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 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.

For the Beauty of the Earth

Click, click.

7pm cicadas sing.

Burrowed under ground for seventeen years, they emerge, well hidden among shades of green and tymbal muscles contract. 

Click, Click.

Only  for a few weeks, they strum their song.

Summers last song. 

Warm nights darken early. 

End of season is close and nature knows how to fold, its purpose planted by God who supplies and sustains even the tiniest of insects. From fields of wheat, to orchards of apples, to roaring seas God has the palm and in it is all that moves and breathes.

Summer moved and breathed and its last exhale lingers close. But beauty and memory remains of warm, hot nights, sea salt air, the sounds of waves against shore, the shouts of laughter and surprise from little mouths.

Part of our summer was spent there. Amongst the warm sands and hot sun and sea green oceans, we laid and praised this massiveness.

This massiveness of ocean's expanse, unfathomable. 

His love reaches beyond this, beyond this massive floor of oceans depths, it is nearly incomprehensible to the human mind, fathomless. 

For the beauty of the earth He made us and His love for us reaches beyond this place, past all that can be seen or felt, more than can ever be imagined or discovered or uncovered or reasoned. 

Through Him there's more, more than just this. 

In the moment we may think this is all there is, hold onto it, every moment, every memory, every breath and exhale. But to realize giving it up, letting it go, resting because the Creator created splendor unimaginable to the human mind and it waits for us. 

He knows heart, His creation.

But for now, oceans roar gives glimpses of His love and His image. Powerful, beautiful, strong, peaceful, ever changing, a haven to all who seek.

It was a gift that a giver gave and it gave joy, undeserving joy.

Undeserving joy while hearts tug, tear and show sides of human nature.

But joy it strengthens spirit, hopes, and it never goes unnoticed for eyes that give are forever seen long after the gift has been given. Loved relentlessly, cherished, seen forever.

Memories of moments of soft warm sands beneath toes, early morning walks, long and warm afternoons spent in waters warmth, while innocence laughs and screams in its delight.

Its the sunset over the oceans sea green waves that catches breath and gasps and I remember.

The sunset splashed with orange, pinks, and reds next to the darkening sky's blue and white wide expanse.

She's there. I still remember because that's where she is, a loved one.

For the beauty of the earth, I see with eyes that long to know, all of it and He beckons us to beyond, to see beyond.

Holiness surrounds. Holiness abounds here in the whiteness of sands, the coolness of oceans morning lap against feet, mesmerizing sunsets of orange and pinks, hands that feel oceans warmth, its all holiness, His all His.

Breathe in beauty and holiness and life for where it is so is His presence. 

Life is only a taste for more waits and its more than a taste, but a peaceful rest of heart in knowing that He carries the hand that He made, and He rests the souls worries, and He quiets the hearts that mourn and God will silence it all, for He has given a salvation from, bought with a price He protects.

And what's left on shore will be in His palm; offer up prayer that He sustains and will fight and keep charge over the spirits we love. 

But for now, summers song.

7pm cicadas sing. 

And little hearts laugh and question life and big hearts tell the tales and learn to laugh and let go because its okay, Gods got this life.  

Reach for His hand and Holiness here, wherever you are, on dusty gravel roads, on the seats of  tractors, at a supermarket, brushing strands of soft hair, taking pulses, touching worn cheeks, protecting hearts, building homes, planting seeds, feeding hungry, serving sick... Reach. 

His Holiness is here and cicadas sing His song.

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.**

"Don't Lose Heart"

A heart string was pulled.

The kind that slaps you back into reality. 

But then in breaks the light and the pastor speaks on exactly what teased, plucked, and pulled this string.

And He is so right and I am so wrong and we are all wronged, and everyone hurts when God no longer remembers. 

But we do remember, our flesh does, and we eat from it, live it, and share it with others this wrong, this mistake, this unfortunate sin nature.

Share sins and it consumes every step, every word, every action, it breathes its lie of destruction with its silent whispers.

But God, He wants nothing from this or of this. For it says bring no gift to God. 

He doesn't want it with this in hearts. 

This wrong as the motivating factor on how to live this one precious gift of life; these moments that waste in wants and pity's of self.

If God no longer remembers why the starving of flesh and souls peace to give way to fear, uncompromise, and pity.

It must be because God is no longer the center of hearts. When He is not the center We are and we miss. 

We miss out and we may not care. Time too much time has flown by; too many seeds have been sown that have fallen.

But we are always planting seeds..the seeds of life..of souls..of spirits..of fruit...of forgiveness..of love.

Don't lose heart, the seeds have not run out for the Giver gives them plentifully and we must sow the seeds that will reap harvests not just on earth but Gods harvest in His heart which will reap in ours.

Summer=sight of seedlings breaking through revealing there show of exuberant beauty, of its survival, of its root hidden underground strong, entwined in the reach soil that nourishes.

Entwine the roots of hearts and of souls into His word so that it nourishes and produces such a show of His glory that it stems life into Us the life that bears His fruit.

Don't lose heart.

Seeds, every instance is a chance to plant a seed.

Seeds will fall and scatter and will lay by the wayside useless and we may feel as it does useless, scattered but then we find the strength to plant a new seed and we hope and tend to it on His promises that love will sustain life.

Don't lose heart. The Giver rejoices when a seed has revealed its true heart broken and molded and tended by Him. 

Its the honest strive to dig deep into the depths of our soul and spirit to find His that gives us the light to shine even when the clouds hover dark. 

His light protects and tends and it grows this seed while time takes time and don't lose heart, it will grow if cared for and looked after. 

And they will come those that wish to choke the good and the life and the strength from them, don't grow weary. 

Seeds tenderly cared for are souls tenderly sown. 

Go through seeds. 

Some fall and some flourish but don't grow weary, plant the seeds that will reap a harvest of His words, His peace, and His joy, His blessings.

"Let us not lose heart in doing good, for in due time we will reap if we do not grow weary." Galations 6:9

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.