when you open the door

We hadn't seen each other in about six years.

In that time, we'd spoken over Skype once or twice. They were good conversations, meaty and rich with sweetness. Yet, still, the times we even corresponded were few.

His life this year has involved giving a daughter away in marriage and seeing her move on, something he didn't experience with his first and oldest -- me. I've thought about the strain of his recent experience contrasted with the one that he lacked and empathy has risen in my heart.

We haven't had the idyllic father-daughter relationship through the years.

He moved away when I was young and our time together became splintered. As I grew older, so did our relationship.

I wanted to know things and was too afraid to ask. When we were together I wanted the happy and fun to last, so I resisted "going there" in deep conversation with him. I didn't want to risk how talking about the heart could affect our time together, making it feel uncomfortable. Eventually, I'd ask a few questions and attempt to gain some color to the foggy parts of our story, only to be met with resistance.

Back and forth we'd trade accusations through the years, mostly by phone because I'm not sure we were ever brave enough to talk face-to-face. We both probably wanted to preserve the sweetness of what little time we had together, yet we both had words we so longed to be said.

In addition to his two other daughters besides me, he has an adopted son just a year younger than mine. It's crazy to think we're raising kids nearly the same age, both in the throes of raising tween-age boy-men. We share a similarity and a bond of understanding, more than just biologically speaking, even though our worlds are different.

While he lives and works in a third-world country, he's in the States for several months to connect with the people and organizations who financially support him. His schedule is exhausting to fathom -- driving miles and miles across the country, sleeping in other people's beds, and living out of suitcases. They still have three more months of this kind of living and I can see the toll its taken on him already.

I could see the strain, not just sense it. 
And it's all because I said "Yes". 

When he offered to visit in between his traveling from here to there, I felt love swell in my heart. I was thought of and loved. I was wanted to be seen. Just knowing this was enough of a gift, even if something happened and we couldn't coordinate schedules.

Our time together would only be a few hours, yet it was more than we would have if he didn't make an effort and if I didn't accept.

In our communicating back and forth about schedules, I considered that perhaps he had a bit of fear and anxiety in seeing me and maybe even in simply reaching out to me. I've been welcoming on so many occasions, and yet there've been others when I've kept the door sealed shut. Would I open it this time? What would be the condition of my heart? 

I thought about what to do, wanting to make sure I didn't have expectations this time.

I wanted to fling the door wide open in love. I wanted to say, "Yes! Come!"

I wanted to connect. 
     I didn't want to think about the strain and the pain.

His second grandchild is expected to be born any week, or any day now, and I want him to meet the babe, and he will, someday. But that doesn't matter so much now. This was our time and I had a choice to accept and be grateful for what we were given. So I did.

After nearly six years apart, we had three hours together. Three precious hours.

Our boys interacted with each other as if they weren't strangers. I talked with his easy-to-be-with wife and got to know his now teenage college-bound daughter a bit. And though we hardly spoke to each other, I watched him from a distance as he played yard games with my groom and our sons. I saw him smile and laugh.

When he spoke, he was funny and reminded me of my groom's humor. I laughed a lot in those few hours and I imagine looking down on us, there were a lot of smiles.

Though we didn't exchange many words, we still connected. 
We shared the human emotion of joy and thanks for the gift of togetherness.

As he drove away, I wished we had more time together and I figured that's a good thing. We didn't cry or make a big deal out of the holes that still remain in our wounded hearts. Our time together was lighthearted and not at all heavy or uncomfortable.

(Tween-age boy-men have this way of distracting a person from being so serious.)

I awoke the next day nearly two hours later than I'd been sleeping of late and was awake in the night much less frequently than has been typical in this, my ninth month of pregnancy. I awoke with memories of my father's smile and laughter, and my heart felt full.

This is what happened when I opened the door instead of keeping it shut tight.

Boundaries are good to an extent and then at some point, they're just not necessary anymore. I needed (and perhaps we both needed) some time and space apart for healing to really begin versus trying to make it be.

Forcing something usually ends up in even more brokenness.

I've seen this occur so many times on such a literal level. My groom reminded me of this when he and our son had set up the badminton net. He instructed Boy-Man to "slowly unravel the net and if it gets stuck, don't keep pulling . . . like you would usually do."

In opening the door and letting us be as we are, and our story as it is, I experienced joy and peace. I didn't need the holes to be healed. I didn't need the fairytale relationship I had longed for all those years.

In opening the door, I saw another human. 
We connected and it was good. 

Our time together wasn't perfect, yet it many ways it was. It was so good -- rich and sweet. And I'm so glad I said "Yes! Come!"

I no longer wish for the idyllic relationship I thought I always wanted.

Now I see that what we've been given -- though crackly and gravely in nature -- has been a gift. We've grown and will continue to grow in ways we never could've if we didn't have this kind of story.

Acceptance is the greatest gift of all.

In opening the door I chose to accept another frail and faulty human, and the story that was perfectly scripted for us -- as it is.

the heart of humans

Last week many people across America experienced the coldest night of the year. So many of us are all still recovering from being inundated with snow and we're grumbling about February's brutal wind and downright frigid temperatures. I'm one of them.

This is a year unlike most when I am finding myself like so many others, anxious and feeling like I can hardly wait for Spring to arrive.

My seasons have felt all mixed up this past year, at least it felt that way in my heart. Last Summer felt a lot like Winter -- dark and cold-seeming -- and then for a brief moment Fall felt like Spring -- hope blooming and unfurling.

Life has been revived in my heart and through my soul.
Life has been reproduced in my body and through my marriage.

Life is growing inside of me.

My family and I are anxiously await the arrival of with a precious long-awaited and hoped-for miracle of a baby boy. This third somebody in our family is something I was certain would be a part of our story. For years I ached and longed to see that which I believed would be true really come true. Though weariness found its way with me and so when it really was finally upon us, I felt a resistance and a fear that perhaps it was too good to be true.

Before this baby wiggled and tumbled inside of me, I was anxious at the thought of potential unrealized death lurking below the surface. I could barely imagine it swelling and thriving sight unseen. Much is how this literal season of winter feels and so evidence of life is something I've been aching to see. Trees are stripped bare and all evidence of life seems to have its head buried underground or hibernating in a warm place.

My hormones are on overdrive these days and every sense within me feels heightened to the nth degree. As I read in our village newspaper of last week's storm and how our local school district was one of the few area districts not on the scroll of weather alerts, closing and delays, I found myself welling up with tears. My throat had a lump-ish feeling in it and my heart felt like it had doubled in size with awe. I can't blame all my awareness on these crazy hormones, though, for surely something more has caused this.

A relatively new Superintendent for our local district was interviewed and talked about the "careful consideration and planning" involved in making the decision to keep the school open this week when so many of the others were on the list of closings and delays. This new Superintendent talked about how the safety of kids was their top priority and though one could easily make a brash accusation that perhaps the District Office didn't consider this, reading the article opened my eyes to the behind-the-scenes consideration and perspective of these school administrators.

"The School adapted bus routes and made arrangements so that any and all kids that wanted a ride got one," read The Clinton Courier.

Walkers were considered, after all!

The article went on to say, "Messages went out to parents [the previous night], letting families know that bus drivers were instructed to make 'courtesy stops' at houses, so that students could stay indoors until their bus arrived."

And then there was this: "In one case where a student had to go down a long driveway, we drove a smaller bus up and picked him up at his house," said the new (caring!) Superintendent.

Our town is used to snow and cold. Winter has its way with us every year and so it wasn't a surprise that activity was abuzz in town that day in spite of the bitter temperatures. People did what people do, stopping for coffee and just bearing with it.

I ran one of those morning's last week when the weather blew in snow the night before and temperatures were cold, though not the coldest. The Village Department of Public Works crew was busy loading trucks with snow and relocating it. Sidewalks were plowed, street corners were made visible again, and pedestrians were more easily noticed with the snow cleared of buildup.

I pass those workers several times a week throughout the year, whether it be during winter's storm cleanup, or summer's street sweeping and rubbish removal. I wave to them each time I run by and they wave to me. I appreciate the work they do and mostly, I appreciate the camaraderie we share in caring for our Village. Last week when I waved, one of the men in a bulldozer honked at me. I was noticed and felt such love and gratitude well inside my heart.

There are other people I see while I'm out in the early morning, neighbors and faces familiar to me. Though I don't know most of their names, these are my people and I feel safe among them. Our morning routine of smiling, nodding, and waving at each other is a communion of sorts. Our breaking of the dawn together is like the breaking of bread. If I should fall or need an extra hand, I know these Villagers would help me and I would help them if they ever needed help.

This place where I live represents a messy collage of human hearts. The Village of Clinton, New York isn't unlike many other places in this world. We have our small-town issues, sure. But, reading about and seeing in person, how people consider and care for others reminds me that though we can tend to be complicated, competitive, conniving creatures, we are also bold, beautiful, beloved beings.

I didn't used to feel a warm, tenderness for the place I live. I felt wonky and out of place and wanted nothing more than wide open spaces.

Reading in our newspaper of the thoughtfulness and consideration people have for one another and being reminded that though this world can be so cruel, I know that this world can also be genuinely caring, reminds me that there really is something more that has caused this.

Even though it sometimes appears to be dark, still, and quiet, life will eventually unfurl and spring forth with evidence of its existence.

we're wanted

Father, we come.

wanting to play and yet with so much to do.

we hope someone else will occupy and entertain, someone who is more fun than us.

we hear the words, "will you play with me?", and we so want to

     . . . yet, there's all the things! 

     and . . . "just one more thing . . . one more minute . . . "

the relief came when his daddy came walking in the room and said he'd play.

we even sighed at the feeling of being rescued.

it's hard to confess our gratitude for this rescue.

we're being asked for, though.

we are wanted. 

     as. we are. 

slow us to see his eyes that long for us.

slow us to listen to hear his voice say our name.

slow us to feel his tug for us.

make less of our many things.

less distractions.

less us.

we are wanted and we have made them wait too long for us.

it is us who they want, not just him or something else to do to fill the time.

it's us.

it's time that we take our wanted place.

so, might we set down the dish towel and the spoon that stirs.

might we put a pin in all the things and pick up the video controller, even just once.

we're being asked for and we know it.

we're wanted, even with all there is to do.

doing less and being with them is kind of a big deal. remind us today.

and might our saying "Yes!" be our offering to you.

might we feed and clothe them with the love you give through our very being here.

loose us to fast our comfort of control and order.

niggle within us a wanting to be with them.

thank you for provoking us and prompting us to notice their want of us today.

amen.

linking with Jennifer and Emily. 

garden

 

He's cultivating me.

Soft, gentle Hands are sifting me, like soil.

There's a richness hidden within. Parts are seen and much is unseen.

He's bringing the moist richness to the surface. I see it and sometimes maybe you do, too.

We're both being sifted.

Your ways are different than mine. And mine unique from yours.

There's hope within us. He's growing it.

A seed is buried. Sometimes it bobs up to the surface when the air is just right.

When we're flooded with nourishing water that makes the dry disappear, the hope rises up.

And when we feel all gummed up, sometimes even feeling stuck, we're rescued.

We need that rescue to make us smooth and soft again.

Because our hearts get gummy. Our feelings stick to our feet and what we do is an act.

We stumble and fall sometimes and we call it dancing when really it's quite clunky humor.

There's a garden in us that is producing a harvest of glory.

We claw for control and crave for a companion who will stay.

And within us, there's a whole meal to beholden.

Juicy. Sweet. Delectable. Nourishing.

This is our life. This is our story.

This that we share is remarkable. Truly remarkable.

Our togetherness is beyond us.

It's Eden all over again. A Garden He calls Holy.

And what He's growing will last.

our love is worship.

linking with Lisa-Jo.

sacrificing smooth

So you wanted it to go differently -- a little less rough around the edges. I call it happy and you call it smooth.

Instead, my eyes meet yours as I walk in the door on my lunchtime visit and you shake your head. Instantly I see your disappointment, sadness almost, over not having what you really wanted for this, the first day back to school -- our first day to teach and learn at home for the whole year.

I listen to you explain the challenges that first morning presented. You humbly share and I feel the ache of your frustration. Your words speak of your heart -- a strong attempt to choose kindness and gentleness, and how it wasn't received and how sad you were for him needing the consequences. For I see, it does sadden you and you wish it weren't always needed.

I'm giddy as I'm listening and I can't hardly wait for you to stop. I want to do what I'm most compelled to do and that is to encourage you. I want you to see what my heart sees: Pure goodness. Rich, sweet, satisfying goodness pouring out and over the cup you share as we commune together in this moment of you sharing this story of your morning. The blessing spills over and the cup runs over and I see it:

The hard moments, when the fight leaves the edges of our story tattered, torn and frayed, are really Holy moments -- to-God-glory-be moments. 

It requires the most insane amount of sacrifice to See because we think it just doesn't make sense and really, it doesn't -- hence the crazy part. Reaching for Hope sometimes doesn't make a bit of sense. It's completely ridiculous on the surface.

To really find understanding we need to listen, keep quiet, slowly consider what the moment is all about, and only then thoughtfully respond. Slow and quiet soften our response to be more heartfelt and less of a hell-bent-like reaction.

Listen. Consider. Respond. (not react).

I speak this out loud for myself to hear and soak up the words because what I need to remember most is that there's a difference between react and respond. Because I don't always agree with your approach and the truth is that I sometimes don't trust that God is in control, and so I elbow my way to the soapbox to be heard and to control and outcome that I fear.

  O to trust more . . .  

The grace is in the slowing of me to See. To seek first to understand you. To surrender my fears and instead choose an ear, I am in turn gifted a window to your sweet and gentle heart and this, a wildly beautiful perspective:

When we sacrifice our desires for a smooth going day, we are willingly choosing to See the meaning full purpose of it all. 

And from what I can see, you are cultivating a rich soil, gently turning it up and patiently handpicking the weeds and stones up and out -- the ones like his pride and disrespect. This character farming is a reflection of He who lives inside of you. Metaphorical speak, of course.

So, steady on. You are doing a great work. Truly, a great work.

I cannot judge for I was not there (and neither can anyone else for that matter), and I do not have an alternate solution or suggested approach that might be better than yours. What I do know is how to encourage, and so hear me my sweet friend:

     You are doing a great work. Do not come down from here. 

Brick by brick His beauty is being built here in this place.
So, stay the course, press on, and remember this:

The roughness of this moment is merely a reflection of His refining in process. 

May our Heavenly Father fill your gaps and bless your heart and work. Amen.

what I forever want to remember about "the cup"

God is more concerned about having our heart than anything else.

He wants us to know His love for us so intimately that we want to trust Him. Yet, our trust doesn't come easy.

He knows.

He knows the distractions and the weights of the world around us that tempt us to pine for comfort in other places. The ways we build idols in an attempt to make us feel good.

He knows.

There is no shame in our tendencies.

He will go to the ends of the Earth and back again for our hearts. He already has.

When Jesus asked the Father if there was any other way, I think He was thinking about all the things that He knew God would allow to happen on our journey to surrendering our hearts to Him.

     If she could please not be tempted in that way . . .

     If he could please not choose that way . . .

     If that could please not happen to him . . .

     If their marriage could please not get torn . . .

     If their family could please not be scarred . . .

     If there's any way you'd take this cup, Father . . . yet, not my will, but yours.

God uses all things for purpose.

He chooses this.

He takes scrap and makes it Sacred.

He knows that sometimes it takes an affair, a threat, a temptation, even an act of murder, for us to get to the very bottom of ourselves and see that He is even there.

Our sin never separates us from Him completely. He will use every single situation and experience and sin to draw us to Him and for us to hear, "I still love you."

He knows what it will take for us to know His love for us. And for them.

It's not the thing that happens to us, it's what happens in us through the thing.

It's the process He uses to bring us closer to knowing what Love is about.

It's His ways of bringing us ever nearer to Him in such a deep and personal way that we hear His breath and we feel His cloak brush against us.

He has met me there. In the dark. There was scorning or screaming or shame.

Someday this story you're living will be your Ebenezer -- your stone of remembrance for what He has done in you.

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

_______________________________________________

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learning to trust even when it doesn't make sense

I swear. So what. 

In Between.

the "Go" part

The Maker of all has been chasing me.

Softly.
Delicately.
Kindly.

There are no accusations and there is no name calling.

Step-by-step.
Mistake-by-mistake.
Temptation-by-temptation.

He allows me to choose, knowing what it will take for me to know His love.

The wretched.
The unthinkable.
The hypocritical.

He is not scandalized by my sin.

Or yours.
Or his.
Or theirs.

Grace is wrapped in the breath of a new day.

More moments.
More opportunities.
More time.

Gently, He leads me to Him.

By still waters.
In green pastures.
Among the wolves that seek to devour.

Purposed, my experiences and story lead me to choosing the Holy.

So it's time.
To Go.
Like the woman, He wants me to leave the sin.

With all these holey desires not yet perfectly met.

To be seen.
And known.
And wanted.

He seeks to make whole.

A life that seeks to honor.
Radically obey.
To trust without reservation or hesitation.

This is that part in the story where He asks me to Go . . . and . . . Leave.

Even when I'm not fully ready.
Or fully certain.
Or fully capable.

Love will lead the way.

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

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learning to trust even when it doesn't make sense

I swear. So what. 

In Between.

always

It was rising up within me, a slight panic -- of the darkness.

What was I doing?

Then, just as quickly as noticing the approaching darkness, I was in the throes of that space.

     And it was surprisingly light.

He doesn't condemn my humanness. He allows it.

I was reminded of thoughts I've had lately about temptations and bad behavior.

I thought about how I just want to run away from God when I do bad things. Let shame hide me.

There isn't shouldn't be grace for someone who talks about it and then deliberately does the wrong thing.

     Right? 

But there I was, running around and flirting with the dark.

And all the while God was telling me that He will always be with me.

     There is no true darkness. He is always here, there, everywhere. My Light.

There is enough grace for me, especially in the dark moments of my life.

Just as He knew David would mess up, He still chose him. And He chooses us.

And indeed, He allows all for purpose. Most especially, to draw me ever nearer to His love.

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

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afraid

again

beloved

home

It's comfy and cozy, though sometimes loud and mean.

Humans live here and we tend to forget that as we whip around rooms costume adorned.

Superheroes is what I too often think we are. And yet we so aren't.

We're messy and sloppy with our love giving.

Shame-filled and grace-dividers.

Only *sometimes* (with an if/then math equation) do we want to be nice when really all the time we should be.

In defense of another's mis-treatment we mis-treat another. We just get it all so wrong.

It's easy to get Love wrong here where we feel so safe and secure. 

Though we sometimes each have visions that this could one day come to a screeching halt, we mostly consume our commitment with big gulps, like kids drinking grape Kool-Aid on a hot summer's day then rushing off to play.

We don't look back and give thanks.

We consume, gulp, and wipe our faces on our sleeves and keep on trudging through life. 

Our man-created-home does this. Makes togetherness get all comfy and cozy where we forget the fragility of life-togetherness.

Yet, He's so much bigger than even our idol of this place. 

He allows the chaos to enter in, and the Kool-Aid to run out, and our faces to meet in confession for our unlovingness.

His Home will be better. I forget that sometimes in my play-house life.

A piece of His Home is here, in our so called home. And sometimes it's almost too much to receive.

I try to remember that. How the days are a *process* toward receiving fully.

He's readying me. Even here.

Today's post was part of my friend, Lisa-Jo's fun challenge each Friday to take five and Just. Write.

     "...for five, short, bold beautiful minutes... unscripted and unedited...

     without worrying if it's just right or not."

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

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bare

again

accepting

myself