to laundry, both of us marveling at clean.

i know i can't feel movement yet but my hand wanders to belly

"we want to be transparent" husband said, lying in bed. "we want others to know, so they can talk about it, too."

there is a swirl in womb of laundered insides... collage of miracle... and it's new, brand-new, but we tell because we believe in the journey of DNA, and we know the pain of miscarriage, and think that life should be an open book

read by all

so none need suffer in silence.

my son smushes face against my pant-leg and he's unaware of anything but love and laundry and toy and i want to keep it this way for as long as possible for pain will come soon enough

he patters back to laundry-show and i turn scripture pages and wonder at how flimsy they seem, holding such weight and isn't this the way it is with faith?

stronger than it seems.
and so, we dare transparency.
trusting God to pick us up if we fall.

with ann, praising:

161. this new growth inside
162. wash days
163. woodstove, new and warm
164. articles to write
165. movie with husband
166. christmas music
167. skype convo with family
168. quiet afternoons
169. good reads
170. the promise everlasting

when God smells like honey nut cheerios

i pray so hard for my kids that the gift of life and all its fiery beauty will outweigh the pain, and that somehow my celebration of it will speak louder than the false thrill of emptiness, she tells me.



the snow sounds brand-new, like a squeaky toy, for its cold
sled smoothes path for my clumsy feet and i follow son and man into the bright of day and watch his face
little boy face red
waiting for the smile



shutter slow, like a blink, taking photos half-mast and breath catches for the frozen shadows, the heaven-come-earth in lens

there's a bump bump bump and i run to catch his face again and there it is:
eyes wide sudden knowing, this is winter and i am a boy and this is my papa and my mama with the funny furry hat and the camera and there is a God for i hear him in the snow and i see him shining through the spruce and i smell him, and he smells like honey nut cheerios









smile. my son smiles. and not for all the sky-blinking-gold can world compete with it. for my world is in his face.


linking with on, in and around mondays.























and i live to see him celebrate beauty.
i cannot keep him from the pain.
but i can help him believe in good.

Guest Post: Boy Crazy

elizabeth, beautiful prose-sister from boy crazy, speaks on repentance and holy motherhood...


Babel rings out like a warning. A one-word omen, a message in my ears to check myself before I wreck myself.

My pride, determination, my drive, my ferocity and passion - they are my tools for raising my boys and raising hell, for building up my empire stone by stone, struggling, sweating, pulling muscles and bruising bones to build my tower to the sky.

When maybe, I'm in the wrong place or on too weak a foundation or work with materials too flimsy that will crumble in the storm. Maybe my tower leads to a trapdoor that will send me tumbling to depths greater than from where I began. Maybe I haven't asked.

I just build and build and build, stone atop stone, sure of myself, steady on my path, clear in my mission until I get to the top and I've lost my voice, lost myself, lost my way. And I see there is no top, only stone atop stone atop stone.



And so I hang my head and abandon my tower, my tools, my treasure and knees in the dirt I pray -- help me listen, teach me how to ask, how to see the path laid out before me so I can stop stacking stones in vain.


...

My desire to do it myself, my confidence in my own discernment and capabilities will be my downfall.




I forget this is my weakness. I am blind to my trajectory until I hear the whisper, Babel. And then I feel the subtle sway and I gasp --peering down from my precarious perch suddenly aware of the heights and the lightening flashing in the distance.

imperfect prose on thursdays: church

there are men in my house right now, installing a wood stove, and there are wood crumbs and there is attic on floor and carpet ripped up and drills boring holes and my son has a fever and a runny nose yet nothing serious enough to warrant the doctor so i called my mother-in-law.

it's a hard thing, this calling one's mother-in-law, for it's admitting, even though i am your son's wife, and even though i am your grandson's mother and should have it all together, i feel like a failure and need your help.

i am a proud woman. i've insisted on picking out my own outfits since the age of four. i was raised to care for my three siblings and learned fast what it meant to watch out for myself. i grew up not knowing what it meant to need another, for we were always alone--we never knew anyone, and we were always moving. i didn't know my grandparents until later in life. and living near my parents, my mum was the one who needed help.

now, i live near trent's parents, and they stop by the house, begging to babysit.

it's taken me long to learn how to say, "yes."

we sit in my mother-in-law's house, and the air is so clean of wood crumbs and there's no attic falling and she's cooking us dinner and aiden's cheeks are red from lip-love and i think about how good help feels.

why don't i ask for it more often?

and what would the church look like, if we were all to do this?


all the believers were one in heart and mind. no one claimed that any of their possessions was their own, but they shared everything they had... and God’s grace was so powerfully at work in them all that there were no needy persons among them. (acts 4)



broken church, i'm so grateful for you and your imperfect prose... spill your offerings below...

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*prints of Community are available here*

over at High Calling again... (final post in Anorexia series)

She sits impossibly skinny, twelve years old, bones for legs, and she watches World Vision commercials and sighs jealous of the children. They’re so lucky, my young friend murmurs. They don’t have to eat.

What she’s not saying is they get to die.

I am 30 now and I stare at this little girl, remember what it’s like to lie purple on a hospital bed, smelling old man shoe and steamed milk, hearing the nurses wonder why I’m not dead, for I haven’t eaten in days and I’m mad because I can’t seem to lose any more weight.


click here to read more, dear friends...

and join me later today for imperfect prose on thursdays.

when horton hears a who

'what's your definition of a mountain?' husband asks.


the silhouette of an aboriginal man rises from rock-cloud and we're in a sacred kind of land now, and i say how mountains are the closest thing i have to a picture of God, here on earth.

and i need this tangible God because i'm so flimsy
i fall apart so fast, with the sound of a man yelling at his daughters next door in the hotel

with the imperfect way i carve slope, sloppy feet in swish of snow and then tears and bones falling hard against mountain-safe and me feeling not only have the mountains let me down, but God (only to pick self up and kiss the rock forgiveness)

and then the drive home and me learning i'm more like my mother than i thought for i cannot drive in dark. for all of the white and black and jagged lines and husband takes over and i curl up with my book and my frailty

and it's in this book i read of brother lawrence and how he viewed all of humanity as wintered trees, stripped of leaf and green, bare of fruit, and how God loves these trees for all of their uselessness, loves so hard it kills him

i am this wintered tree standing forlorn stretched begging, love me

and i think now of the movie we watched in the hotel, horton hears a who, and in it, an elephant named horton grips a tiny clover upon which a speck exists--and this speck, this tiny, insignificant speck, is a world of who's... and horton is the only one who can see them. and when evil tries to hurt this speck, tries to destroy it, horton--a big clumsy elephant--scales high places, leaps cliffs, and hunts through hundreds of thousands of seemingly insignificant flowers to find it again. because this clover-speck matters that much.

we are this speck. God is this horton. this mountain. this safe place that might let bad things happen but who will never, ever leave us--in all of our insignificence.


(linking up with chatting at the sky and one spot poetry)

my runaway bunny

i place hand on womb, for he's got a boy's face, and i want him back inside of me

this is a party for him, this, with the streamers and balloons and party favors but all i want to do is run away with my bunny and hide in the closet and keep him there close so nothing bad can harm him but then i stop

for the story doesn't go like that. it doesn't hide in a closet.

if you run away, said his mother, i will run after you, for you are my little bunny.

if.

and he does. my boy stays still for no one, running on one year old chub and he's drooling and flapping arms he's so excited and playing hide and go seek with his cousin and does he see me? i shy away from the crowd and pick up the book and there it is. the "if."

if you become a fish in a trout stream... i will become a fisherman and i will fish for you.

if you become a rock on the mountain high above me, i will become a mountain climber, and i will climb to where you are.

if you become a crocus in a hidden garden, i will be a gardener. and i will find you.

it's cake now, and he's only eating the icing and his eyes get so big i fear his insides will squeeze sugar and then he smiles like the sun and runs some more

and his skin is stretching too fast for me

i sit because i can't keep up

if you become a bird and fly away, i will be a tree that you come home to.

i don't have to keep up. i need to be the one who's still. and when he's tired, when he's rubbing fist into eyes and cannot find his feet for the floor, i need to be the one who catches him.

if you become a sailboat and sail away from me... (no, please no) i will become the wind and blow you where i want you to go.

my prayers, the wind in his ears, advice tucked deep and "teach a man the way he should go" the bible sings and i nod even as the deaf turn away

and i promise to never stop praying. to never stop wording, God's message to son and in that way, i will always be with him, he will take me with him

if you become a little boy and run into a house... i will become your mother and catch you in my arms and hug you.

and never.let.go.

i will never let you go....

until you need me to.


(i am gone snowboarding sunday to monday night; will be back online tuesday... traci michele little has been so kind to host me here... love to you all, dear ones; i will visit you upon my return)

Guest Post: Finding Serendipity

her photos, her poetry, still me ... patty, a woman in whom i find serendipity.



I tug hard at the heavy glass door and it finally gives, sliding open and letting in the stifling heat. It is heavy and smothers me like water. I step outside and he doesn't notice me watching.

He is almost three and I can't understand how he can tolerate this heat. But he does. He is naked except for the droopy Power Ranger underwear, and oblivious to me standing there. I get close enough that I can smell his sweetness and he creates a motor's noise with his little lips. Brrrrr... He looks up at me with those sparkly black diamond eyes and smiles, but immediately, his attention goes back to the elaborate train track he has built, and Thomas' attempts to pull a 9-car train around it. He is diligent, even at this young age.

I tug hard at the heavy glass door again, and it slides open. It is nearly a year later, but the heat is the same. It suffocates me. I step outside, and still, they do not even notice me.

He is almost three, and like his brother, wears nothing but droopy underwear. He is lean like his daddy, but still has his round toddler belly. He is positioned in a low squat and is balancing on one hand. His other hand can just barely grasp the neck of the plastic dinosaur he controls. Roarrrr... he says, his face fierce, lips curled,roarrrr... He pushes the dinosaur's feet through the sand, waddling side-to-side as I guess he imagines dinosaurs walk. He is not pretending to be the dinosaur; he IS the dinosaur. He sees me, jumps up and runs to me, with his dinosaur baring arm extended. He twists from his shoulder to move the dinosaur because he does not yet have the fine motor skills necessary to isolate the motion to his wrist.Roarrrr... he says, even louder. I try my mommy-best to look frightened and say,"Oh, please don't eat me, Mr. Sharp-tooth!" He drops his arm, looks at me with great disappointment and frowns. He's a Tyrannosaurus Rex, mommy! Not 'Sharp-tooth'!

I turn to go back inside. Again, I tug at the door until it gives with an inaudible pop, and heaves way. I rush inside, grateful for the warmth and shelter on such a cold day, and quickly push the heavy door shut. I step over the carpet of scattered toys: wooden trains, legos-goodness, the legos!-and plastic dinosaurs and reptiles. How he loves slimy, scaly things. And the baby dolls! They seem so out of place among all the boy toys.

Clap clap clap. I hear her before I see her, and try to imagine which pair she has chosen this time. She steps out from behind the corner and breaks into a huge smile, and then she strikes the pose. How is it that a three-year old knows how to pose? She has chosen my pointy-toed black mules. A good choice! I say, thinkingthey are my favorite, too. She is so yummy, this baby girl who was by all medical accounts to be my third son. She has thrown the pink feather boa over one shoulder and I can't help but realize that my stinky dish towel is draped over my shoulder, just like that. Did she do this intentionally? She is wearing a gaudy, plastic, jewel-embedded tiara and is holding a princess fairy wand. She has her hand on her hip, and the wand is behind her back, much like I stand with my spatula, or wooden spoon, or whichever kitchen utensil I might be holding at the time.

Is she pretending to be a princess in sophisticated black mules, or does she thinkI am a princess? Does she want to be a princess and a mommy, and is having a hard time deciding how she wants to spend her life, just like her mother?

.......

I fall in and am disoriented. Bubbles, and wooden trains and plastic dinosaurs and feather boas, swirl around me as I kick and pull trying to find 'up'. Time passes as quickly as it takes me to walk over the threshold, and the heaviness of it weighs on me like the weight of that glass door. I pull to hold back Time from making my babies adults, but he is adamant. I pull as hard as I've pulled on that door. I know in the next moment, they will be driving. And in the breath after that, they will be leaving our home for a life of their own, and in the next heartbeat, ... raising their own families.

I feel my chest ripping apart as I try to breath. I am suffocating. I take faith and push hard. I break through the surface with a gasp, and involuntarily suck in a lung-full of oxygen. I can see. And breathe.

The sun shines on my face. It calms me. It reminds me that I have today. I have today to love my teens and 'tween'. I have today to love baseball bats, real reptiles and real make-up. And I have tomorrow to love my teenage children, and all the adventures that that part of life will bring. It is time to take the next step, to hold on tightly to dinosaur memories, but to move forward and embrace what comes next, believing that those new memories will also be imprinted on my heart... Right next to the wooden trains, plastic reptiles, and feather boas.


To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.

-Ecclesiastes 3:1

imperfect prose on thursdays: falling

we sit in a circle in church basement telling fears and i hush mine quiet, "dark. i'm afraid of the dark." thinking of all of those thunder-lightening-nights when dad would sit by my bedroom door and sing "the lord is my shepherd" over and over and then, sit and read, just so i could know he was there. so i could fall asleep in the presence of another.

it's coffee break, and the others talk of dentist, small spaces, heights, and i nod but remain in the past in the shadows of my room, in the sliver of light soft yellow beneath door and the quiet swish of page as dad's book turned and downstairs, mum putting away the day's things and pulling out life for tomorrow and the quiet hum of a parent's love.

night, when my starving-anger quieted; slammed-doors swung still, yelling ceased and family became a nest for broken birds to bury deep. in the dark, i become a child. even now, burrowing into husband's side the warmth of his skin a soothing space in which to enter the prayer of sleep.

falling hard i still find courage in the being picked up; in the God-presence of another. now, to be this sliver of light, this soothing space, for my child...

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*prints of Falling available here*

over at The High Calling again...

you who read, oh, you bless... ((thank you))

if you wish to learn more of my anorexia story, click here for part 2 of So I Stopped Eating.




(join me later today for imperfect prose on thursdays)

when love isn't a bed of roses

there's nothing colder than a turned back and he shivers

we don't fight often, and this isn't a fight, more of a bruised heart and confused language and tripped-up-tired and finally, the back-turn

but it feels like a fight and it rips me because i wonder if he'll remember this one when it's over: just like the others

"what others?" husband asks, eyeing my burger as i bite, barbecued offering, and his salad which he says is fancy because of the shredded carrot and he hates shredding carrots and i'm already melting but i hate to tell him this

i remind him of years ago, when i wasn't eating nor sleeping and the mascara-streaked pillows and the punched walls and the days he'd sit in the car for fear of coming into the house and he says

"i don't remember that. i remember watching tv with you until you fell asleep. i remember the meals you did eat with me, the pizza we'd share, the popcorn, and i remember never waking angry."

the carrots taste fancy in my mouth. behind me, the bouquet he'd bought, days earlier. "they had roses, but i thought, my emily wouldn't want roses," he'd said. and i don't.

daisies yellow falling, pretty, confetti and: grace.

the petals are dying, drying, beauty preserved. he doesn't see mess of stem,
no, just this:


a fallen flower.

i touch his arm. my hand is warm.



linking with one stop poetry

walking turtles in the woods

they used to walk turtles, friend says. the artists and poets, they would walk turtles.

we stumble upon three shades of pale: sky, woods, sand, as we hike where kanick-a-nic berries grow thick and the bear paws collide with coyotes collide with man's and the lake seems a puddle in the view finder through the shivering birch

we boost baby on back but soon it's to front like "a sack of potatoes" and he giggles so hard he farts and this, over and over until he's grown and wants to walk like it

so we set him down and his little leather shoes move unsteady, for this isn't kitchen floor, and he holds out arms like balancing beam and we grip baby fingers and walk our turtle

i hear amazing grace, children singing in church, and the spruce seem to bow and there is soul in this slowing

with every deliberate step i leave a print
lately i've been so rushed i've hardly touched the ground

my mark on this earth will be measured by time spent slowed

trusting him with all undone, as i find grace in the undoing, in the baby step

in the walking of turtle



with ann, now:

151. meditative walks
152. baby talks
153. friend-mother-finding-groove (with baby savanah, whom you've prayed for--she is doing much better!)
154. christmas cards
155. husband picking me up and putting me back together
156. husband making supper
157. pop-by visits
158. days with nothing
159. my grace-filled parents