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.

A Lifetime of Kingdom

"You have to decide what kingdom it is you belong to, what kingdom you serve."

It appeared like a flash of red out of the corner of my eye and then it was gone.

It belonged though for I can still see it when I close my eyes bounding over the gravel road dust kicking up from behind its trail as it made its way around the winding driveway of days ago. It was easy to spot at the local groceries, on the main street, and around town, this red and when I saw it, I knew it was hers.

And now it was here. 

A quick flash of red. It couldn't be but yes, it was. For that red I couldn't mistake nor the silhouette of the driver. 

It slipped the words from my mouth, "Mom's here?" To which my oldest replied in repeated excited tones of Grandma's here and where was she. I quickly cleaned and stashed so she could walk through the door.

And she did and she stayed.

The boys would plop on her lap or sit by her side listening to the stories she would read or the shows she would play, drawn to the way her presence beckoned love and gentleness. 

A Grandmothers heart grows and twines itself in their hearts and it brings a certain safeness, love, and protection that they feel and understand.

Every evening before bed there were questions of the mornings light and if she would be there. 

She was and there was no rush. 

And she spoke of Kingdom and Psalms, of pasts and wrongs, of life and love, of motherhood and family, of choices.

We picked from the treats.

We picked from the treats and it reminded me of being a little girl and the way she would try to make the days special, the outings a surprise, the simple things exciting for most of our life growing up she was poor but she made it seem rich for we were young, happy, and carefree.  

We had no clue. 

She made the days rain with joy even though hers were shadowed with clouds but it didn't show, for we were her sunshine and we grew up knowing we were loved, believing we had much, our shoulders were never heavy with pressures or stresses or expectations we lived freely. She carried it.

And the days slip fast, they flee, from pigtails and braids to school days and drivers licenses and we forget, and we grow up and it becomes Me and we forget the Her in us. 

Somehow with the world backing me, chanting its untruths changed the way I see her and I begin to doubt, the doubt of a daughter of a Mom's way, heart and soul. 

Life was hard and it tested and tried her but she did the best she could with what she had and the life she was given.

And then I flip, flip through pages with finger and mind and I try, try to see her life as a little girl, a young mother, and now older and I remember, forget and am thrusted back in to the world of Mom and of how little I know and remember and time does not stop, its days know no halts.

A lifetime.

I hear her, I don't see, I cry, I remember, I laugh and it takes a lifetime a lifetime of sits, and talks, and holded hands, memories, deep looks, to know, to fully know it takes a lifetime.

I can never assume to know for I do not.

Whatever time it is how much or little, nothing absolutely nothing that has crossed paths, disappointments, mishaps could or will stop this lifetime of honor and knowing.

With her she brought her words of Kingdom and how we choose, choose the kingdom that we will serve a lifetime. This worlds with its fleshly cravings of mine and more or His Kingdom of peaceful love and grace filled days.

I choose the peaceful, grace filled days and when I think about what those days could be like I think back upon those little girl days of happiness that she made from nothing but her presence.

It reminds me of a childlike wishful dream of a white mane blowing in the wind, of hooves pounding the grass filled hills as it races, its neck twisting in unbridled freedom as it rears its front legs because there it was free and the dream was lived.  

She is gone but I can still see her as she goes about because I know and I always will and I always love her. 

A lifetime.    

If I Can I Will

And kindness speaks and I hear it.

Spring is finally here!

Yet I suspect we will have more snow within a few days. The longing for warmths arrival never ceases to leave my mind for I would rather be by the beach soaking in the sun, walking along the shore with my boys, digging for..something (with boys it doesn't matter), planting flowers, herbs, and vegetables year round. 

Something just rings..peace.

There's so much to be done in warmth, very little in cold except to lay in haste of springs return. Unless of course you like the snow which I do for about the first two falls, then its brace for the chill.

Yellow, I am loving yellow especially the three yellow flowers my husband brought back from the sunfresh store while on break. But they were met with raised eyebrows and scowls of "how much?"  The look, the look he had when he opened the bag I will remember, such happiness met with such disdain. Yes, I should kick myself in the head sometimes. Yet he knows me.

So first of spring was spent outside where it should have been. With two little boys running around the park, laughing, and being free along with the other many children let loose to enjoy warmths short arrival.

And yes I ran and hollered and growled chasing them like a crazy old lady noticing the glares but not giving them a seconds thought. 

If I can I will.

Another new saying to go along with my ceasing to complain.

If I can do it I will and it doesn't matter how well.

If I can try I can outlive the lie that time restricts me.

If I can learn to be grateful and not fear the unknown, contentment will come.

If I can keep my eyes on God and not on others, freedom of spirit and soul will arise.

If I can push aside all the thoughts of you cant's, I can I will try.

For there's only one life, one trip to which we can't revisit.

And time hears no cries for halts or stops or take backs but present only for the now, for tomorrows days of what we choose to make it, if we can but try.

And only one God can steer this trip, better make it a good one.

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.

Giving It Up To Give Love

It doesn't look like it should.

This giving it up to give Love, to lay it all down.

Giving it up is giving away of myself and not giving in to what takes the giving away.

Lent, the six week of remembrance, repentance, before Easter where souls lay open to His voice and strip away a longing only to fulfill His.

It never passed my mind years and years ago, this Lent.

The first time I ever really knew what all the significance was about Lent I had happened to be in downtown Chicago on a cold morning years ago. 

Following throngs of early morning risers on crowded streets towards tall, thickly sky scrapers I noticed the markings. I remember thinking it was only a smudge until it seemed as if 
I was passing everyone with this dusting on their forehead. 

Little did I know about Lent that I thought the end was near and the beast had arisen. I remember calling my Mother who told me it was ash and that it was "the" Wednesday.

It was dismissed this ash and Lent until this year. It seems everywhere I look people are giving up something a liking, or a favorite, some treat, some block that if possibly moved would open time to be in His.

I'd like to think that I am always in His time. For these hands don't type, eyes don't see, these lungs don't breath without His will and in His time He has given it.

To spend time in His, yes. The need to spend time in His time, always great.

And then someone dies, someone passes away as quickly they came.

He tickled my son's belly, spoke kindness to me. We were acquaintances but yet comfortable as friends. I never knew. There was always this giving of kindness. Now his time is gone and to say "goodbye," I never knew.

This giving of loving kindness. A disregard for ones self to give. To be a giver, not a user, taker, nor a watcher, a hider, but a giver.

And Love takes time to give. Pushing aside all the hindrances, all the blocks, all the wishes and wants, and what ifs and coulds just to give.

I stumble for it's easy just to sit, soak, sink, and not to Give of oneself.

To Give of oneself takes time and what we do with the time is usually watch it disappear, wasted, snatched by the hands of earthly pleasures.

Giving when it's hard is how you know its done with Love.

But it comes with so many rewards this giving of Love, the Love that takes time, the Love that acts.

All the stuff that doesn't cost anything is what's in return the smiles, laughter, thank you's, touched lives, but it's remembered and felt the deepest.

Love leads and opens paths, paths that cannot be scene unless given. And so the giving it up to give Love always continues, for Love and giving belong and its the time that will tell.

Gone But Not Gone

I pour orange liquid down the kitchen drain the kind that fizzes and bubbles.

Remnants of a visit from a far away sister who walked by the front living room window as if she lived only down the street and had walked up the porch a hundred times. I screamed in shock, disbelief, tears.

That's how it is with sisters their presence always belongs, always exits, always found. It never really leaves.

Gone but not gone.

I kick up my feet on winter sheets of cardinals and green ferns where days ago her legs had rested and her head had slept.

Memories of childhood float into my tired, forgetful mind of young girls giggling before bed playing games quietly so mom and dad couldn't hear (but I'm sure they always did), sharing dreams and stories, and wishful thoughts while tucked in under cool sheets.

If only all the swinging, book reading, hand clapping, toilet sharing (yes), doll playing, pretend fun days could last forever even the moments of snapped Barbie doll heads, swapped spankings, and temporary pouts.

But I can still see some of those days, hear that voice, see that face young and older.

Now its conversations over coffee the good kind.

Succulent lunches and dinners that will take ten times as long to burn off as it does to eat but we don't mind.

Hopeful words of what's around the corner, whats come and gone, and what we miss from each other, all topped with laughter and the occasional glances of sadness in the eyes.

We try on clothes the big kind where the zero is now the second digit. We laugh and sigh about time.

And now we creak and crack and drag and yes sag but our eyes are still there, hearts still remember, hands still grasp.

Cutting onions on the counter I think of her wondering what she's doing.

Maybe the same thing I am.

Its happened before the same thoughts, same emotions, shared between two so close.

Maybe she's laughing, bouncing a crying baby on her lap, kissing a cheek of a child, cleaning a bathroom toilet, taking a nap, feeling lonely, helping a child do homework, drinking her orange or brown fizz.

Whatever it is I can see her.

Love.

Her, here, in this house, unexpected, made me remember that love is really all that matters, all there is. Yes her.

It doesn't matter what I want or what I wish I could be or accomplish, what I wish I could have, what I believe I could do, if only time.

To lay it all down is to love. Love takes time. Love takes giving.

Offering it all up for someone a little someone or a big someone.

The love that drives across states, faces winters lash, leaves behind bundles of joy so that a face could be seen and a laugh could be heard.

The offering is Love. 

Sounds simple but selfless love is always surrender and its never simple.

Giving some things up to love. To give love more time, drive it this Love.

I can't do it all and I don't have to but to Love.

It's dark in the early morning hour.

I'm sure she's asleep. Midnight. Or maybe she can't sleep, maybe her back hurts or the baby cries.

But she loves and I know, she lays it down.

"..let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth." I John 3:18