On Monday, June 16 th, 2008
(Notes from this weekend…) She slides close in the coming light and I bury my head in her tendrils, damp and tangled, this night halo she wears through dreamworlds. And then I remember. Today (I can hardly breathe) is the last day. Tenderly sweeping back these gold strands from around her face, I watch her eyelashes flutter but a moment, her lips slightly open, breat...
On Friday, June 06 th, 2008
Our shadows stretch us long across this field, us bent low, rock pickers combing earth. This is spring’s song. Always has been, as long as I can remember. It’s what I know and what those before knew, what those now coming are coming to know. The ground moans after winter’s weight, working stones to the surface, and we, all of us, young or worn, come again with spring...
On Monday, May 05 th, 2008
Turbulence shakes his balance, and his hand flashes for steadying, something sure, like a seatback, but my shoulder, curved and strong too, will do. Never turning or noticing the feel of bone, he presses hard, and I know purpose, a body made like a staff. Lord, who today would You have me undergird, uphold? (Photo: collecting luggage, cluster of thoughts, in Detroit airpor...
On Monday, April 28 th, 2008
She’s laid bare, exposed and waiting. We, all of us, watch as he stands on her tilled edge, opening bags, preparing to fill soil’s barrenness. Something about the sound of ripping out stitched string, hope and promised unsealed. The open seed bags line the tailgate, ready. The truck bed sags under the heaviness of seeds, millions of diminutive, near-weightless-in-my-hand s...
On Wednesday, April 02 nd, 2008
She calls me the other day, wondering if there is anything I need at the grocery store and I ask for 4 cans of blueberry pie filling, dishwasher detergent, (the gel kind not the powder), and hair conditioner for dry hair and… I stop mid-list. How audacious this is, a grown daughter asking all this of her mother. I might as well just ask her to give me the world while she ...
On Monday, March 31 st, 2008
A university student (and mother) who reads here contacted me, inquiring if any parent who passes through this out of the way place might be interested in participating in a research study to reduce parental stress— through practising gratitude… Yes! Care to join me? She writes: WANTED: Parents who desire to reduce child-related stress. COST: A little bit of your t...
On Saturday, March 01 st, 2008
We reject Him, sin against Him, betray Him. But He pursues relentlessly. In the face of heartache. Our behavior drives Him deeper into relationship. He knows full well that the relationship problem is not a result of His failure to love, but the stoniness of His children’s hearts. It is not an issue of how much Father loves His children, but how much, if at all, His childre...
On Thursday, February 21 st, 2008
I don’t remember when I stopped touching him. Lanky legs, stretching back were signs for me…signs to distance and retreat. Signs of Caleb emerging as a man. And, who was I to touch the skin that clothes a future man? Perhaps it was mere self-protection, withdrawing before he, inevitably, rejected his coddling mother? Or maybe it was where I came from: cuddling babies was a...
On Saturday, February 02 nd, 2008
Love is patient… Yet love can only be patient when it is first grateful… And it can only be grateful when it remembers: There are no emergencies There are all, only, gifts There are never fears… That is what I am thinking as we pour pancake batter into the griddle on a Saturday morning. Milky, buttery circles loop about the pan in interconnected rin...
On Wednesday, January 23 rd, 2008
They say a mother wears an apron and a myriad of hats. I say she wears a collar too. A collar which can never be removed. A collar which cannot be observed by the material world: a clerical collar. For she is a priest in her home, before a congregation of children. True, she snaps wet sheets onto the line, mashes heaping bowls of steaming potatoes, kneels to scrub the grime tha...
On Wednesday, January 09 th, 2008
from e.e. cummings: –how fortunate are you and i,whose home is timelessness: we who have wandered downfrom fragrant mountains of eternal nowto frolic in such mysteries as birthand death a day (or maybe even less). Lord, we live in You… who lives outside of time. Thank You for this dip into these mysteries…and then forever. HT: Mama Monk
On Friday, December 28 th, 2007
The catalogues are tucked away, their glossy lures apprehended. What was once wondered is now known, felt. The real gifts, the good ones, cannot be manufactured with their own USP bar codes. Real gifts aren’t shipped, but fall down from heaven, His fingerprints still fresh. In the quiet, after the wrapping paper is tossed in the trash, I open His Catalogue. Gift: Light...