To Say it is Good at the End of the Day

Sometimes there is nothing like silence.

Good, peaceful, absolute, still silence.

The kind of silence where you sit and drown in the quiet, resting the weary body and mind, and for once you can actually think and reveal in undisturbed thoughts.

I love these moments though there few.

In our home silence is unseen for when there's a little boy or a carpenter under its roof the mouth does not sleep, the noise knows no quiet, and the brain desires no boredom or stillness. 

Living adhd is being constantly surrounded by thoughts, emotions, actions, and ramblings and its sporadic and genuine and enlightening and exhausting and its none of your own and all of theirs. It always runs, their mind and brain, it never quiets until there's the silence of night.

And moments of quiet are soaked in these dry, thirsty bones.

God knew they were needed these adored, sincere instances of silence. Its a cup of cool on a parched tongue, a shaded tree from the heat of the day, a hallelujah, amen in its own way.

Silence blankets the house, rooms are dimly lite, darkness shows under the closed doors of the children's rooms and for once they stayed in their beds, their little voices full of song finally drifting off in quiet.

The crickets chirp and their sounds wander in through open windows happy to play a song for falls warm night.

Dim the light. A days work has been done and to say it was good? 

If the mind were to rethink the days events it would turn up empty in many places, too fast it sped, too many things would have to be redone, too few moments of what I wouldn't give up or trade.

Too many repeats. Day can seem like repeats if there's no celebration in life, if there's no shouts of praise, no spoken words of Spirit, no faith in in the race.

The wrist flung faster and faster as potatoes were peeled for dinner. Skins flew across the counter as I quickened the pace of the wrist. How much easier it would have been to tear open a pouch, pour, and mix? How much time it would have saved? How much peace would have been gained? But yet, how real?

Real takes time and sometimes I would just rather give it up and opt for the easy, semi real, good enough to get by blend.

But real, it makes the mind think how real this all is the still, peaceful, here and now. The crazy, glorified, chaos of real. I would rather have real, then the semi-real life.

It drew me to question how real was He the maker of the still quiet?  How real was God to me? Just a name that I knew and prayed and thanked but yet how real? For something to be real it must be uncovered, it must be felt, it must be tasted, it must be learned, it must be seen, it must be lived, it must Be Spoken, it must be Known.

How real is God in my life? As real as the rare peaceful moments so sought for? But for Him to call me by name? God must be real and I must be real wholly, flung open, humbled, fully surrendered, willingly laid bare, to see His face. 

To seek God is to hunger and thirst for righteousness, to live God is to Speak His Spirit, to praise God is to glorify and give thanks, to fully see God is to Know God. 

Knowing God, really knowing God is an immerse of the whole self into everything that Speaks His name, "Yahweh." Its a fight of the fleshly self to see deeper, much deeper than a worship song sung on Sunday, much deeper than a prayer whispered in need, much deeper than a verse skimmed over for the week. 

God is only as real in your life as you make Him to be. 

To say it is good at the end of the day is to know the Maker who holds this being in His palm, who won't let this shattered and torn soul wander, who gently reminds that "this is the day, that He has made for me and to rejoice."

To say it is good and that end of the day is to know that my redeemer lives and because of Him I live and He is good and He beats this heart and carries this family and while there is breath say that "it is good" even when its hard and life is saddened.

To say it is good at the end of the day is to walk hand clasped to the One who yes adores His children flaws and all.

Making Him real in the day is how it's all good. 

To Fear Death

"What's going to happen to all my stuff, all my things?"

Eyes big and blue look at me searchingly.

His small, sharp, chin is hidden under covers of red fire trucks and blue cars and his fingertips grasp the edge of the sheets as he waits.

Stuffed animals lay close to his sweet, yellow haired head that my hands gently touch and smooth. Pooh, and a bear that still rattles from infancy, an eagle, and an owl named Jamberin snuggle close by. 

On the walls hang his art, pictures of him as a little boy, his small hand prints and fingers prints on a frame. On the shelves his latest creations from legos and there's magnets, and train pieces and gears and books and who knows what under his bed.

"What do you mean what will happen to your things?" My eyes squint, brows crease, a hand lifts to brush his cheek.

"When I die? What will happen to my things? I guess some other children will have them."

Silence. Death it comes up at least once or twice a month. The pages of the Book are covered with stories of life and death and resurrection and miracles that's it only rational for a little, curious boy of seven to want to know more.

More of what I feared the most and what I liked to talk the least.

More of what I knew little of, heaven, and I didn't let him see it, the fear of death.

Pushing it aside, I spoke peace and happiness even though grey clouds the brain and the heart skips a beat for death can mean done if you let it.

"Well, hopefully they will be your children who will have them. But don't worry honey heaven is an amazing place, full of things that your little mind and my big one can't even imagine. But its the perfect place, the most beautiful home, more like a castle with jewels and a big gate and walls, maybe a robot castle and I'm sure there will be plenty of mazes for your feet to travel, plenty of tire swings and sea green pools and you won't have to worry about holding your breath or swallowing water and yes God and Jesus are there and yes, people from the Bible and yes, I will be there waiting for you."

"Can I fly?"

I picture him even as a young boy he always would try, he would flap his skinny little arms and jump and jump always hoping to soar, to fly high.

"I can't fly because of gravity...see." The covers come off and a little, excited boy stands on his bed and flaps his arms only to drop to his feet on the floor.

"Well, I don't know about that. Maybe if you ask God he will let you fly. It does say that we will be like the angels in heaven but we have to believe with all hearts, believe in His truth."

His eyes lock mine and for a moment his ears soak in words and I can see pictures looming in front of his mind.

"Heaven is a place that we don't really know much about except that it must be the best place for God is there. There's no crying, or pain, or anger, or unkindness but only happiness and excitement like Christmas morning over and over again but while we are here on earth we should praise and worship God and thank him for everyday, every night, every laugh and cry, every moment."

I kiss his cheek and he is content, content in believing he can fly in heaven and a Mom touches his cheek hoping to be able to see her little boy grow up to the moment when she know longer does.

{Death can mean done and so can Life. Life can be done without even having to die.}

{For to live life in fear of death is to live a life that is already done, already gone.}

Sometimes this fear can trap the throat, and tremble the heart, and shake the bones, and cry tears and it kills the life of the soul and its real.

But to speak Heaven and life to a boy opens and flings the gate of the spirit into His majesty of peace and rest and joy in the death.

God never meant for there to be death. 

Since creation he adored Adam and Eve and there was no sickness and death but life and freedom and deliverance from but with sin came death with deception and jealously came evil and it flourished and grew.

Death and evil angered Him. He sought away around it but could find known except His Son whom death could not hold or keep buried and through Him became a passage of deliverance.

The body will crumble and be sickened and shortened and years blow by and whither away and hair turns grey and legs crack, and hips pop, and eyes squint, and skin wrinkles but the soul... the soul and spirit continue to grow and its a growth that will break through the cage of its dwelling and it will one day fly and it will soar into the heavens above because it has been delivered and it is home.

Tend the soul and spirit. Tend the Spirit. Speak the word. I need to. For it erases fear and pushes Life towards deliverance and a life that is never done.

{Speak His words in life for it rids the mind and body of fear and flings open the soul to really live and grow.}

On the Broken Path

So some afternoons are just meant to be spent with a six dollar bag of kettle corn on your lap.

And there's no stopping the shoveling of the sweet, puffed corn into the mouth except to fill the cups of the young ones and send them off with remarks of its "your last cup, no more."

But I'm thinking in the back of my mind yep this is dinner.

Even though in thirty minutes a tired, weak, dirtied hand, saw dust headed husband will walk through the door with a sweet smile and an empty a wife with her legs up and a bag (now half gone) of corn on her lap.

Until then, this Mom needs her share of quiet and kettle.

Yes the scale will tip higher (work off that tomorrow).

And those surprise moments of biting down on whole kernels too close to cavities that are waiting for root canals are happening too many times but its kettle and corn and a big bag and it took a big, long, broken way to get it.

I was lost and in more ways then one.

The morning dawned early with kids in tow and off we were for a day of apple picking, pumpkin patching, and hay jumping with a local homeschool group.

Don't be late. 10:00am sharp. Tickets were purchased in advance. Apple Picking 10am.

I should have stayed the course straight instead of pulling the wheel right towards the wrong direction. It took 30 minutes to realize that exit 20 was not Weston and so I back tracked heading back towards the straight highway.

Telling the kids we might just miss the apple picking to which my oldest was completely okay with and offered me encouraging words that soften and shock the soul.

But in my mind it was not okay. The kids would have fun. They would miss that ride in the wagon up the green field towards the swaying, apple plucking trees whose branches were now only waving goodbye in my mind.

Call if your running late that's what the memo said. Except in my case the 7 was supposed to be a 1 and so I couldn't dial.

The highway ended and in its place a winding, country two lane road with cow farms and fields of corn and hay appeared. Easy. I knew rolling country hills and farm lands having grown up in an appalachian town.

I drove and drove. It can seem endless on a country road.

I had passed too many signs and I couldn't find "the" street and I had forgotten my roots that not all gravel roads are named and in this case this one wasn't. 

I pulled over to ask an old man in blue overalls and greying hair for directions and of course he smiled and spoke his country twang and told me that I had gone too far.

I had passed "the sign" not the road sign but the sign for the red barn.

By this time my oldest in the back was saddened as I had built these grandiose illusions that were now floating out the window because of time passed, a good two hours.

We finally arrived sweaty, tired, hungry, and ready for fun.

Lets say the boys had a good time but there was no wagon ride up the steep hill towards the apple orchard for it was only a few feet from the barns. There were no fields painted with orange rows of pumpkins, or hay mazes, or corn stalks, or face paint, or tractor pulls, or tractor rides or...I could go on.

But there was kettle corn.

And forgiveness and sweetness in my oldests eyes because children  really don't know what their missing or maybe they do and they don't really mind.

{The only thing that matters to children is the smile on your face and the light in your eyes and the sound of your voice because they can really do without it all but what they can't do without is your love.}

Your heart that pumped and fluttered and raced with the birth of a miracle now grows and tends theirs, so sacred, so sweet.

{Children's hearts bring His presence closer to you.}

Yes, truth here~being lost and broken is the only way to see the Mender who pieces it all back together towards His Spirit.

{If were not broken, we can't be forgiven.
If were not torn, we can't be healed.
If were not lost, we can't be found.
If were not hungry, we will never be fed.
If were never close, He will never be Real.}

{It's the torn spirit along the broken path that brings us back to the One who was broken and torn for us.}