Archives for March 2013

No room for death

There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou – Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed. ~Emily Bronte
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Today I am celebrating His Breath that became my own, His Being that lived and died and rose, His Life that became my freedom. Happy Easter!

 

Five Minute Friday:Broken

Hello, Friends. Welcome back for another Friday spent with Lisa-Jo and the Five-minute crowd. Today, we’re taking five minutes to write on the prompt Broken. Do you have five minutes to write, read, or both? Why don’t you join us?


1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community…

Today’s Prompt: Broken

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My daughter wore her swimsuit to bed last night. There is snow on the ground, but according to her, swimsuit as PJ’s–it’s how she rolls. My son painted his face with wax crayons and we left it like that all day, smeared like a rainbow melted onto his skin. I made muffins for his birthday, not cake, muffins. And then I stuck two candles into one and asked everyone to use their imagination and pretend they were an eleven. I feel like a bit of a fraud.

I received some disappointing news this week, the kind that leaves me wondering if this is really the path I’m meant to travel because it leaves me feeling so broken. Fraud-like. As if I’m standing in the middle of a snowstorm wearing a swimsuit and saying “What? This is how I roll?!” While everyone shakes their heads as they pass.

Last night, we watched an hour of you tube videos and we laughed like hyenas. My daughter came to check on us three times only to find me dissolved in a flood of laughter and tears. These tears were different than the others. Healing coursed down with each one of them. It felt like glory and resurrection to a broken spirit. I find I’m always looking for the glory without first experiencing the breaking. But, as long as we live in a post-Eden world, one can’t exist without the other. And still, joy comes in the morning.

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I hope you revel in the glory of Jesus’ resurrection this weekend, even as we remember the brokenness that brought us to the foot of His cross in the first place. Happy Easter, friends. May you spend it in sunshine and laughter and even a swimsuit if that’s how you roll.

The art of mothering

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It was the time of night where I like to settle into the hollowed out spot on the corner of the sofa, the one next to the lamp for reading and the table for setting down a cup of tea. Dishes washed and laundry folded, I sat down and anticipated an evening with a hot mug, a cookie or two, and complete control of the TV remote. I hung up my invisible ‘Mom Off-Duty’ sign, and propped my feet up on the coffee table. My son, lounging on the chair next to me, tried to engage me in conversation. This is the same son who spent the last three hours challenging my authority, bickering with his sisters and, truth be told, driving me a little bit mad.

I’m honored to share this post at Circles of Faith today. Join me there to read more…

How we mark our days

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It’s officially spring but someone forgot to tell the sun and the weeping skies. They cry bitter little flakes that threaten to kill my one indulgence of the season, a pot of yellow and white petunias. My husband asked me if we should move the pot inside and, as it remains the one spot of colorful joy on a brown landscape, I said no. I might regret that decision later.

Years ago, a wise friend told us it’s necessary to experience all four seasons in a place before you make a judgement about living there. You must watch the seasons retreat into one another with a practiced grace, see the trees turn from green to gold to crisp brown to bare branches. Then watch them come to life all over again. Back to green.

I find it takes four seasons to feel as if I could make a home in one place, and eight seasons to use the word home to describe it. I need to learn the rhythms of the year, how it ebbs and flows. How one month is set aside for merry making, another for mulled wine. One for dipping toes at the edge of the water, another for standing on the highest peak. One season settles into school days, and another packs her bags for travel. We ebb. We flow.

I’m still learning how to embrace the rhythm of the year–how to mark the days so they count for something now, as they march forward towards later. The calendar, the sun, the birds, the trees, the celebrations, the skies– they help me see where I am, and where I am going within the confines of the year and the seasons I will embody.

I find myself wandering around wishing for a calendar when it comes to the seasons of the soul. How does one mark the days of spiritual growth or effective parenting or abiding in love? How do we mark creativity? Mastering our craft? The end of grief? The expansion of the soul? I want to live the four seasons, count down the days, know when it’s safe to put out the petunias. One season of the soul may last far longer than another. One may choose to leave with so little grace, it feels like a never ending cat fight. One may die before the next is resurrected, and we wait in the in-between for someone to show us how to keep the faith, how to remain forever ready to place our fingers in the healing wounds. We watch for the stones of anger, fear, frustration, and faithlessness to roll away. And we look for intangible signs, rather than the skies, to tell us when a season is about to change.

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What season of the soul are you living in right now? Are you hoping for change or reveling in the beauty of the one you’re living today?

Five Minute Friday: Remember

Hello, Friends. Welcome back for another Friday spent with Lisa-Jo and the Five-minute crowd. Today, we’re taking five minutes to write on the prompt Remember. Do you have five minutes to write, read, or both? Why don’t you join us?


1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community…

Today’s Prompt: Remember

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My husband turned forty last week. For his birthday, I asked family from a distance to send me a little something–a note, a memory, a laugh wrapped up in alphabet characters–and I printed them out and bound them into a plastic folder as a gift for my man. As each one slid into my inbox, I took the time to read. The notes from the cousins and his siblings made me laugh until tears came to my eyes. They wrote pages of anecdotes, memories of a boy, then a boy turning man, that were as good as receiving gold. They offered very few stories I didn’t remember. His sister’s note nearly slayed me with the sweetness, and I pulled my son to my side and said Read this, this is the brother you want to be.

My husband was ten when we met. I have known him thirty years–through ugly hairstyles (his) to ugly cars (again his) to ugly attitudes (usually mine). And so on. I remember him as a boy, his voice, and the way he leaned against the cold concrete wall across the hall from my classroom as if he held that wall up. I have only eight years of my life in which I don’t remember him skirting the edges of it. For twenty one years, he’s been at the center. And at the center he’ll stay.

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How did you meet your spouse? Could you produce a book bound with memories?