The Most Sought After Model, That Is Their Treasure

Beautiful. Rare. Genuine. Lovely. Fascinating.

You. Me.

The most sought after model.

They dig deep and search hard. Never giving up until they know where it is.

And then when they discover its light, they dig faster and 
look deeper until every corner and room and crevice has been unturned.The best. 

Treasure.

They become determined in their search. Giving up they will not for they just have to have it and their feet and legs, though tired, will trudge on and on.

Finally its in their small hands, this magnificent beaming treasure that's worth more than whats in boxes or on shelves or on the blackened pixel display that everyday entices them.

But this treasure.. so dear to them.

They want to hold it for its priceless and there's only one and its theirs and it does something that nothing else does and they try to figure it out but it takes a lifetime. 

This treasure.

It glows sometimes there in the eyes. 

It smiles and laughs and cries and shouts and prays and guides and its always busy and it models and it loves and they want more of it, all of it, to be like it, to be like us.

And its all theirs. It feels and fills apart of them.

This model. This word that's tossed around and swept up as meaningless. But we are. We do..model..we their treasure.    

I may not feel it or look it as color turns grey and the scale tips and legs become heavy and tired eyes burn and the mouth opens too quickly and moments may feel better alone and concealed for sometimes doubt and wretchedness creeps in and overshadows. 

Worthlessness sets in as fruit loops are scraped off kitchen floors and bottles are washed and homework is gone over and when I can't chase him or fingers can't quickly grasp the folds of hair to be exactly so and when I feel like I don't look just so perfect or act just so well like others may.

We are still their treasure.

And there's someone searching for it and we model and it's hard to fill the shoes though we may fail and fall.

From the beginning sounds of rustling on sheets, to the stumbling of little legs in the morning they want to be by the side that we wish we had time to flatten, but there's something about it, they have to be so close. Tired eyes and longer legs awake and they sit still and souls sit and wait for words and actions. And we smile and we try because we love.

They Hunger for you. 

The real you. 

The soul and spirit, that is all treasure.

We do the drill and pour milk in bowls, dress and brush and take the day each day either slowly or too quickly and we make mistakes and we are watched. 

Every turn, every bend, every word, every trip, every smile or frown. Watched. 

They look up. Look up to see and to learn what is right. We model life and love and forgiveness and treasure and what Spirit is and what it should look like.

We may fail and wail and trip but a new day. It's not over. Its not over and we may feel like staying under the covers and rotting our soul and flesh but these spirits. Who will help sow their seeds? What will their eternity be? 

Don't hide and doubt and have disbelief in self that shows. And to which they squint and stare at their treasure in wonder as to why and what they should do and they try to brighten it because they know it will shine if they only try harder.

You. I. Try and fight while the body is weak for the Spirit has strength, believe in Gods light and mercy and love and block all that creeps and crushes the pure goodness in self.

For years fade tens and twenty years fade like a blink of the eye and they may forget and it may take another ten or twenty to remember. 

But its the rarest treasure and they all always keep coming back for it. 

And the treasure that is in us, is never forgotten in them because the model never stops wearing it.  

It's polished and repolished by memories and moments of littleness, soft hands on cheeks, sticky fingers and melted ice cream cones, chases around tree trunks, spilt tears, long talks and walks, caps and gowns, and a presence that is always there.

Time will pass. 

Days will flee.

Hours will fade.

And life stretches thin the desires of the heart, the will of the soul, and the face of the treasure and its home.

But then comes our turn...to see the treasure we made for ourselves in them.

And to them we will always be.

For the treasure never loses its rarity for its the model that makes the treasure so sought after.

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 belly...to 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.}

When the Wind Blows

Autumn is here.

I can feel it in the wind, a change. 

It comes too quickly and before I know it the sun soaked days of trips to the pool, soft feet in warm sands, juicy watermelon on plates, and melted ice cream cones have faded.

Now there are the cries of a two year old as he stands in his blue jeans, rummaging through his drawers for shorts. 

 There are whines of jackets that are missing and have I seen them and I think there in a box somewhere in the closet or garage and more than likely there in a box that's not labeled. 

 And the jacket, that waterproof black jacket that I would have loved to have purchased in my size, its collar tickles the neck and tickles are scratches that annoy a young boy. 

 Rain boots from last year are tattered and torn but hold memories of little feet and muddy puddles and wet legs and sopping pants but they pinch and pinches make moans. 

Wind can change every moment, even the smallest. 

 I stiffen and harden. 

Change comes with the wind and it brings new pressures, new days unknown, new challenges, results, and deadlines. 

 But I gain nothing stiff and braced. 

From high the wind seeks to find the low to change its pattern and its course.

So is the Creator seated on high, He seeks to change the lowly, the worn and tired, the sufferers, the lost, the anxious, the fearful, and in its place He offers His Holy eternal light that speaks love and peace. 

 Seasons change and with it so do seasons of life.

Days become shorter, always fleeing too quickly, some painfully but He gives hope in the new, a rebirth in every moment. 

And so the wind comes and leaves lose their green and colors once covered shine, soaking through in brilliant streaks of red, oranges, and yellows because there's still life hidden underneath it all. 

 The Spirit reveals it, the true self underneath that shell.

It’s shame and regret that can be seen but to carry on, to cry out in sorrow, to ride the wind, is to seek the light. 

 {It’s His light that draws and beckons so live it and speak it even though the winds push and pull because God breathed this life and its His Spirit that carries us along.}

God loves me the way that I am but I want to live the way that He lives.

This is All I Have to Give and Its At The End of the Rope

Yes, I'm at the end of the rope. 

That long, braided mass of brown fibers that I hold onto and tug and stretch and yank day after day and it scratches and burns and so I let go. Opening my worn hand, for good, its gone. 

I see it and feel it as it waves goodbye showing itself wildly dangling and flapping in the wind as if to entice me back into its reach. It wants to be chased.

Do I reach for it? Do I want it back? That rope. Do I give it another shot, another try? Wrestle with it and the mind and body grows weary yet this need to know could I have? Could I have done it better? Made it work? Fixed it? Believed enough? Been that someone?

Sometimes yes and sometimes no and it will be missed.

It soared away and out of me, leaving behind a tug at the heart, a willingness to finally lose control of what can't be controlled. 

Giving it all I have to give I couldn't get it back now. 

Watching sometimes there's regret for who am I? Who are we?

All we have to give is what we've been given. 

Does anyone really want it anyways? All I have to give. Its 10:30pm and the pot still soaks in the drain that big pot that held dinner for four and that I wish would be easier to scrub the longer it sat but it wouldn't be. 

The sweep of the night with broom in hand as broken chips, leftover cheerios, and blueberries are swept into a pile mingled with dust and dirt from happy feet and theres little legos that are carefully picked out and placed away. 
Exhaustion shows herself and I can't remember where I laid the brooms pan and spend extra precious glances from tired eyes to find it. 

Basket in tow, laundry is finally being done and the machine comes alive and I continue to clean, pay bills, and toss away trash and wash and write. 

Soon the lock on the door will turn and the carpenter will come home his hands soiled and splinted and wish to talk the talk of tired mouths to which more than too often mine remains closed. 

Morning hours comes and my tired legs finally head off to bed and before this body can feel rested the alarm goes off for an early morning walk and I think about me and Him and life and wishes and unfilled dreams and unexplained expectations of those close. 

Its easy to feel like a failure, like you haven't given it your all, when there's no silver plaque adorning the wall, no rolled white paper with red ribbon, no golden silhouette, nothing to show that's tangible that's so highly placed as above the worth of the heart and soul. 

Don't  believe the belief you have given it your all and that it runs dry or its worthless because giving never stops and its love that gives. 

We just may not know how much we do give and not everyone sees all the giving those little moments that mean big in His eyes and that drops a shining stone into an awaiting crown that's not sealed with a red ribbon or plaque but with eternity.

Just because it hasn't been seen or may not be done doesn't mean it should have been or couldn't have been. 

All we have to give is what we have been given and we have been given the greatest gifts of love and Spirit. 

His Spirit that lives and breaths in us that fades from mind too often and which I tend to forget, this powerful, resurrecting Spirit that speaks life and and truths and hope and salvations eternity.

Give a testament a testament to Him no matter the circumstances though life is hard and can crush and bruise the soul  it can still give Spirit. Turn cheek and give love that keeps renewing, strengthening, testing, encouraging. Commandment love.

Give the commandment love that commands to be given in homes and across seas and green and desert and it never stops and fills hearts and souls and spirits, its fathomless and knows no boundaries, selfless.

The joy He is, is Love. 

The Hope He is, is Love. 

The Promise He is, is Love. 

The Freedom He is, is Love.

All we have to give is what He has made us to be, Him in His own image.

And its fibers fly, woven, braided and faded and it soars away and I let it fly this rope that's tangled and tucked and yanked for some things are meant to be let go and given away to find the true Giver who gives chances and grace and mercies and salvation. 

Who wipes away every tear. 

The love of the Giver is He always gives and there is another and always another and its grabbed, that woven fiber, in this tired, worn hand and "in His time" He works all things beautiful.


**This is part of the Proverbs 31 bloghop for the online book study by Lysa TerKeurst "Am I Messing My Kids Up," a wonderful read.**

When A Father Builds

I see smoke rise as pieces and chips of wood float in the wind and around his face as he squints his pale blue eyes.

Its a piercing sound.

I hear it often. Day and night.

The sound of wood being sawed, hammered, nailed, followed  by the mounds of sawdust left in heaps covering the ground and grass. It later beckons the children to toss as confetti and I quickly say a prayer it stays out of their eyes.

His workroom stays filled with the smell of wood, of oak and of hours of squinting and sawing and building and sanding, a mess but a beautiful mess not seen till the end.

Its a sound most days I wish would go away, that ear piercing wail, that produces the finest pieces of work in its completion and which the neighbors often bring up in passing eager to see what he's building next.

I pull my books from its shelf, file my children's schoolwork on it, place my nightly glass of water on top, type upon it. Its more than I realize what hes made from wood that now sits in our home.

And the latest a bunk bed- play house for the children above my oldests bed. 

The days and hours it took were exhausting to watch. Time. Time could be better spent doing something more important, for me. It seemed as if it would never be completed and with me hovering hands on waist its a wonder it did.

All the trips back and forth from room to work area, the tracked shoe marks of sawdust and dirt through the house, the heaps of sawdust on my sons bed and floor, both were vacuumed out daily.

I disapproved and saw it as wasteful even though the wood was free it was a waste of time, of moments, of adding this and that, unnecessary.

I didn't see the value in it and I let him know I didn't. 

Those instances when you open the mouth and out comes frustrations that were hidden until the big final moment of reveal and all is released and in the end you hang your head, ashamed, that was me on Father's Day.

I spewed and he listened and listened and then I heard his words and my heart tore as his eyes swelled with silent tears and his brow creased and it revealed the lines of time that weren't present a year ago. And my heart sank more when he spoke.

Building this house for the boys all the hours and minutes, wood and mess and sweat, was his way of wishing and wanting to build us a house, to give us a real house of our own and since he couldn't give me or the boys that this was all he could do. This was all he had. And his heart showed in it and I couldn't see it. 

His words rang true "House or no house of ours we have faith and love and always hope... that's what builds a home...you can never love too much or respect too much." 

All I saw was wasted time and mess and all he saw was love and faith and a chance to give happiness. 

And all the boys saw was a place to hide and pretend, pretend that they were someplace else and they would holler and scream and peak through holes and play in a freedom that adults only dream of.

But when they were through they opened the door, climbed the steps back down to solid ground and laughed and smiled the smiles that reached the ears and they would go search him out and then they three would holler and scream and laugh.

And I could only stand and watch and shake my head, wondering when this mess of me would ever understand. How long would it take till I could see?

I needed to look deeper.Look deeper, past the mess because hidden underneath is a beautiful meaning that can't be seen unless we see.

Lay all of life's messes bare before him and remember to see as He sees; I am a mess but He sees me as His beautiful mess, a beautiful mess that He gladly gave Himself for so that I could see my worth in the mess and rejoice in it. We will always have mess but its a beauty because of Him.

And so I saw in my husband a need fulfilled, a hearts need and as I look around at all of the wood that graces our home I remember the motive: You can never love too much.

Sometimes You Just Have to Throw It Down

I wanted to throw it down that pen.

To give it up.

To curl up with shame and sadness and just mourn over past mistakes and choices.

They haunt you even though you know your Savior walks with your hand in his. 

They still linger over you, the rotten scent of pasts and you cry out and pray, beg, for a change and when it comes the answer is not what you wanted to hear.

Its a fence, a dark fence that if allowed could shut out all that is the soul keeping its captive reclused by fear, worry, and self doubt.

And so I can throw it in, give up, soak in the criticisms, drown in the pasts, or I can draw close and believe that He is present and He hears and He knows the heart, the soul.

I had to choose.

I could grow angry, remorseful, and weep over circumstances which I did, or I could try and live the days and not let them just past and fade away, mundanely.

I felt like I had been doing it before this trying to grasp the minutes of the day, the looks on sweet faces, the laughter, and the memories. It can drive you crazy this desire to hold on to what will be forgotten in months and years ahead.

And it all brings me back to THE resting place and the fact that I can't change past choices even though I wish I could even though I prayed I could, that He would and He will because I believe.

Drawing closer, is a way of realizing the depth of our need for someone outside this world, someone who gives grace and mercy and loves us like an only child, who will never let this soul and heart down.

So I put away the pen and the past few weeks have been a whirlwind of recitals, field trips, discoveries, vacations, relaxing, lessons, and a sense of  peace when it comes to myself.

And sometimes you just have to put it down.

Those things that ring "you."

That bring enjoyment and a certain since of fulfillment, drop, toss aside and be "okay" with it.

Why? Because its called sacrifice and by sacrificing its the laying down of oneself  to see, to rest, to enjoy. 

Harvest the early mornings snuggled next to little bodies, the busy days of markers and paper and paints and lunches, and afternoons of books, pool trips, and evenings of sloppy joes and ice cream and long warm walks.

In the end you see yourself, you find the idea, you find His presence, His joy in His creations.

To soak in what was meant without having to be heard.

Because you ARE heard by the One and the ones who loves you the most.

And I drop the pen because I hear.

Early, I hear the creak of the door and see the little body stumble with morning legs, and messy hair, in sleepy sea side pajamas and I rush and pick his little body up, hold him close, kiss his swollen cheek, as he whispers, "Mom......books?"

Yes, this is the sacrifice.

I will gladly give away mine for his. 

And so I will take up this pen for His and for them and see, see where it leads but only during time that's not beckoned by the presence of a little hand in mine.

Because I can drop the pen.

But I never want to let go, ever, to drop the hands, those little hands that need a sacrifice.

On the Days When We May Feel Like Trash

So some days you just might feel like "trash" or you don't but I do. 

I do and lately there have been a little too many of them..these "trash" days. 

There's no better word for putting it at least in my book. 

All this complaining, expectations lost, grumbling, self pity, worry, feelings of failure, wonder, anxiety, and the list goes on. 

Everywhere I turn I read of giving thanks, finding joy etc it will cure all of it and sometimes I want to throw it out the window all these quotes, niceties, and just give it this thanks and its so easy..and I am thinking..right..if only.

Yes, its written I see it but I'm still working on Love I can't give thanks if I don't Love to give. 

And its easy to give thanks when you have things to be thankful for but its hard when you feel like "trash" and you don't have anything and the days go by in wonder and mystery.

Yes, I have my wonderful children, husband, health and yes, I am thankful ten fold for them over and over again but this other "thanks" I could out speak it with complaining and all my wants, wishes and should have beens.

It can swallow you up and consume you this nature of it isn't fair, everyone else has it and I don't, and what about me? Yes, I am acting like a spoiled child but humbly and honestly.

So I'm on this quest to stop. Stop my complaining and moaning for I could out wail a dog and just go with it and fly with this resting peace that comes but fades each time I open my mouth. 

I don't want to be "trash" I want to be His treasure and his treasure.

For anothers person's trash is anothers persons treasure and even the little him sees it and still loves it this "trash." 

He holds it high and lofty, parades it down the streets, around the corner; he's proud of his trash even though busy onlookers brush past, zoom by with stares. 

But he doesn't see it and keeps on loving this trash day after day.

To him its not trash but worth something much more than that for it gives his heart gladness and joy. 

It may look like trash as I feel I look but to him, its not, I pray its not that I'm his treasure. 

He find this trash thats been tossed aside, thrown out to rot, and he loves it.

I'm reminded of God and how He parades us, His children whom He loves, and shelters, and died for, unashamedly.

I may see myself as "trash" but God sees me as His beauty and He only sees me not my possessions, my surroundings, but me purely me.

The "joy set before Him," the reason He endured the cross, the reason He spoke and life entered for me, us..we are His greatest joy. 

Finding joy in Him and in myself and in my family, Loving to give and learning to thank, regardless of circumstances..hard..but this treasure.

And He loves this "trash" and forgives and forgets and builds and His Spirit comes alive in its awakening unravel.  

We are His greatest treasure, the joy set before Him.  And yes I give thanks for this love.

Ten Minutes

Ten Minutes and only ten because that's how long its going to take, it's all I can spare, and all I can allow myself now only ten minutes.

I can finally sit in silence if I choose yet classical music plays, a favorite. Ten minutes alone and undistracted except for thoughts of to do's that creep and fill the mind but I push and give way to silences stillness.

The birds are back, their chirping calls awakening the world to the presence of spring as they hop across colorless grass pecking between its folds. Nature soaks its sun as bud tipped trees awaken, little bugs scatter here and there across the pavement, beginnings of buds emerge and green grass shoots up sporadically among its brown remnants. Children run and play in its sweetness.

Ten minutes.

I feel the breeze filtering in through the open window and it reminds me of long ago little girl days and the fan that would blow on my face as I slept during hot, summer nights.

As you get older it seems as if your senses come alive with what before only sneaked past in the rush of the young excited, anticipated life.

Now in the ten minutes I praise, I worry, I remember, I rationalize, I rest, and I thank.

Grateful so grateful to live a life of chasing little boys, fixing lunches and dinners, cleaning toilets, changing diapers, doing lessons, repeating words over and over, cleaning behind little ears, holding small hands, and big ones, folding sheets, buying groceries, playing sports, reading books between two little bodies, laughing at sweetness, fixing the toilet handle again and again, ruining the dinner, misplacing things I need, the cracks in the table, breaking up bickers, picking up toys, sicknesses again, balancing the checkbook, taking out the trash, forgetting to do's, worries over tomorrows come and I complain and bite my tongue to hold back, whisper to be strong and remember Love that gives and little hearts and...ten minutes.

Take ten minutes more to sit in silence, think, listen.

It's okay and why? Because He lives and yes facing tomorrow because He does and I do and its going to be okay. It might not be what it was but it never is, it's learning to live with praise, contentment, and sacrifice. 

Learning to live not as myself but as Himself, His Spirit, not as others say it should be or I wish it be but abundantly in Him; it's hard but its what life should be lived for because its eternally present later.

And I hear the sound of wheels along the gravel road, the squeak of little faithful parts and its gone, ten minutes gone, and it's all good. 

I will miss this sound someday the creak of little wheels that need oiled and the little feet that push them and I soak and store and hustle to the kitchen...dinner awaits, thankful times, tomorrows ten minutes and more.

The Light that Outshines

Being a Mom means never being able to sleep in, at least in our home.

There's that rapping, clawing at the door, pushing on its exterior, those soft wails, more pushing as if something or someone too great to ignore lies just outside their reach that they can't grasp.

And when they do break in they make their rounds through the room checking the drawers, surrounding areas as if they are undercover agents trying to find something and they do and it's exciting that pen, magazine, piece of loose paper, old pictures, flashlight, nail file, books.

He has today off and for the only day of the week is home all day. A few hours to myself today even if it includes banging with fists on the door by little hands.

The weekend started off with a bang, rushing kids into their seats, the screech of rubber tires, all because time vanished without me seeing it.

The word "late" applied all weekend.

If only I had opened my eyes a little earlier, gotten ready a little quicker, packed the bags a little faster, planned a little better, the "if only" words, my least favorite.

The weather breathed warmth on Saturday, the sun showing just enough of its light to tempt with a trip to the park. I envied the couple, sitting on the bench, sipping their drinks as their children calmly rode their bikes.

Mine were dangling from ropes, hanging from cliffs, and if there was a stumble or trip that could be found they would find it.

With sighs and sadness that no other kids wanted to chase or play, I offered to be the "it." That word I dread from my mouth every time it escapes.

It  used to be so easy when you were younger, the art of lifting the legs in fast movement.

I could imagine being that young girl again but I could never be her again with that same sure quickness or liteness of leg and heart.

But I could laugh and I did and they did even if it was for a short moment.

Until it bled, his hand, how and on what I wouldn't know.

Crimson red covered his thumb and fingers. With sobs from both of wanting to stay and with watchful eyes following us, we left. There were no bandages, clean tissues, or cloths.

Burdens, sometimes the days moments seem full of a heaviness that will crush, test, and trap the goodness of the spirit. 

The stresses of the day, the work, the schooling, the cleaning, the cooking, and lastly comes you. You strive for happy moments and with it, it brings disappointment.

Sometimes it's as if your the only one on this massive sphere that breaks, crumbles, crashes, and feels helpless. But your not and everyone is.

Cast it off, draw near to the goodness and joy of the day, my reminder!

Bring into light the moments of joy for the light always outshines the darkness.

And the children broke into my room this morning excited to show me their gifts of light....

Zion wanted his picture taken, his favorite plate

Josiah's traceables

His Marble Run