To Have and to Hold

I look at my hands and I know the truth.

These hands were formed perfectly in the dark waters, their very prints etched by the mysterious swirling and the imagination of a Creator God at work. From the beginning, purpose was pressed into their pattern. Even before one grain of time’s sands slipped through the glass, their shape and form and capacity were determined.

I know this. I do.

And yet I still catch myself wringing those very same hands, the ones that were shaped just for me.

Do I somehow believe that, in the wrenching, all the worry will fall away, like old brittle snakeskin, shed to make room for new? Or is the action more akin to a kneading, an attempt to make one thing into another? What is my intention when I take the very handiwork of God and close it in upon itself, over and over and over?

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I am writing over at SheLoves Magazine today and I would love for you to join me there. This month's theme is Enough and you can finish reading what I've learned about my hands and enough.

SheLovesMagazine

In which I declare my life as Crazy Wonderful

I've been quiet for a while now.

The last few weeks have pressed in on me, one atop the other, until it became a bit hard to breathe. And as the days stacked upon each other, it became a little darker and where I was holed up became a little tighter.

But time is a healer and night turns into day and miracles are all around us.

I know this for there is one inside of me right now.

And what else could I do but fall to my knees and whisper "Glory" when just days after I let go of that secret wish for more babies that I had carried down deep and had, instead, begun making plans to close the door to my womb, I found myself harboring life at its very beginning?

What else is there to be but humbled at the realization that there are plans for my life that go beyond my understanding? Plans full of care and hope?

It is in this place of complete stupor-wonder-confusion-awe-and-fear that my husband and I have been dwelling.

Life is this marvelous happening and the two ends of its coil dance in and around each other inside of each day's very spin and here we are, privy to its every facet. The truth of this can, sometimes, truly overwhelm.

And so, these weeks in which I have been quiet have found me murmuring, over and over,

"So, how then shall I live?"

Because, I have been embedded with the glory dust of heaven and that, my friends, is no small thing. And as the worries and concerns and plans of this world continue to swirl around my head, it is growing inside of me, this budding joy, this holy wonder. 

So, I believe the right and fitting thing to do is to declare my life as 

Crazy Wonderful.

For that is what it is.

Poetry is like bread

Poetry is like bread

to me

these days

And I need it 

in the pantry

close at hand

For there are storms howling

outside my window

bleaching the landscape

and

driving me inward

deeper into the

center rooms

and even the crazy quilt

isn't enough to

drown out the

loudness of my mind

so I reach for

bread

because it is all I can stomach

for now

and

it

is

enough

 

Love poem #1 (although there have been others)

The pink and purple bled through the clouds this morning

color wicking on every strand of vapor melting across the sky

and I knew it

inside of that moment

but I also knew it

that night in our youth

when minutes stretched far and wide

and you reached through fear and longing

to hang your heart on a hook

that bore your name

or

that time when heaven cracked open

and rained grace and fairies

on the both of us below

twice

but then again

it happened just a week or so ago

You and me

gazing past the present reflected in our eyes

for a moment, seeing a future

that made us cling wildly

to the rock

that we had become

it is every day

really

all gathered up

one by one

and in one
alone
I know it

my whole life long

To Come With Hands Free

It is early morning and the pale winter sun is trying to press through the clouds. We are all caught between the darkness of sleep and the glimmering of morning and so we yawn long and wide. I sit on the couch in the spot left warm by the disobedient dog and my youngest son comes to me. Standing before me he takes my face in his hands and cups my cheeks with his lengthening fingers. His smile broadens and the corners drip love. His eyes search my face and he studies the stories that are hidden deep.

There is only this moment, it seems.

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I look in the corners of his eyes for some hint, some cosmic knowing that will reassure me, that what we are facing will not break us or undo that which we’ve spent years in the making. Oh, how everything can change in the mere tick of a clock and how loud the silence can be. That split in time, when all is suspended and we’re incapable of darting quickly this way or that, it is then that we are made, I believe. I look at him again, anxious and hopeful, and I see his eyes have crinkled and his head is tossed back and he is laughing. Laughing!

And there is only this moment, it seems.

.....join me over at SheLoves to read the rest of the story? I would love to hear your thoughts, either here or there.

Believe

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.” 

-Roald Dahl

There is magic stirring in the deep places

while sweaty heads sleep

and grown brows furrow

In a twinkling

up is turned down

in is flipped out

And love spills warm and gentle

into the cracks

hewn from worry

For this magic

that is unseen

It has a force

all its own

And no manner of flailing

or gnashing of teeth

No turning away

or arms crossed defiant

Can turn it away

or disfigure its

joy tinged face

with angst and vexing

No, it has come

this magic

And all we must ever do

is hear the whisper

from down deep

that says

I believe.

On love

There's a part of me that wants to tire of all this 

the not knowing, the taut glances, the silent fear

For I didn't envision

a gaping chasm between hearts

when I grabbed your hand late that night

Then, all I saw was the light from your eyes

And my youth mistook it for

the end of darkness

How could I have known

that the dancing flames 

lighting our long path

would cast shadows 

long and deep? 

I didn't think about the days when

one of us would be in front

slicing the tall grass with dull blade

while the other followed, crunching seed heads.

Nor could I have imagined the circles

our feet would trace

to avoid the center line

But the truth remains

You push me past the usual loving

And I would have never been content

in the knowing of that

in the beginning