when it's easy to believe

i've got food on my back and mud on my feet and we're walking our way into forest into cabin and it's spring




and the robins are singing, you know the way they sing? like the world is a cathedral, and they, the only choir, and we're walking





lined up old chevrolets rusting and tired wheeled and aiden's hand is small in his daddy's and his red rubber boots splash wet and i'll dry them by the fire when we get to the cabin, a place you only get to by trail





and we'll sit in white chairs and eat smokies and puffed wheat squares and great-grandma and opa in their hats all bundled and aiden learning family as smoke climbs the sky





the last of the snow melts soft, grass straggles yellow and the world becomes a nest for life, winged hope and all that emily dickinson wrote of in this hallowed heart of the wood



(may you find faith in the breath outside your door, dear friends... holy weekending...)

imperfect prose on thursdays: when the crib went empty

It’s just a shoe, a pink baby shoe, but it shatters me like glass on the road where I walk, and I can’t go on...can only cradle myself against a tree as I would have cradled my child, the one who bled red from me.

There was nothing truer than that child's life, than my muscles making room for the link of limb, and now I feel false, a woman with an empty womb and it’s all I can do to pull myself home.



friends, i am over here at The High Calling today... please, visit. and please note, this miscarriage happened prior to Aiden... i had a dream, in which it was a beautiful girl, and i cannot wait to meet her, one day in heaven. i am also hosting, as per usual, imperfect prose on thursdays (link up, below). love to you all.



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. Kati 2. Capturing This Lifesong 3. Old Ollie 4. Validated @ Dawnings 5. tinuviel 6. gautami tripathy 7. Sarah@EmergingMummy 8. brian miller 9. Laura, NH, USA 10. Smooth Stones 11. nic at 60piggies 12. HopeUnbroken 13. While the Dervish Dances 14. Elizabeth@just following Jesus 15. David N. 16. Rachel 17. Vicki 18. path of treasure 19. Elaine 20. melissa 21. Craig @ Deep into Scripture

22. Jen 23. Nancy @ Alleged Mind 24. Cindy @ 12Tribes 25. Rambling Heather 26. marlece 27. happygirl 28. Out of the tombs @ Lisa notes... 29. HisFireFly 30. christine 31. keLi 32. kendal 33. truly 34. Melissa@one thing 35. Lauri 36. Joybird 37. melanie 38. Sarah 39. Linda 40. Sheila Moore 41. alittlebitograce 42. In Memory of Heidi

43. Allison @ Alli 'n Son 44. Bristol @ Diligent Leaves 45. Abby...can i be free? 46. sometimes mommies do grown up things 47. Laura 48. Southern Gal 49. Old Ollie 50. Debbie Young 51. shannon@ her spacious place 52. claudia schoenfeld 53. Ruthiey 54. A New Day 55. Susan (Goat) 56. patty 57. spirit to spirit to Spirit 58. Dear I.R.S. Lady... 59. Jenny @ achosenchild 60. Where to look... 61. Winsome Woman

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Image by Kelly Sauer (http://www.kellysauer.com/). Used with permission.

the importance of feeling small

I’m all mud from falling slope. It’s soil like he was black, in shirt and pants and voice and paper in a church so still even the babies hushed.

I remember Friday as we walk on Saturday. The grass and sky all there is, hills of scratchy green and boy in wagon and us on this Easter weekend climbing Calvary. My fingernails caked from where I scratched the earth.

It’s as quiet here as it was when Trent played Jesus in the Good Friday reader’s theatre, and they all wore black and one of them dropped rocks clang clang into a wheelbarrow as Christ was crucified, nails dug into blood into sinew, and everything tore, like a woman giving birth, the earth splitting red and God groaning and redemption being born when it was finished.

We climb and eternity stretches hands across the blue. This, a morning walk by the river and we’re pilgrims of jean and running shoe.

Trent stood in church and said the words, the words of a misunderstood Savior, and we'd fought early that day and I'd thrown stones so hard I wanted his flesh to tear, and he'd just stood and let me throw. When it was finished I'd cried. Why do I always try to sabotage love?

Everything in this place, the mud, the sky, the grass, tell me how small I am. How insignificant, me, and how big the gift. Swallowed up by the space of air and spring I can finally breathe. Today here, tomorrow but a prayer.

I feel it all enter, this creation, caked with earth and stones thrown hard, and on the hill, there is no more cross. Just heaven. For he is risen.


(sharing with One Stop Poetry)

*photos by Allison Dow

Eating Color: Over at The Wellspring today...

I’ve left the can open and he’s 16 months and he tips it, white on carpet on wall and there’s so much white I laugh.

Soap and water and clean what son has spilled and it’s the one place I can breathe. This easel, this canvas, my church. This place between brush and canvas, this place between paint and world. I find calm with color, and suddenly I believe again.


Friends, join me here at beautiful Laura's place today...




(may you know Easter full in your souls this weekend... my your hearts resurrect and your eyes find new light dawning... i am visiting my family this weekend; will be back with you on Tuesday)

imperfect prose on thursdays: on music and the way it makes you twirl

in high school, it was bon jovi and bryan adams and i'd lie on my bed, the scratch of cassette and their throats and the day

and then i'd get up and i'd dance, the door stayed shut, mum not letting sisters in for the secular music i played and i'd dance,

this heathen in her 16-year-old soul, in her value village shirt and long hair and bell-bottoms

they rocked my world, those men in the stereo, life became simple when they sang of livin' on a prayer and cloud number nine and the rush i felt from knowing

i still believed, in spite of a family which thought i didn't, i still believed in God and goodness and i believed even while dancing to rock n' roll

no amount of drums or throat scratch lyrics were going to steal my faith

i watch now as son twirls to the beat that so often saved me and i whisper, "dance on, sweet boy" remembering the rhythms of grace




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. David N. 2. eloranicole 3. In the Middle by Anna 4. happygirl 5. cruel redemption 6. Is this a Holy Week? @ Lisa notes... 7. Joanna @ sosbrandneweyes.tumblr.com 8. tinuviel 9. Elaine 10. Laura 11. Michelle DeRusha 12. Rambling Heather 13. Sheila/Elaine 14. Emily Controlled Chaos Photography 15. Laura, NH, USA 16. Joybird 17. TK @ Tiffany's Writing Compendium 18. Rachel 19. Elizabeth@just following Jesus... 20. brian miller 21. Bethany Ann

22. Hope Whispers 23. House of Belonging 24. Shaunie Friday @ Up the Sunbeam 25. kendal 26. Craig @ Deep into Scripture 27. Laura, OutnumberedMom 28. Rach@squigglyrainbow 29. amy danielle@overweights of joy 30. Bristol @ Diligent Leaves 31. Sheila Moore 32. While the Dervish Dances 33. Old Ollie 34. Finding Him 35. Jen 36. Lauri 37. Cindy @ 12Tribes 38. HopeUnbroken 39. just fill in the blanks... 40. alittlebitograce 41. Shannon@ herspaciousplace 42. patty

43. Southern Gal 44. Fleeting @ Alli 'n Son 45. Denise @ Pressing In 46. Janis@Open My Ears Lord 47. Melissa@one thing 48. Mrs. M. 49. Leslie 50. Kit 51. Cherry @ Pursuing Heart 52. Rea @ Simply Rea 53. Debbie Young 54. Linda 55. HisFireFly 56. Amanda @ wandering 57. Ruthiey 58. Dulce 59. Abby...eyes fixed on you 60. Jamerrill Stewart @ Wholly {Holy} Inadequate 61. beth@bmeandering 62. Patsy of HeARTworks 63. Julie @ One Penny Jumble Packet

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How to break your child's heart (over at Incourage today...)

Egg shell shatters, a thousand pieces of white and son plays with blueberries. We’re making scones on a Saturday. He laughs as the purple fruit rolls; flour on his nose. Flour his father-in-law grows, wheat fallen, wheat dead and drug, stripped of stalk where once it swayed as though dancing.

Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies… says John. Flour slides into egg into butter into dough.

It’s a kind of grace, this. Making scones with my son on a Saturday. That all children could know …

(Would you join me here, today, friends?...)

a tree, a prayer

she arrived in the mail, wrapped in cardboard, hands folded, wings wired, branches entwining figure.

she arrived, a gift from faraway friend and i held her tender, this tree, this prayer. i placed her by my ivy by the light of the window where i do the dishes.

i placed her by my shadow, the one that curls around pot and pan and washcloth each evening while husband baths baby and the day gets scrubbed clean all around. i placed her there to remember who i want to be when i look in the mirror.

a tree, a prayer. later, i stand tousle-haired, pajamas black, staring into the glass, and it's one of many actions that unite the world, this looking into the mirror. i peer closer, see the freckles sun has grown. the way my smile has crept up to my eyes, lining them with the feet of birds. (does crow's feet imply our eyes soar?)

we look in the mirror, and we choose. we choose to love or despise the image reflected. for years, i despised.

now, i pray as i look, that i might see her. this woman by my window. the tree, the prayer. the woman who folds her hands instead of wringing them, the woman who stands so still roots wrap her round and everyone who looks upon her finds peace.

i stand still while the rest of the house sleeps and beg for spiritual eyes. resurrection sight. the kind that un-tombs Christ. the kind that finds heaven on earth. the kind that finds God in mirrored reflection.

so thankful...

321. for swimming with aiden and hubby
322. for an afternoon in the park and sunshine
323. for friends and lasagne and garlic bread
324. for packages in the mail
325. for the purposeful slowing of books to prolong the characters, the story
326. for interviews and articles to write
327. for baby stories animated by hand gestures
328. for lengthening of sun
329. for completion of kasher's nursery paintings
330. for easter come soon

my apologies for any inconvenience caused by music-player issues this weekend... thanks for patience... i've tried to fix; please let me know if troubles ensue. love to you all. e.

seeing what you don't want to

maybe it's all about looking out the window.

the one that tells you those days of watching snow recede are buried white.

the one that's smeared with peanut butter fingers and drool lips, because your boy can't stop kissing the outdoors

i couldn't. look out the window yesterday, until i finally did and i stood there holding the washcloth dripping soap and tears and

it wasn't just winter scalping spring in early april

it wasn't just the memory of his toes in grass and wagon-rides and red boots in puddles

it was the waiting.

the waiting and the almost and then sky's giant shake of no.

trent talks about freckled robins with our baby and there's light on the floor like someone spilled a bowl full of sun

and i hear husband's whisper, again, from early that morning: "we get to watch the green happen all over again-which is the best part!"

sun on the floor; i stick my toe in it, and it's warm

maybe it's all about looking out the window,

about seeing what you don't want to, because if you didn't,

you'd miss the peanut-butter fingerprints and

baby kisses

imperfect prose on thursdays: africa, tumors and pink leotards

The smell of her hands reminds me of Africa. Of mangoes mashed, of me, feeding them to her, so small then, so very small and her brother too, and now, she’s feeding me, and why can’t I open my mouth when she wants me to?

The sky is pretty, like my pink silk scarf, and the windows are dirty, maybe I’ll clean them tomorrow but tomorrow is Sunday—funny, because today was Sunday too—and there’s church and I will need to take my blue purse with my hymnbook and where are my glasses? I’m trying to ask but there are no words, just drool, and when I do talk I have a British accent but now I have nothing and I wish, I wish she knew how much I loved her.

“Bigger,” I manage, and she knows—this baby of mine, now a woman of 20? Thirty?—she knows I’m trying to say “I love you bigger.” “I love you biggest,” she says, and I wish I could kiss her but I’ve got soup on my chin and I can’t lift my hands to wipe it, no matter, Emily’s cleaning me with a cloth and it’s not supposed to be this way. She’s lifting me now, and I don’t know where she finds the strength for I’ve put on weight with the steroids and I can’t say no to chocolate anymore and I wish I could be the woman Ernest married, the woman so slim, the one he took to Africa against her wishes and I’d do anything for him now if I could just get better.

Maybe this tumor is punishment for complaining about the shack and the dirt floors and the chameleons and the baby being born premature in sub-Saharan sun while Ernest was away. My diaper is poking out of my pants, I can feel it, and there’s someone at the door and Emily is helping me across the floor towards my lazy blue chair and I’m so tired, so very tired but there’s music playing from somewhere and suddenly I’m sitting in darkness and Emily is answering the door.

Muffled voices and my eyelids are drooping but I know this song. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…” I’m little again, I’m in my pink leotard and I’m dancing and the angels are listening, they’re smiling and clapping and nothing can stop me from moving. There is no tumor, only music, and the ones with wings are twirling me around and around and something squeaks from my mouth and I know I’m making noise from my grown-up body and I know my feet are tapping and someone’s at the door but I don’t care because all I can see is heaven.


"Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because, in the last analysis, all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace." (Frederick Buechner)




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. gautami tripathy 2. Elaine 3. Jen Ferguson 4. Old Ollie 5. Joybird 6. Emily Controlled Chaos Photography 7. brian miller 8. HopeUnbroken 9. Laura, NH, USA 10. Rambling Heather 11. christine 12. Kati 13. David N. 14. Elizabeth@just following Jesus... 15. Kim@WinsomeWoman 16. Cindy @ 12Tribes

17. happygirl 18. lori 19. Head underwater @ Lisa notes... 20. Sarah 21. jodi 22. Cara @ WhimsySmitten 23. mountain mama 24. Ruth V 25. Rachel 26. Lauri 27. kendal 28. Allison @ Alli n Son 29. Louise 30. Smooth Stones 31. and it's all His anyway 32. Capturing This Lifesong

33. Loni 34. Southern Gal 35. House of Belonging 36. amy @ to love 37. Craig @ Deep into Love 38. Cheryl @ finding the beauty 39. Hope Whispers 40. tinuviel 41. Anna @ path of treasure 42. patty 43. While the Dervish Dances 44. alittlebitograce 45. Christy Janssens 46. Kelly Sauer - Breathe Deep, Empty 47. Vicki Munn

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*prints of paintings, done for aiden's nursery when he was born, available here*

Why I Starved Myself, Part 2 (over at A Deeper Story...)

The wedding came with its flowers and its dress and its big white tent in my parents’ backyard, and we stood beneath the trellis looking white and black and pretty and handsome, a wreath of petals in my hair, and my heart screaming, What is happening?

(For more, please join me here today, friends)

on how to pray

silence is praise to you, zion-dwelling God...
you hear the prayer in it all. (psalm 65)


light makes rainbow on dark wood of table, rings of color around our mugs and the teapot of summer-berry and the chocolate chip muffins and our hands folded over words

we've met in this lighted place, mothers on a saturday morning and it's quiet, the kind without washing machine whir or child question or life rapping at doors, just muffins and tea and the laundry of two souls

it always takes quiet, of some form, to hear him, even if it's the kind found tucked inside the ribcage

she's telling me she doesn't know how to pray, is tired of naming off worries and items to God as though a grocery list and i touch the curve of the mug holding liquid and think of brother lawrence doing dishes, finding presence of God amongst whisper of soap bubble

i think of how he practiced the presence of God by always thinking about him; by making pretend just he and God existed in the world and all of these dishes served them both, and how he longed to love God with every blink and so,

talked with him in continuous stream of thought, sometimes just lifting soul to heaven and resting at God's feet, being close to creator

"God knows all of our needs before we even ask," i stumble. "perhaps then, we don't need to ask. perhaps prayer isn't about the asking. it's about the not-asking."

i wait and tea leaves sift. "perhaps it's trusting that he knows our needs... spending time in prayer just being and thanking and loving him, and not saying our needs ..."

it takes more faith sometimes not to ask.

we open bible and that's when we read "you hear the prayer in it all."

in the communion of broken souls in rainbow-light around muffins and tea, the prayer in it all... an offering of praise instead of longings... and really,

"are you lacking anything?" i hear him ask in the silence.

nothing. crumbs dust our mouths and the shadows shift.

now, with ann, thankful:

311. pot of potato soup simmering, lemon cake to ice, chocolate chip cookies lining the counter
312. son running road to church
313. men's choir leading worship in blend of alto and bass
314. quiet of a sunday afternoon
315. aiden riding miniature horse by himself
316. splash of spring sliding into rain gutter
317. gift of boys' clothing, boxes and boxes
318. boss who fought for husband's job when it was supposed to be cut (trent was the only one of all probationary teachers in alberta who kept his job)
319. words of encouragement from agent
320. the gift of prayer

ps. please note, i do not want to dispute the truth in these verses:

James 4:2? "You do not have because you do not ask"

or Matthew 7:7-11: "Ask, and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and the one who seeks finds, and to the one who knocks it will be opened. Or which one of you, if his son asks him for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a serpent? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!"

or

Philippians 4:6 : "do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God."

i do believe, there is a season for asking. but i also believe that our souls plead for us with words and groans we cannot express... sometimes i stress about finding the words, but i shouldn't, for God knows: he knows our needs. and i think, our thoughts, should they ever be tuned into his spirit, will convey these needs even as we praise him. and let us never stop interceding for others...

(there is so much to prayer, but more than anything, i hope we can learn to REST in him...)

Guest Post: LL Barkat @ Seedlings in Stone

LL Barkat... one of my word-heroes... shares here today, about a special moment with her daughter--a moment almost lost, but then heard for what it was, and sung into time.


"Where's the stapler?" she asks.

I answer with my usual reminder, "You guys used the stapler and never put it back. You'll have to find something else." I imagine the black stapler is cavorting with dust bunnies under my younger daughter's bed, along with The Magic Treehouse: Christmas in Camelot, which I tell the librarian we have lost but will find someday in the abyss.

My daughter looks at the ceiling, frowns, and walks away.

I am at the dining room table. Sunset-golden walls reflect morning light. I'm sipping a green tea I bought on the streets of Granada, Spain. It is called "Te de Carpi." My favorite part is the lavender-blue petals. What kind of flower is that, nestled in full-leaved green tea?

Not ten minutes ago, I took a slight teaspoon of the mix and placed it in the tea basket to brew. I leaned to take in the fragrance, light and promising, then stared at the dwindling jar of leaves. It won't be long now. And I don't know that I'll ever walk those streets again.

"Look." My daughter has returned. Her small hand pushes a collection of papers in front of my face. The papers are connected by a piece of green yarn, the same pearly-slate-green as my tea leaves. "Do you know why I used green?" she asks.

I want to tell her to go away. I am sipping my morning tea. I like the quiet of the moment.

"Why?" I entertain her question.

"Because of the song."

She has found the lyrics to Greensleeves on the Internet, copied them into Microsoft Word, and printed them on two pages now connected by a small piece of green yarn. The circlet of yarn should be smaller, I think. There is too much space and the pages hang apart as if they are possibly not together at all. A staple would be better.

"Can I sing it for you?" she asks.

My morning tea is officially interrupted now. I acquiesce. "Sure, sing it to me." She sings the first verse and the chorus, then nods in my direction and points to the next verse. I sing and am surprised at how much our voices sound alike, though hers is softer, younger, sweet in the way that only a child's voice can be. And now we have decided, without planning it ahead of time, that we will sing this song together taking turns.

The last verse is mine. While she is finishing her chorus I whisper, "Let's sing it together." We do. Her voice and mine, loosely held in harmony, as if by a pearl-green circlet of yarn.


Sonia's Dulcimer (on which she loves to play 'Greensleeves'), photo by L.L. Barkat.

***

Thank you to all who participated in this week's Imperfect Prose.... Still working my way through them.

Also wanting to humbly share, this place we gather at, it was one of 10 blogs chosen from 1,800 to be highlighted at The High Calling--see here. May your weekend be full of Him. e.

imperfect prose on thursdays: on why i like sad stories

i can't sleep for thinking about him, the little boy in Room, the one who eats from his meltedy spoon and sleeps in a wardrobe and believes the world consists of these four walls for a mother saving him from the germs beyond the door, and i can't sleep for his five-year-old fictional voice

"why do you read such sad stories?" trent asks

and i don't know what to say except, it's the sad that makes God real

it's not the insomnia; the tears splotching page, it's knowing that where there's sorrow, there's soul... and soul makes life, with all of its "nothing", worth it

soul is the bagpipes at a funeral, the child giving his ice cream cone to a beggar on the corner, the call of a crow swooping across empty field

and there is soul in the way this boy in his knee-less pants makes magic out of the objects in his room, out of the five books his mama reads him, over and over, out of the mouse that eats his bread crumbs, out of the blue of 'outer space' which he sees through his window

i lie awake feeling very alive while trenton breathes dreams

and it's for this that Jesus, man of sorrows, drew near the paralytic and the zacchaeus and the bloodied woman, for the knowing that heaven can change everything, and that is why we are here

and why sad stories may be the only ones that truly matter



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. brian miller 2. Craig @ Deep into Scripture 3. Rambling Heather 4. Becky Avella- "Small" 5. Carrie 6. Elaine 7. David N. 8. amy @ to love 9. HisFireFly 10. Rachel 11. Ruthiey 12. Amanda @ wandering 13. Hope Whispers 14. While the Dervish Dances 15. Old Ollie 16. Another week in @Lisa notes 17. Kati 18. Emily Controlled Chaos Photography 19. Winsome Woman 20. I Was Shown Mercy 21. Elizabeth@just following Jesus... 22. Anna

23. amy danielle@overweights of joy 24. christine 25. Laura, NH, USA 26. happygirl 27. beth@bmeandering 28. gautami tripathy 29. Jen Ferguson 30. Shannon @ herspaciousplace 31. keLi 32. CM @ A Little Lilac 33. Melissa S 34. kendal 35. Allison @ Alli 'n Son {If You Really Knew Me} 36. alittlebitograce 37. Janis@Open My Ears Lord 38. Shewriting/Sheila Moore 39. Joybird 40. Smooth Stones 41. HopeUnbroken 42. Laura, Outnumbered Mom 43. Jo@Mylestones 44. Listen...what do you hear?

45. patty 46. Melinda 47. eloranicole 48. Cara @ WhimsySmitten 49. Cindy @ 12 Tribes 50. april 51. Kelly Sauer - Diminish and Remain 52. Louise 53. thehousegirl 54. Rea @ Simply Rea 55. Laura 56. Sandra Heska King 57. TK @ Tiffany's Writing Compendium 58. Rach@squigglyrainbow 59. Just Me 60. Cara Lewis - He Says I'm Beautiful 61. Melissa@one thing 62. with grace in her eyes 63. gloria 64. Kath @ Listening Space 65. tinuviel

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*original of 'hope blooms' not for sale; prints available here*

the whole world his heartbeat

"this is a leaf, and this, grass, and all of this spring, and it is good," i tell the one in red rubber boots and a smile that appears when dimpled hand touches new

and it's all new, and it's all good for this boy who splashes puddle and tosses rock and feels sawdust soft between finger and i wish for his smile, the one that tells me he hears God's heartbeat loud in the love of now

"God made all of this, and he made you," i whisper against skin of my skin and his eyelashes blink long against fading sky, and everything in me longs to keep the heartbeat alive

to keep the new resounding love for a child who will soon be man

yet this, the miracle of the seasons: newness with spring, mystery unfolding in curl of leaf and petal

we all become children with earth-resurrection

it's the gift of easter: death dies, life reborn
as mud squishes between fingers and winter weeps its way into the ground

making possible a garden of tiny footprints

i hear him, God, rising up from the womb of the earth, his heartbeat in the wind, the robin's song, the laughter of child discovering

it's the sound of love

(shared with one shot poetry)

On becoming a warrior-woman (book giveaway!)

Below, the world a wash of cloud and sky and wing and me, belly and leg in airplane seat wiping tears and she, a mother of six, wiping face also, on the screen. A reality show, the one where they do good by fixing up houses and her, a mother of six, crammed into an attic with her husband and children and two rooms are all they have.

They call her the backbone, the one who holds them all together—her boys, who love to wrestle; her daughters who dream of being marine biologists, and her husband who did crime but now wants to turn life around and she, the one who breathes love into them all.

And I think of my home with its kitchen and its living room and its bedrooms, and how she and her husband sleep on blanket-floor, and the world below a wash of cloud and blue and everything in me wanting to be the person I see in her.

A different kind of woman. The warrior-kind. The kind that fights for faith and home and birth of spirit.

I crumple Kleenex and the show is done and I open the book Zondervan has sent me, the book called Half the Church, and in it, Carolyn Custis James tells me how to be this kind of woman. The woman who is content with nothing except being God’s image bearer. The woman who stretches hands wide to hold up the sky.

I look out my window, and what a big sky it is. It will take a lot of women. But we, as half the church, can do it. We can keep the sky from falling. We can become more than wives, more than mothers, more than Bible-Study goers and sisters and daughters. We can be leaders, backbones of society who stand up against injustice. Who make our children believe in their own image-calling. Who breathe destiny into our families and neighbors and who love on the unlovely and who create heaven on earth.

The plane swoops, white bird against horizon-dark and I swoop too, my wings un-clipped, my hands outstretched, begging to be free. Begging to be the kind of woman God has made me to be.

(I have a book to give away, friends… This 'Half The Church', it took my heart and twisted and made me see myself in a way the mirror never showed. We can be more—we can usher Christ to earth with the soft of a hand, the curl of an arm, the broth of beef and the tender of a kiss… we can be more than we ever imagined. Tell me why you want this book; tell me that you want to be this kind of woman. The kind to make a difference. And at the end of the week I will choose a name and send this gift from Carolyn James)


And now, with Ann, giving thanks...

301. son who recognized and loved me after eight days away
302. old world sliding away in puddle of snow and sun
303. seedlings high-stretching
304. the taste of toast (how we missed it in mexico!)
305. the feel of the familiar (sheets/pillows/carpet beneath tired sole)
306. sticky honey kisses
307. the call of robins
308. squeak of stroller tire on way to church
309. slide of mail key in slot
310. watching father and son playing in spring

Guest Post: Laura @ The Wellspring

welcome Laura, poetess from The Wellspring, whose every post makes me turn into a child and long for beauty...


The spring winds blow through, making the trees dance and brand new blossoms fly from bending branches. I see him standing in the bay--this child of mine whose heart has been churning these past few days. His eyes are fixed on swaying limbs.

And then he is out there, face lifted to the wind. I see his heart soar up to the top of the pear tree, and sway down to kiss the earth. He stands in a shower of petals--arms out, riding the breeze. And when he is done flying, he sits on the porch—alone. I watch from the window—see that pensive brow. He is listening.

I restrain myself from joining him, for he is hearing what I heard as a young girl. And I know--this is for his ears alone. He returns to my arms and we watch the dance of the trees together.

“Sometimes…”

He pauses.

“Yes?”

“Sometimes, the wind sounds like…music.”

Oh, how my heart smiles.

“Yes, it does. I wonder what song it is singing?”

He ponders this but does not respond. And then he is off, slips out of my arms and up the stairs—on to the next thing.

My arms feel empty and I wrap them around the trunk of me—sway back and forth with my tree-sisters. I close my eyes. Branches sway, bodies bend. I hear the music.

And this is my song, for how often do I feel this way, bending and waving in the winds of life? Sometimes losing my frilly frock in the storms, sometimes kissing life like tender breath. I’ve never seen the beauty of this dance until this very moment, too often I am afraid of breaking.

I am this tree. The winds lift me high and swing me down low. I ride this breeze, fearfully, joyfully…This is the dance of life.


note from e: home now... spending time hugging my son... will be catching up with your beautiful prose later on this weekend (thank you, friends... for joining me in this imperfect community)