Five-Minute Friday: Grateful

He is lanky and longer than he was this time yesterday, and I don't know how it's possible that he sprouted up over night more than the plants on my back porch.

I wonder if it was the 80 degrees and sunshine

if it was the near gallon of strawberries he ate

or the all-night rest he fell into when he sunk into my armpit.

All this rich soil, and he's eating it up and showing it his too-short sleeves.

I lament sometimes about my boys morphing from small people to taller people, and I guess I expected it from my oldest son.

But not the baby.

The baby who is four going on five, I thought, somehow would stay small for longer  ... or forever?

And then he's here springing through the living room and yanking on too-small 4T clothes and announcing his brother's size 6 fits so much better.

And there he is sucking down raspberries and a hot dog covered with ketchup at lunch and declaring he's still hungry

reminding me he is still growing, growing, growing.

I get lost in a memory at the sight of his ketchup-covered cheeks and for a moment I'm lamenting how quickly the chub fell from his sweet face ...

but I recover in a few moments of deep breathes

and I emerge from the wistful

thankful

instead.

Five-Minute Friday is helping me get back into the groove of writing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker's.

Five-Minute Friday: After

After the body heals

and the space once filled with baby smooths.

After grief comes hard

and the nights once again give way to sleep.

After the sympathy cards taper

and the flowers wither

and the help slows

and life as we once knew it resumes.

After the winter melts

and spring slowly dawns

from the darkness.

After all of this -- I breathe.

Chest rises and falls

steadily for the first time in months

a rhythm of new normal emerging.

And the fog begins to burn off

in the steadiness of the Son.

Five-Minute Friday: Cherished

We arrive home after a busy afternoon

to a sunlight-drenched living room and front hall.

The boys were decorating the front door with hearts

and letters and left a kitchen stool

sitting in the burst of rays filtering through the glass.

Unexpected to my oldest, I walk over to the stool,

sit down and exhale into the our space,

soaking up every bit of warmth through the window.

He looks up at me through the brown hair sweeping over his eyes,

smiles a half smile

and asks what I'm doing.

I say ...

breathing.

He scoots closer on the floor

and I hear him exhale, too,

deep into the lateness of the afternoon.

We breathe together.

And I know another little piece of what the writer meant

when he said that Mary treasured up these things in her heart.

Five-Minute Friday: Stay

Some days I want to lay it all down

gently 

and quietly walk away. 

Return to the open spaces we once swam freely

among the sea of so many hours in the day

I had the luxury of wishing away 

the last few in the afternoon. 

Those days long passed

those long hours

used to scream at me

to do something significant

as I washed walls and windows and sticky fingers --

to be someone more than 

the stay-at-home mom, long-order cook 

and housewife extraordinaire.

And now as the hour hand races from number to number

and I scramble to make it from 

place to place

activity to activity

little body, to preschool body to strong arms

these short days whisper

to slow down 

return to  

that extraordinary ordinary

I'd so desperately wanted to escape. 

Five-Minute Friday: Quiet

There is pregnant silence

the kind that is quietly laboring

and bearing down

and contracting the muscles of the heart

as I sit in the stillness of early morning

about to birth a change in heart and thought

conviction.

A friend once told me to be careful

and carefully pick the hills on which

I would choose not only to run up

and standatop breathless and winded

heart pounding

but also the hills on which

I would choose to die.

And I know

as I reach the point

where I think I just can't do this

I let go

the heart changes

and beauty is birthed

from a dying of my strength

and goodness

and justice

and trusting in His.

Five-Minute Friday: Voice

She asked what keeps me up at night.

I whole-heartedly shared in whole-hearted truth about the toddler who chases after me around the bed, in search of heat and snuggles.

Because, really, nothing keeps me up at night anymore; by the time my head falls onto the pillow exhaustion has long set in, and I'm long gone, fallen into sleep.

I eye over and over during the waking hours all of which is spread out before me, a tempting feast of delicious ideas and daunting dreams and deep hopes and wide realities and as the day races away I pray wisdom would be my companion and love my compass and grace my fuel.

I pray

when darkness falls

and I am blanketed by night-fallen shadows,

that if there's something worth waking to

that I would be Samuel

awakened in the night

by the very voice of God

with ears to hear and recognize His voice

instead of being sound asleep.

Five-Minute Friday: Look

I wake slowly from a peaceful slumber

pull myself quietly, softly from between warm sheets and bodies.

It's not often that I can slip out of the room,

leave everyone cuddled snugly in their beds, in their dream lands 

and quietly make my way downstairs that groan beneath my feet. 

I rise before the sun, greet billowing October clouds

and I feel a pull to Words. 

His.

And mine own spilling from my mind and through pen,

a love letter response to the one He wrote me. 

In the quiet lingering darkness of early morning

the cobwebs in the corners 

and dirty dishes piled next to the sink 

don't taunt me, 

don't tempt me, 

don't scream for me to look as I walk past. 

Because in these precious, quiet moments

when I'm the only awake

I'm drawn to a different kind of housekeeping

that of dusting off the soul

cleaning up these thoughts

and polishing this heart. 

Five-Minute Friday: Race

He stands solemnly, stills his growing body, a few paces ahead of me, traces of his breath dancing in the cool October dusk as he deeply exhales a long sigh.

"Oh, mommy," he begins, "All of my favorite leaves are almost gone."

Two straights days of swooping, sweeping strong winds have wrestled the them in all of the bursts of colorful glory from tree branches, sent them rushing down the street and crashing into open stretches of prairie.

"Why does it have to go so fast?" he laments, standing taller, broader shouldered than he was even just a few weeks ago when the green first gave way to deep orange and sunset red. "I wish the leaves would stay a little longer ... they're so pretty like this."

I nod, resisting the urge to inform him that seasons changing are inevitable, that sometimes you blink and you miss the leaves lingering bright and gloriously from the trees at the peak of fall, only catching glimpses of their beauty as they run wildly off into the distance.

We stand together, staring at barren branches, sorry to have not stood here still for longer just a few days prior. I switch my gaze to his face, sleeker and defined more monthly by sharper curves, baby fat having mostly dripped away.

And I linger long in the blazing glory of five

because soon I'll be standing here catching tiny bursts of color racing down the streets.

Five-Minute Friday: Focus

There is soft gray smoke gently billowing from the chimney of my neighbor's house on a cool September morning, dancing beautifully as it rises.

It presses against blue sky, and I can see it rise amid the shadows of the still-green leaves on tall, thick trees.

But it fades quickly once it hits sunlight, and my focus is no longer on the intricacy of its dance, the gracefulness of its movement, the beauty of its rich color.

Instead my gaze is drawn to the strands of golden autumnal Light

and it rests there

in fullness

in gladness

in peace.



I whisper-pray, too, from behind the foggy window in my dining room

for this moment to spread, seep deep into my bones

so that in the steady movement of my own body

my own mind

my own heart

in the everydayness of life

would focus less on the dance performed in the shadows

and more on the radiant light into which the movement flows.

Five-Minute Friday: Change

Beneath the late August sunlight

hope hangs thick

like honey dripping from the hive,

soft-sticky amber coating my heart

seeping into open wounds,

filling in the cracks and crevices of hurt,

a salve that sweetens spaces threatening

to harbor bitterness.

I linger long, still tender and stinging,

in its balm

and welcome the slow march

from summer sunlight

into cool autumn air

where honey slowly thickens

and holds strong, solid

those spaces that desperately

needed to be filled with something

sweet.




{This Five-Minute Friday piece was written in chunks because of multiple interruptions by two small children, so it actuality, it's more like a 15-minute Friday piece. Just keepin' it real.}

Five-Minute Friday: Connect

Under the wide-open overhead spread of stars

I see Your hand stretched out, palm open

pouring out blessings in the form of rain drops

over parched land

parched heart-soil.

I watch You move

steady and in the time-beat

I must learn to keep daily;

You are purposeful,

unfolding each day with intentions

and grace.

I am awed,

unwrapping each day with clumsy hands

but willing heart.

At the end, when the sun fades behind the horizon

I stretch myself over grass

gaze up

and try to connect the dots

you've so strategically placed

in sky

and in my days.

Five-Minute Friday: Beyond

Long chased and loved there's this dream I've carried around in the pocketbook of my heart, all folded up and tucked gently away like a love note or a picture of a beloved.

And every once in a while I've been known to pull it out in the midst of laundry and lunches and love and read it over and over again 

until I can see it alive and vibrant with breath in its lungs and soul sparkling in its eyes -- me pressing feet onto untred paths, me pressing black ink into white paper, writing their hearts, their lives into words that wander into other hearts, take a seat at the table and linger long after dinner guests normally stay 


-- invited and enjoyed --

There are long days filled to the brim with laundry, lunches and love and my heart sings for the reality I love and the boys and the husband and the life that's unfolded. 


I may not be a journalist walking tepid paths telling stories of the brow-beaten souls on faraway soil


but I've been given long-term assignment from the Editor here in this lush and hot and incredible jungle of motherhood tattooing these stories, our story onto a small screen, into a small space.

And you. You come here to share life and share words and share stories.

And it's beyond what I've imagined, what I've long dreamed and carried for so many years. 

Five-Minute Friday: Enough

It's early morning, and sun drips through the window blinds, golden like honey from the hive.

I find fullness.

In early morning Bread of Life. In the sleepy snuggles of a toddler. In the soft kiss to my forehead from my husband. And in the sweet good morning greeting from a preschooler.

In a simple moment I leave the sweetness of serenity in my house, going outside of these four peaceful walls by way of Facebook via iPhone, and my heart is drenched in calamity.

Thirteen people killed by a gunman during a midnight movie premier.

There are more headlines promising to take me further into deeper the rising floods of chaos.

But I can't read anymore.

I sit in the gentle quiet of my kitchen.

Like clothes on the line


drenched in last night's rain

prayers drip from my lips

asking for full Sunlight

to emerge

to dry the tears,

say enough is enough.

Five-Minute Friday: Risk

I think you say jump.

And instead of asking how high

I find myself frozen 

instead 

asking for a fiery bush 

or billboard

or email 

with those simple words 

burning 

or bolded

or line-addressed 

to my name:

Jump. 

But in the quiet recesses of my heart

when I still myself from thought-questions 

and thought-distractions

I hear you loud and clear. 

I hear you in the details you've already taken care of

in the affirmations

in the revelations of grace-mercy you've given

in the very word you spoke centuries ago

"Then I said, “Ah, Lord God! Behold, I do not know how to speak, for I am only a youth.” But the Lord said to me, “Do not say, ‘I am only a youth’; for to all to whom I send you, you shall go, and whatever I command you, you shall speak. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you, declares the Lord.” - Jeremiah 1

I'm no prophet.

But you've given me the same promise.

That if I jump

when you say

trust replaces risk

and there will be cushion in the landing.

Five-Minute Friday: Path

I don't know where we're heading {beyond general direction}

and I'm ready to let go of guessing,

of trying to be there before

we've even walked the mile stretched out before our feet.

But. What I do know --

I want to walk it, my fingers thread through yours.

I want to run without getting caught up in the bumps we've just hurdled.

And trust that we'll be able to swiftly move over

fields of flat plains

and foothills

and mountains

alike.

That our lungs will stretch

and our legs will move

and our hearts will keep beating

in time with each other

no matter what's underfoot.

Five-Minute Friday: Expectations

Sun beats onto my bare shoulders.

And I live. 

I watch my boys run through the sprinkler, drops of water beading on their dark hair, in the same tones of my own, before each one spills onto their faces. 

They are everything bright and alive and beautiful.

And they remind me to live in the now. 

Not in the five minutes from now.

Not in the ringing of a telephone. 

Not in the to-come test results from yesterday's MRI. 

Not in gathered up expectations, diagnosis before they are delivered.

But in the truth spread out before me:

these are my good gifts from the very Good Giver 

to enjoy 

as I live right now. 

Five-Minute Friday: Real

I retreat sometimes into words I was fed as a child:

If you haven't got anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. 

It's advice that's served me well for the most part, encouragement to tame my tongue before my tongue tames me

But I find myself quiet here in this space when I'm drowning in weeks that have dumped heaviness, weariness on my back or I find myself striving to glimpse the bigger picture amid the suckfest that's unfolded right before my eyes.

It's a way of thinking, taking all thoughts captive, remembering the bigger picture, and that's served me well.

But.

The hurt, the pains, the hardships -- the not so nice parts of life need voice, too.

And I find myself struggling for balance.

Struggling to be real about being real.

Because the reality of this week is that it's been hard.

Yes, I see hope wound tightly, wrapped beautifully in the Bigger Picture. And, yes, I hold fierce tight to the gift of Eternal Summer He's given so graciously.

But the truth of the matter is that I cried wet tears, almost choking on grief last night while thinking about the sweet babies to whom our friends have said untimely goodbyes.

Thinking about the tiny lives nestled deep in my womb to whom we've bid farewell too soon.

And thinking about how much I hate that death ever sauntered into the scene disguised as knowledge and life.

The not-so-nice stuff.

But as real as it gets

and it gets its five minutes today.  

Five-Minute Friday: Together

There are twinges of headache hiding behind my eyes.

I don't know what's to blame

be it the gray bleakness of atypical April skies

or lost car keys

or mounding to-do lists

or if it's the byproduct of having scrubbed down a poop-spreading toddler and his poop-painted walls for the fifth time in so many days.

All I know is that by 3:09 p.m. Friday I'm asking God if He could just help me hold it all together for just awhile longer ...

I crave 4:30.

I daydream, eyes closed in effort to lessen the strain spread out across my forehead, about my white-car driving knight pulling into the driveway, tapping on a locked glass door to be let inside, joining me in the wildness of long days with little boys

so we can tie this day together

with palms pressed together, fingers laced.

Five-Minute Friday: Light

In the fresh, crisp air of morning

the sun suddenly sweeps into the horizon

reflecting a glow across what was darkened sky.

And in the twilight of bright color

it sinks magnificently into the plains 

leaving

tiny sparkling diamonds

sprinkled in inky spread-out skies.

During the bleakest of nights and what seemed 

to be the blackest of Fridays

I cling to what He penned throughout gospels

and what He daily paints across the sky:

it's never the darkness that overtakes the Sun.

It's always the Sun who overtakes the darkness

and leaves a lit path, stepping stones of light back Home.

It's always the Light that's Moving and Alive.

Five-Minute Friday: Gift

Tiny raindrops splat against the window pane, and I, in the early morning fog of just rolling out of a deep sleep and overcast March skies, want to write off the day before it begins.

The floorboards are cold against my bare feet, and goosebumps dance up my arms and spread across my shoulders while I search for the warmth the daytime sun surely isn't going to bring, it being hidden behind thick masses of gray clouds.

I want sun and warm and deep, reviving breaths of spring air in my lungs, and I allow myself to wallow in the disappointment of a gift that isn't mine today.

Nothing miraculous happens outside during the first few morning hours; the sun doesn't break through the clouds and take center stage and the rain continues to drizzle in cold fits to the ground.

But something beautiful emerges amid the clouds and spits of rain; my mind slows down and my body follows it to the recliner chair in the living room where I drape a blanket over my legs.

Two small guests join me, snuggling into the crevices of the chair, burrowing their limbs beneath the blanket, too.

We rock, we talk, we read, and we snuggle;

I breathe in the sweet scent of slow, untie this unexpected gift inspired by the dreariness, and we celebrate the magnificently ordinary that my hands are often too busy to even notice let alone pick up and unwrap.