I sat in a garden today
I sat and watched the world go on around me, without me
my own stories become a mess of watercolor just after the brush has touched it
may 29
worried azaleas
tip toe, peering over outcast azaleas –
rain still dripping from their sunset bodies
forecast skies call for anxious and tired eyes, awake at 2:00 am
clay and china
In the middle of my office squalor, I have this large whiteboard with pictures of my family and 2 Corinthians 4 scrawled all over it in big black letters. I think I did that a couple months ago after reading the passage for, what it felt like, the first time and feeling like Paul wrote it for me – for my very own encouragement and comfort. Undoubtedly, it has encouraged thousands of believers before me, but it spoke to me like it was for me. I love that.
a blackened and devoted faith
I don’t want to be a cumulative mess of nostalgia, thinking yesterday was better than today, and wishing that tomorrow held the same promises that I once sought. Tomorrow was gone before I knew it, and with it, a whole meadow of what I hoped. Is it enough to lay those hopes down again and again; over and over? To relax my hands that were tightly clenched and let go of the jewel that I would plant in the soil of my heart and watch grow into an oak?
Perhaps the meadow should stay just that.
Yesterday. Yesterday. Yesterday. What about today? Hasn’t that field burned? Will it rise again?
king
you are both strength and gentleness
like roaring fire and falling snow
you are my rock, and you are my hiding place
you train my hands for war, and you deliver me from the battle
quiet place
There was one quiet place, growing up. Actually two, but one was the bathroom, and I don’t think that should count.
If you walked down the muddied path, around the great oak and through the sea of farm equipment, you would find the great green pine that stood guarding our property.
soliloquy on Jeremiah 31
Oh soul, what great things the Lord has done for you.
Be glad – rejoice in His favor, His immeasurable kindness and mercy.
He has redeemed you from hands that were too strong for you.
He has given you a new song – a shout of joy.
He has promised to turn your mourning into dancing.
He has poured a cup for you – it is overflowing as He pours grace upon grace; it fills and continues to fill so that you cannot keep up with it.
Miss you. Would like you to try and teach me how to sew (again).
Miss you. Miss your wise, wiry, smooth fingers touching and moving down embroidered fabric, opening your mouth to talk about distant lands and people I’ve never met. You looked at me with such seriousness; I almost could have laughed but didn’t dare.
Continue reading “Miss you. Would like you to try and teach me how to sew (again).”
Dear Miss Lavender, Ltr. 3
Dear Miss Lavender,
If you could have only felt the crackle of yellow and orange and red cornflakes beneath your feet as I did today. The skies have turned icy silver and blue and the mornings come with that subtle nip of cold that autumn brings. Last week was the beginning of autumn, as formal as we know it. I have two apples on my table, which refuse to be eaten but sit, staring vehemently at me, as if to say, “with every bite you take of us, you will shorten autumn’s grasp”. So, I dare not touch them.
acceptance
Slowly, slowly
Hesitant and small
Fumbling with keys and mouths to be pried open
Small hearts and big eyes
Perfumed shoulders that make your leather jacket smell like peonies
The Silent Storyteller 