a nice face

i'm a wreck with a nice face.
i smile and disappointment is eased by pretty.
church started at 11 and the toilet was plugged and the dishwasher was broken and i stood in my red pjs staring at the clock not able to move but i smiled, and the clock seemed to understand and waved me okay, and so i crawled back into a corner of the day ... and when our guests came to lunch and i told them i just hadn't been able to make it to church, and sorry-smiled, they understood and pretty paved the way and i don't think i've ever known grace for my skin

and my son has my face
how to teach him God-on-cross in this place where beauty saves?

they piled puppies on him, newborn wrinkles, eyes sewn shut and they waited for him to squeal but he just sat quiet and played with the straw and there were seven of us, watching, cameras poised but he just sat and smiled and we forgave the disappointment for the face
and we watched him for 20 minutes playing with straw

he smiles and we swoon for the cute and i'm proud for he's my son, but where is the real?

to see beyond skin...
to let soul be the guide...

an image of body i need to convey, looking not to the mirror but to folded hands for reason to live

remember to look up

our faces shine like moses' and we meet God in the call of the eagle wild in the straggle of pine and spruce and the step of foot breaking frozen path

"remember to look up" he would tell me, my husband back home to his wife who watches her shoes, so i whisper it into the winter and it nods and

i.look.up.

see the chalet roofs carved steep like rocky ledge
the body print in white where mother in law laid down and made an angel rise for the beauty of the morning

see the sun in chorus of shining yellows

i stand and breathe the holy that is God around us and we enter his tabernacle,
babies in tow,
and all of creation claps--

an applause that echoes long after we've disappeared in car and tire--

an applause that keeps us rising, keeps us climbing,

keeps us heaven
scanning


in the valley of house and life beyond


(so grateful to be home in husband's embrace but carrying close the mountain muse... i would live there if i could, in the carve of the white and grey, but to know they are there, is sometimes enough, and knowing you are there, readers, always enough--thank you)

imperfect prose on thursdays: the man with the hat

His baseball hat was black, it sat extended in his hands like a soup bowl, and there were no coins, and he was an older man with a grey beard and smile-eyes and he said hello as Aiden passed by on my hip and I said hello and wondered at the empty. The town was a mountain one with mountain people and shops with overpriced rocks and gems and no one seemed to see him and I wanted to make sure Aiden did. And so we went to Starbucks and I bought an overpriced coffee and organic chocolate milk for my boy who sipped it as if he’d never had chocolate milk before and the customers all laughed and cheered as if they’d never seen a baby before and we bundled back into mitts and toques and I spilled milk and coffee on my jacket as we walked back to the man in the beard on the bench. Praying he wouldn’t be offended. Praying he would still be there. And he was and he smiled again and I said hello again and I handed him a paper bag saying, “We bought you an apple fritter.” And he immediately put on his hat as if that fritter was worth all of the coins in the world and took the fritter in his large hands. “It’s my husband’s favourite,” I said. “Is that okay?” “Why yes, thank you very much,” he said biting into flakes, and his face seemed to turn 10 years younger and I nodded, satisfied, then turned and “I hope you have a very good day,” he told us. “You too,” I said, and walked away. I didn’t say “God bless you,” and wondered if I should have, but I wanted the blessing to be in the giving and not in the words, and I wish now I'd sat down beside him and asked him for his story.



broken writers, artists, believers... i hope you find a safe place here. spill crumbs below... in a communion of the imperfect.

1. link up a post (old or new) 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. don't feel as though you need to comment here (really), but please, read other's offerings, and encourage them!

Mister Linky's Magical Widgets -- Auto-Linky widget will appear right here!
This preview will disappear when the widget is displayed on your site.
For best results, use HTML mode to edit this section of the post.

*original of 'mountain love' sold; prints available here*

Guest Post from Deb @ TALK AT THE TABLE

(friends... i'm in the mountains now, surrounded by your humbling prayers for my mother and finding myself silenced. in this silence, deb emerges, bird winged high, and she writes this prose and i share it with you... may God 'wrap around you' as you've wrapped your spirits around my mum and me)



I managed to get away with pumping gas in my pyjamas the other morning because I know my daughter is old enough to send inside to pay with my credit card. My winter coat is long, but a woman does have some pride. Even in the bitter cold .


I'm noticing something about myself , other than the beginnings of jowls and the stiffening of my hip joints.
Something that I'd assumed was my artistic tendencies toward solitude and am afraid to admit might lean more towards avoidance. With a little self-righteousness thrown in on particularly hormonal days.


The season of more inside than out , quick waves to neighbours and snow days that cancel and postpone are an excuse for me to think I've got things figured out thank you very much.


I start to think I might have issues when I'm obsessing more about the house on the corner with the Christmas lights still on than the fact that I sit in my car feigning a sudden urgent need to clean the cupholders of errant bobby pins and American change so I can avoid the man next door as he comes out to go check the mail.


He travels more than he is home and his marriage no longer exists and the property could use a little maintenance . I want him to feel as bound to keeping up appearances as I do. That's why it's easier to stew and huff than it is to greet him when he decides to shovel his sidewalk and ours as well. He has a smile that catches the light on the cloudiest of days sending beams of joy deep into the hardest of hearts.


I imagine he knows something I don't and maybe that's what ticks me off the most. I don't actually want to pick every weed and bring in the recycle bins before they blow up against the garage across the way or run out in the rain and bring in all the chair cushions and pool towels . But it's easier than wondering what you might think of me if I don't.


There is a junk bin on the driveway on the other side. The side where my best friend no longer lives. Or is alive. Her husband is engaged to be married and the house is going to go up for sale soon and I'm not sure of all the last minute staging renovations because , well it's winter. And I'm rushing in and out of course. It suits me fine to snap the shutters shut when the darkness at dinner comes upon us like it was suddenly switched on. It catches me in the kitchen where my window faces his , but the other she is there and I'm doing this petty thing. This holed up while I can until while sudden squalls and unpredicted white outs co-operate with my stubbornness.


I have to laugh of course when I change into my pj's when it's still quite early in the evening really, and take the dog out for a quick walk to the mailbox. The black sky , the icy air on my cheeks, the heavy quiet like a question , like someone is calling me and I gaze up with eyes watering from the cold and the awe. I am comforted like this. Maybe this is what if feels to have God wrap around you.


From around the corner my neighbour appears. His puppy doesn't know that I have a winter wall built around me , and her leash gets all tangled around my legs and of course one has to laugh. This man standing before me is so clearly in love and living in the madness of hope that he can only assume that I am too. He would never think less of me because he doesn't know how to . He refuses to understand how being alone and afraid can be a better than taking chances and seeking joy.


It's easier to hug him and agree than it is to wonder what he might think of me if I told him that I wish I could be so sure.


I need a few more dark nights, but I'm learning.



*join me here for imperfect prose, wednesday evening*

my mother never knew she could dance

sometimes i see the little girl in her, the one that wanted to be a ballerina but shy stepped away for the mean of the others, the ones who called her elephant and made her tug on her leotard and wish for a mother who would hug her and make the awful disapper but her mother was part of the awful

and the england skies washed with tears and she planted flowers beside her father, the policeman who was never home, and she read books in her bed, while her mother, the seamstress, sewed patterns and smoked cigarettes and listened to classical music and dreamed of being an artist

sometimes as a child, i watched my mum blush for the skin on her body, watched her step into a closet so even dad couldn't see her changing, the girl who was never told she was beautiful

the tumor came with the death of mum's mother who decided to lie red in a bath-water casket
the tumor came when my mum found the razor beside the bathtub and didn't know who to talk to because she was a pastor's wife and pastor's wives don't have problems, and so we all watched mum hide again in her closet and try to forget only the tumor remembered

and she bought a hat for my wedding to hide the hair loss and when she smiled she'd never looked so beautiful but the tumor kept growing until i moved home from korea thinking we were going to lose her and i bathed her and sang to her and changed her and did things only mothers do for children and then

the little girl began to dance, even though she couldn't walk

and the closet doors flung open, there was no reason to hide and holy became her who used to blush shame

and the tumor couldn't stay for the angels that made her whole and now

the doctors scratch heads and say it's gone, eight years after my wedding, after the hat, after the mri pronounced it so

the tumor, gone

she's missing part of her brain but learning life again, and i talk with her on skype and she asks me how my baby grows and i cry, for she remembers i'm pregnant, and she tells me what it was like when she was pregnant with me

she still dances when the music plays and she still forgets to turn the stove off but she reads anna karenina and spends hours typing letters to me and she loves me bigger, she says

and tonight she fell backwards down stairs, hitting her head and her arm, and breaking it in three, and i'm wondering, will you pray? for my mother who loves bigger? for the one who opened womb so i might live? for the one who never knew she could dance, until a disease took away her ability to walk?

((thank you))

(((i love you mum)))

falling over for the laugh

he smiles so big he falls over, my son.

i used to fall over from a belly laugh. these days it's all washing and folding and typing and cooking and using time wisely and falling over would be a waste of time, wouldn't it?

but he assures me laughing would be the best use of it, my husband.

the one i woke up inside of, yesterday morning.
the one i fought with yesterday lunch.
the one i forgave minutes later.
the one who made me homemade fries and burgers for supper, the supper he always makes when we fight, the one that breaks the bread and squeezes the wine of our communion.


the one who saw me standing in my apron in the middle of the kitchen, in the middle of the afternoon, staring into the pantry trying to find in there some recipe for domestic living. i pulled out chocolate chips and butter and he pulled on his face that says, i'm the one that knows what's best for you, and asked me not to bake him cookies.

but we have no baking.
"i want you to rest."
isn't the way to a man through his stomach and "are you sure?" i said shrugging out of apron.
he was sure, and i asked if it was okay if i painted and he said of course it was okay, as long as i wasn't working and

the pantry door closed and paint cans opened and i smeared love on a canvas

his feet are long and white and he teaches me how to rest, this man who makes me burgers and drives me crazy and wakes up inside of me and forces me not to bake cookies

we've only been married 8 years. perhaps in another 20 i'll have learned to fall over.


(heading to the mountains this week... will share photos and thoughts as i am able... can i tell you, how much your imperfect prose means to me? how much it means to see you commenting on each other's pieces? this community, it's the kind i'm sure God would fall over from, smiling about...)

imperfect prose on thursdays: sparrow's hope

the road runs long and white to the edge of the world where the house sits empty.

we walk, scarves knit around faces, sky frosted glass. our words make puffs of cloud.

she, telling me about the people who don't want to let it happen.

the fields are iced grass. the winged bird dips. the roof of the empty house slants cold. the barns heave and silence is the mouth that swallows.

i don't want to hear it. i don't want to hear of people being afraid to let the women and children in.

this house is going to be sparrow's hope. used to shelter women running from slamming fists and angry voices. women holding babe to breast, running, running, down road and across plain into vastness, and this house calling, home.

and the churches here are quilting covers and there are tables and chairs and toys and beds and clothes, so many clothes, donated in piles, and we want to give, we do, but sometimes we just don't know how. and so, we shake.

the road creaks, an old wooden board. trent's mom tells me of someone not wanting to build the road across, now that the house is going to be filled with wounded. not because of the wounded, but because of what they imply, and because of what might follow.

but we are all wounded and sin tracks us until we step inside the house of God.

and everyone needs a safe place.

the sun blinks evening and we're turning back. the house hides by the cloud that led the israelites by day and the fire that burned by night.

he, our ever shelter. he, our cradled safe place. let it be.



broken writers, artists, believers... i hope you find a safe place here. spill crumbs below... in a communion of the imperfect.

1. link up a post (old or new) 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. don't feel as though you need to comment here (really), but please, read other's offerings, and encourage them!

Mister Linky's Magical Widgets -- Auto-Linky widget will appear right here!
This preview will disappear when the widget is displayed on your site.
For best results, use HTML mode to edit this section of the post.

*original of "Doorway of Hope" sold; prints available here*

the center of nowhere

i live in a hamlet where two churches stand back to back and the congregations never face each other

there is one intersection, the reformed school on a corner, with its library and playground and dutch children
the co-op another where most of the women are divorced but very nice, and they pile your groceries high and comment on the weather then wave goodbye

and the car wash, somehow never empty, the steam bubbles like empty snowballs drifting up

and if you say "i live in town" people think you live somewhere else, for this is "the center," and nothing but, and my husband grew up thinking neerlandia was the center of the universe

until he moved

beyond the centre, over a hill and past the intersection, there's road and sky and farms

more roads and skies and farms
and cows

and most of the time i like it in this place which my friends call narnia
where people bring you casseroles and wonder why you weren't at coffee break and say hi to you as you sled your son
where moose tread heavy across lawn and white tails flag you at the stop sign

but sometimes i miss hiding
sometimes i miss restaurants and pubs and art galleries and river valleys
sometimes i miss the anonymity of paved roads and the nameless shopping of malls

here, you hide from no one. an eye, divine, peers from the sky wide and when you stop to breathe it's as if the hamlet breathes with you and you're a nucleus of red barns and canola fields and stay at home mothers

church is week-long and i've never been good at church but here it is, my life, and
while i beg the world invade there is good, there is God, there is humble, in being
known

in the center of nowhere


(linking today with one shot poetry)

making home a sanctuary

trent is pulling aiden on his horse and the kettle whistles long lost train and the steam finds chai and i`m resting in the church that is my home

there is holy in the corners where the lamplight leaves its yellow
there is broken in the runny noses and stained carpet and chipped pottery
there is fellowship in the father playing with his boy and there is rest in the slant of winter-sun

i told husband`s mother i loved her house, and she looked at me as if i`d said i owned the stars because she lives in a trailer but it feels like a sanctuary

i step into the room they live in and there is love there, it holds you with its walls, and you sink into it because it can take the weight

she brings you tea and she asks you about your day and Christ is present in the serving

i want this for my children. for my home to be a place where God is worshiped in the caring for one another. where fabric is worn and quilts are thrown for the use and toys are stepped on and grace is said more than three times a day.

day is winding and curry simmers and baby claps hands on the counter and he`s singing to himself the hymn of the contented and i write poetry on my fridge with white magnets

may you never leave, i beg God. may you always abide among us

may this ever be a place where the broken pottery and runny noses find a home

amen



joining ann and the gratitude community today....

210. snow days
211. friends playing games with us
212. son babbling stories to himself
213. woodstove heat in freezing temps
214. husband cooking supper
215. a broken community worshiping together
216. new dreams
217. prayers for old ones
218. a God who doesn't give up on me
219. barbara kingsolver
220. annie dilliard

Guest Post: Brian Miller @ WaystationOne

you know him as king of one shot poetry and master of the literary word, and he humbles me by showing here his heart, a bruised man who's cried out, "Are you?" to which God has responded, "I AM." read on.

it's not like it
happened overnight
but it started the
first time i chose to
swallow instead of spit
holding it in
& that little grit
took hold & began
the wall around my heart...

it was not supposed to be this way. i answered God's call. we gave up a comfortable life, jumped the cliff of faith and said send me...and nine months later we woke up to a church divided by deceit. but he delivered me...sent me elsewhere...and then it was all over...five years in my ministry it came to the end.

Father don't you
understand, i feel so
alone, stripped bare,
why oh why did you give
then take away...

coming home after so long away, all my friends moved on, and i was left standing on the side of the road trying to hitch a ride watching my destination get ever farther and farther. alone. tired. why. why. why. and at the end of my rope, i let go, not expecting to be caught but in spite of and embraced my anger, stuffing it in, stuffing it in, stuffing it in, until i could hold it no more...

how dare you
who do you think
you are, I AM, and
when He would not
answer i turned away...

not just Him but everyone, because i don't need anyone, because i can, i will, show you and you and you...and i pushed my boat off from shore ready to sail away, say goodbye to any one that ever cared, even my family, might as well start a clean slate, erase, erase, erase...

no one cares any way
i had grown numb
to the pain, but it was
all self inflicted mostly
i was blind, unable to see
i screamed & cried
as some beat me with
scripture and lashed me
with guilt and i got angrier
and angrier and ANGRIER...

until a man sat down next to me and said, i been there. and then another. and they shared their naked stories of their hurt & pain & when they almost & they reminded me of what i was walking away from. and who i was, and who i am. but you don't understand & they held the hand of the boy that was scared thinking there was no way back from hollow screaming at the edge of oblivion...

but...but...but...
i can't...i can't...i can't...
were the rumblings
in the moment before
i imploded into a
million tiny pieces,
broken...

and she held me as i lay in her lap and cried and begged forgiveness, and she loved me any way, the same way He did, annointing my head with tears, as my eyes bled rivers down her legs. i am sorry. i am sorry. I AM, sorry...

today is day 3,
and i am
not there yet,
but i am
on my way,
and I AM,
not alone.



i'm still working through your imperfect prose, friends... ((thank you for patience--long week, with editing project, then applying for passports, but friday is winding its long arms around me and i'm falling against the weekend leaning hard...)) i love you, for your offerings, and so.grateful.to.each.

imperfect prose on thursdays: a messy love

but you didn't see the hole in the wall,
the one i made with ringed fist in the basement that was our first home,
you didn't know about the wall, did you? or the way i stopped eating, new-married, the way i needed canvas not to bring kingdom come but to make my own world disappear.

the way the glass pan shattered, apple crisp everywhere, and i asked him to eat it, please, because i'd made it for him, and so we picked out the glass together...
or the bread still raw in the middle, which he toasted each morning for breakfast too afraid to complain, or the cinnamon buns, black-burned, which he nibbled.

you didn't hear the way he cried when he touched my bones and i asked him, kiss me anyway, and he did, and the walls shuddered for the bodies trying so desperately to make love

you didn't hear me tell him i no longer wanted kids on our honeymoon. you didn't see the way i forgot his birthday. the nights spent sleepless on the purple couch in the living room because i'd drank nine cups of coffee that day so i wouldn't feel hungry.

yes, now, i bow low in white-gowned worship but then it was all earth-tones, dust to dust, and it was he who bowed to the scribble on the floor that was me

he bowed low and prayed God into my wife-form, and up rose a penitent woman born of hunger pains and husband's pleas, a woman knowing she owed life to the savior in this man

and so i serve, not always without self... so often, with self... but with a gratitude that cries amen to the grace that is each day, that is Christ among us



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. don't feel as though you need to comment here (really), but please, read other's offerings, and encourage them!

Mister Linky's Magical Widgets -- Auto-Linky widget will appear right here!
This preview will disappear when the widget is displayed on your site.
For best results, use HTML mode to edit this section of the post.

*'a messy love' was made for a friend of mine; prints available here*

a holy way of being woman

my sister, raising hand as new bride, cross behind, dying to new role, worship

in this photo, i see woman, beautiful and slain for love

it happens in the scalding water, the scrubbing of pan and floor and the squeezing of breath into nap-times when jogging and job and everything else happens before the baby rises

but even more in the milk of night when husband turns as i whisper "i love you" and kisses hard and i feel him love me and it's broken by the raspy cry of a fevered child who holds out his hand and won't let mine go and so i'm bent over crib for 15 minutes holding tiny one's fears while husband waits in the bedroom and my body is not my own anymore

the rails of the crib like the cross, i die to self and hold baby into sleep and then crawl into bed and love husband into his and afterwards, lie wake

knowing it's all a choice
and i would do it again
for the knowing i'm not my own and this bending over tired is
white-gowned worship

a holy way of being woman that weaves like garland the peace that is home

red tomatoes in a blue bowl

sometimes i lie on my back in my art room and stare up at the attic door in the ceiling and wonder if heaven lies through the latch

then i find it, on my counter, in the brilliant blue of pottery and the red of tomato, and something so small, so insignificant makes my heart hurt for its beauty

i find myself staring at the beauty as i do, aiden, when he sleeps, as if the beauty can save me

and i wonder, isn't this what we look for? salvation, in the hue of color, in the love of a handshake, in the gift of a pot of soup?

hug me with your colors Lord and i'll paint your kingdom come, one canvas at a time.

i love you through and through...

the night swallows hard, living room toys scattered colors and the dishes humming, and bath-tub draining

it's the only book we can read to him
(cheeks pink, he sits in flesh all new and soft)
and he begs it over, and over, the love on each page
touching the words as if he can feel them

"i love you through and through... i love your top side. i love your bottom side. i love your inside and outside. i love your happy side, your sad side
your silly side, your mad side.

i love your fingers and toes, your ears and nose. i love your hair and eyes, your giggles and cries.

i love you running and walking
silent and talking

i love you through and through... yesterday, today and tomorrow too."

he doesn't let the cover close, keep reading it, he sounds and we do
until he seems believe it true
until he seems to live in the word-spoken



it's an inside-out hug, this all-encompass love, that spins the world upside-down

i beg you, read it, over and over this weekend... the love written on the pages of today.


(thank you to all who participated in imperfect prose... what communion, there)

imperfect prose on thursdays: blooming

he speaks to me in pictures.

december dawn, he showed me a desert. i was john the baptist, roaming wild, sand in toes and stretch of blank ahead. that sunday, a sermon at church, i went alone as husband and baby were ill, i went and i cried as pastor told of desert-times, and then, the promised bloom at the end of it all....

the miracle of bush and flower when skies break over desert and rain finally falls.

i've been waiting all month for the rain to fall.

my mind has been blank. i've had no pictures, save for the desert. no desire to paint--none. canvas stared at me, begging, and i turned away. empty. begging, fill me.

why? and then, the heavens wide-stretch, and clouds fill grey, and the water starts to fall, and it's as though i've never felt the rain before.

and flowers bloom, timid at first, then solid bright, and i tremble for the joy of paint, layer it thick

feel pleasure in fingertips

and i rejoice. wandering until he says "stop, paint this," and then i stop, paint that, and i am glad. for this is the day.




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. don't feel as though you need to comment here (really), but please, read other's offerings, and encourage them!

Mister Linky's Magical Widgets -- Auto-Linky widget will appear right here!
This preview will disappear when the widget is displayed on your site.
For best results, use HTML mode to edit this section of the post.

("blooming" is available here.)

new growth

we followed light to the hospital, light that spilled sideways from the sky like marmelade from a jar while the car yawned exhaust

and i thought of our tree, still up, for i've been unable to take it down, this birth of christ, this disassembling of the best time of year, because it's growing

in spite of being dead, its boughs sprout new life and "i've never seen that before" says trent's dad, a farmer who's seen everything

and the light spills sidways and the tree sprouts new and we arrive and wait expectant in a room full of brittle, aching bones

i think of elijah and wouldn't he want to sit among these kind wrinkles and command new life and isn't this christmas? the sprouting amidst the dying?

i lie on the bed and she presses scope slimey cold and she seems just as cold and i have to ask, "have you seen the baby?" and she tells me she's not allowed to say anything, i'll have to wait to ask my doctor, and i want to cry, bite bottom lip and stare up, count the tiles,

believe in the life that spills light and sprouts new, and ask God to soften her, please, make her heart warm

and at the end of a very long wait she turns the screen and says, i thought you might want to see this, and it's my baby, and "it's grown," i say, and she says, "that is good" and i think, yes, this is good

there is life
amidst the dead, there is life
sprouting

i still sit confined until doctor tells me move, but i'll do anything to keep this baby living
i'll keep the tree up

i'll water it and watch it grow
because
and i don't want to miss a miracle being born


(praising him, thanking him for you... for your prayers... and join me? tomorrow? for imperfect prose? loving you...)

read the stories, he says

the sled is blue and my son sits small and husband pulls him away from the house down the road winding white towards church
i'm inside in red pajamas with a couch-rest order and another, from my husband, to read the stories

i don't want to read the stories. the chicken soup ones. the ones i bought him for christmas because i know he likes them. he sits in the bathroom reading one after the other, about parenting and children and i knew he would ask me to read them one day. they're good, i say. i just don't have time, but as the sled pulls blue away and the house sighs quiet and i think of all i want to do: painting, guitar, shower,

i remember his arms around me the day i returned. the day aiden and i flew west, one week after trent had come home, wedding-following... the day he picked us up and took us home. "thank you for choosing to come back to me," he whispered, and

i couldn't breathe for the freedom.

i remember the love in the choice and i pad in wool-stitched feet to read the stories, the four in particular he'd told me i had to read, (please) and i cry my way through, and they take but four minutes of my day but they make me see life new

and i sit in the bathroom wiping eye thinking, he always knows. even when he chooses from a buffet or a menu, he always chooses best. somehow he knows.

thank you for choosing to come back to me, he says

but all i can think is, thank you for wanting me to.


joining this with ann, thanking God for:

200. you, blog-readers, and out-pouring of prayer ((thank you... from humble heart))
201. rested body, halted bleeding
202. ultrasound on tuesday
203. mother-in-law caring for me
204. friends dropping off tulips and meals
205. kind phone calls
206. neighbors bringing by ollie bollen (new year's dutch tradition--fried bread)
207. spring thaw
208. library books
209. good movies (inception)
210. a renewed desire to create