Skip to main content


Showing posts from November, 2012

Before you at this altar...

I watch him for the longest time.

He’s on the floor, his camo-panted legs in the air.  Before he starts tugging on the toes of the socks, I watch his clasped hands, just in front of his face.  And he stares.  He’s so still, just watching his own chubby hands.  He releases them, sets them each free, and they open and close.  He pries at a thumb.  

He’s mesmerized with... himself.  With the sheer beauty and intricacies of his own hands.  The way his knuckles bend.  How he can swing his foot up to his mouth.  And I watch him in all of his sweet, babyness and wonder... when did I stop seeing myself like that... as... a creation?

Not just someone who is here or who serves or who does this job or that job of volunteers in this space... but real, alive, flesh, bone, marrow... creation.  Intended, purposed, special and loved all because the hands that hung the moon and hinged the stars... He saw me before I was formed, loved me proud and knowing all the ways I’d misstep and fall, badly... He kni…

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

Tonight as I showered, and ran the soap through my hair, I was reminded of that one episode in Grey's Anatomy.
It’s that one where Meredith is covered in the remains of a member of the bomb squad following a homemade piece exploding and Cristina and Izzy, all three in scrubs, pull Meredith into the hospital shower and wash her hair and rinse the blood from her face.  Meredith seems hollowed out, empty, unable to cope with what just happened (and who could?!) and her friends - her sisters in the truest sense - gather around and they don’t talk.  They just offer love and clean water, as their hands aim to push away what covers their friend - they rinse away the shock and the pain and, well, the plain blood.

I am blessed with some of the best friends a girl could ever have.  They are the ones who climb into my second-story apartment when I locked myself out.  They are the ones who never forget that we love the same ice cream or my favorite little things.  They are the ones who have pr…

And I know He's watching me...

I break half of a fresh snickerdoodle and hand it to him.  He nibbles carefully and looks up at me; in love.  "Mmm... warm!"

I point for him to go sit on the bottom step, that way the crumbs are isolated, and he plops down, swinging legs and seeming to munch thoughtfully on this unexpected treat.  Travis fusses from the blanket where he's surrounded by toys and I look up and over the kitchen counter and say, "Just a minute, bud.  Momma will get you some beans!"


One gets a cookie coated in cinnamon and sugar... the other... pureed green beans?

Hardly seems fair.

And iTunes is playing me a version of, “His Eye is On the Sparrow” and I think how He gives what we need, over and over.  And how it’s always good until we compare.  Until we really look at the plate before us and go, “Wait a second... why have I been eating meat and potatoes?” We glance at the plates before someone else and our heart pounds, “Where’s my chocolate cake?  Where’s my apple pie?  I want don…

They want proof of all these mysteries I claim...

I had barely stepped into the room, little brother in my arms, when Joel looks up from his animals and barn, crossed his arms defiantly and said, “No, baby Travis!  MY living room!”

My eyes widened and I readjusted the baby on my hip.

“... ‘Your’ living room?  This isn’t your room!... Do you own this house?”

My two and a half year old stares blankly at my face.

“This is not your room.  Who owns this house?  Daddy owns this house!  And Daddy gives you all these nice things...”

I felt my throat closing in on itself.

It’s... it’s not mine, is it?  I mean... none of it.  Literally, nothing.  No... thing.

And all this we have... the computer to play with, the cell phone to keep in touch, the cute clothes to feel, well, cute.  The new shoes, the clean sheets, the milk in the bottle, the creamer for tomorrow’s wake-up, even my (ha, “my”) brand new Yankee Candle.  The wedding ring I wear, the husband I build a life with, the boys I grew inside my own body and birthed to life with my own effort, deep…

Make a plan to get ahead...

He says it while I roll cookie dough between my hands.

"Mommy!  The dragon... laughs!"  

He's playing make-believe with his Fisher Price Little People and in his mind there's a big dragon, probably like the one he saw advertised on Disney Junior last night before bed.  I smile and encourage the play and say, "Oh, no!  He's laughing at them!  They better go hide!" and he courageously stashes them beneath the ottoman that matches the chair in the corner.  I rotate dough into cinnamon and sugar and coat evenly, completely.  Smiling at him and the little brother playing and drooling nearby.

And I think in that moment of pure happy... how the dragon, that Satan... how he must laugh when it all falls down.  He doesn't need to roar to scare us.  He doesn't need to shock us.  He doesn't need to tear us apart with vicious teeth and razored claws.  He only has to laugh... to mock... to criticize the joy, the peace, question the security that we have se…