Wednesday, January 27, 2016

My Unexpected Dreamer

I saw you today - singing, a look of pure joy and love on your face.

Oh my.  You are so beautiful.


It occurred to me today that you are my dreamer.

The one that sees things as better, brighter, more beautiful than they might be at the time.  Yes, you are practical and sensible and a rule follower like daddy but you, my darling, are a dreamer, too.  I see it when you dance, when you sing, when you sigh big sighs because your heart is full.

I see it in how you are always encouraging us to love others and in how you love us so well.

I've seen you wrap yourself in a blanket on the couch and scrawl private words into journals, notebooks and on scraps of paper.  You pour your heart out through your written words and actions.  You love and dreams seep into our every day and we are so lucky to know you and have you in our lives.

I see glimpses every day of who you are becoming.

I am unbelievably proud and astonished and in awe of who you are becoming.

It is such a privilege that for this time, for these years that I get a front row seat to all that you are and all that you are becoming.

In you I see glimpses of me, glimpses of daddy but so much more than that I see glimpses of Him.

I see your care for others.

I see the genuine joy that is derived from walking in step with someone, leading them but leading them in a way that empowers them to be successful in their own right.

I see kindness.

I see gratitude.

I see beauty.

I see precision.

I see an desire for excellence that comes not from ambition or recognition but that comes from genuinely desiring to do the best you can.

I see poetry and dreams and that you are so good with words, in all ways.

I see that you are careful without being scared.

I see wisdom.

I see silliness.

I see respect.

I see so much in you and for you as you grow even more into who He created you to be.

Today I am so grateful for the glimpses that I get of you.

And for me?  My dreams?

There are many but you, in so many ways, have been a dream come true for me.

You continue to be my heart.

But now I know that it's not a heart to be broken nor to be tossed about or weakened.

You are my strong and steady and sure heart.

I love you Fia.

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

14 Hours

14 hours ago I sat on a darkened porch lit by white lights and lamps............there was praise music playing and the atmosphere was one of peace and joy and God present.

14 hours ago I scrawled colorful words on a canvas that spoke of a good and gracious and loving God.  Words that pointed me to Him and reminded me that He is FOR me and WITH me.

14 hours ago I was with God and with others as we sang and prayed and laughed and talked on a rainy night while our children slept.

14 hours ago I was restored and ready and knew that compassion and love and mercy and forgiveness and grace was mine.

That was 14 hours ago.

Then I came home.

And I remembered that the next day was picture day.

But, listen, I was RESTORED, people.  I was filled and I felt at peace.

Yes, I came home and there were no lunches packed and clothes weren't laid out and folders not gathered and, yes, the eldest needed to take a shower in the morning but NO MATTER.  It could be done tomorrow.  For God is good and gracious and compassionate and loving and I can reflect that in my life especially to my darling children.

It's like I completely forgot every other picture day EVER.  It's as if I forgot who I was.

Fast forward to this morning.

7:30am:  I arise refreshed and looking beautiful (It's my story, it can go however I want it to.) I float out to the living room as if walking on clouds and carrying sunshine with me.  Nico is perched on the couch covered in a blanket and playing on the Kindle.  Girls are still asleep.

7:40am:  My coffee is made and pancakes are cooking.  I begin to make lunches and gather folders - still in the fog of goodness from last night, confident that this day will be a beautiful one.  Francesca comes out, mumbling and whining, as she grabs me around the waist.

7:50am:  Fia comes out and we sit down to eat breakfast.  The pancakes are hot and fluffy and delicious.  The day is still on track.  We talk about the day ahead, everyone is pleasant.

7:55am:  The first crack appears.  I look over at my eldest.  The need for a shower is real.  I say you have to get a shower as soon as you are done eating.  "WHY?!?"  This is always the most ridiculous question to me.  Why?  Why do you have to clean your body?  Why?  It's PICTURE DAY.  "So?" she says.  Your hair is greasy I reply.  Nico agrees and to prove his point reaches out and touches it.  The compassion is waning all around the table......................

7:56am: Fia begins to chew her pancakes VERY SLOWLY.  She knows all the passive-aggressive moves.  I tell her she better get chewing and get in that shower NOW.

7:59am:  Fia is in the shower and now it's time to tackle the outfits.  I start out confident.  we have eaten, folders are ready, lunches halfway packed and we still have about 55 minutes til we have to leave.  WE GOT THIS.

8:04am:  WHY DO NONE OF THESE CLOTHES MATCH?!?!  WHERE ARE ALL THE CUTE OUTFITS THEY WORE THE FIRST 3 WEEKS OF SCHOOL?!?!  Clothes are all over the floor.  Nico is sitting on his bed REFUSING to wear the one pair of non-athletic shorts he has and now it is a thing and this is a thing that I WILL WIN.    "I AM NOT GOING TO SCHOOL."  Ok, I say.  Fine with me.  "I AM NOT LEAVING THIS BED.  I AM GOING TO SIT HERE."  Ok.  Fine with me.

8:10am:  I find a dress for Francesca.  It looks adorable.  She hates it.  I give in on this one because it's pretty fluffy and fancy and I get it.  I pick out another one that's sparkly and pink and has comfy material and looks awesome.  Plus she can wear her new dark pink sweater with it.  She looks beautiful.  EXCEPT FOR ALL THE TEARS AND SNOT STREAMING DOWN HER FACE.  "WHY DO I HAVE TO WEAR THIS?  It's TOO fancy!  I DON'T WANT TO WEAR THIS.  MOM.  MOM."  Then from Nico in the other room "Just sit on your bed and refuse to go to school, Francesca."

8:11am:  Francesca is still crying and screaming.  Nico is sitting on his bed.  Fia gets out of the shower and is standing there dripping wet.  There is still no outfit picked out for her.

8:12am:  You are both going to wear those clothes.  If you choose to stay home THAT IS FINE BY ME.  ONE DAY A YEAR I ASK YOU TO WEAR SOMETHING NICE.  The compassion is gone.



8:15am:  Nico decides to just wear the shorts and an Ohio State jersey.  He decides it's not too bad.  The kid is smart.  He knows when the ship is going down.

8:20am:  Francesca is more resilient and keeps up the crying and snot.  I ask her ever so politely to leave the room because I CANNOT TAKE ONE MORE MINUTE.  I offer her the space of my room and ask her to SHUT THE DOOR.  She leaves.

8:23am:  We have 20 minutes til we have to leave.  Lunches aren't all the way packed.  Fia is still not dressed with hair wet and Francesca is a screaming basket case.

8:26am:  We pick out an outfit for Fia.  It's wrinkled beyond belief.  Out comes the iron.  I realize Francesca's sweater is a bit wrinkled and so I enter into the room of sadness and despair to get the sweater.

8:29am:  She is still crying.  To which I responded with compassion and goodness and mercy and kindness and said FINE.  FINE.  YOU WANT TO WEAR SOME WRINKLED, STAINED, NOT MATCHING OUTFIT.  FINE.  LET'S GO.  She nods her head.  I go to her room and throw out two random pieces of clothing and say HERE.  HERE.  WEAR THIS.  YOU CAN SHOW ALL YOUR PICTURES TO EVERYONE WITH THIS OUTFIT.  At this point Francesca's eyes are opened to the fact that mama HAS LOST IT.  She thinks that she will just wear the outfit she has on and take clothes to change into.

8:35am:  Ironing a sweater, dress and jean shirt.  Nico tells everyone to get in the car, he's ready.  How quickly he moved from the bed to getting into the car.  If you have ever met his teacher Miss D you might understand the motivation.  I don't think she has ever spoken above a whisper yet maintains complete authority.  I imagine she is looking pretty good to Nico at this point.

8:40am:  The girls are almost all dressed...........and now shoes.  OH MY WORD.  SHOES.  It's tennis shoes every day for my girls.  PLEASE LORD IN HEAVEN LET THIS NOT BE A BATTLE, TOO.

8:43am:  Apparently the crazy had hit a level that they were not willing to push.  Out came wedding shoes with tennis shoes and socks packed for later.

8:45am:  Fia's hair is still wet and lunches need to be finished.  We have to leave in 10 minutes.  WE CAN DO IT.

8:53am:  WE ARE OUT THE DOOR.  Everyone looks amazing.  Hair is shining, clothes unwrinkled, THE CLOTHES MATCH, Francesca's eyes have died down to a slight pink rather than angry red, we survived.

8:54am:  Everyone is buckled.  The radio is turned on and "Because I"m happy, clap along if you feel like a room without a roof, Because I'm happy, clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth, Because I'm happy clap along if you know what happiness is to you.............."  And we clap and sing and dance and smile and jam.

14 hours later I sit in a van..............with praise music playing and the atmosphere one of having survived and joy and God present.

14 hours later we sing loud and sigh with relief over getting through the morning and I apologize and we laugh.  And I am reminded that we are FAMILY - FOR each other and WITH each other.

14 hours later the van is filled with screaming as we pull in and Fia says SEE MOM not everyone is dressed and I scream and make exaggerated sounds of horror as I imagine a whole slew of kids showing up not dressed and everyone dissolves into giggles and shouts.

14 hours later I am restored and ready and KNOW compassion and love and mercy and forgiveness and grace is mine.

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

The Author


The author's finger pounded the computer keys.  She was tempted to use her middle finger - proving the strength of her anger and frustration.


She had been at this for weeks now, months is she were to be honest.

She was working on her next book.  She had experienced a bit of success with her first effort, minor success with the second and was now working on her third book.  She never had thought of herself as an author before.  It seemed a bit too lofty of a goal for this ordinary girl........well, now woman.  Her aspirations were a bit quieter, a bit more personal and private.  And not everyone would consider being an author a worthy or unattainable goal, it's not something they would value or look upon as special.

But she did.

And now she was stuck.  She was stuck in the middle of the book.  Every day she would wake up and there was a plan to write a few pages and be done.  After all, she was a wife and a mom and in charge of meals and making sure there was just enough underwear for the day.......sometimes it was pulled out of the washer and worn wet but it was worn.  So you see there was time set aside for being an author and then there was time to be wife, time to be mom, time to cook and keep up her part of the house (Have no fear the author had a husband who wrote checks and made appointments and did bills and fixed things and it all sounds very 1950s but trust me when I say it's best for all involved.  There is no right way but there is a best way for each family and this is simply their best way.  It doesn't have to be yours.)

There was a time and place set aside for writing and she liked things to stay in their places.  It was more comfortable for the author.  The overlapping and intersecting of lives tended to complicate matters and make her head hurt.


Her head hurt when so many things piled up in a day and people and things and tasks filled to overflowing so she mapped out space and time for her tasks.

The problem was each day when she sat down to write she didn't know what came next.  She would sit down at her desk.  The kids were taken care of - sometimes by the grandparents, sometimes by books from the library and sometimes from every parent's best friend MEDIA - and she would have the quiet she needed to think and write and plan and her hands would be poised over the keyboard and she would write.

The words flowed and the ideas would come and the mental pictures would all be there.  She would write and write and write.   Her goal was a chapter a day.  Truth be told she would like it to be more but a chapter seemed the most reasonable to her - in light of her other responsibilities.  That was the plan.

The author loved plans.

Her blocked off time would come to an end.  She would go back and reread what was written.  It was always good.  Really good.  (I never said the author wasn't proud of her success or talent, it was just unexpected :) She knew it was good.

But it didn't fit.  It didn't work with where the book was, where she was at in the story.  It just didn't sound write.  She didn't have much experience with technique.  She had never studied writing or took classes or anything, it was more of a feeling.  A feeling based on years of reading - both the good and bad - that something was not right.  In fact, it was wrong.


That was where she was again today.


She was at her wit's end.  The kids came running into the room.  Today was a timer set kind of day.  Go read, play, run outside, BE AWAY FORM YOUR MOTHER and when the timer buzzes you may come and get me, said the author to her kids.

The timer had gone off.

It was time to for the author to turn into mom.  She went and got dinner started - filling the pan with water, turning on the stove, chopping tomatoes, cutting up spinach.  The kids got out the plates and silverware and began to ready the table for dinner.  Within 20 minutes dinner was on the table, dad was home and the house was buzzing with the noise of a family.  The book was left behind for a few hours as life continued and there was running outside and reading of books and readying for bed and other things involving a wife and a mom.  She talked a bit of the struggle of all the ideas and the writing of the chapter and the eventual pounding of the keys and deleting of the words but the immediacy of her family called attention away from the now far off possibility of a new chapter.

Later on that night as the author's husband was putting the kids to bed, though, the frustration was back.  The anger at not being able to move forward.  The irritation at not having a plan for what's next in the book.  It all came back as the noise and activity of the house died down.

She decided to call her editor.  She was sure that he would have some ideas or words of encouragement, some get up and go speech........something of that sort.  After all their futures were kind of tied together.  If she didn't produce, he wouldn't get the goods.  No chapters.  No profit.  She just needed some good old, hard-core motivation.

Hi.  Glenn?  It's me.  Penny.  Yeah, I was calling........well, yeah I guess it's a penny for your thoughts...........HAHAHAHA!


I know, I know.  I promised never to say that again when I called you.  Ok.  Anyway.  I'm stuck.  I can't get passed the third chapter.  I have all these ideas and thoughts and things I want to happen with the main characters but when I write it out.........well, it just doesn't work.  It's starting to freak me our a bit and I am getting frustrated and AHHHHHHH.  It just needs to happen.  I need that fourth chapter to be written.


What do you mean WHY, Glenn?  I can't finish the book unless I have a fourth chapter.  I really just want to finish this book.  The first book I wasn't even thinking when I wrote it.  It just sort of happened.  It was good but it wasn't great or anything, it was more just something I did because my husband convinced to just write everything down.  The second book was a bit more of an effort but it just seemed as if I fell into writing another one.  I want THIS book to count, I want it to be something that is GOOD.

Ok.  So what's the problem?  

GLENN.  WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT'S THE PROBLEM?  The PROBLEM is I can't get past the third chapter.  I have this plan and it's a chapter a day and that seems doable and reasonable and all that and it's just not happening.  I will NEVER get this book done if I can't get past the third chapter.

Ok.  So you want to write a third book?


And you want it to be good because you are writing it with the actual knowledge that you are an author now and it's not just dabbling anymore?


And it's not happening fast enough and within the confines of your neatly organized plan?

YESsssss.......I mean, Glenn, when you say it like that it seems a bit ridiculous. BUT IT IS SO NOT.  I just...................sigh.........I just..........I don't know.

Penny.  What made you want to become an author in the first place?

I don't know.  I don't think that I ever had that thought until after the second book.  An author.  It still gives me the shivers.  I don't know that I can even wrap my head around it now.  I just know that I love books.  I love how they make me feel.  I love that you can get wrapped up in them for hours.  I love that they inspire me.  I love that I can get lost in them.  I love words.  I remember that moment when I discovered that I can write.  That I can write things worth reading, only I am not sure I ever had the conscious thought that someone would want to actual read my words.

What do you love about writing, Penny?

It's exciting.  It feels like ME.  I'm good at it.  It allows me to be creative and dream and there are so many possibilities when you write.  A blank page is simply a canvas on which I get to create whatever world I can imagine.  It's so much fun.

Ok. So what's the problem?

It's almost as if the things that first made me fall in love with writing, with the idea of being an author are holding me back.  I hear myself answering your questions and I think that once I was able to fully see all the possibilities and all the blank pages and I was able to believe in my ability to fill them with good things I wanted to fill them all RIGHT NOW.  It's almost as if completing the book was more important than all the words and ideas and beauty found on each and every page.

Oh my.


I know.

Enjoy the book you are on, the page you are on, the words you are crafting.  There is a time to plan.  That time was before.  The before when you couldn't even imagine starting.  That time?  Remember that time?  You were so unsure of yourself.  You called me and you wondered if I had time to look at some stories you had written...........I thought you were going to hang up before I could even say YES.  You spit out the words and were about to put down the phone.  But I said YES.  Penny, your stories were lovely.  The words were filled with a tentativeness but there was beauty in those first words.  Now?  Now you have conviction.  You have the knowledge that YOU CAN.  You have some experience.  

And Penny?

You have TIME.

There's no pressure from me.  Go slow.  Get it right.  Pound away.  Delete a bit.  Edit a bit.  Dream a lot but don't try to skip ahead.  I will be here when you finish - in 2 days or in 2 years.  

SIGH.  GLENN.  Ok.  Ok.  I hear you.  Go slow.  Get it right.  Delete. Edit. Dream.  Don't try to skip ahead.  Thanks, Glenn.

Oh and Penny?

Yeah, Glenn?

This is just the beginning of the series...............I saw a contract with your name on it in the office the other day.  10 books, Penny, 10 books.  Just enjoy the ride.


Dial tone.

Thursday, June 4, 2015

Seeking God in a Google World


So easy to come by these days.

What's the definition?

What have I seen her in before?

Where do they live?

Where do I want to live?

What's his name?

How do I  ____________ ?


At our fingertips.

On our phones.  Our laptops.  Our desktops.  Our Kindles.  Our every device.

Sometimes I forget what it feels like to wait.

Sometimes I forget to EMBRACE uncertainty; rather than reject it in favor of KNOWING.

Sometimes I find myself reaching for my phone, looking for answers that can't possible be answered by Google.

And it's frustrating not getting what I want.


They don't come.

They aren't found.

There is no way of googling "What do I do next?" or "What will my life look like in 5 years?"

I tried.

It turns out other people have done the same.

The answers weren't great.  Or helpful.

Then I remember.

To seek God first in this Google world.

To seek FIRST.

To seek FULLY.

To seek, not only answers, but seek HIM.

"But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.  Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.  Each day has enough trouble of its own."
                                           - Matthew 6:33-34

And perhaps I will discover that Google is NOT the ultimate search engine..........

"Search me, God, and know my heart;  test me and know my anxious thoughts."
                                           - Psalm 139:23


You know.

Help ME to know.

Know not the answers but to know YOU.

Help me to seek YOU first.

I love you.


Wednesday, June 3, 2015

The Summer of CRAZY

I am trying.

Really, I am.

Trying to stay grounded.

Trying to stay on task.

Trying to stay focused.


Until, well, I decide not to try so hard anymore.

I give in.

I relent.

I release.

I open wide my hands, my heart, my words.

No longer contained.

No longer within the confines of what is certain or real or probable.

No longer whispers.

Rather they are words that come unbidden.

They flow without ceasing.

Sometimes they connect.

Sometimes they are just thoughts of the moment.

Sometimes they are ones that have been stewing and simmering beneath the surface.

Sometimes they are accompanied by giggles.........because REALLY?!?




I don't even WANT that to happen.

(((giggle giggle giggle)))


This is the summer of BATSH*& CRAZY.

I made a deal with Joe.

One summer.

Three months.

Every thought gets spoken.

Every word heard.

Every dream brought into the open.

His job?




Don't dismiss.

Don't point out flaws.

Allow the dreamer to dream.

Come August my feet will hit the ground and we will run together.

This summer, though?'s time to get a little BAT^# CRAZY.

Join me?

What dreams do you dream?

No timetables.

No boundaries.

No doses of reality.

No "I can't"s, no "Come on, think of the _________(money, kids, time, energy)".

Come on, I dare you.

What are you scared of?

That they WON'T come true..........

Or that, just maybe, perhaps? THEY WILL.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

The Burr

There once was a burdock plant.

It grew along a path that many traveled upon.  The path was one of well-worn dirt, trampled down by years of hikers and joggers, bikers and walkers of the four-legged variety and an occasional baby buggy or two.  There wasn't anything hidden or secretive about this path, it was a favorite of many.

But the burdock plant went unnoticed for many years.  It's burrs unoffensive to the many people that passed them by.  They were content to watch the people as they came and went along the path.

In those unnoticed years they saw many things - they rejoiced as couples got engaged along their path, they silently cheered on the runners that pounded down their path, they watched children laughing and tripping and crying and running along their path, they even got to witness as few first moments - first kisses, first steps, first broken bones, first birthdays - they were there to witness many of life's little and big moments.  The plant was a place of love and comfort for the burrs which grew upon it's branches.

And so it went.

But as the years passed by the burdock plant grew bigger, it's burrs reaching out towards the path.

Until then they had been tucked away from all the people and the path upon which they walked.  They seemed to like it that way, it seemed easier to be spectators rather than participants.  It was almost as if it was easier to partake in the big, loud, colorful, chaotic world by allowing it to pass them by rather than become tangled up in the messiness of living in it up close and personal.  Better to stay at arm's length and watch than to be caught up in not only the joys and the firsts and the celebration but the pain and the suffering and the tears.

That is how the burrs preferred it.

Or so they thought.

One day a girl was passing by - short, slightly blond, large-eyed, very slight girl was passing by.  She was the sort that moved with purpose, not wasting time.  She was followed by boys but didn't really seem to notice them, they were an afterthought in her pursuit of life.  She had made a quick turn off the path to sneak in a leisurely smoke, hoping to go unnoticed.  And in that moment.................


A burr broke loose and snagged her sweater and was ripped from it's branches, ripped from it's comfortable existence of being a spectator and was now a participant.

Oh my.

It's first experience off the plant, in this big wide world was on the sleeve of a SMOKER.

She coughed through the first and then the second, got used to the third and rather enjoyed the fourth.  After that the path was pursued and off they went.  She learned a bit more about the girl she was attached to.............this girl?  She was smart and loud and could be a bit crazy.  She was certain and expressed herself with ease, perhaps a bit too much ease, but she was confident.  She loved fiercely and selectively.  

The burr could have stayed with her for quite a long time but the girl was on her way home from school and brushed up along a boy and the burr was passed along..........just as she was getting used to the girl.


She spent a moment staring wistfully back at the girl until she noticed that a piece of the girl's sweater stuck to one of her hooks and she rejoiced.  A piece of the girl would remain with her as she traveled on.

Now this boy..........hmmm.  He was different.  Not so loud.  Not so crazy.  Definitely NOT a smoker.  The burr's smoking moments were over.  And yet............he, too, was certain and he, too, loved fiercely and selectively.  He seemed to stop for a moment and look down, noticing the burr.  It was a bit frightening, to be noticed and looked at in such a way.  But he seemed to not find the burr irritating or something to brush away.  Rather he carried her with him, appreciating the beauty of her hooks and the bit of color left by the one who last carried her.  He continued walking, he was on his way home and home they went.

Oh my.

That first smell.  That first whiff of something heavenly, even today the burr remembers.  Even more so than the sounds of the family that emerged.  It was unlike anything she had ever smelled.......the delicious aroma of sizzling onions and garlic in oil, tomatoes simmering, bread baking, sausage cooking and so much more.  They descended the basement stairs together - the burr, still stuck upon the boy's shirt.

And the feast began and ended some time later, followed by the cleaning up and the saying good-byes, the kisses and hugs and ciaos.  The boy left.  Back down the path.  The boy and the burr on the move again..........and wouldn't you know?

A couple passed by and SNAG.

The burr was passed along.  This time, though, she knew.  She knew that a piece of the boy would be with her always, a hook had captured a thread of his shirt.  It was part of her, just as the girl had given a piece of herself to the burr before the boy.  Their threads woven together with the burr, the slightly more colorful, more adventurous burr. The burr knew a bit of her beauty having been noticed and looked upon with care by the boy from before.

Now this couple..........they, too, were different from the ones before.  They moved at a faster pace.  The boy restless to get ahead, the girl thinking it might be nice to stop and smell some flowers, read a bit of poetry but somehow finding their pace together - in stops and starts, in slowing and speeding up.  They seemed to look up a lot, as though finding their way not from the path ahead but from someone above.  The path was coming to an end, though.  Hmmmm............the burr wondered where they were heading?

Oh my.

Did you ever have that feeling?  That feeling of possibility, that feeling that of maybe? The burr swelled.  Or maybe she just imagined the sensation of feeling fuller than before.  They had walked into a beautiful old building, sun streaming through it's colored windows.  They walked in and around and up and down..........talking and dreaming and planning.  The burr caught bits and pieces of their conversation - enough to get caught up in the passion and the hope and the excitement of it all.

They went to go but then the boy noticed her.  He looked upon the burr differently than the last boy had.  Where the last boy saw beauty, this boy saw possibility.  He began to get excited about all the uses for such a creation - the hooks and the loose threads and such.  But the girl stopped him.  She took the burr from his hands.  She walked it over to the place where the sun was streaming through the highest window and gently lay the burr upon the carpet.

She leaned down and whispered, "Just look up."

And then she left.

The burr looked up.  She saw in the glass a picture of a man, kneeling, with long hair of brown and asking eyes dressed in a long white robe and a feeling of peace washed over her.  It seemed she had come a long way since being snagged off the path, off the plant that she once was so contentedly prepared to inhabit for the rest of her days.  She had traveled so far, carrying with her pieces of that first girl, the boy that came next and the couple that brought her to this place.

She lay in that sun-lit space for a while longer..............until.

Oh my.

The doors burst open, the people began to gather, the room filled with music, words poured forth and the burr was passed from one person to the next in the jostling of the family that filled the room.  It was unlike anything the burr had ever experienced - along the path or in it's travels of that day.  The burr was wrapped in so much color and texture, it's hooks filled.  It seemed as if the life of this burr was forever changed.

Oh and then.............that first boy appeared in the crowd.  He cried out as he spotted the burr on the round belly of a woman, a bearded man at her side.  He gave them quick hugs, gave kisses to their precious babe and wrestled with the others and grabbed onto that burr.  He snuck it into his pocket, this man that never throws anything away, to keep her safe.  He knew that while the burr couldn't always remain hidden that every created thing needs a place of rest and so he became that for this colorful, now adventurous burr.

He made the rounds to this big, bustling family.......the boy's good-byes are always long, a last word to be had, a last hug to be given, a child to tease or chase or love.......and then he stopped.  He walked over to the window where the burr had been laid gently down just hours before and together they looked up.

The boy smiled at the burr and said, "Let's go."

Monday, March 30, 2015

I Almost Missed It

I look up as my legs move along the length of the treadmill, over and over.

I look up at the screen that holds my attention long enough that I am willing and even enjoy subjecting my body to the dreaded exercise that it seems to need.

I watch as yet another young Duggar girl gets engaged and her family is joyful and there is a celebration planned.

A part of me, the cynical part, the part that dismisses different takes a moment to mock, silently, their ways of dating.

In particular the fact that they wait until they are engaged to hold hold hands.

Ridiculous, I think.

But then I remember that there is no harm being done, in this idea of waiting.  It's just a difference and to mock a difference makes me a bit ridiculous.  So I correct my thinking and am happy for them, in the moment, as  my legs move the length of the treadmill and life goes on and the Duggars wed and I finish the exercising of my increasingly, creeping towards aging body.

And then.


Just that same week.

My hand is down and I am with my youngest and we are walking into the library of her choice.   It has been months since we have been to the library.  A once weekly ritual of the stay at home mom has been replaced by school and the many activities of school-aged children.  And so it was a request made of my youngest on her weekend with mama that we go to her favorite library - the one downtown with puppets and pretend play and lots and lots of books.

My hand is down.

I reach towards her and we clasp hands.

Something that used to be a given, an every second occurrence as I herded young children here, there and everywhere.

But in that moment I grab her hand and it's almost electric.

I remember.

I remember that impact of a held hand and memories flood my mind.

It has been forever since my children needed a hand held.  Now they skip and run and walk forward or, in the case of my youngest, linger behind - stopping to notice everything, often wearily and dramatically sighing her discontent at the requirement she move her legs.

But I remember.

I remember the trips to the grocery store where old ladies would stop and stare and comment and smile and sigh and say, "You certainly have your hands full."  I would smile and something along the lines of how wonderful they were and how I love to have them with me or that they are such a help and we would continue on our way.

I remember parking lots where my hands, indeed, would always be full as we would link hands and walk safely and slowly to the car.

I remember library visits of children piled on top of me as we would read for almost an hour all the new books we would find.  We would delight in finding books that were a bit naughty, a bit funny and we would laugh out loud and put them in our bag to show daddy when he got home.

I remember trips to the museum where we would wear thin the same path.  Being members for eight years ensures that rarely is anything new but always it would be worth a stop to let legs stretch, to climb down the firemen's pole, watch the train go 'round and maybe if there was some spare change watch it go down the vortex or buy a treat at the vending machine afterwards.

I remember.

It was the four of us.

Hands full.

Never empty.

And I think........................maybe the Duggars aren't so crazy.

This hand holding thing?

It's precious.

I didn't quite realize how much so until the day it seemed to stop.

I have a bit of time with the last, the still baby of the family.

I am not sure how long, though.

The hand holding days are fading.

Somehow I missed the passing of this habit, I let it.......shall we say, slip through my fingers.

Perhaps now I will lag behind with the youngest more often.  I will hold her hand, not to catch her up but to slow her down.

I will savor my full hands.

And not think of the day when they will be empty.