Monday, May 27, 2013

When Words Are Not Enough

I tend to get very caught up in the small things of life - so caught up, in fact, that I lose sight of what and who makes my heart happy, of the roots I come from, of the freedoms I am afforded.

These are moments that, at times, cannot be given words . . . or perhaps, I am just not an eloquent-enough writer to give these moments words; so here they are - maybe with a caption or two, the things I so often look past, look over, or just choose not to see, at all, when I am swimming in my own selfishness. This weekend was a quick assurance that I do not know my heart or what it might need in the least . . . because I had no idea that this - these people, these minutes - were exactly where my heart needed to come back to, to heal, because it is where my heart began, in the first place.

The pure delight of a child's eyes is surely a kiss from God
 

Looking at this barn fills my heart with such love - this place makes me brave, this place is my roots

Looking out a backdoor and being able to watch simple growth from day to day is a promise . . .


Farm flowers . . .

Watching Joseph be a little boy brought such joy to my heart . . .
 

There are no words.

We are a family from red barns and football :)

Birthday songs, salutations, and celebrations

beautiful boys



This little girl surely has the sweetest soul - and reminds me so much of my great grandma Jo

 
 
Recently I've been reading One Thousand Gifts and it hadn't occurred to me how therapeutic listing small, daily blessings could be until I reflected on this weekend. My hope, for each of you, is that at least one time this coming week, you allow yourself to see something with the eyes of a child, you allow yourself to feel ravished over the beauty of growth and the color of nature, you allow yourself to be taken over by the One who knows your heart and just what it needs. My hope, for each of you, is that you allow yourselves just one moment, at least, to be completely in awe.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

There You Are

'Cause I'll always remember you the same . . .

With your big brown eyes, knelt over the noisiest toy fire truck in the county . . . With your long, curled eyelashes as you made 'tractor' sounds up and down, and up and down, the faded blue carpet of this childhood home.

As you walked to get your diploma all I could recall was the incessant motor noise you insisted on making, all I could recall were the faded brown of those infant-sized Carhartt's you eventually wore out, all I could recall was that you were once small - and now you are not.

'Cause I'll always remember you the same . . .

Shouting payday! at the top of your lungs in a bedroom where Pepto-Bismol exploded . . . Sitting on my front porch step painting over another layer of nail polish and talking about young boys at school that were cute.

I look at your pregnant belly pictures - counting down the months until you get to hold perfect, precious life in your hands and I remember the ache in the side of my stomach from laughter with you, I remember the "voice" we spoke in more often than not, I remember that language - so far from here - from where we both are.

'Cause I'll always remember you the same . . .

With your bright blue eyes - always eager. And you were always waiting for me, weren't you? With your curly, blond hair - It was your hair that first pulled me in, if I'm being honest.

I catch a sneak of engagement pictures - you're wearing that brown sweater I bought for you on our last Christmas together . . . And I see you holding your sweet, sweet baby girl with a bow in her hair and all I can remember is that hand-drawn tattoo on your undeveloped bicep on that first night we danced together, and all I can remember is the way your chin always rested just so on the crown of my head, and all I can remember is the life we attempted to build - before we ever knew it was going to break.

'Cause I'll always remember you the same . . .

Your raspy voice - calling out Aunt Yoosha's name, your raspy voice - calling out hello to me down a hallway that has known so many of my secrets . . . your raspy voice.

I see the number 40 anywhere and I'm back on the sidelines in a skirt that is too short, listening - waiting for your name to be ricocheted across the velvet, black sky, I see snowfall and I remember how the cold air bit at the tip of my nose - I remember how the tears must have crystallized right before they hit the ground.

'Cause I'll always remember you the same . . .

A first kiss, a first love, that time I swore I was just breathing for the very first time. A first loss, a first realization, that time I finally knew what not being able to breathe actually felt like.

'Cause I'll always remember you the same . . .

Oh, eyes like wildflowers . . .

Maybe when God is looking at our lives He always remembers us the same - that first breath of air after the immersion of a baptism - that first whispered prayer of feverish desperation for forgiveness and love, love, love - that first declaration that this path is not our own, it is not of our own making.

'Cause I'll always remember you the same . . .

A child. We were babies. What did we know? How could we have fathomed the brokenness of this world? How could we have fathomed the repair we are provided to find . . .

{Keep your head up}

{Keep your heart strong}

{Keep your mind set}

Keep your head up

'Cause I'll always remember you the same . . .


*Italic words are song lyrics from "Keep Your Head Up" by Ben Howard*


Monday, May 13, 2013

A Letter He Will Never Read

In the dimly lit room, all I can taste is the shallow smokiness of your breath in the space between an exposed shoulder blade and my earlobe . . . I wonder if this might be what freedom feels like.

But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. But you are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. But you are not my redemption.

It's funny how I started this all out saying things would not happen, moments would not escape my grasp, I wouldn't lose myself once the stale air hit my skin. I started out saying all of these things - so sure I was in control, so sure I knew what I was doing - seeing you, again, and ignoring the gnawing in the pit of my stomach. I cannot say no to you, have never been able to say no to you, but here I stand - stomach beneath my feet, shredded pieces of a heart in my hands - no, no, no, no. . .

But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. But you are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. But you are not my redemption.

It started innocently enough; it always does,  though, doesn't it? Quick, biting comments - picking at each other for the sake of passing words into the air in between us - for the sake of keeping air in between us. And what were you thinking in those silent moments before you put your mouth on mine? That you no longer wanted that unnecessary air standing guard? That you no longer saw any reason to pick at me because you simply wanted to be at me? Because I might have wanted the same things - before and in the moments of its existence - but here I stand - questions firing with the precision of a gun salute at a funeral. Maybe that's what this is - a funeral . . .

But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. But you are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. But you are not my redemption.

In the moments after, I recall your hand; it had found the small of my back and then slowly curled itself around my own hand once it had found it. Is that what coming home should feel like? There was no noise in the darkness - only your swift whispers, more like thoughts, and yet - I heard it. I heard them. I heard you. I think everything was heard in that time - every word bustling in and out of our memories; yes, everything was heard but what my heart knew at its very core.

But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. But you are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. But you are not my redemption.

I decide I have you figured out - finally after all these years - and then you say something about my eyes. You say something about my eyes that is so raw and open it couldn't possibly be a fallacy. Where are you trying to fit me, I want to ask. Just what shelf, exactly, am I to rest upon? And then I remember that resting was never really a strong suit of ours - we believed only weakness to be in the resting.

But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. You are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. You are not my redemption.

I wonder if you're consumed by this in the same way I am - does it stutter your speech? Does it come near to infiltrating all your interactions? Can you breathe?

You are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out . . .

I don't think I ever permitted myself to bury this - reaction - between you and me. There was no mourning march, no dirt thrown over a box that once held a soul impassioned. This has never been buried - it just gets shoved to the side only to be brought back to life every "solitary" time we are eye to eye. There has been no burial.

You are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room . . .

How are you still so gentle? After the fires you've passed through? And how am I so open to it? After being burnt? We are completely separate and then we are in proximity and then we are too close for comfort. But there is comfort - in the separation, the proximity, the ways in which we cannot avoid each other. You should not be this comfort.

You are not my redemption . . .

It's strange - how in a seconds time I can be in the darkness of those four walls, sensing your movement before it becomes an action, matching your breathing chest rise to chest fall. In just one second I can describe the smell of your skin - it's salty, with hints of lemon, and the deep inescapable truth that you are no longer that boy I thought I knew once, but a man I may never be familiar with. I'd like to think you think of me as a wine - a biting heat to swerve a bad day better. But who really knows if you think of me at all.

You are not . . .

Ain't no talking to this man . . .

We are grown now - and what will that ever mean for either of us when we are making decisions like young kids? I just know one thing and it is the same as what I knew then - I cannot say no to you - I've never been able to say no to you. And in that dark room - I swear I became light.

But, you are not my redemption.