Metanoia…
I used to think I could sing. I loved floating voice over note, whisper thin, creating wave upon wave of sound, here retreating, here getting stronger, melody, harmony. A place within me opened up in glory light in a way I can’t explain to this day; when I sing my heart flows on frequency wave.
It didn’t take me long into my marriage to realize that I did not really know the Song. My husband, bless his dearest heart, can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Should you hear him from the barn, you might mistake him for screech owl.
But oh, how he knew the Song of Songs. And it poured forth from him, rushing river, calming creek. It spoke from his hazel green eyes, it flowed in his speech, in his movements, gentle. True. I thought I knew. I really did. Hadn’t I been raised in the church? Didn’t I know the Song? There was this thing between us, and I knew that he knew Something I did not. His faith was sure. His love was true. Peace flowed from him.
Me? I was the howling, screeching, wounded animal that would claw out at him at slightest provocation. I came from a howling, wounded family, broken. Undone. Bedraggled. Weary. I had only known fighting, only known hurt, silences that could stand on end for days. Of the scurrying to our own spaces to avoid the relationships, the painful conversations that hung in the air, tense. I was the screech owl hiding in the eaves, hissing at him not to care. Not to love. To leave me, and my pain.
But he knew the Song.
And he sang, with all his heart, over me. His banner of me is love.
We celebrated ten years a week ago. When I think of those early years, of the howling brokenness I threw in his face on a daily basis, I am still moved to tears. He taught me what it was to love. Unconditional. And more and beyond that- he brought me to Love. He shared the Song. At the lowest points of my faith- in God, in hope, in people- my Beloved sang and sang and sang, actions so loud, so true, so Grace-filled- I heard my Lord singing over me. I was rescued. He was the Body. And soon others joined him, singing over me, healing the gaping holes of distrust in my heart, the Church made flesh in my life. They never occupied a physical building, with an official name. They flowed into my life from all corners of faith, smoothing away the rough portions.
And when the storm came, and the waves crashed…they were all there. They are here still. My beloved is still here. This- this- is grace upon grace. And I am amazed. I struggle so to put this all to words, because it is a God thing. It is beyond words. But I try.
I can’t spread my wings into this new day without stopping here at this way point in the journey and marking it down. I look over the last three years of loss, of lessons learned, and how I wish that I never would have had to walk the sorrowful road that I did- I can see so very clearly the jewels strewn on the path, forged in the heat of suffering. Blessing upon blessing. It is because of those people in my life- because of my Beloved- that I am able to walk into a new journey.
It is time to take of the rags of mourning, to dance with joy, and to sing. I will never forget the baby angel that made it to heaven before I did. I will never forget the pain of a two and a half years of unemployment. I will never forget the loss of my health, the soul-crushing exhaustion. It has become woven into the tapestry of me, and it will always be seen in my robe on this earth. I ache and look for the day that all things will be made new, the day my Beloved and I, my angel child, my children- and you, dear friend, I pray- dance before the Throne of Grace.
So I launch out…timid wing…falling into my Redeemer. He has kept His promises.
May my Song breathe grace, may it bring His glory.
Transition…
n.
Passage from one form, state, style, or place to another.
Passage from one subject to another in discourse.
A word, phrase, sentence, or series of sentencesconnecting one part of a discourse to another.
A modulation, especially a brief one.
A passage connecting two themes or sections.
Music
A modulation, especially a brief one.
A period during childbirth that precedes the expulsive phase of labor, characterized by strong uterine contractions and nearly complete cervical dilation.
I find myself in a place of change. It’s a change wrought over two and a half years of hardship- two and a half years of God taking hold of my life- two and a half years of finding that I belonged to Him and no other. Two and a half years of learning to trust. Two and a half years of learning to let go, lean back, drink of the wild and tremulous love of Christ.
Fingers trace along the line of counted blessings, and I marvel. Can this be? What seemed the darkest days then seems to me now a precious time, paid for in tears and sorrow. We lovers of God- I wonder if we become so mindful of the Glory that we forget the Cross? That we forget the sorrow? He promised there would be much of it in our lives. And yet we wish, yet I wish, to go from joy to joy and glory to glory without the hard and narrow path that leaves blisters and weary muscles. Paul whispers of the long journey, the marathon race- no quick sprints here. Heart heaving, breath catching run that seems to spread out before us, endless. But it does have an end- and will I come to the end with weary muscles but strong heart? It seems there is no path more fitted for strength than that of weakness.
I wonder at this. And I wonder at the place I find myself now. A wonderful place, and yet a strange, terrifying place too. It is time for wings to open, time to set off and fly. I realized rather unconsciously that I had been collecting bird paraphernalia over the last few months- a robin’s nest, tiffany blue eggs, adorns my computer’s desktop. A sweet little carved green bird with swirls sits next to my Bible. My office folders are covered with florals and birds in all manner of flight. Every ATC I make has wings in some sort or another, butterfly wing, bird wing, dragonfly. It is funny how our heart is speaking even when our brain is not attending the messages.
I keep thinking of the idea of transition. Of the curled caterpillar breaking through the chrysalis, of the woman in her travails, ever so close to new life uncurling within her and stretching long…
My transitions in labor have been such a strange place. I do not labor well and always have to be assisted with the drug Pitocin. Once it has been added, the labor progresses quickly, often leaving my unmindful of what is happening within my body. But transition- I always notice it because I begin to cry, seemingly for no reason at all. Of course, science will tell that there is a huge hormone surge at that moment as the body moves into the last stages of labor- but for me, it always surprises. My husband can tell you that transition is always when I, strong and capable, suddenly crumble. I cry and exclaim that I can’t do it anymore, and why can’t the baby just be here? The irony is that it is so very close and the baby will soon be in my arms- but it is almost as if I lose track, grow weary, grow weak. And then suddenly, time to push, and the next thing you know, there is baby. There is life. LIFE!
The comparison is so apt. This gift of transition. This is my scribble here…to mark out this moment. To notice my weakness, to realize that I am moving into a place of joy, and I just need to let go. Need to be weak, need to stretch long, strengthen knee…
and fly.
In love and honor…
I remember the first time I placed our son, Ben, into his arms. Perhaps other wives and new mothers would be worried as that hand off occurred- “remember, hold his head up! Don’t drop him…pick his blanket up…” (And most grandmothers as well)- but I didn’t think of it for a second.
We were young, just twenty years old. Many were questioning our ability to take care of this newly born gift of God.
As I settled our wee baby into his arms, James’ face broke out into a radiant smile. It was as if a mantle settled on his shoulders- he seemed taller, stronger, a man of courage. I’ve never forgotten seeing that change flicker across his face. I was so tired- it had been a long labor- and I felt completely at peace. My eyes fluttered close with the vision of my husband holding his first born son.
I could not have known then what I know now, but my first picture of my husband as a father has become etched deep upon my memory.
My beloved has a heart for his children. He has such a deep well of patience for them that always surprises me and convicts me- I who am so quick of temper. His love for them, his unconditional love that suffers much- it has healed my own heart, broken from a father-relationship that still confuses. Many nights has he paced the carpet with a crying babe- many moments has he stood firm in leadership and guidance of our sons. He is so strong in a way that has nothing to do with physical prowess. And he is wise- I know, and my kids know, that our hearts and our concerns are listened to, that he considers carefully our needs.
He is a wonderful, amazing father.
He is a man of courage.
He is a man of conviction.
He is a man of integrity.
He is a man of deep, abiding, steadfast love.
I trust my children and their hearts to his watch care under the guidance of our heavenly Father…
And I am so proud of the man he has become…
We love you Daddy. We are so honored to call you by that name.
Joy, Ben, Isaiah, Lorelei, David, and Josiah
Small and hidden…
It was a normal, every day Wednesday.
The water was bubbling on the stove;
the flag flapped and snapped outside the window;
and the only sound that could be heard was the swish smack of the knife against the potato skin I was peeling.
It had been a quiet and busy day. It was a hidden day. I have been learning to come to terms with this- living in each quiet, quotidian moment, letting it pass by, noticed only by me. It would be hard to explain what I do each day- other than keep my family world spinning- wiping noses and bottoms, teaching concepts, endless loads of laundry, swept floors. Outside my tiny spot on the wide green earth, no one really knows if I do these things, or do them well- and perhaps, it does not matter in the grand scheme of things. I know that it matters whether or not anyone is looking. And it matters whether or not anyone notices and praises me for it. My thanks lie many years down the road, and I am learning to accept that, and joyfully…
It was two days after Memorial Day. Thoughts of Capt. James Howell, his sweet wife, Stephanie, of his two daughters, Harper and Sadie, and the joyful news of twins that they had just received, circled and vied for attention. So too, the lives of the eight men of his company that never returned home from the tip of the spear in Afghanistan last year walked in lockstep through my head, faceless but not forgotten. I breathe a prayer for him and his company as I slice another potato- each morning, his name is one that is whispered heavenward as soon as I can remember. As the skin falls from the potato, I try to let the fear fall as well- for him. For her. For their children. I want, more than anything, for Jimmy to come home, safe and whole. I flinch when I hear of casualties in Afghanistan- I can no sooner imagine how Stephanie feels than what it is like to walk on the moon. Jimmy’s courage and conviction, his integrity- it shines. It shines through Stephanie. His love for her makes her glow luminescent, even on the toughest of days when she is clinging to God and begging that the words she hears are not touching him…
Before I know it, my vision blurs as I am undone by my thoughts of the Howell family. I lay down the knife and stare out at the flag, snapping smartly in the wind…at the emerald green hills and valleys that stretch endlessly away from my window, hardly touched by human hands…
I think of Mr.Chen.
I think of all the brokeness in the world, and of all the men and women who go out into the breach everyday, to stand in the gap- to bind up the broken places, to stand firm. They all, in their own way, stand against danger, within or without- often at great personal cost of their own. All the faceless people who have suddenly come into sharp focus for a broken one, when they were there in the deepest hour of need.
What then shall I do?
I profoundly understand that this is the season for me to be small and hidden, tucked away in the hills of an Appalachian afternoon. It is not for me to run to the breach, to stand on the front lines of warfare, spiritual, mental, emotional. But I can pray. And I can live. I can live my life in honor of those who are, known, or unknown, preserving my own. I can live my life in honor of the One who gave His life. He deserves nothing less. They deserve nothing less. It is enough for me to stand here at my post at the kitchen sink, hidden and unknown. These blessings are mine because of them. To foul them with bitterness, discouragement, and complaining seems a little less than honorable.
The gratitude, and the wonder…
“I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.”
– G.K. Chesterton
: For new growth
: The chance to begin anew
: the wind and rain, the sun and seed
: the simple pleasure of new (very comfortable) shoes
: to work with our hands
: lightning bugs in the field
: daddy and Eldest and littlest, learning
: for Sabbath and rest
: for family meals together
: for sweet first fruits
: homemade sourdough rolls, fresh from the Mennonites the next hill over
: flowers from my Beloved
: simple candle light
: the gift of ordinary
: for sweet little girl who, when asked for a funny face, gave me this
:kefir smiles
: deep green eyes that watch every move I make
: for pretty floral dresses and the princess that fills the folds
: For smart little boys in matching blue, “because he wears it, I will too”
: For bespectacled owly boy and his contagious laughter
: For the questions (how many!) from Eldest, to ponder and chew (and yes, giggle over too.)
: For the quiet of a weekend holding my family close
Finding Red…
My work in progress, Art Friday, whatever you want to call it but I’ve got paint on my fingers….yeah. It’s back. And it feels good. I am definitely at a stage in my life where I don’t have an extensive amount of time to sit and create, so doing these ATCs is my little way of keeping the faith while most of my art supplies lie idle. This one is very much inspired by Rebecca Sower’s Red Thread Sessions that she just started up at her blog. I am not really a ‘red’ kind of girl- I tend towards the more serene, calmer colors in my art play. This was a jump for me, and I am astonished to discover that I kind of like it and might use it again.
Red has a derring do, a ‘i will not sit idly by’ sort of feel to me. The more I thought about it, the more I thought about how my life had changed. One of the scars of depression for me has been a transformation from a love of spontaneity to an almost maniacal avoidance of change. Before PPD, one of the my husband’s favorite things about me was my ‘get up and go have fun’ mentality…he knew he could suggest just about anything and I’d be game. Don’t worry, I’m a firstborn, so that was always tempered with logical responsibility. Since recovering from PPD, I have really struggled to go and move and be. I have become an almost ridiculous sort of home body, hardly straying from our fields and house- and going into the unknown scares me in a wild way. Even grocery shopping affects me with an awareness I did not have before. Fear is too strong a word- it is more a shyness that I’ve not had before- an almost contented feeling to staying on the margins of life and not really living life to the dregs. Doing this card has been cathartic in that regard, just realizing that the feelings were there. One of the things that circled in my head as I made this was the Lord’s sacrifice- a depth of pain that I can’t even begin to imagine- and that He died so that I might live. I need to honor what a precious life that is by living it instead of staying on the margin of life. So the phrase “live the life He gave” circles the card in a mantra of sorts.
It feels good, this space. I have a freedom in my art play that I’ve never had before- grateful. The muse has finally dwelt awhile and not left me bereft.
Conjunction…
Because I could not leave well enough alone.
For LL’s prompt for Random Acts of Poetry at High Calling Blogs, based on my earlier sketch: A Wander…
—
On the pediment
Stood they
Silent and still
Gazing upon a world changed
White turned grey
And creeping black
The glint of gold
Gash of dirt
Sunbeams dance
Across curve of cheek
Hook of nose
Grasp of hand
Upon shepherd’s crook
Starlit spiral
Wonder of beryl, sapphire
Jeweled crown
Tendril heavenward
Relic of old
Hushed whispers echo
Archaic words
Rim round in word and sound
I stumble upon a stair
Time worn,
Rough mark of stone mason
Etched in the solid face
The dirt covers my shoe
On a path worn smooth
By thousands
And I wonder-
Is faith here?
Or there?
In the grit and the grime
or
the cut glass and gold
or do they
statues, lifeless
know
if it is a
both/and?
(St. Peter’s, Rome)
Around and about…
(Isn’t this just so beautiful? It was a new section at the Virginia Aquarium. [I used to work there, but that's a story for another day.])
I am still in an in-between stage- a mumble and jumble- from our return home from vacation. I have lots of things that need my attention on the home front, so in lieu of me blathering on, I thought I’d give you some good stuff to read that doesn’t fall under the category of blather…*grins*
“I have been afraid to trust, afraid to release my stranglehold on my “right” to live and lay down my life. I have chosen fear (not the reverential kind – the terrified kind) of God and His God-ness for His lack of good-life guarantees. I’ve done all I can to avoid the wounding – the old, the new, the possible. ” -Kelly Langer Sauer, Already
Read more over at Kelly’s: Already.
“It the moments of mayhem, when everything is spinning so fast and the children are pawing at my arms and legs and brain and each other and I can’t catch up or focus or even know what to say. So I stare off, do the minimum. I survive. And I do not bless.” – Arianne, The Call to Bless
Read more over at (in)courage: The Call to Bless.
We are finding a new normal here, one that is more settled, more our rhythm, slow, steady, good. Part of that is giving me as mama the space to say yes. One of the things that always affects my mood is music, so I was delighted to read Elise’s blog when she told us of a new discovery- Hidden in My Heart by Breakaway Music. I cannot say enough about this debut…it is truly lovely, life-giving. Calm, beautiful, wonderful. I have moved to tears more time than I can count by this song or that song, and I cannot tell you my favorite. Elise is giving away three of these CD’s, so make sure you visit her over there and enter the giveaway. The CD is also available as a digital MP3 download, which is what I purchased. It is truly the best money I have spent recently!
A wander…
(picture for kelly- I think I just need to play more!)
In the dark watches of the night
I dream and wander
the pediments
aged stone pulling gaze upward
rainbow hued cut glass spiral
touch of gold
I stumble on a rough stone stair
touched by long ago craftsman
faithful
the dirt on my shoe
and I wonder
is faith here
or there
in the grit and grime
or
the cut glass and gold
or is it a both/and?
(thinking of St.Peter’s in Rome, for LL’s Random Acts of Poetry at High Calling Blogs)
Daybook: A Return Home
Outside my window~
A garden in full swing, and a certain heretofore neglected 64 Cherry Red Mustang, now running, out of the garage…such a simple thing really, but it brings me delight to see my husband’s ‘project’ back in circulation.
I am thinking~
That Elise says things that touch your heart and want you to be a better mama, every single day, and how she said what I was trying to say so much better: Once Upon a Time and Sometimes. Go read, be blessed, and I dare you to try it without a box of Kleenex. She and Ann are such gifts! To unwrap one of their posts is a treasured blessing.
I am thankful for~
Vacations, the safe haven (if occasionally stormy harbor) of family, the people who know know you, past the skin and skull, deep heart level, and most of all, for grandmas. Any sort will do, but my three are the best- love to Grandgrama, Grandma Kathy, and Nana, for without whom I would a lot less sane without their assistance. (I pay back in baby snuggles and toddler kisses.) My mother, who made last week and our extended family vacation happen.
From the learning rooms~
A diligent effort to finish well. In between spaces as one year ‘wraps up’ (ever so slightly since we school throughout the year) and a new one begins. Looking forward to convention and a chance to refuel in a few weeks.
From the kitchen~
I feel like I am forever talking about food and/or homekeeping routines, but I usually write from where I am at. These last few months have been a very concerted effort to focus on these areas. They are the most troublesome for me, and that is definitely the case with food! Between food allergies and diet needs, I can’t ever seem to find a long-term workable solution. I think I am edging a lot closer to an answer that I can work with.
I am creating~
Tiny pockets of order. I realized that much of my mental stress resulted from lack of discipline in my own doings (in addition to my children’s) and that I must focus on what is prescient, what my true work is, right now, no matter how much I may dislike it, no matter how dirty (or stinky….) Sigh. It grieves me in a way I can’t quite put words to. I am not thinking of physical, home keeping type stuff, but rather, the spiritual and emotional- the deep down heart issues at the core of the problem.
I am going~
Very few places this week. It was a refreshing vacation, but so much of vacation is going and seeing, so it’s nice to have a quiet week ahead, with only a few obligations.
I am reading~
Oh gracious. I really need to update my booklist, and I have a ton of reviews I’d like to do…ha. Like I have the time. Ok, the top of the stack rightthissecond is… The Freedom of Simplicity by Richard Foster. I have been on ‘a tear’ as my husband likes to call it- devouring books left and right.
I am hoping~
I realized today that in addition to the Easter people, we oughta be the hopeful people. Because…no matter what…we have this great Hope…that gives us the freedom to dream big dreams, because His are bigger…
I am hearing~
Mighty is the Power of the Cross by Chris Tomlin on the Arriving album, via a Shawn McDonald Pandora station. You ever have these moments when something set to music just grabs you, holds you, moves you, and reminds you? Yup. I’ve heard this song, sung by him, a million times on a ton of different radio stations, but tonight, the spirit moves. Speechless.
Around the house~
The honey-do list shrunk quite a bit while we were on vacation (my husband couldn’t go with us because of work, so he got to get lots of rest and attack that darn list savagely), but there is still a lot of projects that need getting done, so that’s where I am headed next. We should be moved in some time in 2025. Ha!
One of my favorite things~
Is getting to hear those “I remember when…” stories that always happen at family gatherings. We should listen ever so much more closely to these- these personal histories that shape and form-but we don’t realize it for their very mundane, every day subject matter until it is too late to hear it told one more time.
Here is a picture thought I am sharing~
Oh yeah, summer is here. Strawberries….yum and yum. And flip flops. YAY!
You can find more daybooks here.
