Bigger Picture Moments: Seasons

The days grow longer and the sun burns brighter each day it seems now that May has finally forced spring to step on stage and take front and center.

I am ready, and I am not.

The boys, too, grow longer and burn brighter daily it seems as they play and talk, interact and sort through life's beautiful and sticky messes.

I am ready, and, samely, I am not.

A collaboration labored out of love that has boasted the most beautiful blooms and friendships and has brought me here to this space weekly for almost three years to reflect on life's Bigger Picture Moments draws to a close.

I am ready, and, really, I am not.

Day by day, I grow a little bit stronger and learn a little bit more about who I am {and who I am not} and who God is {and who He is not}.

And I am ready, but, also, I am just not.

These seasons, they saunter in and out to the beat of their own drummers and they leave me still singing the chorus of the last song while also setting a new rhythm in my heart, head, foot.

So I linger in the reality of spring and dance in the promise of summer and I cry at baby pictures and hang onto still-chubby hands while excitedly exploring emerging personalities. I mourn the end of goodness, but also celebrate the beginning of newness, and I find hope in Strength and knowing but also remember what it is to not understand, to fall.

I am ready. And I am not.

But the seasons change regardless, so I remind myself

to stand tall, open in the moment

while each one lingers before it comes to pass.

Note: Today is the last day we're officially collaborating over at Bigger Picture Blogs, the community some friends and I began almost three years ago dedicated to creativity and community. On this day, I find, really, that I am ready. And I am not. It's been an amazing three years of finding the bigger picture in the everyday moments of life and celebrating everyday creativity and community.

Everyday Life: January

January spreads out long and slow

and I live in the days and the nights that seem to spread me out long and thin.

If you ever want time to slow down, simply wait for something important.

It used to be my birthday that made January crawl by at snail's speed, anticipation mounting daily as I checked off each calendar day until we arrived at the last day.

And then it was the bleak, cold winter that made it drag by day after long-midwestern day.

Now, it's waiting for signs of life growing well in the depths of my body, knowing that little green sprouts don't shoot up from the black dirt until due time.

Spring.

It will come.

The popping of flowers from the ground will God-willing bring the popping of a belly filled with baby and little flutters of movement.

Green and lush.

But today, January spills one day into the next.

I give thanks for the gray and attempt to live well in the length

trusting that the Creator changes seasons at just the right time

and is busy behind the scenes in the stillness of winter.

Everyday Life: I Lived It

Sometimes I wonder if God lets seasons linger just a bit longer than we expected not just so we can soak these fleeting moments of Indian Summer into our skins, tattoo them onto our hearts and burn them into our memories but, more, so that we really revel in, give thanks for the days we're given just before the leaves begin falling from the trees in masses, just before the summer sun sets and gives way to autumn light.



I wonder, sometimes,

if He gives us these unexpectedly warm and brilliantly sunny days in the midst of fall so we pause --

if He writes the warning across burning red leaves on fire from faded summer green, in the warm sunlight that yet stretches across blue October skies so we can really enter into them, like we're living fully, as if to say, come on -- you don't want to miss this.



I wonder if He wishes us to wrap fingers around the moments that were so generously gifted into open palms so that we could say, I don't just remember it well; I lived it.



And I lived it well.

{This is a repost from last October.}

Everyday Life: Songbird

There is this songbird heart tucked inside my chest, that's always beckoning me to fly away in search of more.

More beauty.

More lovely.

More warmth.

There is never an open arm embrace with dwindling day light and my heart; I never fall gently into cooler days turned cold and colder days turned gray.

So I fly.

When winter spreads itself out across the gray of skies for months on end, I fly away.

I fly hard and far and deep, straight into heavy sunshine, thick like honey oozing from its hive.

Every February, I fly and land safely in the nest of my snowbird-grandparents aside the gulf waters in Fort Myers and I breathe out the cold and let color seep onto my face beneath wide open blue skies and wide open turquoise water.

A friend said February always brings out the restless in her heart, too, in a different but oh-so-same way, I think.

Her words gave clarity to what I've been doing each winter for the past six years as I make my cold-weather exodus to the promised land.

As much as I love home, family, friends, the life we've built, my heart always must be dragged away from the warm oasis by the sea by an equally unwilling body stuck with a too-reasonable mind that whispers that I cannot join the branches of the other warm-weather birds who hold out until the warmest of sun beckons them home.



Because the Son beckons me back first.

He calls me back to the everydayness that is interspersed with sweet frustration and overwhelming fullness and crazy-running-into-spring cold snaps that melt into blooms.

We traveled two entire days through the south, watched tropical bloom fade and signs of midwestern spring blossom before our very eyes before we landed at my mom's house in countryfield Illinois late last night.



Cold winds still sweep through the midwest, rustle barren trees.

But the sun is stronger than when I left three weeks ago, lighting up the prairie longer each day.



I am an early songbird returning home to the grass-and-snow-checkered ground, my song singing of the colors creeping north and the daylight seeping into more and more of the dusks and dawns.

This songbird heart sings of spring spreading out over taking the winter from branches of naked trees.

But it sings of spring, nonetheless, because it's coming.

Bigger Picture Moment: What We Make It

As we drive away from our unanticipated long weekend at the lake, sniffles emerge from the backseat.

"Awww, G. Are you OK?" I ask.

"Yes," he whimpers. "But I don't want to leave Lake Cora today because it's my favorite place."

And what do you say to that when you yourself are trying to reign in all of the emotions about leaving such a perfect escape for another long nine months after having basked in the beauty of soft sand and clear, cool water and warm August sun for five spectacular days?



"We'll be back next summer, honey," I assure him.

Oh. Next summer. Leaving Lake Cora for the last time every August stings because our final farewell means that summer is coming to a rapid close soon. And while I love fall with its harvest and serene beauty, summer makes me feel most alive. Consequently, every year, I mourn its passing.



"But it's such a long time," he softly cries. "And I love it here."



Agreeing with him, I try to think of something to say that would offer him comfort and reassurance.

"And, mommy {sniff, sniff}, I'm leaving all the fun at Lake Cora, and that makes me really sad."



"No, G.," I say, "that's not true. We'll have lots of fun this fall. And even today. We're stopping for a special mommy and boys' lunch date. We'll make our fun happen if we don't feel like there is any."

Brief silence floods the car momentarily, and I wonder if I really mean what I so passionately just stated. Before I can say anything else, he finally agrees:

"Ok, we'll make our own fun."

I promise aloud that we will while silently vowing to uphold my end of the deal as the trees lining the lake fade into the horizon in my review mirror, holding summer hostage again for another year.

"We'll just make the fun happen," he affirms again.

I'm sure he's repeated it mostly as self-reassurance, but I imprint his words on my heart, shift my eyes from the review mirror to the front dash, breathe in the open road that stretches out across the hilly terrain before before us and give the gas pedal a slight push as we press into horizon.

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Five-Minute Friday: Wonder

I wonder how much longer he'll runtoddlerun rush into me, calling my name in the simple syllables of ma ma, eager to be scooped up into my arms.

When his hugs will morph from flinging his arms around me neck and squueeeezing so tight for soooo long to simply just pressing his body into mine for a quick lean in before he runs off to play.

I wonder how many more times he'll prefer snuggling against my chest while tucked in a sling to wildly running down the sidewalk after his brother during late-afternoon walks.

When he'll trade
nursing for cups
early-morning cuddles in my bed for cartoons on the couch
signs for sentences
toddleruns for swift forward motion
open-mouth kisses for barely pecks on the cheek

At nearly 22 months old, he's lingered in babyness longer than I ever expected, and I've increasingly soaked in the deliciousness of it every month, knowing that with each one, this season is likely drawing nearer and nearer to its end.

And so I wonder when it will draw to a close. But, also, I wonder at how long we've enjoyed this super stretch, thankful to be soaking in the sweetness of this Indian Summer of babyness, this Indian summer of togetherness.