How longing is yellow

i never knew, til that day, reading her words.
just a blip, but it screamed in my ears.
no, it didn't. but it did make my stomach leap a little
like ridng a roller coaster and the unexpected
thrill of suddenly going down
(just kiddng. i hate that part. no thrill)
"but it's true,"
i thought.
that ache in the pit of my stomache:
the smear of crushed dandelions on my fingers,
the creamy tart of homemade lemon curd
(even w/ some of the eggwhites showing their slip
like how i never could seem to keep mine
from peeking out of easter hemlines).
or the catch in my throat when i hear that line from that song:
the limpid curls of cressida's crown,
the flickering spark of butane lighters,
(i miss that smell, a little- not a lot, just enough).
 all this yellow melancholy,
dropping like the petals
(he loves me falls with just as much oomph
as he loves me NOT--
i believe this now. i didn't then.)

Trickle

i have a 13 month old taking his nightly nap on my lap, his arms folded ann geddes-style under his chin, his eyelashes are black feathers on a pink cheek, and his feet are almost as long as my hands. he's growing too quickly.

my connor has become an artist almost overnight, and i don't even know how to tell you what this does to my soul. it has made me fall a little more deeply in love with his blues (i wonder if his all blue see the world differently than mine, all brown?) and his imp-dimple, and his limber little legs. there is a story for every drawing (mostly bombs and fish, lately), and a smile for every time i ask him, "tell me about it?"

shea, so close to six he can't stand it, squints his eyes a lot, and we think he might need glasses, but he's already shocked me by his right vision, how he already knows that jesus died for him because He loves him, and he knows that we need to be perfect again one day. that we will be. he trusts this so fully i'm humbled. i want to ask him how he came to trust so well.

little-yet-not mr avery, how he makes my heart swell with his golden spirit. his curls wooed me like his bobbing bottom when he was a baby, but now i wonder my love at him because of how he loves: with every fiber of his being. he apologizes for being sad, he wants the whole world to know he exists, and he wants most of all to laugh with you, and hug you, and make the world okay.

these boys of mine, they are pieces of me, aren't they? the story-boy, the literalist, the people lover, even the baby who knows his securities.

slowly, i am emerging from this hollow place i've been. i feel words trying to trickle back inside of me, outside of me.

Welcome, spring

today is a beautiful day.

today we went outside to swing and practice bike-riding
and connor plucked dandelions, blowing their seeds
and avery picked wild narcissus and tried to blow their petals, too
and i couldn't help but laugh at such innocence
and the trees above us danced
scattering pollen in the air, and i wasn't even mad
because it just means more beautiful things will grow
(and there can never be too much beauty, ever)
like owen, laughing at the wind who hugged him right back
and me on the swing listening to all this music
the laughter, the little boys playing, the spring-song of outside

Shattered

there is a place where the sacred is unsafe
the holy burns,
and unsinged we dare to ask if we are secure

we think we purify ourselves
by removing our shoes
never thinking we stand a world apart
paperthin
between this world and the next
where our clay-frail bodies one day will shatter
like the stars

the dead sloughed off
shines nova-bright, now--

how unsafe it is to be burned down
only to be consumed again by holy fire

we shatter

A Girl Named Fragile, A Parable

this is my first bit of fiction. i'm afraid to share it, yet knowing it is imperfect, i feel emily's is where it belongs for a spell.




once there was a girl who lived in a Dark Wood, only she didn't know it was dark because she'd never seen the light. She came of age and chose to travel--she wanted to know what went beyond the trees. she came upon a forked path, and having never left her little yard, was forced to choose one way. she chose blindly, as one must always do in the Dark. little did she know that one path led further into the wood and the deep dark, and the one she chose led towards Beyond. as she walked and walked, little golden beams sometimes showed through the canopy of branches, and she felt a prickling sensation when she stepped into the little puddles of brightness. she was being introduced to Light, and she felt she loved him. by the time the last tree was behind her, and she walked openly in the well-lit Beyond, Fragile felt she'd known Light all along. in fact, she thought she'd seen glimpses of him even in her Dark Wood; had he not been in the fire where she cooked her meal and warmed herself? had he not been in the stars where she imagined her friends? yes, he'd been quiet and unnamed, but he'd been there. yes, she loved this golden Sun.
But one day, it felt too immense, too surreal--perhaps she was dreaming and it was still Dark. thus, she was introduced to Fear, and he wooed her for some time. Fear introduced her to his friend Anger, and he was so seductive, so beguiling. he made her feel safe and made her forget Fear's cold hands. she also forgot the warmth of the Light she'd loved once. Fragile and Anger journeyed for years together. he taught her the meaning of her name and how to abuse it. little by little, cracks were appearing all over, though Fragile wasn't aware of her changed appearance. what she did know was that she was getting weary, often having no strength for more than a day or two at a time on her journey. Anger became impatient with her, and so she became impatient with herself. the fissures were getting bigger, and now that Fragile saw them, she wondered what was wrong with her-why was she breaking? Anger didn't notice the cracks; in fact, he didn't notice Fragile at all anymore. Depression met them then, and she took Fragile's hands in hers, hugged her tight and whispered lies. "you were happier in the Dark, weren't you? the Light is making you ugly because if you were in the Dark you wouldn't even be able to see them. you deserve the pain you feel and inflict on others-wasn't it you who kept Anger all these years?" Depression's sister Loneliness visited often, and Anger kept his distance but followed still.
Fragile was more tired than ever, and the cracks began to hurt. she wished for Peace. she didn't know who he was, only that she'd dreamt of him long ago when dancing in the sunbeams in the forest. she wondered if Peace could ever find her. she went to sleep that night flanked by Anger, Depression, and Loneliness. She wished she'd never wake up; maybe that way she'd find Peace. In her sleep she dreamed a child named Hope cried. When Fragile asked why she was crying, she merely cried some more. waking up and confused by the dream, it took a moment for Fragile to realize someone was watching her. it was the child Hope. "you! i dreamed you were crying! why would such a beautiful child cry?" the child answered quietly, "i was waiting for you." Hope then introduced Fragile to her companion who came forward, Peace. Fragile looked around for Anger, Depression, and Loneliness, but to her surprise they were gone.
Fragile walked with Hope and Peace and asked what more they could possibly see in the Beyond. they arrived then at a castle ruins, and she was told it was the most precious thing in all the land. "but it's just an old broken castle," Fragile muttered, disappointed. "not, 'just.' it is also the house of the sun, and you are welcome." indeed, the castle was aglow, and from it shined the Light she'd once known so intimately. a tear trickled down her cheek as she whispered, "im sorry i forgot you on the way." upon entering the hall, the castle righted itself and transformed into its glory, and she was asked to bathe in the fountain of life. she did so, half-thinking her cracks would disappear, but when she emerged she was no different. Light took her hand and led her to his great mirror. "what do you see?" he asked. in it, she saw her travels with Fear, Anger, Depression, and Loneliness, and her short time with Peace and Hope, and she said, "i see Fragile." "no, my child, that is not who i see. look again. i see Treasure." she asked Light "why did i have to break, then?" "look again." this time when Fragile looked in the mirror she saw what Peace had seen and called Beauty and what Hope saw and called Worth waiting for. looking into the Sun's mirror, all she could see was the Light shining. she realized if she'd never been broken, she'd never have seen the Light inside her.

The beauty that surrounds

there is a beauty that surrounds me,
(even when i overlook it.)
there are some days i forget to walk outside,
so fail to see how green comes in ten shades, just on ivy road.
or, how smart and wily the backyard birds are,
arrogantly eating the dog's food,
fluttering away with a taunting second to spare.

we return to play, now that heat is not so oppressive.
maybe now that we have more work to do?
the boys are more outside than in,
though the flies are more inside than out;
we dizzy in the middle, hap'ly.

my house has probably never been messier,
but why clean up the forts
and sweep away the dragon's lairs?

owen grows fat on mama's milk;
i blossom in his honey smiles,
us: making liars of canaan's promise.

this home i make in beds unmade
and arms entwined (yes, love is made, too)
surrounds me in beauty
i often overlook, but can't wait to see

When you say nothing at all

toes push, heels rock, we're swinging
and my legs are metronome to the
heartbeat of a quiet afternoon.
neither of us are talking,
just sitting:

push, rock

the clanking of chain against chain
and screw inside of wood
protesting against our weight,
and we're simply sitting
amid the bird-song and each other:

push, rock

and i think, "we're here on a swing
and there is space between us
and he's just two
and i wonder if he knows
how much i love him?"
so i reach over,
caress his fat-creased thighs
and i whisper,
i love you:

push, rock

we're just sitting
and neither of us is talking
and there's space between us
and still looking forward
he reaches over the space and touches my hand:

push, rock

Breaking

the sound of glass shattering has my boys' feet scrambling even as the tears and sorrys drip fast. this is because i'm afraid of the broken things. fragility has long been associated with value, and i've known breaking:
a pottery jar i saved money to buy. the emu egg she gave me. that sweet picture of him when we met.
these have all met a shattered fate, and i cried at each shard thrown away, rebelled against the permanence of broken.
those little eyes knew my displeasure, and i wonder if their hearts didn't break, too, just a bit. should they be careful in the house, our home filled with plenty of fragile things? my worldly self says, "of course!" but i wonder what He would think of that, He who is yet an untamed Lion, and this not the season for lying with lambs.
i've learned that His word says he does not willingly afflict his children and that his compassion is renewed every morning. i think this is precisely because he knows how hard the refining is; He who was broken and rejected breaks us so that He may spill forth.
oh, we are fragile and precious both, for are we not earthen vessels filled with treasure?

my sister is in a time of breaking, and i've prayed hard for her this week. some of what is at stake affects me, too, and i am a little afraid it's my "turn" to face this kind of refining. i know His hand is on both of us. i also know that unlike me with my little trinkets, when i break, he does not get angry and lash... he restores and heals the broken-hearted.


a perfect place to meet imperfect people all somewhere on the journey in being broken--linking with emily and others

432(1)

today is a day-
the last day-
i have four,
all stepped down
one from the other
by a single year.
this is the day so little
separates
them
but the year in which
they were loved alive.
shea is oldest, still 4
his daddy-broad shoulders
carrying the weight of the world
of little brothers
and wearing his mama-freckles
brightly asking of the world
all whys.
and
connor is middlest, still 3
with blonde ragamuffin
(i love that grace the best)
and eyes blue as a promise
that impish will and
push back against the grain
the strain of nots.
and avery is today's child, 2
finally out of ones,
and he is all brawn and laughs
and head full of cherub curls
intensity's child, he.
and lastbutnotleast owen is still just one
month (ok, and a half)
and he is quieting extension
of mama, still breast-close in all wonder.
thank you, Father,
for sons a heritage and ours a full house.

happy birthday, beautiful avery!

linking for the first time in ages with emily and others

The scribbling

it's all in the scribbles, isn't it, this mother-love?

it's waking up, wishing to have newest here, him having planned nothing because we have hinged all hope on meeting tiny one; he's so afraid i'm disappointed, and i am, but only because wee one isn't here. he helped the boys scribble mother's day notes, and i couldn't be happier, couldn't be more excited about the little hands i've helped co-create, those little hands wrapped around sharpie markers, the scribbles of their little lives telling my story of grace to all who have eyes to see.

we scribble in this day-to-day. we scratch our puny efforts, all this mothering with eyes cried dry and arms stretched world-wide-love around these little ones. it's not the majestic hands of adam and God in michelangelo's painting; it's the chubby, dimpled hands of fat crayons making sense of a world perceived in young faith. yes, the lines go 'round and 'round most times, and maybe it's all the same color instead of utilizing vast palette. we can get bored with the monochromatic nonsense, or we can find grace in the intricate shapes that emerge.

and they always do, those shapes... i see the shape of lover's body imprinted into mine, even swollen as i am. i see the shape of my mother's hands who began me years ago. i see the shape of other women in this one-village, the knit-together of souls and geese, the lifting of prayers and laying on of christ-hands. motherhood is nothing but shapes and scribbles, our breathing out the honesty of failure and fruitless effort that imbibed with his grace turns to miracle of Testimony.

i am so thankful to be scribbling these 3-point-nine (!!) baby boys. i pray internal one emerges soon, and pray for my three little outside loves to know the weight of grace.

When nesting is more than a list

i love lists. i love checking things off those lists. i love post-its and sharpies (colored! fine line! oh my!). i love the rustle of my legal pad with all my to-dos and shopping lists and half-written journal entries. for those like me, there is a sense of wonder and security in being tightly wrapped up in the crossed-off sections of need want do, and in a season of end-of-pregnancy urgency, it could get easy to stay there, between the lines and check marks.
but there is more to a nest than provision.
there is beauty in tangled twigs, each one positioned just-so by a loving parent.
there is moss and down to provide just enough softness for those entering the world from jagged shards.
there is a landing to fly from eventually, and there is shelter in the now.
first-time mamas know the frantic energy to wash baseboards and iron crib sheets, to shop for every little thing the baby might need, and mamas with a little more experience know that preparation is helpful and hard to come by. we may still wash windows, but we also chase older siblings and pine for easy rest.
i know i have been absent here, and i miss it, and all you lovely reader-friends, dearly. my mind is muddy and my energy is non-existent. we've got about three weeks til this little boy comes, and i treasure the time of being his womb-home as it will be last, but i'm also eager to meet him and be in the next season. i've had my moments of cleaning at midnight, and naturally, that's when blog post ideas or thoughts pop in, but then just as quickly, the energy and poetry is gone. but i'm still poet-mama while list-making and diaper changing and fast-food meal-providing. i'm here, and still as much in love with grace as ever. i'm still a broken mama who yells a little too often in this tired, tiring stage, and i'm still bowed low with love from a God who provides just what i need when i need it.
there is joy here in the waiting, i'm just not writing about it that much. i'm eager to share news of his birth with you, if it takes that long to write again, and otherwise i take shelter in this period of interim/enter-Him.

Of soap and sand

it was a stolen moment, a little quiet hiding tucked into the busy of day, those little ones for once just playing together in their room uncaring where we were. we simply lay on covers still unmade from last night and wondered at the simplicity of aloneness, this private cocoon. he grounds me in this nest of arms, and my restless feet statically and rhythmically keep time against his calves. inside the growing one kicks through my belly to his belly, we laughed. he is long and solid like history, and i'm all curves and plump softness (except that tight globe i love so much), and i'm the one leaning on him. i've always been this way. i told him how he makes all of us--three busy boys and even furry loves--feel as if we were the center of his universe. he shrugged; he's always been this way. avery clambers in, finally missing presence, and he reaches over me to grab him up. long brown curls mimic his smile as daddy holds him high and mama snuggles close. shea comes in to tattle, and connor comes in all loud-boy-noise-machine, and the bubble of first-couple is broken just that easily. but like soap, there will always be residue, the tickle of memory from unexpected oasis. so we heave off bed with laughing tickles, our sand in the desert swallowing footprints of the day.

linking with emily and other broken poets along the way

Towards a spring theology

she played hooky from work yesterday and we talked long and fast, our nature. she wanted to call just to say the bluebonnets are there. i've written of them before, how they helped this lonely soul see Him again. spring always refreshes, and i adore memphis in spring (which is why i missed it so hard!). bradford pears have changed lacy shawl to summer-green and japanese magnolias have dropped their magenta petals. in their wake, the remaining cherries, the dogwoods of easter promises, redbuds, and wisteria so haunting to make me weep. these are gifts i unwrap every errand, every excuse to drive, and i feel that winter thaw again.
~~~
we played hooky from bible study this morning, she needing work done, and i just eager to go over later and play. lunches packed and chocolate delivered, and we talk and love each other with skin on, and i think, "home: friends. true spring. my boys singing walkin' to memphis [sic]."
~~~
i received excellent news yesterday that has assuaged so many fears and relieved some pressure; good medical reports often do. this wee one inside--so heavy and low!--seems protected from the diabetic complications i had with my last pregnancy. i am still on the diabetic side, but so close as to be borderline. unfortunately, my current OB is still pushing for many extra measures, but i feel confident to deny them safely. it is yet another blessing, this prayer being answered so mightily.

i hate that it's so easy to trust and enjoy when the winds are calm instead of storming. spring is both, though, eh? all this new green and pale palette and then the rains that chase the petals from stems. all this creation sprung from the same hand: my sister and i tightly joined in womb to love across all this distance just to share a flower; the beauty that revives me every spring; the visible answer to prayer to mark His hand this day, and even the storm that raged internal last week and that rained out his soccer game on sunday.

Thank You, Lord, for this hands-on love, this spring of rains and the Eternal water of life.
linking with my lovely friend, suzannah, for her ShoutLaughLove. come along?
lt;center>

Spring hymn

i can't get over the japanese magnolias w/ their haughty purple-pink robes.
or the bradford pears in their unfruiting yet flowering privilege.
i am giddy with green (despite sniffles ensuing)
and i don't miss the big texas sky for all the climbing trees here.

we used to sing this song in college, and i find myself singing it again


Awaken The Dawn (by Delirious)

Sing to the Lord with all of your heart
Sing of the glory that's due to his name
Sing to the Lord with all of your soul
Join all of heaven and earth to proclaim

You are the Lord
The Saviour of all
God of creation we praise you
We sing the songs
That awaken the dawn
God of creation we praise you

Sing to the Lord with all of your mind
With understanding give thanks to the King
Sing to the Lord with all of your strength
Living your lives as a praise offering

You are the Lord
The Saviour of all
God of creation we praise you
We sing the songs
That awaken the dawn

God of creation we praise you

Lines

the lines on his face tell me a poem,
of the three-before-three trips to emergency:
the gentle dog who bit him
the coffee table collision
the tumbling off railroad tie;
another scar where football scramble
was prayed over, no stitches and healed anyway;
his eyes crinkle like a pleated skirt when he laughs
and i wish i'd carved them all myself.
his dimples drew me in, "hoyuelos" i said on an early date
and i trace them every night in my sleep,
kiss those parenthesis, all mine, gentle scruff scratching me.
those furrowing lines of pressure and worry
no botulism could ever straighten out
and i know he holds us in his thoughts, his
high proud forehead
all the time
and i love him for his lines

************
(241-256 of counting gifts with Ann and others on this journey)

so grateful for the love of my life.
for his patience as daddy and
ability to be jungle gym
b/cs i can't.
for his patience and grace with me
and holding my hand always
for his worry for our needs
and his strength to carry it all
for his searching heart
even when i don't understand
and his laugh that literally keeps me sane sometimes
for his work and ethic to work
even when he doesn't like his job
for his urgency in providing
for providing all these little boys
for the love we make and share
and the oasis in a difficult time we were able to have this weekend,
no getaways, just staying, and being present
and connecting in a way we haven't in a really long time
and always, always, the Grace of the Beloved
in providing me with the helpest of mates,
knowing exactly what i needed and desired.

Lifted

i couldn't sleep, too afraid i'd oversleep. 5:00 and i rarely get along--mornings are too early, and afternoons are that so-called 'witching hour' otherwise known as "please get out of the kitchen while i'm trying to prepare dinner, and stop fussing while you're at it." :)
but that morning i met 5:00, if not eagerly, then at least expectantly.
i walked to her house, smiling: "we're neighbors" still seems surreal.
she, and i, and the others gathered at 6:00, and our purpose was to pray for our husbands, our children, to lift those we love and their needs. i'd never felt so awake.
caffeine helps you maintain.
friendship sustains.
prayer lifts.
i felt, later, as if those prayers were iridescent tentacles enveloping all those near me, binding them to me. i wished they knew and understood how blessed i was by meeting dawn--no, meeting Him with his pink-streaked creation.

The deepest secret nobody knows

when the world was kaleidoscope under shining tears, she was always there in focus. when laughter cried down freckled cheeks, mouths wide and heads swung back for the joy of it, our arms were linked. when the night sky broke in a million raindrops, and we saw only mirror shards of each other's love, we stood still in the knowing. we can't be without each other. we've only ever known the other's presence, like sun and moon aligned (never eclipsing, we know that now).

we've shared seasons apart--a frozen rhode island i will never know, and georgia peaches that are mine alone. sons have been born without the other to kiss welcome hellos. but still we always breathe one.

we followed her out here to this vast skyland of texas. i missed my poplars and friends and that feel of home. but she became home to me, here. we shared our sons, five of them all stair-stepped and enough crazy to gray us infinitely. we've learned a new knowing as mothers-together. we thought sisters had it best of all, but our womb-sharing with each other only ever taught us to be the women who opened wombs to children of our own, and there is magic in the revelry.

and we leave again. go back "home," and i'm happy and broken in the tearing. love that city with its blues and elvis-stamp, its barbeque and smoky grace, the friends eagerly waiting to love on me (all expanded with my boy group in tow), the city of a thousand churches if i could find one to embrace me.

the world runs together like watercolor and finger paint, all smudge and swirl for tears that know no matter what we'll survive distance, but also know magnetic pull to be one, here, always. my boys need their bebe as much as they need their mama, and she knows it. we both do.

so much new to come: new job for rickey, new hours for me to learn to be wife and mama and teacher, new city/old city (moving always brings new, doesn't it?), new balance of friend-church-rest. and new without her.

(me on the left, her on the right)

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
~ e.e. cummings

Oyster

"no white, please. i'm far too pale."

she unwraps cello jackets, revealing gems below: champagne, ivory, two-toned, pink.
i evn find a white one i love in a classic misty move. i rebel even against myself sometimes.
one last glance at the crammed rack, and i see a glimpse of an impossible color peeking out. "oh," i breathe. yes. oyster. this would suit you rather well, i think.

i bought my dress 7 months before he asked.
the answer was always yes.

i never considerd being a january bride--we all probably assumed i'd be a barefoot bohemian, and inside i definitely am.

he says i didn't even kiss him with you may now--lips barely brushed his, he insists. i wish i could smother him in a million kisses and start again tomorrow.
i'm terrified of dancing, but we danced anyway, and these hips have since swayed in endless labor and the rocking of babes to sleep. the dancing of a mother is just the fuller dance of newbride.
tears clouded vision with that first Mr&Mrs; now i wear Mrs unblushingly and well. it suits me, too.

my oyster gown hangs on his side of the closet. it's not even protected. i leave it as it is. that indescribable pearly color whispers to me when i hang up clothes, reminding the housewife of the bride she'll always be.

happy anniversary, beloved.

(this is a day early-we celebrate union tomorrow, but i'll be away from my computer for large parts these next few days, so linking with emily and others for imperfect prose)

Buried in the dust

22 Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
23 They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
24 I say to myself, “The LORD is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.”

25 The LORD is good to those whose hope is in him,
to the one who seeks him;
26 it is good to wait quietly
for the salvation of the LORD.
27 It is good for a man to bear the yoke
while he is young.

28 Let him sit alone in silence,
for the LORD has laid it on him.
29 Let him bury his face in the dust—
there may yet be hope.
30 Let him offer his cheek to one who would strike him,
and let him be filled with disgrace.

31 For no one is cast off
by the Lord forever.
32 Though he brings grief, he will show compassion,
so great is his unfailing love.
33 For he does not willingly bring affliction
or grief to anyone.

this passage in lamentations 3 used to be my "life verse," as it gave me hope i needed to continue reaching out to God when i was hurt and distraught. i thought i'd moved on, found other verses to sustain me, but as i read through an old journal entry and re-read these verses, i realized they are still "mine." i was so full of despair then, and again recently, but i don't think i understood til now the glory in the dust.
yes, i'd lie prone in the dark, tear-stained and heart-heavy.
yes, i'd reach for the heavens and feel nothing but ceiling.
yes, i'd run over and over in my mind what could have been.

but i never knew there would yet be hope. i hoped there would be. but hoping felt empty in a silent bedchamber. little did i know that from dust i was breathed, and from dust would i return some day, and dust, if i could just find Him and bury my face in his dirt, would redeem the hope inside.

i think i am like poor eustace crying as aslan tears his dragon-flesh, replacing gold with grace. i am mud, all washed with Tears and unraveled into pure linen, for there has always been Hope, so great is His unfailing love.

rejoice with me, my beautiful, broken friends. i stand today with fresh eyes and so grateful to be able to look back and see His hand, to see that He stirred in me through dark hours and that indeed, compassion is renewed every single day.

Seeing

i had a professor in college chide me once, "misty, what are you waiting on? inspiration?" i was. a senior year english major taking 4 upper level lit/writing classes and a "directed inquiry" in the same field left me void of things to say. it was my job, but i constantly felt i had nothing.
sometimes blogging is the same way, which is why it's so important this time to stay true to myself and not set post requirements or feel always obligated to visit my favorite haunts (and i love visiting, it just eats time!). and yet, tonight i sat, wondering if i had anything to say. i mused that when things were so dark i often shared plenty, even if it was just a whispered "pray for me," and in just the looking, inspiration is everywhere.
it is the grace to be warm on this too-cold-for-texas night, the full belly and wonderingly normal blood-sugar readings. it is avery, all tucked in and quiet, and the tip-toes in to check on him before i go to sleep, or the breathing of shea or connor in my room when they finally succumb to their days' adventures turned into dreams. it is my beloved away for work, but the bond that stretches all that long way. the hollow in my bed, waiting for his return, the phone calls late into the night just to hear the other without kid-noises all around. it is last little one unknown yet Known fully, growing hair by hair, making presence known with secret kicks. grace is in the anticipation and hope for tomorrow, whether we have frozen waffles or the last of the Cheerios for breakfast.
there is tenderness in Creation, in the miracle of friend's 28-week delivery of twins, and the miracles being seen day in, night out for these two sweet girls. it is the announcement of a friend's engagement, and all the glowing love. it is the timing of a friend's phone call or the music that makes me close my eyes, the worship in car rides, and the breathy miracle of art. it is modern medicine and my long-waited for bravery to ask for help in tiny yellow pills, and the grace in four bodies holding me up all that time before, holding hands in thankfullness now.
to be uninspired is an extravagant snobbery, i think. there is today, and it is preciously full.


so i'm here, linking with emily, at first afraid i had nothing, and realizing i have everything.