imperfect prose on thursdays: on how to break your lover's heart

we’re in cancun and the ocean sounds splash and the seagulls cry, peach sky, and we’re sitting on our bed not speaking.

a day in the sun, a day against froth of wave and whir of tire and barter and grovel before mexican shopkeepers and children needing shoes and others needing clothes and the houses falling down and all i can do is weep and all he can do is silence

and it’s water from my eyes, “how?”

turn to husband of eight years and he’s playing with wedding ring. “how can you see it all, this all, and not be moved?"

i shrivel inside the words. “this brokenness and you—where is yours? where are your tears? doesn’t it make you feel?”

the wind lifts curtains yellow, they move like the hem of a dress and he sighs but i’m not finished.

“i will never leave you, trenton, but part of me feels as though you’ve already left me.”

and i see it in his eyes. the way they crease-skin and wet pupil.

“i’m trying to protect you,” he whispers. “you feel so much pain, it scares me; so i try to protect you by pretending these things don’t move me. but they do. you know those babies in the grass? how i said it was okay? i know it really wasn’t. but you were already hurting so much…”

curtain shifts between us and glass, panes of glass. i touch his arm, warm. “i love you for that,” i say. “i understand now.”

fingers, palm. “but don’t be afraid to be broken.” pleading, now. “i want a partner, not a protector. i feel stronger if you’re feeling the pain too. we can share it. we can share the pain.”

ocean and sky collide in dusk and we sit on our bed the world on our shoulders and we’re not speaking

and it’s okay



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. read others' prose and encourage them!

imperfect prose Participants

1. Bethany Ann 2. jodi 3. Nancy @ Alleged Mind 4. Cara @ WhimsySmitten 5. While the Dervish Dances 6. Craig @ Deep into Love 7. Old Ollie 8. Jen Ferguson 9. suzannah {ShoutLaughLove} 10. Vicki Munn 11. Laura, NH, USA 12. City Girl/Emily 13. eloranicole 14. What I want for Easter @Lisa notes... 15. Rachel 16. Abby...his heart reaches 17. David N. 18. Elaine 19. Joybird

20. Michelle DeRusha 21. When the gift is yours..Tammy 22. keLi 23. Leah @ Musings Aloud 24. happygirl 25. 60piggies 26. Lauri 27. Emily- Controlled Chaos Photography 28. kendal AND chris 29. christine 30. Deidra Riggs 31. brian miller 32. Cindy @ 12Tribes 33. misty 34. Gifts @ Dawnings 35. Allison @ Alli 'n Son 36. Rambling Heather 37. alittlebitograce 38. kath @ listening space

39. Brandee @ Smooth Stones 40. Melissa@one thing 41. Kati 42. patty 43. Southern Gal 44. Linda 45. Cara Lewis 46. HisFireFly 47. Wendy @ Almota Roses 48. Rebecca 49. Shaunie Friday @ Up the Sunbeam 50. Don't waste the brokeness 51. imoomie...Faith Chain 52. TK @ Tiffany's Writingt Compendium 53. A New Day 54. Imperfect 55. Anna

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(this, our last day in mexico... flying home tomorrow; looking forward to reading your prose upon my return, friends)

the shadows here in mexico

it's a broken spirit, mine, shattered like blue glass across the beaches of mexico

"we all have stories" he tells us, the man in the suit, the one trying to sell to us, and he talks about growing up with six siblings and never going on vacation and the man next to us, his father was killed and he was left with nothing, and the one who drinks too much and wears dark shades and laughs loud, he lost his six-year-old daughter to leukemia

women sell woven cloth in bright colors, the same colors they're wrapped in, on the sidewalks and around their waists they make bracelets while beside them babies sleep in the grass and my heart winds tight and i want to see them at home in rocking chairs, feet up, babies tucked tight in blankets and "what can we do?" i ask

seashells, dozens, lined up outside homes that are metal-roofed shacks, tumbling down around the garbage and the dogs, and we buy some shells, feel as though we've helped but really? now, to return to our clean floors and our stocked fridge and our air-conditioned elevators?

and the woman with the child twisted out of shape standing by the pier with a sign pleading for help and all we have are a banana and a box of fruit loops but we give and i touch this little boy's arm strapped into a shaft and whisper "ola" into his eyes and he doesn't move but the mother starts telling me her story in spanish and all i can do is sob into trent's shirt

there are shadows here in mexico, in all of the hard places, in the space between humanity and hell, the jagged gaps between rich and poor, the brown skin grooves and the threads of color between their fingers

and all i can do is fold my hands and bow my head and entreat the one who is light to come, Lord Jesus, come


(friends--there will be 'imperfect prose on thursdays' this week... i will link up the community on wednesday... so much love to you all; i look forward to connecting with you upon my return)

Guest Post: Suzy @ Sailing by Starlight

"Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being 'in love' which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two." ~Extract from Captain Corellis Mandolin.

(friends... welcome suzy, from sailing by starlight... homeschooling disciple from england, she probes deep the very heart of life, and in this post, the heart of marriage, and how to keep love alive when everything begs it otherwise...)

I know that I’ve hurt him. I can see it in his eyes. I’ve undercut his efforts with my words. Frustrations and fears, spilling toxicity.

He leaves for work. As the car pulls out of the drive my heart aches empty.

Why do we hurt one another? Maybe I was feeling overwhelmed, knowing I had not been everything I wanted to be that morning and then I'd blamed him for the lack. But he'd not mentioned any lack except perhaps my lack of warmth. This lack was self made. Wrought by my own all consuming vision that neither of us could measure up to. Now that vision was eroding the deeper dream. The dream embedded in vows made to be unbroken.

I had laid impossibly high standards upon myself.

Maybe I’d read somewhere that there was something better out there. A better way to mother, cook, clean, live, be. A better way for him to help, father, partner me. A gleaming, non stick, crease proof way that had shown up the stains and crumbs and dust on the kitchen countertop that morning more than usual and that had turned the volume up on the squeals of children spilling down the staircase louder than ever. Or so it seemed.

So pregnancy, fatigue and the endless “to do” lists smothered love. Love lay buried beneath the debris of me. And all I was left to clean up were the dishes.

The crazy thing is, he hadn’t laid down any terms and conditions for my love that morning. He only wanted my smile carefree and unshackled from the expectations of what "should be". He'd only wanted my love to be the first priority.

But how many times do I put Love at the top of the "to do" list?

Jesus said "But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you." Matthew 6:33

Small neon post-it notes scatter the cupboards with reminders to pick up, collect, call and mail.

But where are the love notes?

The words that remind me to smile, quietly wrap my arms around, sooth the noise of the day away with a gentle touch.

“Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” 1 Peter 3:4

Why do we focus on what is missing instead of what is present? Picking out small pieces of the whole picture till nothing makes sense anymore.

"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;" ~ 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' T.S. Elliot.

I hear those spoons clink and rattle and I begin to stack half empty cups upon the stainless steel drainer.

But it's then that I remember those long years ago, first together, walking by the canal, fingers entwined and the ever ready question upon our lips, "so what shall we do?" The recurring question of a love without bounds! Enlivened by the thrill of not knowing where it may lead us.

Even the murky canal water sparkled beneath the sun of those afternoons, the smell of rain pungent, leaves somehow a little greener, the sky bluer.

These days "What shall we do?" is answered in endless demands before it's even asked!

And I ask myself, do young love’s memories eventually evaporate beneath the bounds of growing responsibility? The crumpled piles of undone laundry, the bills stacked accusingly on the counter, the endless sticky fingerprints upon the windowpane?

Not if we keep living them maybe. Renewing vows, daily, for better or worse, in sickness and health.... Making love the first thing we require from one another.

Tilling the ground between us with words of affirmation instead of criticism. Planting seeds in smiles instead of demands.

He comes home and I catch his gaze. His eyes sparkle. He can’t help it, knowing me too well by now. There is comfort in the years. My eyes pool stinging tears. Nothing is undone, memories were only temporarily misplaced.

I stack half full cups upon the table. Then pour to the brim.

I can’t fix every circumstance but I can fix my perspective, the way I choose to see.

The child’s tears may not be quelled quickly, sticky fingerprints may still stubbornly lace and litter the windowpane, I may not even finish dinner before he gets home, but my vision is repaired when I see through the lens of Love first.

And my vision weeps thankfulness that he chose me and I him.

Our roots entwined beneath the ground.

on vacations and crazy horses

we took a trip, two springs ago, to a ranch in the dominican... me, five weeks pregnant with aiden, both trent and i craving what seemed a place of waterfalls and horse rides and rustic.

the bunk beds broke at 3 am--and not because of anything romantic. the floors trailed with taranchulas. we were the only visitors all week long, and there was one horse--it hated to be ridden (as evidenced in video above). there were waterfalls; there was also a memorable scooter ride on which i burned my leg.

on a day when the sky rained us soggy trent pulled me onto a bus and took me to the beach where we stayed in an indian, new-age yoga joint and were grateful for clean floors and the breath of sea.

early tomorrow morning we vacate again, me 22 weeks pregnant with baby number two and aiden staying with oma and opa. this time, to a place kind to our bodies and minds, a new resort, and yes, one of those places you sit and shake your head at thinking, "really? is this how spoiled we've become?"

sigh. i'm afraid it is. i will post pictures as i'm able... may you full rest in love that never ends ... peace to you all.

my mother's smile

she tells me she can't stop thinking of it, of my mother's smile, in spite of finding her mother in bathtub, in spite of getting cancer, and i understand, because i can't either

i sit outside all belly in new light on the rocking chair my husband brought for me, the one my grandmother used to rock her babies quiet, and i sit in my apron while deer tiptoe past on slim ankles, their white tails like crinolin, i sit and i stare into her face two hours ahead of me, four provinces away and she in her blue lazy boy

and i tell my mother about her smile, about the way we can't stop thinking about it, and she bows her head low as if praying, soft palm to cheek and says, "i didn't used to, you know" and i listen. "what do you mean, mum?"

"before i got married... before university..." i wait. "before i met Jesus."

aiden is watching her, now, too, the way Christ tugs up her cheeks and he's mesmerized by the light that dances off the screen and i hope he heard it, the last part, the bit that says my mum smiles because she met Jesus

soon it's goodbye and waving and pulling loaves from oven gold-warm and son breaking into crust so hungry and me, letting him because it fills him

and when he's full, his turn to smile and it's the overflow of needing nothing else

the spilling of crumbs from lips to world, the saying, i am nothing, He is everything, please pass the wine

with ann...

291. deer walking past
292. seedlings tall, pushing off lid of greenhouse plastic
293. the sound of snow melting
294. the sound of heart pumping
295. little baby with seizures making sounds again
296. painting aiden's new bedroom
297. buying new children's books
298. weaving spring flowers into wreath for door
299. son with bread crumbs on lips
300. my mother

Guest Post: Amber @ The Run A Muck

friends, you know her, the lady behind the poetry, the tender soul that bleeds love from The Run A Muck... she's here with us today, amber, speaking on Jesus scribbling in the sand...


The three boys run about us, and we stay at the dinner table with our backs hunched. We look at each other droopy-eyed, and we smile side-ways. No need to say it. We’re tired.

After sleeping boys and a television show, we sludge to bed, into new sheets. Seth hypnogogically jerks. My body immediately stills. The internal hum begins to quieten.

Only a few thoughts spin on their wheels: I think myself genius for noticing inconsistencies in a plot, think of flowers at the rock house, how much I’ve eaten today, a song. Then right as I gently edge at the tip of sleep, right as the thoughts grow wings and leap off the wheel, they wake me. Her painful words, the memory list of things that I’ve chopped up and pushed to the corners, they gather again like Terminator metal and turn into hot breathing flesh.

My blood flows, spinning the wheel, the fear of not being loved.

All night I sleep running.

Many mornings I stay in bed late because I don’t find sleep until sun threatens sky. I don’t get up until boys beg cereal. My time in the morning to meditate on scripture is swallowed up this way.

But this morning, I cursed the motorcycle that cranked at 5 AM, and I got up to pour tea on my wild exhaustion.

I lock eyes with the book of John and I’m so glad Jesus has come alive for me, His words rising off the page. I moan inside to Him, my hurt.

My unrest. My wrestle. My rights, they are none.

His forgiveness, His writing words in the sand next to the adulterous lady thrown there. His Words, they raise me, from the ground at any man’s feet. I serve no other word, but His.

And mind wanders off, half in prayer, half in deep daze, and I think of my weekly battle at church, the desire to raise my hands, how I never do but desperately crave to reach for Him.

I read, “From [her] innermost being will flow rivers of living water, [referring to] the Spirit, whom those who believed were to receive” (John 7:38-39). And I know I’ve received it, but I’m sure on mornings like today’s that I’ve dammed the river deep and silent within.

The dam of unforgiveness, I don’t know how to knock it down,
but my arms they reach straight up; my arms and hands like siphon, I reach. Rivers of Living Water, I beg. If any is thirsty, it’s me now. Dry when it should be flood season.

Give me drink, like Spirit peeling from Heaven into the mouths of graves. Like Life into Raised Stone Woman Heart.

Only by the power of the river will the dam break, the wheels cease, my soul find its true rest. My heart pumps of flesh. What He spilled, it never stops flowing.

(still making my way through your imperfect prose... thank you, friends, for your words...)

imperfect prose on thursdays: on learning joy

it's in the orange flesh of mango bleeding red around the pit, lying with husband on blanket beside fire talking late into night like we used to, in days of university and "one more song" we'd always say, because we couldn't stop learning the other

it's the way the sun slants sideways as if in tango with the road and the snow, melts soft into spring and the birds sing their way into nests and my red winter jacket seems too warm

it's the first green of seedling poking brave soil-through and the plastic bag of turnip and carrots and potatoes left at door and the postcard from thailand of brown men cycling tourists through streets and a friend having learned to scuba dive and "oh, the richness of color beneath the sea"

and it's the man in wrinkles and jacket pushing his wife in wheelchair down hospital hall saying "i'm alive" with the smile of someone spared to another who asks how he's doing

it's the hallowed space of anonymity: the peace that comes from being one with something. one with a moment, so perfect, it needs nothing else.


*please note, next week, there will be no imperfect prose on thursdays, as my husband and i will be traveling... the week after, it will return, however... peace to you, friends*



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. read other's offerings, and encourage them!

imperfect prose Participants

1. Nancy @ Alleged Mind 2. David N. 3. amy @ to love 4. jeana @snails&tails 5. Bethany Ann 6. Shaunie Friday @ Up the Sunbeam 7. Jadie 8. brian miller 9. E L K 10. Elaine 11. 60piggies 12. eloranicole 13. Joybird 14. Lisa notes... 15. misha leigh 16. Melissa@one thing 17. Old Ollie 18. Kati 19. Elizabeth@just following Jesus 20. Song of the Silent Snow

21. Becky 22. kendal 23. Abby...a heart that breaks 24. Emily-Controlled Chaos Photography 25. Suzy @ Sailing by Starlight 26. christine 27. CM @ A Little Lilac 28. Shewriting 29. Rambling Heather 30. Kim @ From Doing to Being 31. Flower Patch Farmgirl 32. Brandee @ Smooth Stones 33. Elizabeth Young 34. Allison @ Alli 'n Son {You Get What You Get} 35. april 36. gloria 37. Julie @ snipsandsnails 38. Laura, NH, USA 39. Erin in uncompromised living 40. Emily/City Girl

41. Tamara @ Living Palm 42. jimi ann @ path of life 43. patty 44. happygirl 45. David Dark 46. Hope Whispers 47. Cindy @ 12Tribes 48. Rachel 49. Sandra Heska King 50. Bev 51. Wandering On Purpose 52. Linda 53. Loni 54. HisFireFly 55. hope...laughter amid sorrow 56. Imperfect 57. beth@bmeandering 58. Capturing This Lifesong 59. Cathy 60. Cherry - Called to Intimacy

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*original and prints of 'Birds' available here*

Why I Starved Myself, Part 1 (at A Deeper Story today...)

This, a photo of me dancing with my Dad, the year I graduated Grade 8... just eight months earlier, I lay in a hospital bed, eating, for the first time in four years.

Many of you know the first part of the story... (Part 2, to follow next month, about my relapse as a young married woman)... Sharing it again, a different angle, same shard of glass, and begging: forgive all of this brokenness??

I will bring you a happy post soon, and in the end, this one smiles, it really does, but there is pain, still... so be patient with me? ((Thank you))

And together, we journey...

Over to A Deeper Story.

(*please be warned; the first photo you'll see is not a pretty one)

Is God in the tsunamis?

the seeds fragment tiny in cup of palm and i tuck them in soil fingernails black for the garden, and i can't stop crying

light from the day wanders window through, i dip my hand in the bag of earth while outside, winter wearies, and there's something lenten about the way the dirt rubs dry

in spite of tsunamis and nuclear damage and babies with seizures and she's all i can think about as the infant flowers: cosmos, the four o'clocks, the zinnias bow their heads beneath the water and the soil and i dream of green shoots and leaf unfurling, petal pink and purple but

all i can do is plant and water and pray, i cannot make them grow

and even as i set them by the window i hear her say, "i just don't know what tomorrow holds" as her baby curls beneath hospital blanket and

it's the couple with the baby long after eight years, the one with the genetic disorder, and this week, four-month-old cooing child stopped smiling as seizures, the worst kind, ravaged her body like the storm japan's coast

it's too much, i tell God, my own storm flooding, they're bruised--you promised not to break a bruised reed

eight years in, the shoot, green of leaf but stem, bent, appeared and parents, told she would never petal--"they say she'll never walk or talk or smile again" and this mother, she's trying to smile but her skin is white

and where is the miracle, Lord?

and her husband, the one whose faith kept him homeless on sundays, he is the one now propping up his tender seedling, the one who, each night, asks his wife if he can pray with their daughter, the one who reminds her that even though their child might not walk, she is so beautiful, and for this they can be thankful and i listen to her tell me this and i whisper, "there, it is" ... the miracle in the faith of a broken man

and she nods, and

the garden shifts beneath light and soil damp and an unseen God tender breathes his children to life


(will you pray for this couple, as you have been? this week, so hard, and they, so weak and longing for hope... thank you, friends)


thanking now... with ann...

281. the sunset last night that unfolded, a rose, petals falling across the horizon
282. seeds in soil
283. soil in fingernails
284. spring indoors
285. a husband who buys me sunflower bouquets
286. hospital visits and God wrapped in crib
287. life, in all of its bent and brokenness
288. skype convo with my mother whose tumor has disappeared and whose seizures, settled
289. encouraging phone call from agent
290. the promise of things unseen

Guest Post: Nicole @ 60Piggies

i asked beautiful nic of 60piggies to tell us how she teaches her four little ones about God, and his grace...

when i pause between herding legos and nomadic socks long enough to consider the task of parenting, its gravity is stunning: nourish and defend actual human beings? grow them from mewling, myopic bundles into tallish people who keep commitments to their spouses and show up to work on time and remember to flush? who tie their own shoelaces and carve an existence out of cherishing God?

i tend to blink at that job description, set it down carefully, and tiptoe away.
but in a hot minute i’m back on the scene saying why not. sign me up. because who but God and their parents will ever look upon these small folk with tenderness so fierce it burns us straight through?

and since i’m here, committed to the death, it’s best if i distill the job down to essentials: my main goal as a parent is to help my kids make much of God. it’s as simple and impossible as that. college scholarships and trombone lessons and starting midfield are all icing on the cake, buttery but optional. if i can knead their hearts soft toward Him, i will have mothered well.

and here’s where my inadequacy really starts to sing. i’ll want to stuff them full of right ideas, which is likely not what they most need and always goes awry. we’ll be talking theology and i’ll start off toward Mt Open Discussion, take the wrong fork and end up at Lecture Lookout.

and i realize, it’s much like teaching my kiddos about a healthy marriage: i could pelt them with advice and admonishments, or i could simply love their father.

so i trek back to the early part of deuteronomy 6 (ie love God with all you’ve got, help your kids swim in His word). and i love Him in my floundering dogged way, and i try to do it front of the kids, asking Him to help me drop the inhibitions even though it feels awkward to lay bare something intensely personal. i try to talk to Him in front of them. look things up in His book when we’re searching for answers. love the people around us and the people most in need. and the littles ask me questions, about Jesus and belief systems and eternity and grace, and sometimes i say i don’t know, and mostly i give them my best guess and ask God to please cover the difference.

and when i worry myself awake late at night that i am failing Him and them because i am the Feeblest Christian Ever, it helps to remember this is Yahweh we’re talking about. He doesn’t need me to stack the deck in His favor. heck, He made the deck. He just wants me to let Him show up in my life so my kids can see who He is.

i’m pretty sure He’ll take it from there.

imperfect prose on thursdays: on how to be known

we sit, table round, coffee and pastries and children pooling cars and duplos and toys and we're mothers making talk around the noise. "it's my biggest fear," i mouth around bite which flakes, "that i will get to heaven and God will say, 'i never knew you.'"

and in saying it i believe it, until another rejection blinks bold on my computer screen and in spite of all of the writer's books which tell you to paper your walls with them and in spite of all the authors who've had them, countless, i know the truth: my biggest fear is not being known by God, but not being known here on earth.

and it crumbles me into a thousand kleenex and i'm so thankful for a baby boy who's found busy in the placing of crayons

why, this need to be known by a world that so easily forgets?

i stand, wipe eyes and son is hungry, so i feed him and he laughs at the way i talk to him and touches my cheek, and begs me to stay a little longer but i go to the sink, wash out the cloth and glance out the window and there, the shadow of a man crossing the road that curves country before our house, and here, a voice, saying "don't forget about them."

the man's shadow disappears against the line of trees which stand so rooted, and i turn to the boy who's watching my back and remember what my husband said when i asked him how he could be so content. "because even if i lost my job and my house and all of those things, i'd still have you and aiden, and that would be enough, because we're a family."

my son will remember me. my husband will too, and God is in their faces, in their begging, "stay a little longer," and so i do, while the rejections blink bright across the screen.


*in light of this learning, i'm closing comments today, hoping instead you'll link a post or visit someone who has, and encourage them--so thankful, so very thankful, for you, who know me, for i see him in you*






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. read other's offerings, and encourage them!


imperfect prose Participants

1. Ruthiey 2. Elaine 3. Elaine 4. Tammy @ meadows speak 5. amy @ to love 6. Brandee @ Smooth Stones 7. David N. 8. Jodi 9. Joybird 10. 60piggies 11. E L K 12. brian miller 13. Old Ollie 14. Rachel 15. Rambling Heather 16. happygirl 17. Hope Whispers 18. gloria 19. Nancy @ Alleged Mind 20. Lauri

21. Writing Canvas 22. Loni 23. Bethany 24. Meryl Jaffe 25. kendal 26. Elizabeth@just following Jesus 27. alittlebitograce 28. Melissa S 29. christine 30. it's not about the chocolate 31. CM @ A Little Lilac 32. Bethany Ann 33. imoomie... 34. Anne 35. keLi 36. beth@bmeandering 37. patty 38. Southern Gal 39. Cindy @ 12Tribes 40. Janis@Open My Ears Lord

41. Shan 42. Kati 43. Laura, NH, USA 44. jimi ann @ path of life 45. Abby...the eyes 46. Kari 47. Jo@Mylestones 48. Melissa@one thing 49. misty 50. Tamara @ Living Palm 51. While the Dervish Dances 52. HisFireFly 53. Lisa notes... 54. Shewriting 55. Laura 56. Louise 57. Sandra Heska King 58. Capturing This Lifesong

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*original of 'trees in falltime' sold; prints available here*

On our children being art

she made paintings, water on color and the pictures sang and the people praised and then she married my grand-dad, a police officer who was never home, and she had two kids, yvonne and peter and her easel became a thing to prop up the laundry, and the colors began to bleed

she'd sew and smoke her cigarettes, the long white ones that looked like thin legs, and talk of becoming an artist in paris while my mum cried into her pillow for the girls that had called her 'elephant' and peter became a man who would never have children

and i wonder if my nanny ever looked in their faces, ever saw the art in the lines of their jaw, in the swing of their arms, ever saw that these, these were her greatest creations but she never hugged and she never praised and the whirr of the sewing machine stitched together time

and in the end it was my mum who found her in the bathtub where her colors bled razor-red
my mum, who'd taken her in when nanny had gotten too bent and yellow from her long white cigarettes, my mum, who'd spent her life trying to believe she was worth more than her mother's dreams

and i pick up my boy tender like a sapling green and he bends and twists and i hold him so gentle should he break, and i whisper, "you are my greatest creation" as my canvas fills with color


(shared with one stop poetry)

how to court your husband

he's in his robe, the brown one with terry cloth and aiden, to bed, and the house is ours, the night a swing on which to dangle, me in my pajamas, the cotton ones and he puts a hand on the rounded place, the space that grows, the God whirling life within

it's popcorn for us and we've done this for eight years, this courting the night in our cotton and terry cloth. it's a space in which we hide, this couple married in my parents' backyard under hot of July, this couple that fought on honeymoon over having kids, me not wanting them, this couple that punched walls and wondered if two could ever become one, each night we carve a space like the pink flesh of melon and we eat it sweet.

the popcorn, salty and our toes touch and we watch a show and our laughter marries. and when it's over we talk of our son, for we miss him, tiptoe to his room to watch him sleep all baby breath and pink cheeks and then we pull out the home videos and remember.

and time becomes a thing attached to the feet of our toddler.

it's funny this way the making love between man and wife births new love: in tiny fisted form, and in the kind that is content to just hold in bed, the breath of skin enough, between.


with ann, now, to utter thanks:

261. long slides down white hills
262. hot chocolate steaming insides
263. baby's rosy cheeks
264. warm blueberry scones
265. friends over to drink coffee, eat scones
266. a surprise package
267. spicy homemade tomato soup
268. the sound my son's feet make on snow
269. the sound of my son laughing in his sleep
270. a kiss, like it was the first time

on Rob Bell and rain

so there's rob, in all of his blunders and follies and twitter scandals, in all of his passion and his walks through the rain and there's his deep, deep eyes for people which makes me want to know the kind of God that whispers, "i love you buddy."

as the world falls, may we fall with it into arms that never stop holding.

happy weekend, friends. thank you, for being imperfect with me.

imperfect prose on thursdays: the boys with clown noses

they woke me at two in the morning, those boys on the road in their plaid jackets and mittenless fingers, hatless heads and clown noses and "i wonder if they put those on to try and stay warm?" my husband wondered.

mother in law had stopped to see if they needed help, those bare hands gripping four bags of toys, those legs toddling down the road in the cold of the lion of march

"our dad's not home," the older one told her, and the younger one sniffed and they looked towards the trailer, screen door swinging and she knew she couldn't leave them on the road

the one in kindergarten, the other turning seven "tomorrow" which he said in the disappointed way only a child could, whose mother has run away, whose father wasn't home when his children were dropped on the step by a grandma too overcome by the death of her husband to take care of them any longer

and they were walking back to grandma's, four hours away.

and they got into my mother in law's van too fast, too fast, she said, but they were so cold, so very cold and life holds no fear for the abandoned, for the worst has already happened

and she took them to a place where children are safe, a place with toys and snacks and couches, a place where phone calls were made and authorities told and all the time the boys wondering when they were going to be taken back to grandma's... for even when the familiar doesn't want you, it's still familiar

and when it came time for mother in law to leave, she teared up for "we'd bonded" she told me but the boys, they just shrugged thin goodbyes and put on their clown noses for they were tough, she said... they had to be. otherwise they'd die and no one would notice.

and they woke me up at two, walking, forever walking towards their grandma's with their clown noses and their purple hands and their bags of toys




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(original of 'Precious in His Sight' sold; prints available here)

for the widows in paradise

the night found me, a room of my own in a sky of moon and tree shadow, and i stopped my dishes, looked up into stars which scripture says he's counted and that's when i heard it,

as lentils stuck to soup bowl, rice hardened white, and hands aged with the spoons

i heard, you're not forgotten.

and the padded knees on stairs, the call of father from play-room below, the baby boy's face emerging and pushing bum up and then, standing and running to mommy for a hug while duplo and horse rides and train sets and daddys waited,

this spoke it louder

and we held each other for a long time


(for one shot poetry)